Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  Another squawk.

  Blast it all.

  Shaking himself fully awake, he leaned forward and peered out the half-open door.

  “Get out and help me.” There was no mistaking the note of command that resonated from the woman sitting in the dirt below.

  And there was also no mistaking that there was no one else about, neither man nor horse.

  “Hurry now.”

  God, he’d always hated that tone. It was one of the reasons he’d left the cavalry, left his commission in the Royal Scots Greys.

  Still, she did seem the proper lady when she used that voice, and had she not been traveling alone he might have taken her for one.

  He swung down beside her and looked about. The team was gone. The driver and men were gone. They were alone with an abandoned coach in the middle of—he looked about again—he knew exactly where they were.

  Damn Robbie.

  “Well, are you going to help me?”

  He stared down at her, small and helpless, but did not answer. Damn, she was pretty with those small features and large brown eyes—and those lips . . . He shook his head. Why the bloody hell was she sitting in the dirt of the road?

  She held her gloved hands out to him and glared. Her eyes might be brown, but still they were fiery.

  Annoyed at her command, he was tempted to step away, but manners prevailed. He held out his own hand and her delicate fingers wrapped about it. He could feel their cold even through the thin leather.

  He pulled and she came to her feet, although he could see she kept her weight firmly on one leg.

  Her ankle.

  He snorted. Given the problems with his own leg, it seemed only fitting that he be burdened with a companion of such handicap.

  Her eyes continued to glare at him as she hobbled back until she could sit in the open door of the coach. “Why have we stopped and where is everybody?”

  “I dunno.” The accent of his childhood drifted to his lips. Her stiff tone did make him feel the rebellious boy.

  She stared, clearly remembering the sharper tones of their earlier brief conversation. “What do you mean you do not know?”

  “I was asleep.”

  “That is not an answer.” Her full lips pursed.

  He shrugged and stepped back to examine the coach. It had been pulled well to the side of the road into a small clearing. The hard, nearly frozen soil had been disturbed by the hooves of the horses but showed few tracks.

  He swung up onto the driver’s box. A note lay pinned to the seat with an unmistakable dagger, the twin of the one he wore at his own belt.

  Robert.

  Swearing, he unfolded the paper.

  I’ve had provisions left at the cabin.

  I am sorry you’ll miss the celebration.

  Have a most merry Christmas.

  There was no signature, but the dagger served as well as any name. He carefully tucked it away. He’d enjoy returning it. He let himself imagine it for the barest of instants and then looked about at the barren landscape.

  Blasted bloody hell. It had never occurred to him that he might not make it in time to stop the wedding—and perhaps he still could. A good half-day’s march would take him to the nearest farm and while there might not be a horse he could still . . . His leg twinged. He’d be a fool to attempt it, but what choice did he have?

  “Does that paper explain what has happened? Did they ride off for help? A broken axle perhaps?” The haughty tone landed him fully in the present. “And why did the driver not explain the situation to us?”

  “No, help is not a-comin’.”

  “What?” It sounded almost like her earlier squawks.

  He swung down. He couldn’t leave her. Was she part of Robert’s plan? Did that explain her unaccompanied presence? Was Robbie gifting him with a bit of female company? He let his gaze roam over her. She certainly was shapely enough from what he could see beneath her cloak. But somehow that made it seem even more doubtful. Robbie would have left him with a toothless grandmother, not a well-rounded miss.

  He considered her again. Perhaps she was some abandoned lass who’d thought she was heading to a Gretna Green wedding. He’d never actually encountered such a woman, but he’d certainly heard tales. “Who are you?” The question was more abrupt than he’d attended.

  Her brows rose. “I am Lady Emma Spencer.”

  If that was supposed to put him in his place, she’d best think again. “Truly?” was his only reply.

  * * *

  Emma faltered at the simple, if rude, inquiry. She’d never faced such a question before and had never felt the slightest doubt in exactly who she was and where she fit. Even these last months since her father’s death had not left her feeling so uncertain of who she was. “Yes, truly,” she replied, but her voice was low and even she could hear the doubt in the quaver that took it.

  She shivered slightly as the man’s cool gaze moved over her, judging her. She wrapped her cloak tighter, unsure whether she shivered from cold or from the strange tingles that seemed to take her whenever she was near him.

  He was so damn big. If she’d thought he was large reclining across the seats, now he was huge, overpowering—and definitely still dangerous

  She glanced about the darkening woods, the rutted roads, half mud and half ice. An eerie sense of silence hung over them, not even the cry of a bird or the hoot of an owl. Nothing.

  They were alone in the true middle of nowhere.

  She drew her cloak even tighter about herself, glad that the coach had never grown warm enough for her to remove it.

  The man continued to stare at her, awaiting an even greater answer.

  “Yes, truly.” She forced herself to hold his intense gaze. Damn those tingles. “My father was Earl Pence.”

  “Was . . . ?”

  Her lips drew narrow. Some things were not to be spoken of. “And you are?”

  The man blinked once. “Barran.”

  “Just Barran?” If he could be impertinent then so could she.

  “It will do.” He turned away—and then back.

  Was it possible to see the thoughts within another’s head? There was no perceptible change in his blue eyes, but she could see him ponder over her identity, see him wonder why she was alone—and why she was here.

  She did not wait for Barran’s questions. “I am traveling to visit my uncle. I was accompanied by a maid, but due to unfortunate circumstances I was forced to travel on alone.” Drawing in a breath, she did all in her power to demonstrate that she would not welcome further questions.

  Barran continued to stare at her for a moment, taking in her fisted hands and up-tilted chin. His eyes flickered as he considered every aspect of her stance. The tingles increased.

  Then he turned away and instead examined the coach with every bit as much scrutiny as he’d given her. He grunted once, then said, “We’d best start walking. It will take us a good hour or more to reach the cabin and we want to be there before full dark. It comes early this late in the year.”

  Cabin? How did he know of a cabin? And . . . “Shouldn’t we wait for help? Surely somebody will come by.”

  A small sound deep in his throat. “There won’t be anybody else traveling at this time of day and probably not tomorrow either. We could stay with the coach, but I’d rather find a bed and a fire.”

  A bed did sound good, but, “Can’t you make a fire here? There’s plenty of wood.” There were hundreds of trees about. Surely he could break something down and start a fire. Men did that sort of thing.

  His thick brows drew together. “Wood, yes, but all of it wet or too new. I’ve no hankering to go wandering about the woods looking for a dead branch or two that missed last week’s snow.”

  “I don’t see . . .”

  “Have you ever set a fire?”

  “Of course not.” Who did he take her for?

  “Then trust me, you do not want to try with what we’ll find about here. Even if I could manage to get it to light we’
d probably be smoked out within minutes. I like to breathe as well as be warm.”

  Why did he sound so calm? With every second that passed, she was beginning to understand how dire their situation might be. It had taken a few moments for her to truly begin to understand, but now the weight of circumstance began to press about her.

  When she’d boarded the coach she had thought her life could not get worse, now she knew differently.

  “I think I’ll just stay in the coach,” she said. “I am sure somebody will come by and it is better than wandering a strange wood.”

  Barran turned back to her. “I beg to differ.”

  Why did she feel that each word was dragged from him, that he’d just as soon leave her to the wolves . . . ? Were there wolves? She thought they’d all died out, but . . . No, she would not think like that, even a cruel God must show some mercy. “Do you really believe we would be better off alone in the dark without shelter?”

  Again she could see his thoughts. He did not wish to be bothered with this, with her.

  He stomped his feet as if shaking off the cold. “Alone? We will not be alone. We will be together. Unless you insist on staying in the coach. Then I am afeared you will be very much alone.”

  He wouldn’t. He would. Determination marked his hard stance. Yes, he would leave her. He might be gentleman enough to take her with him, but he would not let her deter his plans, whatever they were. “You act as if you know these woods.”

  “I do.” No further elaboration.

  She slid forward until her feet rested firmly on the ground and she could feel the twinge of pain in her ankle. “And what if I say I am not sure that I can walk. My ankle is quite twisted.”

  His jaw jutted out. “You can lean on me.” He did not seem pleased by the prospect.

  Now, that was certainly not flattering. She knew she was pretty at the very least. A few bleak weeks ago men had fought for even the brush of her hand. And judging by how he’d pressed against her in the coach he could not be completely indifferent, could he? She cooled her voice. “And if that is not enough?”

  “Then I will manage to carry you.” Again he sounded far from pleased.

  Why was he acting this way? Was he implying that she was heavy? He looked strong enough to carry a cow. “And do you know where we are heading? You mentioned a cabin.”

  “Yes.”

  He was certainly not a man of many words, not that she could claim to be verbose herself. She glanced about again. Had she taken leave of her senses, wandering off into the woods with a stranger? Probably yes, but then, what choice did she have? What choice had she had since the moment of her father’s death? “Find me a stick to lean on.”

  * * *

  Was the woman, Lady Emma, afraid to touch him? She hadn’t seemed to mind being cuddled against him as she slept in the coach, not that he’d given her much choice—he’d been tired of her moving about, but she could have protested far more than she had. She hadn’t even seemed to mind when his cock had made it very clear how it felt about her closeness. Yes, she shifted a little, but she hadn’t truly protested.

  It was one more sign that she could not truly be the lady she pretended, although he still hadn’t decided on her exact position in society. A bungled elopement seemed far more likely than a trip to visit an uncle and a missing maid. A lady of the stature she claimed should have been traveling in her own fair carriage with a large entourage. What earl’s daughter traveled alone? And from what he’d heard about Pence, she should probably have had three carriages and fifty outriders.

  Pence. The Earl of Pence. It suddenly occurred to him just why he knew that name, whom he had heard it reference. “Just who did you say your uncle was?”

  “I didn’t.” She stared at him, refusing to answer his question in full.

  “Who is your uncle?” he demanded, his voice low.

  “Lord Mounthaven,” she answered quietly.

  “The Earl of Mounthaven. Bloody hell,” he whispered under his breath. Another bloody earl and, in this case, one he knew well, one he could not afford to anger. “Your mother was his younger sister?” he asked more audibly. He had faint memories of the much older girl heading off to England among great fanfare. He should have made the connection more quickly.

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, letting all the ramifications of his situation sink in. Robbie could not have planned this better if he tried. He was alone with Mounthaven’s beautiful niece in the middle of the woods and likely to be so for a day or two more at the very least. “Did you come here to elope? Do you have a lover waiting?”

  “What? No!” She looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses—and perhaps he had.

  He pulled a deep breath into his chest. He’d always been a man of action. “Then we had best plan a wedding?”

  “What?” Her voice came out shrill and tinny.

  “We had best be wed. Don’t you English say that all it takes is for a man and woman to spend the night together in Scotland for them to be wed?”

  * * *

  She had heard that. Emma had to admit that she’d never paid much attention to such idle gossip and rumor, but now she wished she had. She’d certainly heard of Gretna Green marriages, but didn’t those involve a blacksmith? “And is that true?” Was she to be considered married merely because she’d been stranded with this mountain of a man?

  Barran only smiled back at her, not answering.

  And even if she weren’t actually married merely by being alone with him, what would happen after this? Holy fruitcakes. This was one more thing that she had lost with her father’s death. When she’d been of sufficient station and had protection, she might have weathered such a storm, but she was not so foolish that she didn’t know how fragile she was in her present station.

  Her uncle might not even take her in if she arrived in the midst of scandal.

  “But perhaps nobody will ever know. Surely there is a way to keep it secret.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “But . . . but . . . but . . .” Such a matter deserved more than a moment’s discussion. It should not be possible to be trapped in such a way without even realizing it.

  Barran said nothing, his face grim.

  She wanted to argue, wanted to scream and stamp her foot like a child. She was not, however, a child. If she could survive these last weeks, survive losing her home and the only life she had ever known, she could survive this. Deep breath. “Let us see what happens. Perhaps somebody will find us before nightfall.”

  “Perhaps.” He looked toward the back of the coach. “Do you have any baggage stored? I didn’t see any, but . . .”

  “There is a small reticule in the coach, on the bench. The rest is traveling by cart, hopefully only a few days behind.”

  He looked slightly doubtful but did not question her words. He stepped over and, reaching past her, pulled the tiny bag on the seat. “We’d best be going. I think we can make it before full dark, but not by much.” His hand extended toward her. If she touched it would those strange tingles return?

  “I would rather you found me a stick to lean on.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, but still carrying her dainty reticule, he walked to the wood and began looking for a fallen bough. For a brief second, she wished she could take back her words, explain that the thought of touching him made her feel strange in ways that she did not trust. The feeling of his warmth as she’d lain on his chest, that sense of safety that had encompassed her along with his muscled arm, those were not things to be trusted, certainly not when dealing with a stranger—and a dirty, smelly stranger at that.

  A moment later he came back, handing over a sturdy branch. She took it and, using it as a cane, hobbled forward and then stopped. Her head swung back and forth wondering which direction to take.

  He nodded to the left and she started forth, doing her best to look strong and confident despite her slow pace.

  They walked on for a
bout a hundred yards and finally, he spoke up. “You’re doing it wrong.”

  “What?”

  “I know it seems odd, but you need to put the weight on the stick when you’re standing on the other leg.”

  “That makes not the slightest sense.”

  “I said the same once, but learned quickly.”

  “Did you twist an ankle?”

  * * *

  The simple question hung there between them. No, I lost a large hunk of my left thigh when a bullet crashed through it and then I spent a day in the mud waiting for help after my horse died under me. That was not an answer he would ever give. It was both unsuitable for a lady and more importantly, it might invite conversation on a matter that he refused to discuss. If he wouldn’t discuss it with Robbie he certainly was not going to discuss it with Lady Emma.

  Robbie.

  Catriona.

  For a few moments, he’d forgotten. There was something about her that was far more distracting that it should have been. She wasn’t even that bonny—although in truth she was. It had been hard work not thinking about Lady Emma’s physical attributes.

  But still, to forget about Catriona? A brief flash of anger flared in his gut. It seemed impossible now that he’d make it to Glasgow in time to stop the marriage. He’d never dealt well with failure and it was a bitter pill to swallow. And the worst was that it was his own decision. If he’d been willing to leave Lady Emma behind he might still have made it, but . . .

  “I didn’t realize that a twisted ankle would be such a secret,” Emma mumbled, clearly not actually speaking to him. Her soft voice droned on, gently cursing cousins and maids and baggage carts and coachmen and . . . He had no idea what she was talking about and no desire to try.

  He walked faster, trying to get away from her soft voice. It was bad enough he was saddled with her, particularly now that a wedding might very well be in their future. Although he had to admit that his cock did not seem as opposed to the idea of a wedding night as the rest of him. He barely had to look at the lass for it to make clear that it was all too ready to make acquaintance with creamy skin and soft curves.