by Nora Roberts
But she was shaking her head. “Work. What work is this?”
A shield seemed to come down over his eyes. “I gave you my word I would not speak of it until after Christmas.”
“Aye.” She felt her bounding heart still and freeze in her breast. “You did.” After a deep breath, she looked down at their joined hands. “I have pies in the oven. They need to come out.”
“Is that all you can say?”
She looked at the tree behind him, still bare, but with so much promise. “I must ask you for time. Tomorrow, on Christmas, I’ll give you my answer.”
“There is only one I’ll take.”
That helped her to smile. “There’s only one I’ll give.”
Chapter 7
There was a scent of pine and wood smoke, the lingering aroma of the thick supper stew. On the sturdy table near the fire Alanna had placed her mother’s prized possession, a glass punch bowl. As had been his habit for as long as Alanna could remember, her father mixed the Yuletide punch, with a hand generous with Irish whiskey. She watched the amber liquid catch the light from the fire and the glow from the candles already lighted on the tree.
She had promised herself that this night, and the Christmas day to follow, would be only for joy.
As well it should be, she told herself. Whatever had transpired between her father and Ian that morning, they were thick as thieves now. She noted that Cyrus pressed a cup of punch on Ian before he ladled one for himself and drank deeply. Before she could object, young Brian was given a sample.
Well, they would all sleep that night, she decided, and was about to take a cup herself when she heard the sound of a wagon.
“There’s Johnny.” She let out a huff of breath. “And for his sake he’d best have a good excuse for missing supper.”
“Courting Mary,” Brian said into his cup.
“That may be, but—” She broke off as Johnny came in, with Mary Wyeth on his arm. Automatically, Alanna glanced around the room, relieved everything was as it should be for company. “Mary, how good to see you.” Alanna went quickly to kiss the girl’s cheek. Mary was shorter and plumper than she, with bright gold hair and rosy cheeks. They seemed rosier than usual, Alanna noted—either with cold from the journey from the village, or with heat from Johnny’s courting.
“Merry Christmas.” Always shy, Mary flushed even more as she clasped her hands together. “Oh, what a lovely tree.”
“Come by the fire, you’ll be cold. Let me take your cape and shawl.” She shot her brother an exasperated look as he just stood by and grinned foolishly. “Johnny, fetch Mary a cup of punch and some of the cookies I baked this morning.”
“Aye.” He sprang into action, punch lapping over his fingers in his rush. “We’ll have a toast,” he announced, then spent considerable time clearing his throat. “To my future wife.” He clasped Mary’s nervous hand in his. “Mary accepted me this evening.”
“Oh.” Alanna held out her hands, and since Mary didn’t have one to spare, grabbed the girl by the shoulder. “Oh, welcome. Though how you’ll stand this one is beyond me.”
Cyrus, always uncomfortable with emotion, gave Mary a quick peck on the cheek and his son a hearty slap on the back. “Then we’ll drink to my new daughter,” he said. “’Tis a fine Christmas present you give us, John.”
“We need music.” Alanna turned to Brian, who nodded and rushed off to fetch his flute. “A spritely song, Brian,” she instructed. “The engaged couple should have the first dance.”
Brian perched himself with one foot on the seat of a chair and began to play. When Ian’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, Alanna touched her fingers briefly, gently, to his wrist.
“Does the idea of a wedding please you, Mrs. Flynn?”
“Aye.” With a watery smile, she watched her brother turn and sway with Mary. “She’ll make him happy. They’ll make a good home together, a good family. That’s all I want for him.”
He grinned as Cyrus tossed back another cup of punch and began to clap his hands to the music. “And for yourself?”
She turned, and her eyes met his. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He leaned closer. “If you gave me my answer now, we could have a double celebration this Christmas Eve.”
She shook her head as her heart broke a little. “This is Johnny’s night.” Then she laughed as Johnny grabbed her hands and pulled her into the dance.
A new snow fell, softly, outside the cabin. But inside, the rooms were filled with light and laughter and music. Alanna thought of her mother and how pleased she would have been to have seen her family together and joyful on this most holy of nights. And she thought of Rory, bright and beautiful Rory, who would have outdanced the lot of them and raised his clear tenor voice in song.
“Be happy.” Impulsively she threw her arms around Johnny’s neck. “Be safe.”
“Here now, what’s all this?” Touched, and embarrassed, he hugged her quickly then pulled her away.
“I love you, you idiot.”
“I know that.” He noted that his father was trying to teach Mary to do a jig. It made him almost split his face with a grin. “Here, Ian, take this wench off my hands. A man’s got to rest now and then.”
“No one can outdance an Irishman,” Ian told her as he took her hand. “Unless it’s a Scotsman.”
“Oh, is that the way of it?” With a smile and a toss of her head, she set out to prove him wrong.
* * *
Though the candles had burned low before the house and its occupants slept, the celebrations began again at dawn. By the light of the tree and the fire, they exchanged gifts. Alanna gained a quiet pleasure from the delight on Ian’s face as he held up the scarf she had woven him. Though it had taken her every spare minute to work the blue and the green threads together on her loom, the result was worth it. When he left, he would take a part of her.
Her heart softened further when she saw that he had gifts for her family. A new pipe for her father, a fine new bridle for Johnny’s favorite horse and a book of poetry for Brian.
Later, he stood beside her in the village church, and though she listened to the story of the Savior’s birth with the same wonder she had had as a child, she would have been blind not to see other women cast glances her way. Glances of envy and curiosity. She didn’t object when his hand closed over hers.
“You look lovely today, Alanna.” Outside the church, where people had stopped to chat and exchange Christmas greetings, he kissed her hands. Though she knew the gossips would be fueled for weeks, she gave him a saucy smile. She was woman enough to know she looked her best in the deep blue wool dress with its touch of lace at collar and cuffs.
“You’re looking fine yourself, MacGregor.” She resisted the urge to touch the high starched stock at his throat. It was the first time she’d seen him in Sunday best, with snowy lace falling over his wrists, buttons gleaming on his doublet and a tricornered hat on his mane of red hair. It would be another memory of him to treasure.
“Sure and it’s a beautiful day.”
He glanced at the sky. “It will snow before nightfall.”
“And what better day for a snowfall than Christmas?” Then she caught at the blue bonnet Johnny had given her. “But the wind is high.” She smiled as she saw Johnny and Mary surrounded by well-wishers. “We’d best get back. I’ve a turkey to check.”
He offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to your carriage, Mrs. Flynn.”
“Why that’s kind of you, Mr. MacGregor.”
* * *
He couldn’t remember a more perfect day. Though there were still chores to be done, Ian managed to spend every free moment with Alanna. Perhaps there was a part of him that wished her family a thousand miles away so that he could be alone with her at last and have her answer. But he determined to be patient, having no doubt what the answer would be. She couldn’t smile at him, look at him, kiss him that way unless she was as wildly in love as he. He might have wished he could simply snatch
her up, toss her on his horse and ride off, but for once, he wanted to do everything properly.
If it was her wish they could be married in the church where they had observed Christmas. Then he would hire—or better, buy—a carriage, blue picked out in silver. That would suit her. In it they would travel to Virginia, where he would present her to his aunt and uncle and cousins.
Somehow he would manage a trip to Scotland, where she would meet his mother and father, his brothers and sisters. They would be married again there, in the land of his birth.
He could see it all. They would settle in Boston, where he would buy her a fine house. Together they would start a family while he fought, with voice or sword, for the independence of his adopted country.
By day they would argue and fight. By night they would lie together in a big feather bed, her long slender limbs twined around him.
It seemed since he had met her he could see no further than life with her.
The snow did fall, but gently. By the time the turkey and potatoes, the sauerkraut and biscuits were devoured, Ian was half-mad with impatience.
Rather than join the men by the fire, he grabbed Alanna’s cloak and tossed it over her. “I need a moment with you.”
“But I haven’t finished—”
“The rest can wait.” As far as he could see, her kitchen was already as neat as a pin. “I will speak with you, in private.”
She didn’t object, couldn’t, because her heart was already in her throat when he pulled her out into the snow. He’d barely taken time to jam on his hat. When she pointed out that he hadn’t buttoned his coat against the wind, he swept her up in his arms and with long strides carried her to the barn.
“There’s no need for all of this,” she pointed out. “I can walk as well as you.”
“You’ll dampen your dress.” He turned his head and kissed her snow-brushed lips. “And I like it very well.”
After he set her down inside, he latched the door and lighted a lamp. She folded her hands at her waist. It was now, Alanna told herself firmly, that the Christmas celebration had to end.
“Ian—”
“No, wait.” He came to her, put his hands gently on her shoulders. The sudden tenderness robbed her of speech. “Did you not wonder why I gave you no gift this morning?”
“You gave me your gift. We agreed—”
“Did you think I had nothing more for you?” He took her hands, chilled because he had given her no time for mittens, and warmed them with his. “On this, our first Christmas together, the gift must be special.”
“No, Ian, there is no need.”
“There is every need.” He reached into the pocket of his doublet and withdrew a small box. “I sent a village lad into Boston for this. It was in my quarters there.” He placed the box in her hand. “Open it.”
Her head warned her to refuse, but her heart—her heart could not. Inside she saw a ring. After a quick gasp, she pressed her lips together. It was fashioned of gold in the shape of a lion’s head and crown.
“This is the symbol of my clan. The grandfather whose name I carry had it made for his wife. Before she died, she gave this to my father to hold in trust for me. When I left Scotland, he told me it was his hope I would find a woman as strong, as wise and as loyal to wear it.”
Her throat was so tight the words hurt as she forced them out. “Oh, Ian, no. I could not. I don’t—”
“There is no other woman who will wear it.” He took it from the box and placed it on her finger. It might have been made for her, so perfect was the fit. At that moment, he felt as though the world were his. “There is no other woman I will love.” He brought her ring hand to his lips, watching her over it. “With this I pledge you my heart.”
“I love you,” she murmured as she felt her world rip in two. “I will always love you.” There would be time, she knew, as his mouth came to hers, for regrets, for pain, for tears. But tonight, for the hours they had, she would give him one more gift.
Gently, she pushed his coat from his shoulders. With her mouth moving avidly beneath his, she began to unbutton his doublet.
With unsteady hands, he stilled hers. “Alanna—”
She shook her head and touched a finger to his lips. “I am not an untried girl. I come to you already a woman, and I ask that you take me as one. I need you to love me, Ian. Tonight, this Christmas night, I need that.” This time it was she who captured his hands and brought them to her lips. It was reckless, she knew. But it was right. “And I need to love you.”
Never before had he felt so clumsy. His hands seemed too big, too rough, his need too deep and intense. He swore that if he accomplished nothing else in his life he would love her gently and show her what was written in his heart.
With care, he lowered her onto the hay. It was not the feather bed he wished for her, but her arms came willingly around him, and she smiled as she brought his mouth to hers. With a sound of wonder, he sank into her.
It was more than she’d ever dreamed, the touch of her love’s hands in her hair, on her face. With such patience, with such sweetness, he kissed her until the sorrows she held in her heart melted away. When he had unbuttoned her frock, he slipped it from her shoulder to kiss the skin there, to marvel at the milky whiteness and to murmur such foolish things that made her want to smile and weep at once.
He felt her strong, capable fingers push aside his doublet, unfasten his shirt, then stroke along his chest.
With care he undressed her, pausing, lingering, to give pleasure and to take it. With each touch, each taste, her response grew. He heard her quick, unsteady breath at his ear, then felt the nip of her teeth as he gave himself over to the delights of her body.
Soft, lavender scent twining with the fragrance of hay. Smooth, pale skin glowing in the shadowed lamplight. Quiet, drifting sighs, merging with his own murmurs. The rich shine of her hair as he gathered fistfuls in his hands.
She was shuddering. But with heat. Such heat. She tried to say his name but managed only to dig her nails into his broad shoulders. From where had come this churning, this wild river that flowed inside her? And where would it end? Dazzled, desperate, she arched against him while his hands traveled like lightning over points of pleasure she hadn’t known she possessed.
Her mouth was on his, avid, thirsty, as he pushed her to the first brink, then beyond. Her stunned cry was muffled against his lips and his own groan of satisfaction.
Then he was inside her, deep. At the glory of it, her eyes flew open. She saw his face above her, the fire of his hair glinting in the lamplight.
“Now we are one.” His voice was low and harsh with passion. “Now you are mine.”
And he lowered his mouth to hers as they gave each other the gift of self.
Chapter 8
They dozed, turned to each other, her cloak carelessly tossed over their tangled forms, their bodies warmed and replete from loving.
He murmured her name.
She woke.
Midnight had come and gone, she thought. And her time was over. Still, she stole a bit more, studying his face as he slept, learning each plane, each angle. Though she knew his face was already etched in her head, and on her heart.
One last kiss, she told herself as she brushed her lips to his. One last moment.
When she shifted, he mumbled and reached out.
“You don’t escape that easily, Mrs. Flynn.”
Her heart suffered a new blow at the wicked way he said her name. “’Tis almost dawn. We can’t stay any longer.”
“Very well then.” He sat up as she began to dress. “I suppose even under the circumstances, your father might pull his knife again if he found me naked in the hay with his daughter.” With some regret he tugged on his breeches. He wished he had the words to tell her what the night had meant to him. What her love meant to him. With his shirt unbuttoned, he rose to kiss the back of her neck. “You’ve hay in your hair, sweetheart.”
She sidestepped him and began to pluck it out.
“I’ve lost my pins.”
“I like it down.” He swallowed and took a step forward to clutch handfuls of it. “By God, I like it down.”
She nearly swayed toward him before she caught herself. “I need my cap.”
“If you must.” Obliging, he began to search for it. “In truth, I don’t remember a better Christmas. I thought I’d reached the peak when I was eight and was given a bay gelding. Fourteen hands he was, with a temper like a mule.” He found her cap under scattered hay. With a grin, he offered it. “But, though it’s close in the running, you win over the gelding.”
She managed to smile. “It’s flattered I am, to be sure, MacGregor. Now I’ve breakfast to fix.”
“Fine. We can tell your family over the meal that we’re to be married.”
She took a deep breath. “No.”
“There’s no reason to wait, Alanna.”
“No,” she repeated. “I’m not going to marry you.”
For a moment he stared, then he laughed. “What nonsense is this?”
“It isn’t nonsense at all. I’m not going to marry you.”
“The bloody hell you aren’t!” he exploded, and grabbed both her shoulders. “I won’t have games when it comes to this.”
“It’s not a game, Ian.” Though her teeth had snapped together, she spoke calmly. “I don’t want to marry you.”
If she had still had the knife in her hand and had plunged it into him, she would have caused him less pain. “You lie. You look me in the face and he. You could not have loved me as you did through the night and not want to belong to me.”
Her eyes remained dry, so dry they burned. “I love you, but I will not marry you.” She shook her head before he could protest. “My feelings have not changed. Nor have yours—nor can yours. Understand me, Ian, I am a simple woman with simple hopes. You’ll make your war and won’t be content until it comes to pass. You’ll fight in your war, if it takes a year or ten. I cannot lose another I love, when I have already lost so many. I will not take your name and give you my heart only to see you die.”