Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots

by Glynnis Campbell

  Ysenda swallowed hard. The heavy black scrawls on the parchment made the marriage seem all too real…and permanent.

  Before the ink was even dry, Laird Gille stood at the table to preside over the rite, and the hall again hushed.

  “Join your right hands,” he directed.

  Sir Noёl faced her and clasped her right hand, which felt dwarfed within his. She could feel the calluses that marked it as the sword hand of a seasoned warrior. His palm was warm and dry. She feared her own was sweaty. Yet there was something reassuring in his grip.

  “Here,” her sister offered, tugging a long scarlet ribbon out of her hair and passing it forward. “To make it fast.”

  Her father wrapped the ribbon around their joined hands, binding them loosely together.

  Then she lifted her face to look at her bridegroom. She was startled. In the low light, she’d assumed his shadowed eyes were brown. But standing this close, she could see they were actually blue—a blue as deep as the ocean, as dark as the falling night. For a moment, she only stared at him, lost in the heaven of his gaze.

  And then she saw he was waiting uncertainly as the silence dragged on.

  “Say your piece, lad,” Laird Gille urged.

  A tiny furrow formed between Noёl’s brows. Ysenda realized he didn’t know the vows for a handfasting. They probably had no such thing in France. It was up to her then.

  Her voice shaking, she began. “I, Lady Ysen-” Heat flooded her cheeks as she recognized her blunder. She coughed to cover the mistake, whispering to Noёl, “Forgive me. I’m a wee bit anxious.” Then she cleared her throat and began again. “I, Lady Cathalin ingen Gille, Maid o’ Rivenloch, take ye, Sir…Noёl de Ware…to my wedded husband, till death parts ye and me. And thereto I pledge ye my troth.”

  She gulped. That hadn’t been so difficult. And yet those simple words held such great weight.

  His voice sounded much surer than hers. “I, Sir Noёl de Ware, take ye, Lady Cathalin ingen Gille, Maid o’ Rivenloch, as my bride—”

  “To my wedded wife,” she corrected in a murmur.

  “To my wedded wife…till death…comes...”

  She fought back a giggle. “Till death parts ye and me.”

  “Till death parts ye and me…”

  “And thereto I pledge ye my troth,” she prompted.

  “Aye,” he said, finishing with a triumphant smile. “And thereto I pledge ye my troth.”

  “’Tis done then,” her father said in satisfaction, clapping the matter from his hands.

  Ysenda hardly heard him. Her attention was riveted on the man before her—the man who had somehow, improbably, just become her husband. A warm twinkle glimmered in his eyes. His smile was captivating. And the thumb he stroked softly over the top of their joined hands sent a curious tingle through her veins.

  The laird raised a cup of ale in salute, and the clan followed with cheers.

  But Noёl wasn’t finished. He held his hand out to the man on his left, who placed a gold ring in his palm. Unwinding the handfasting ribbon to free her hand, Noёl then gently slipped the ring onto Ysenda’s third finger.

  She stared down at it. It was heavy, carved with the figure of a wolf’s head.

  “’Tis the great Wolf o’ de Ware,” he told her.

  She bit her lip, troubled by its scowling face. The ring was loose on her finger. She hoped that it wouldn’t slip off, that she wouldn’t lose it, for it rightfully belonged to Cathalin.

  He bent his head down to murmur, “I vow, my lady, from this time forward, ye shall have the protection o’ the Wolf.”

  For one foolish moment, she wished that could be true. She wouldn’t mind having an army of fierce wolfish knights at her beck and call.

  She gave him a faltering smile, which he returned with a wide grin that made her heart skip. But this was Cathalin’s husband, not hers. And part of her burned with envy at that truth.

  He was still clasping the fingers of her right hand when he lifted his left hand to cup her cheek. He tipped her head up, commanding her gaze. His dark eyes sparked at her like a smoldering coal. She had trouble drawing breath. His thumb brushed at the corner of her mouth, coaxing her lips apart. In a sensual daze, she let her jaw relax as her eyes lowered to his tempting mouth.

  He was going to kiss her.

  Cathalin’s bridegroom was going to kiss her.

  She should have stopped him. But she had to play out this fiction, for her brother’s sake.

  At least that was what she told herself as he closed the distance.

  But it wasn’t completely true.

  She wanted to see what it felt like to kiss a man. And she wanted to pretend, even if only for a moment, that she was just as worthy and desirable as her sister.

  When he touched his lips to hers, the cheering clan seemed to fade away. There were only the two of them, connected by their joined hands and their searching mouths. Her eyes fell closed. His light breath upon her cheek sent a current of pleasure rippling through her.

  And then he leaned closer, increasing the sweet pressure.

  She expected, by his formidable appearance, that his kiss would be rough and aggressive. But the warrior somehow reined in his strength. His lips were soft, tender, and deft. His fingertips gently caressed the sensitive flesh beneath her ear, making her shiver.

  As he kissed her, he entwined the fingers of his right hand with hers and drew her closer, until their tangled hands formed a lover’s knot between their hearts. Ysenda felt like warm candle wax, melting into him. Her heart beat forcefully against her ribs. A quiet, joyful moan sounded in her throat as he inclined his head to deepen the kiss.

  * * *

  Noёl never wanted the kiss to end.

  It was mad—the strong, inexplicable attraction he felt to his new bride. His heart was pounding. His mouth was ravenous. He didn’t dare ponder what was happening below his belt.

  He supposed he should withdraw soon. He wasn’t even sure public kissing was proper among the Highlanders. Yet he couldn’t pry himself away.

  Lady Cathalin was irresistible. Soft and sweet, young and lovely, passionate and willing.

  She was the best Yuletide gift he’d ever received.

  What he’d done to deserve such a treasure he didn’t know.

  But she was his now.

  And he didn’t plan to ever let her go.

  Chapter 3

  It took the taunts and jostling of his men and the clan to break them apart at last. But when Noёl, hot and breathless, peered down at his bride, she appeared as stunned as he felt.

  Her cheeks were flushed. Her silvery eyes were glazed with desire. She lifted trembling fingers to her rosy lips. If he hadn’t been holding her by the hand, she might have staggered backward in dizzy surprise.

  The thought gave him immense pleasure. One corner of his lip curved up as he gazed down at her. He fought the powerful urge to whisk her off her feet, carry her up the stairs, and claim his husbandly rights at once.

  But he’d vowed he would not—not tonight. And if there was anything that defined the Knights of de Ware more than their healthy appetites for women, it was their honor.

  So he leashed the beast in his braies and stepped back with a respectful nod of his head.

  “Eat! Drink!” the laird encouraged. “Ye’ll need strength tonight, lad, to wield your braw claymore.” He made a nasty gesture that caused a roar of raucous laughter and made his new bride blush.

  Noёl, with a sudden surge of protectiveness, clenched his jaw. No one—especially not her own father—should speak so crudely in the presence of a lady.

  But he didn’t wish to upset her more, so he wouldn’t challenge the laird for his lack of courtesy. Still, he was inclined to pack up his wife and his men and leave the keep at once.

  He settled for guiding her to her place at the table and seating himself between her and her father, where he could shield her from the drunken laird’s vulgarity. The last thing a skittish bride needed was more fuel f
or her fear.

  And more delay.

  Noёl might agree to put off the consummation of his marriage by a day. But more than that was bordering on unreasonable. He wanted to get home. Besides, if his wife did harbor feelings for that young man, Caimbeul, it was probably best to make a quick, clean break of it.

  Still, he knew he couldn’t leave until their wedding was official. And so he intended to employ his considerable powers of seduction to ensure that, come tomorrow night, he’d bed a very willing bride.

  * * *

  Ysenda was still reeling from that earth-shaking kiss when Caimbeul leaned toward her, clearly upset.

  “Oh, sister, why?” he whispered in despair. “Why did ye do it? Why did ye agree to marry him?”

  She rested a comforting hand on her brother’s forearm. “Caimbeul, I couldn’t let ye be hurt.”

  He looked miserable. “I’d rather die than have ye wed to a stranger.”

  “’Twill be fine. Ye’ll see,” she promised in a murmur, hoping she was right. “The Norman has vowed not to touch me tonight. The handfastin’ won’t stand. On the morrow, Da will see the error of his ways. He’ll realize he can’t defy the king. ‘Twill be undone faster than ye can blink.”

  Caimbeul didn’t look convinced, especially when he glanced past her at Sir Noёl. But he nodded. “Promise ye won’t let him touch ye.”

  She gave him a scheming grin. “I’ll sleep with a dagger in my hand.”

  But Caimbeul didn’t return her smile.

  In the next moment, her attention was drawn away by Noёl’s men. As if by magic, they’d produced a cask of wine. Noёl said it was the finest from Bordeaux, which he wished to share with his new clan.

  Ysenda was impressed, both by the gesture and by the wine. She’d never had wine before. In the Highlands, they drank cider, ale, and, on special occasions, mead.

  Noёl filled a cup for the two of them to share. She took a sip of the ruby-colored liquid. It was clear, smooth, and sweet. It was also quite strong.

  She handed the cup back to Noёl. He clasped his hands over hers to drink. His callused palms were warm on her knuckles. She felt that warmth travel along her arms, up her throat, into her face.

  Perhaps the wine was stronger than she thought.

  He gazed at her as he swallowed. His midnight blue eyes sparkled with delight.

  After he lowered the cup, a droplet of red wine lingered on his lips. Ysenda fought a wild urge to steal it with a kiss. Thankfully, he lapped it up before she could do something so reckless.

  His hands were still wrapped around hers on the cup. And she was in no hurry to cast them off.

  “Do ye like it?” he murmured, lowering his smoky gaze to her lips.

  She gulped. “Aye.”

  His lip quirked up into a wry smile. “Would ye like more?”

  Oh, aye, she thought, gazing at his delicious mouth. She’d like much more. More of his smiles… More of his kisses… More…

  “Cathalin?” he prompted.

  She blinked, then nodded, startled by the strange name and by how quickly astray her thoughts had gone.

  But she didn’t dare let them wander. This was her sister Cathalin’s husband, not hers, no matter what vows they’d exchanged. She’d do well to remember that.

  Silently toasting her serious intentions, she downed the second cup all at once.

  Noёl chuckled in amazement. “Ye do like it.” Then he curved a brow in warning. “But beware, lass, ‘tis a wee bit stronger than what ye’re used to.”

  She licked her lips. It did seem as if her skin was growing rather hot.

  He refilled her cup a third time, giving her a coy wink that made her heart race.

  Her sister was damned lucky. She hoped Cathalin realized how lucky she was.

  Ysenda glanced over at her. Somehow, despite the haughty lift of Cathalin’s brow and the knowing smirk on her lips, she was still beautiful. Ysenda wondered if she ever looked ugly.

  Sighing, she lowered her eyes to her wine. Her father was right about one thing. One of his daughters was probably going to wed a grizzled old sheepherder. And it wouldn’t be Cathalin.

  “Are ye not pleased, cherie?” Noёl asked.

  Cherie. He’d called her cherie. And the concern in his furrowed brows was sincere.

  Damn! It wasn’t fair that demanding Cathalin was going to win such a prize. Men like him should be loved and adored, not scorned. She felt sorry for the sweet and noble knight.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, instinctively touching his chest in pity. When she realized what she’d done, she tried to pull her hand back. But he caught it and clasped it against his chest, over his heart.

  “I am yours, cherie, heart and soul, from this day forward.”

  Maybe it was just the wine, but his words made tears gather in her eyes. How she wished that could be true. And how she wished she could hold on to that promise forever.

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I want nothin’ more than to keep ye happy.”

  Her heart melted. Bloody hell. Her sister was going to make mince out of the poor man.

  * * *

  It startled Noёl to realize that what he’d said was true. He wanted to please his new wife. He wanted to watch her lovely gray eyes light up with joy and see her pretty pink mouth widen in a smile.

  He wasn’t the sort of man to believe in love at first glance. But there was something about his bride that bewitched him.

  Meanwhile, she was draining her third cup of wine with astonishing haste, like a warrior bracing for battle. He feared the wee lass would drink herself into oblivion if she wasn’t careful.

  He gently took the empty vessel from her and set it on the table. Maybe a bit of fresh air would clear her head.

  “Would ye like to go out?” he whispered.

  “Out?”

  “Outside.”

  “’Tis night.” Her brow creased. “‘Tis wintertime.”

  “Ye don’t strike me as the kind o’ lass to be put off by a wee bit o’ darkness or snow. And I’ve got a cloak to keep us warm.”

  Her eyes sparked as if he’d asked her on a forbidden adventure.

  Without waiting for her reply, he took her hand and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Most of the clan were too distracted to note their departure. Caimbeul, however, had his scowl fixed on them. Noёl gave him a nod that acknowledged the man’s disapproval. But that didn’t stop him from taking his bride’s hand and stealing out the door into the night with her anyway.

  The air was crisp and cold. The snow had stopped falling. White drifts draped the ground like a linen sheet. Noёl swirled his woolen cloak over his bride’s shoulders as they stepped into the courtyard.

  She hesitated, glancing down at her feet. He realized she was wearing soft slippers meant only for the great hall.

  Without hesitation, he swept her off her feet and into his arms. She gasped, clinging to him as if she feared he’d drop her. But she was no heavier a burden than his chain mail. He sauntered easily across the courtyard, past the outbuildings nestled against the bailey wall. His boots squeaked in the newly fallen snow.

  “I suppose ‘tis hard to think o’ leavin’ the place o’ your birth,” he said. “But I think ye’ll grow to like France. And we can return here now and then if it pleases ye.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  He smiled. “So tell me, what should I know about this land we’re to inherit?”

  Noёl knew the Highlanders followed curious customs. One was that the oldest daughter could inherit the land and become laird in her own right. His brothers had shuddered at the notion. They’d warned him that ere long, his wife would be wearing trews and he’d be forced to don a kilt.

  But the idea didn’t trouble him. He’d always admired capable women. In fact, he was looking forward to sharing the responsibilities of the holding, particularly since he knew so little about clan life.

  “The land?” She wrinkled her brow in
thought. “Well…centuries ago, ‘twas settled by Vikings.”

  “Vikings? Invaders?”

  “Nae. They were peaceful enough. They came mostly to build homes. Indeed, many o’ my ancestors came from Viking stock.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s little left o’ their settlement now, just a few stones here and there.”

  “What about the land? Does it provide well for ye?”

  “Aye. There are fish in the loch and game in the forest—enough to keep the clan fed all winter. We keep sheep, cattle, and chickens. And we sow oats and barley. When summer comes, there are wild berries everywhere.” She thawed just a little when she mentioned summer, relaxing against him.

  “I’d like to see it in summer.”

  “’Tis a bonnie time. The braes are cloaked in green grass and wildflowers.” Then a crease touched her brow. “Though they’re also full o’ ankle-bitin’ midges.”

  He chuckled. “What’s your favorite place?”

  “My favorite?” She mused for a moment. “The Viking well, I suppose.”

  “The well?”

  “‘Tis an old stone ruin. But some say ‘tis enchanted.”

  Noёl felt enchanted himself. His bride fit into his arms as if she were made just for him. Her voice was soft and compelling. Her body felt warm and yielding against his. “Enchanted? And why is that?”

  “Accordin’ to ancient legend, two lovers hid in the well from those who would prevent their marriage. A storm arose, and the lovers drowned. They were cursed to live apart in the afterlife. But ‘tis said that at Yuletide, if two lovers tie together locks o’ their hair, weight them, and toss them into the well, the spirits o’ the ones who drowned will bless them with magic, bindin’ their souls together for eternity.”

  “Is that so?” Noёl didn’t believe in magic. Everything he’d won, he’d earned—not by magic, but by the sweat of his brow. Still, he didn’t want to dampen her spirits. “And is the legend true?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Maybe we should go and try it.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “Now?” She cleared her throat. “Nae, ‘tis late. And ‘tis too far away. There may be wolves about.”