Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter

by Putney, Mary Jo

  "Nonsense!" she exclaimed.

  "We both think this hiding in the hills is silliness. Come home, and wed me. Hugh expects you to be the queen at his Twelfth Night feast in three days."

  "Tell him I have no mood for revelry," she said.

  "If you are not at Kilernan by Twelfth Night Eve, Hugh says he will ride here himself and carry you back."

  Catriona sighed wearily. "I will think about his invitation. Go home, now."

  "Catriona—we saw a Fraser in these hills yesterday. We knocked him from his horse. Have you seen any strangers?"

  She glanced swiftly at Kenneth. "None at all. But I will be careful."

  "If you are anxious, I could stay with you," Parlan said.

  "I will be fine. Good night, Parlan."

  "Catriona, I do not like to leave you alone here."

  "Good night!" She faced Kenneth, waiting silently with him. When hoof beats thudded out of the yard, Catriona sighed and looked up. "He will come back tomorrow. If he finds you here—"

  "I will be gone by then. Come with me." Kenneth brushed back a lock of her hair. When he touched her, the memory of the kiss they had shared rushed through him like lightning.

  She turned away abruptly. "Every man I know wants me to do what pleases him," she said. "None of you cares what pleases me." Grabbing a folded plaid, she shook it out vigorously and laid it on the floor near the hearthstones.

  "You do not have to sleep on the floor," he said.

  "I know," she said. "This pallet is for you. I want my own bed tonight." She knelt by the hearth to stir the soup that simmered in the kettle.

  Kenneth accepted the bowl she handed him with quiet thanks. They ate in silence, and afterward Catriona stacked the bowls and spoons. "I will clean them tomorrow," she said. "It is poor luck to clean dishes on New Year's Day."

  "You are careful of such things," Kenneth said.

  "I need to be, to improve my luck," she said.

  "Good fortune will come to you this year, Catriona," he said. "I promise." He reached out and took her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him on the bench.

  She slid him a wary look. "I do not trust Fraser promises." He smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Trust this one," he said. "Good luck will be yours this year."

  Her look was still doubtful. "You sound like a soothsayer."

  "My cousin is one. And she would tell you that you need a strong good luck charm to cleanse away the old year and seal the luck of the new."

  "The best omen I have had so far this year was a beaten and bleeding first-foot." She scowled at him, but he smiled in return. "It would take a strong omen to balance that out."

  "True. Did you know," he murmured, "that the most powerful charm of all for New Year's Day...is a kiss?"

  A blush colored her cheek. "We did that."

  "We could bless the year again. If you like," he added.

  She watched him, her eyes deep blue wells, filled with uncertainty, and a hint of yearning. Slowly, she closed her eyes and lifted her face. He leaned toward her.

  She tasted salty, like the broth, and sweet, like warm honey. Kenneth sank his fingers in her hair, cupping the back of her head as he kissed her deeply, gently, touching his lips to hers, lifting, touching again. She sighed out and raised a trembling hand to his cheek. Sliding her fingers through his hair, she tilted her mouth beneath his, her lips opening tentatively.

  His body surged. He had not touched a woman in a long while; but the need that made him quaver now, that stirred through him like flame after darkness, was far deeper than physical. He wanted her profoundly, in his heart, his blood.

  He remembered, distantly, vaguely, as if it had happened decades ago, that he had felt a shadow of this for Anna. But what swept through him now was more powerful, soul-deep. He could not explain it, but knew its strength was great.

  Wanting her fiercely, he held back, sensing that her willful nature had a fragile side, too. He kissed her gently, pressing a hand against the sweet curve in her lower back, but no more than that. She sighed and broke the kiss, tipping her brow against his shoulder.

  "Enough blessing," she said breathlessly.

  He smiled, his cheek against her hair. "That should bring us both some luck." He drew a breath and waited for the thudding in his heart to calm.

  Catriona laughed, a breathy gulp, and sat up, her cheeks were flushed and velvety. She stood and picked up her plaid, throwing it around her shoulders.

  He stood too. "I will see to the animals," he said, guessing what she intended to do. "You stay here, by the fire. Stay warm. That wind sounds wickedly strong." He fetched his spare plaid and wrapped it over his head and shoulders. Catriona opened the door for him, and he stepped into a rough, icy wind.

  By the time he returned, Catriona had gone to bed. The bed curtains were closed. Kenneth took off his plaid and moved toward the window, where the candle still burned.

  "Do not blow it out," she said from behind the curtain.

  "The light will attract good spirits. And please watch the fire, to see that it does not go out on the first day of the year."

  "I will. Good night, then." He stretched out by the hearth. The cat jumped up on him, and Kenneth made room for both of them. He watched the glowing fire and listened to the wind howl and push past the little house; he thought about luck, and promises, and the unknown year.

  Catriona had enjoyed too little luck, he knew. He wished he knew a charm to grant whatever she wanted, safety for her and the children, home, happiness. He thought of Anna, who had never known lack or struggle until her brief illness. Kenneth had been her betrothed, her lover; but she had not truly needed him until the last days of her life. Her death had left him lacking.

  Catriona needed him. He knew that, even if she did not. He would leave tomorrow, but he would return to bring her food and goods, and to watch over her. Lachlann would have wanted someone at Glenran to fulfill his promise. And he had made his own pledge to her to improve her luck. He felt an odd sense of obligation; the Frasers owed her something—and he had been her first-foot of the year.

  As he drifted to sleep, he wondered if Kilernan could be taken without attack; then he sighed, for it was impossible. And he realized that, once he left here, Catriona might not accept further visits or gifts from him. He was a Fraser, after all. She was not fond of Frasers.

  He wished, suddenly, that she was.

  Chapter Five

  Sleet hurtled downward on shrieking winds, rattling against the walls and the roof. Catriona slid out of bed in a murky gray light, and wondered if it was morning yet. She pulled her plaid over her linen chemise and went to the door, cracking it open.

  Icicles hung crystalline from the doorway, the byre, and the trees. Frozen rain poured down in fine sheets from a dark sky. Catriona shivered as the wind cut past her, and stepped back, bumping into Kenneth, who now stood just behind her.

  He peered out. "Poor weather," he commented dryly. "I had better go see to the horses and the cow. They could freeze to death in this." He shut the door and turned. "Even with a hearthfire, it will be hard to stay warm inside today."

  "You cannot ride to Glenran in this," she said.

  "I cannot. Will you mind if I stay a bit longer?" He smiled and shoved a hand through his tangled hair. She noticed the sleepy creases around his brown eyes, and the heavier beard shadowing his firm jaw. He looked tousled and comfortable, standing beside her in his rumpled shirt and trews. Suddenly she did not want him to leave, regardless of the weather.

  "Please stay," she said. "I would like the company."

  He nodded and turned to gather his plaid and boots, pulling them on to go outside. When he was gone, Catriona dressed quickly and warmly, built up the smoldering fire with peat, and made a thick, salty porridge in a kettle over the hearth.

  Her thoughts turned to the children. Although she trusted Patrick and Angus to watch over the younger ones, she was deeply concerned for them in such a dangerous storm. She would go there as soo
n as travel was possible.

  After a while, Kenneth returned, his face red with cold. He blew on his hands to warm them, and ate quickly. "Thick ice has formed on this roof, and the byre," he told her. "I have to clear it off, or the thatch could collapse."

  "I will help you," she said. He protested, but she grabbed her spare plaid and soon followed him outside.

  The wind shoved at her, and the raw, bitter chill stung her hands and toes while she and Kenneth used broken tree limbs to prod at the ice on the low thatched roof of the shieling. When they turned toward the byre, they saw that the sloped, low-slung roof sagged under a burden of ice.

  Fighting the keening wind, Kenneth opened the door of the byre, and held her back with his arm. "Stay here," he told her. "The roof could fall. We will have to move the animals to safety. There is no choice but to bring them inside the hut."

  "I know," she said. "We will make room for them somehow." He led the two garrons and the cow out of the byre, and she helped him guide the animals through the doorway of the hut.

  Cù hid under a bench when they came inside, although Catriona got down on her knees to speak reassuringly to him. She turned to the agitated horses, patting their broad necks while Kenneth tipped the table, bench, and stools to build a makeshift stable area. Going back outside, he returned with oats for feed, and straw to spread on the floor.

  Catriona perched on the bed, the only remaining seat, and watched while Kenneth soothed the horses with gentle hands. He spoke calmly to the cow, a small, shaggy, black creature who stared at him with limpid eyes. Then he stepped over the barrier and skirted the hearth to come toward her.

  "The animals will be warm and safe," he said, "though it will be crowded in here."

  "We will manage," she said brightly.

  He unwound his damp plaid and hung it over the table to dry, then sat beside her to unlace his boots. "When the weather improves, I will repair the byre roof. I suppose—" he looked at her "you would not consider coming to Glenran."

  "With my cow and my horse, and eight children?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "Lachlann and his wife raised fifteen fosterlings and their own son at Glenran. There is room." He stripped down to his shirt, trews, and bare feet as he spoke, and began to rub his pale, blotched toes with a blanket from the bed.

  "Your feet look frostbitten!" Kneeling, she took his foot in her hands and rubbed gently for a while, then warmed some water and sluiced it over his feet.

  She felt the power and grace in his long bones and lean muscles. Even when his feet looked improved, she continued to stroke his ankles and knotted calf muscles. The rhythm and warmth was as soothing to her as she hoped it was to him.

  "Thank you," he murmured.

  She nodded, and turned away to fetch the flask of uisge beatha that the Fraser women had given her. Heating some of the liquid in an iron pot, she added cream, ground oats, and pinches of spices and sugar from Kenneth's New Year's gift. She poured it into a bowl and handed it to him.

  "Drink this brose. It will warm you inside and out."

  He sipped. "Ah. This is good. Thank you. I thought you gave the sugar and spices to the MacGhille children."

  "I kept some for you," she admitted shyly.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Girl dear, you are generous with your guest, but not with yourself. Come here." He patted the mattress. She sat beside him, and he held the bowl to her lips. "Drink," he said. "I am not the only one who is cold."

  She sipped, feeling the hot, sweet burn of the brose slide down her throat. They shared more between them, and then Kenneth reached out to remove the outer plaid that she still wore.

  The cow lowed morosely as Kenneth draped her damp plaid beside his to dry. He patted the animal's head affectionately and murmured to her. She nuzzled after him for a moment when he left her side to return to the bed, kneeling beside it.

  "Let me warm your feet, now," he told Catriona. She allowed him to unlace her damp leather boots and pull them off; then he reached under her skirt to peel off her knee stockings as if she were a child. He kneaded her bare feet between his strong hands, then bathed them in the water that remained in the bowl.

  His touch sent subtle shivers of pleasure throughout her body. She sighed, and watched his dark head and wide shoulders as he gently stroked her feet, coaxing warmth into her toes. No one, since her mother's death, had taken care of her like this man did now. No one had shown concern about her comfort.

  And no one, other than the children, had touched her with gentlessness or affection. She blinked back tears and closed her eyes, relaxing under his languid touch. Her feet and ankles seemed to glow with luscious warmth. When he set her foot down, she curled her toes and made a playful little moan, as if begging for more.

  He smiled. "Enough, I think. Who knows what kind of an omen this might be."

  "What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.

  He raised a brow. "Do you not know about the ritual of foot washing for a bride and groom, the night before they marry?"

  A hot blush flooded her face. "I forgot about that," she said hastily, and drew her feet up to pull on thick, dry woolen stockings, folding her legs beneath her.

  He sat on the bed again, his weight shifting her against him slightly. He sipped brose and offered her more. "The MacGhille children," he said, as they listened to the steady torrent of sleet. "How will they fare in this storm?"

  "I have been thinking about them too," she said. "Patrick and Angus are clever lads, and they will do their best to keep the others safe. But if ice collects on their roof, as it did here, or if one of them gets hurt or sick—" she sighed. "I wish we could go there."

  "I will ride there as soon as the weather allows. Patrick will take care of them. He's a smart lad, and nearly a man."

  She nodded and sipped the brose. The thick, sweet stuff slipped down her throat like fire and honey, warming her despite the pervasive chill in the hut. The wind shrieked past the house, but the blazing hearth and the presence of the man beside her were vastly comforting.

  Kenneth stood to toss a few sticks of kindling over the peat chunks, and used the iron poker to coax a bright, leaping fire.

  "Do you see those little blue flames?" she asked. "Those are the spirits of the hearth."

  "Good omens, I hope," he said, as he sat beside her again.

  "Very good. That square bit of peat, there, foretells wealth coming into a house. And that long, round shape means a stranger will come into the house."

  "Ah," he said. "I told you I was lucky for you."

  She rolled her eyes. "That remains to be seen."

  He smiled. "You will be surrounded with luck, Catriona MacDonald. A dark-haired man fell across your doorstep, loaded down with good fortune and goodwill." She laughed softly at his gentle teasing. "Ah, look," he said. "More square chunks in the fire. They predict much wealth for you this year. What does that fat little chunk of peat mean?"

  "That?" She frowned. "A birth within the year, I think."

  "Ah. Well," he said, "perhaps your cow will calf."

  "Perhaps." She wrinkled her nose. "It is beginning to smell like a stable in here."

  He chuckled. "I will have to shovel out the straw sooner than I thought, if we are to share this place with them."

  "This will help." Catriona grabbed a slender juniper branch from the kindling pile, and tossed it on the fire. Soon the smoky evergreen fragrance of the juniper began to counter some of the animals' pungency. She climbed back into the warm nest of the bed and sat beside Kenneth; they both welcomed Cù there when he slid out from his hiding place to curl between them.

  Kenneth smoothed his hand over the cat's sleekness, as did Catriona, and their fingers touched. His hand moved past hers slowly. She shivered, but knew it was not from the chill, and remained silent, as he did, both of them stroking the cat.

  She listened to the thrust and whine of the storm, and the purring cat, watched the fire and sensed the peacefulness of Kenneth's silence. Delicious currents of heat and
contentment poured through her, and she sighed. She felt truly sheltered, while bitterness raged outside.

  "The storm is fierce. The cold and the ice could last for days," Kenneth murmured.

  "It could," she agreed. Then this heaven of peace would continue, she thought dreamily.

  "I should leave soon," he said.

  "But you planned to stay," she said, looking up at him.

  "Tomorrow my horse should be able to manage the hills, and I will ride out to see the children. Then I must return to Glenran. My cousins will be wondering what happened to me." He smiled at her. "But I am not leaving just yet."

  "I am glad," she whispered.

  "Are you?" His gaze was steady and deep.

  She nodded. "And I am glad you set first foot in my house. You have brought me good fortune after all. You saved the animals from the cold, and cleared the ice on the roof. It was good luck that brought you here in that storm. I might have been alone here, to deal with the ice."

  His fingers covered hers over the cat's back. "Perhaps I shall be your first-foot next year," he murmured, "if you like."

  "I would like that," she whispered. He leaned closer, and she tilted her head toward him, hoping suddenly.

  The first touch of his lips was soft and tentative, but the next kiss, deep and full, swept her breath away. She circled her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Kenneth pushed the cat gently out of the way and wrapped her in his arms.

  His mouth delved over hers with such strength and heat that she seemed to melt, like butter in hot brose. She felt the light caress of his tongue across the seam of her lips, and she sighed out, loving the strange intimacy of it.

  She leaned back and let him take her down to the pile of pillows and furs on the narrow bed. His lean, hard body fit against her curves, even through layered wool, and his lips moved over hers in a breathless rhythm. What rushed through her was more heady, more dizzying than the strong drink that still coursed, hot and languid, through her blood.

  He drifted his fingers over her cheek, along her neck and shoulder, touching her as if she were fragile. His fingers grazed over her breast and moved downward, pulling her hips toward his. She gasped and tightened her arms around his neck, pressing the length of her body to his. Her heart beat in a fierce cadence, and she sensed the heavy pounding of his heart, too, when her fingers skimmed over his chest.