Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter

by Putney, Mary Jo

  He traced his lips over her cheek, her ear, along her jaw. Shivers cascaded through her, and she moaned softly, turning to find his lips with her own. She moved against him, craving more of his grazing touches and deep, luscious kisses. She had not known this kind of tenderness existed. All she wanted was to float in its luxury, in its slow, effortless current; no matter where it took her, she knew she would be safe.

  Once, Parlan had kissed her in a dark corridor at Kilernan, swift, sour wine kisses followed by the heavy thrust of his tongue. She had arched away from him, and slapped him when his large hands rounded boldly over her behind, pulling her hips against the hard swelling beneath his plaid. He had claimed drunkenness; but she had known that, drunk or not, Parlan would never be a tender husband.

  But this Fraser, a stranger who had no reason to care about her, touched her as if she were made of silk and roses. His kisses were kind and yet strong, surging through her like bursts of flame. No threat, no sense of wrongness spun awry in her gut, as she had felt with Parlan. She felt herself relax and sink into the warm ocean of comfort Kenneth provided with his lips, his hands, his breath.

  His hand soothed over her breasts, rousing a shiver of need that spooled deep within her. She felt as if she had found the heart of a fire, and never wanted to leave its comfort.

  When he hesitated, as if offering her a chance to stop what grew between them, she let her silence, and the kiss she returned, answer his unspoken question. When he drew the lacings of her bodice loose, when his fingers found her breast, she pulled in a breath. Slipping her hands over his wide, tightly muscled shoulders and chest, she sighed out.

  His touch, his kisses, roused a sudden swell of joy in her, and she smiled to herself, loving this—loving him. The thought stunned her, and she paused, wrapped in his arms, knowing, in a strange, complete, wordless way, that she was where she belonged. She sank into a cocoon of warmth and comfort he provided, and wanted more, anything, all, from him. He glided his lips to her breast, and a deep, thunderous tremor rippled through her, as if strong enough to shake the bed, shake the room—.

  Kenneth sat up quickly, bolting from the bed with a muttered oath. "The roof! It's close to collapsing!" he yelled. He leaped past the hearth toward the animals.

  Bewildered, Catriona scrambled out of the bed. The walls trembled, and noise and chaos flooded the room. She swept the cat into her arms and watched as the ceiling over the stable area sagged and groaned. The horses and the cow shifted, bumped, and kicked out at the furniture and the walls.

  The cow stumbled against the upturned table, which crashed to the ground. Kenneth struggled to pull and push and cajole the three animals to safety across the room. Then the thatched roof above the abandoned corner emitted an unearthly groan, and shivered down in a heap of ice, snow, and straw.

  Chapter Six

  "Argh," Kenneth said, leaning back into the recess of the box-bed, "she seems to like me." He held up an arm to protect his face and turned his head, trying to avoid the cow's hot breath as she snuffled sloppily at his hair. Beside him, Catriona laughed with delight. He shot her a wry look.

  "She adores you," Catriona agreed, and shoved helpfully at the cow's massive shoulder. The animal turned and swatted her tail at Catriona as she moved away, only to bump into one of the horses. Sidestepping, the cow knocked over a stool.

  "She'll step in the hearth fire! Here, move!" Catriona said. "You'll burn yourself—ach, silly cow, go that way!"

  "What's her name?" Kenneth asked, as he reached out and guided the cow's hindquarters away from the hearth.

  "I do not know," she said. "A neighbor stabled her here so that I could have milk over the winter. What shall we call her?"

  "Well, the cat is called Dog"—he frowned in a pretense of concentration—"how about Pig?"

  Catriona laughed in that bell-like sound that made him smile to himself. Ever since the roof had caved in, their shared laughter over the mishap had made the work of cleaning and repairing the damage easier. Now she bounced off the bed and danced quickly around the hearth, intent on keeping a horse from knocking over the remains of the ruined table, which Kenneth had set up as a crude fire screen.

  "You are giddy as a lark in spring," Kenneth said, watching her. She moved lightly, with a kind of joy he had not seen in her before. "Your little house is in shambles, and yet you are happy as a child."

  She chuckled sweetly as she patted one of the garrons. Kenneth smiled, and glanced past her toward the dark corner of the house where the roof had fallen. He stretched his shoulders, weary from a day spent clearing the wreckage and repairing the roof. He and Catriona had worked together to drag out chunks of ice, shovel dirty snow and straw, and haul timber and straw from the collapsed byre to shore up the ceiling of the hut. The repairs had sealed out the sleet and the wind for now, but he was not sure how long the roof would hold, particularly if the ice storm continued.

  Another onslaught of wind and sleet battered the outer walls, but soup steamed, fragrant and savory, in the hanging kettle, and the crackling flames in the hearth warmed the snug, overcrowded hut. Kenneth felt oddly content; Catriona's smile, directed toward him, told him she felt the same.

  "What makes you so happy now, Catriona MacDonald?" he asked softly. "Surely a fallen roof is a poor omen, and yet you smile."

  She sat beside him on the bed. "I do not know," she said. "I feel good, safe, somehow, in here, with the storm outside." She grinned, quick and charming. "And you made me laugh all through the day, just watching you try to repair the damage, with the cow licking your face and the horses bumping into you." Kenneth chuckled. "But a fallen roof must be a very unfavorable sign, as you say," she added somberly.

  "It would be favorable enough, if it forced you to find a better place to live," he said. "You cannot stay here now. Come to Glenran with me."

  She shook her head. "You know I will not do that."

  "I am concerned for your welfare," he said. "Come with me. Please. Will you make me get down on my knees and beg?"

  "I might," she said saucily. "Would you do it?"

  "Tcha." He smothered a grin. "I will more likely toss you in my plaid and carry you off. No Fraser will beg for a favor."

  "Abducting the Maid of Kilernan is probably grounds for a feud," she said. "My uncle would be after you then."

  Kenneth watched her sparkling blue eyes, and his heart swelled within him. He realized, with a sudden, powerful clarity, that he had begun to love her. He drew a long breath, relishing the feeling, and an idea burst into his mind, stunning him with its strength, and its undeniable truth.

  "Catriona," he said, "what if the Maid of Kilernan wed a Fraser?" He spoke slowly, wondering, his heart pounding.

  She stared at him, her cheeks flushing high pink. "That—that would surely start a feud between Kilernan and Glenran."

  The bold step he was about to take felt wholly right. "A marriage can sometimes end a feud," he said.

  She lowered her head, her cheeks gone pale, as if all the joy drained out of her. "Go back to your kin in safety, Kenneth Fraser," she said. He barely heard her.

  "I will not go back without you," he said.

  "My uncle and Parlan might kill you if we—if we wed."

  "I have faced death before," he said. "A sure death, with the executioner's mask already about my eyes, and his ax a swing away from my neck. Yet I am here beside you now." She glanced at him, frowning in concern. "That happened years ago, when I was wrongly accused of breaking the signed bond with the MacDonalds," he explained. "My kin stood by me then. I will stand by you now, Catriona. Your uncle might approve of a marriage between us. Surely he knows that any attempt to heal this feud will please the Council."

  She twisted her hands in her lap. "He would not like it."

  "Shall we find out?" He watched her steadily.

  She began to speak, then shook her head.

  Kenneth leaned toward her. "Am I such a poor omen?"

  "You are not a poor omen," she said. Her voi
ce quavered. "But Parlan and my uncle would seek you out, bond or none."

  "Ach, my girl," he said, touching her shoulder. "Who would you rather take to husband—me or Parlan?"

  "You," she breathed out, without hesitation. "But I will not do it." She turned away, curling up to lay on the bed, her back to him. He heard her sniffle, as if she fought tears.

  He sighed and shoved a hand through his hair, regretting that his impulsive words had upset her. But he knew his mind, and his heart; the past few years, with Anna and then without her, had taught him much about himself, and about what he needed.

  In the space of a few days, Catriona had blessed his lonely existence fully, kindly, like candlelight dispels shadow. Still, he had spoken his thoughts far too fast—not for him, but for her. Stretching out beside her, he circled his arms around her.

  "All I ask is that you consider it," he murmured.

  "It would never work," she answered. "Go back to Glenran, and remember your bond. Keep your distance from the MacDonalds."

  "Remember the brooch, Catriona," he said softly. "The Frasers have a pledge to fulfill to you."

  She shook her head, curled away. "I fear that misfortune would befall both of us this way. Forget the brooch." She drew a shaky breath. "I should never have come to Glenran asking for payment of Lachlann's pledge. I always hoped that the snow rose would bring me luck. Marriage between us would"—she paused—"would only invite danger for the Frasers, and the MacDonalds."

  "The snow rose will bring you luck, if you let it," he said. "If not for the brooch, I would never have set foot across your threshold. I will be your luck, Catriona," he whispered. "I am your luck. Depend on it."

  She caught back a sob and grasped his hand tightly. He held her, but she did not turn, did not speak. He felt her cry silently, and knew she kept her fears and her thoughts within. After a while, her breaths grew more even, and she slept, exhausted, in his arms.

  He kissed her damp cheek, then sighed and sat up, aware that he must keep watch over the animals, so that none of them stepped into the open hearth, or knocked something into the fire.

  He leaned against the bedframe. The cow wandered toward the bed and nuzzled at his chest. Kenneth patted her huge head gently, distracted by his thoughts: he meant to find a way to fulfill a promise made twenty years ago.

  The ruined shieling sat on the hill like a pile of broken dreams. Catriona sighed, looking at it as she stood outside in the yard. The thatched roof sagged sadly at one end, its hole filled with straw and timber scraps; the small byre beside the house resembled a large pile of kindling.

  She turned away to watch the cow and horses, who wandered close to the house, where the snow was packed flat. She had brought them outside to milk the cow and let the garrons walk a bit; she would guide them inside soon, for the air was still frigid, although the sleet had stopped. Cù had stepped out briefly, and had gone inside, making his preference clear.

  Ice slicked the hills to milky smoothness, and turned the trees to bare, delicate sculptures. Catriona walked carefully over the slippery, crusted snow, her boots sinking with each step, and glanced back at the house.

  Kenneth still slept, although it was well into the day. She knew that he had been awake much of the night. Just after dawn, when Catriona had awoken and got out of bed, he had been sitting beside her. They had said little to each other beyond a somber morning greeting, and he had laid down and drifted to sleep quickly. She was not sure what she would tell him when he awoke.

  She sighed and began to crush the snow around her with her boot, making idle patterns while she thought. She had to convince Kenneth to go back to Glenran. If he stayed with her, if he wed her, the risks to him, and to the Glenran Frasers and Kilernan MacDonalds, frightened her. If she wed him, she feared that she would be widowed too soon, as her mother had been.

  But the thought of being wed to him spun through her like a whirlwind, stealing her breath. To have him near her always, strong and calm, kind and comforting—but that was a dream, a wish. No matter how much she desired it, it could not happen.

  Gazing at the broken, sad little house, she sighed. She had no choice now but to return to Kilernan. Twelfth Night Eve, when her uncle expected her, was two days away; by then the weather would allow travel. Kenneth would leave, and so would she.

  She pressed her foot down again and again, turning in a slow circle as she thought. Before Christmas, all she had wanted was a rescue from her dilemma, and better luck in the future. But since Kenneth had fallen through her door at midnight on New Year's Eve, as if fate had guided him there, all had changed.

  Somehow, fate had swept through her life like snow and ice, covering all that she thought existed, leaving a new, pure vista, filled with possibility and risk. But she would not risk Kenneth's life to grasp at joy.

  I am your luck, he had said. She wished it could be true. His words had been filled with devotion and love; they were a pledge in themselves. Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away. She rarely allowed herself to cry, but last night she had been flooded by bitter joy. Desperate to turn into his arms, knowing he wanted her, too, she had not; she feared what would happen if she let herself love him as she wanted to do.

  Kenneth was more than her luck. He was her life, the soul of what she needed and desired. The heart-wrenching choice she faced was no choice at all: she wanted him to live, wanted peace for him and their clans. If she had to return to Kilernan to ensure that—if she had to marry Parlan—then she would.

  She stepped back, and looked down at the design she had made. Spreading around her like an opened flower, her footprints formed a rose in the snow.

  Chapter Seven

  Kenneth looked up from lacing his boots to see Catriona open the door and guide the cow into the house ahead of her. She shut the door against a blast of frigid air, and turned toward him. Her pink cheeks grew even brighter.

  "You are awake," she said. "Have you eaten?" She took off her outer plaid and folded it as she spoke.

  "Not yet." He stood. "How is the weather?"

  She knelt by the low fire and poured water from a bucket into a kettle, swinging it over the fire to heat while she scooped ground oats from a sack. "Bitterly cold, but the sleet has stopped. Walking is difficult, and riding might be nearly impossible on some of the hills. You may have to stay another day or so." She seemed to be avoiding his gaze.

  He watched her add the oats. "Catriona, I—" he stopped, having much to say, and unsure where to begin.

  "I will not wed you, Kenneth," she said quietly, stirring the porridge. "But thank you for wanting to help me."

  He walked over to stand beside her. She did not look up. "I did not suggest it as a way to help you," he said, "although I think it would solve your situation. I suggested it because I want to wed you, Catriona MacDonald. Just that."

  She stirred silently. The cow lowed and shoved gently at him, and the cat slid over his feet to sit by the warm hearth stones and lick his paws. Kenneth did not move. He studied the dark sheen of Catriona's braided hair, and noted the proud, tense set of her slender neck and shoulders.

  "I will not wed you," she repeated, adding salt.

  He sighed in exasperation, annoyed with himself for bumbling through this matter impulsively and foolishly, and distressing her. He would have to begin again.

  Catriona knew little about him beyond what he had mentioned of his childhood and his cousins. He wanted to tell her about the last few lost years of his life. Perhaps then she would understand him better; perhaps then she would believe that he knew what he wanted in his life.

  He sighed, rubbed at his jaw, wondered where to begin. "I was betrothed just over three years ago," he said finally.

  She frowned, tilted her head. "I did not know," she said.

  "I loved Anna very much," he said quietly. "She was a sweet, happy girl, and easy for anyone to love. But she died three years ago of a quick, fierce illness, on New Year's Day."

  Catriona glanced up at him, her blu
e eyes wide and sympathetic. "New Year's? Dear God."

  He tensed his jaw, looked away. As much as he trusted Catriona, he found it difficult to reveal the hidden corners of his heart to anyone. "Since her death, I have dreaded the Yuletide season, every day of it, from Christmas to Twelfth Night," he said. "I thought only about what I had lost. I did not want to be happy if she was not there."

  She lowered her lashes, bit her lip, and said nothing as she circled the spoon in the thick porridge.

  "I had set my mind to loneliness," he said. "I was content, in a bitter way, to be discontent. Then you walked into Castle Glenran on Christmas Day." She glanced quickly at him. "At first, I thought how much you resembled Anna," he told her.

  "Oh." She looked away. "Now I see—"

  "You do not see," he said firmly. "Listen to me well. I know that you are different from Anna," he said. "Black-haired, blue-eyed, kind-hearted, that much is true of both of you. But now, though I fell through your doorway only days ago, I feel as if I know you well, as if I have known you for years."

  She sucked in a little breath. "I—I feel the same," she said. "But we have spent much time together, shut in here." She sighed as she stirred the porridge. "I am sorry about Anna, Kenneth. It must be hard to lose the one you love."

  "It is," he murmured. "Do not make me endure it again." He met her gaze evenly, though his heart thumped like a wild thing.

  "You do not know me well enough to...love me," she whispered, looking down.

  "Do I not?" He knelt beside her. "I know that you are strong and determined," he murmured, watching her. "You are keen-witted, and beautiful, and hopelessly willful."

  She frowned, but her cheeks blushed brightly. He smiled. "You laugh like a child, and make me want to laugh too. And you have the heart of an angel where others are concerned," he continued. "I think you might do anything for those you love." His fingers curled over hers while she continued to stir the porridge. "And I know that you are scared just now," he added.