A Merry Medieval Christmas Box Set

by Laurel O'Donnell

  How had she . . . ? How long had she . . .?

  Realizing his mouth was agape, Michaell closed it and offered Mhàiri a hand. She accepted his help and rose gracefully, smoothing her gown. Wisps of hair had worked free of her braids, framing her face in a halo of golden light. Her gown was rumpled despite her efforts, and her bliaud hung slightly askew. Michaell thought she was utterly adorable.

  With a slight tug of his hand, he drew her closer. “Mhàiri, may I introduce my brother William, Lord of Wee Cleugh?” He turned his proud gaze to his brother. “William, this is Lady Mhàiri Burns, of Siller Stane, and lately of Claver Hill.”

  William bowed deeply. “My lady. ’Tis my pleasure to meet ye.” He straightened and eyed Michaell sharply. “Muckle Alan’s daughter?”

  “Aye.”

  “Lord Scott’s granddaughter?”

  Mhàiri gripped Michaell’s hand, stalling his reply.

  “Aye. I’m that Mhàiri Burns. Ye dinnae have to speak around me.”

  William stepped close, dropping his voice to a muted rumble. “I dinnae mean to malign ye, m’lady, but I heard a rumor that Richard Henderson was betrothed to Lord Scott’s granddaughter.”

  Mhàiri’s grip tightened and she lifted her chin.

  “Aye. I’m that Mhàiri Burns, too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  William rubbed his chin. “This does present a wee problem, doesn’t it?”

  Michaell gritted his teeth. The last thing he needed was his older brother telling him what he already knew. “Lady Mhàiri is here to retrieve a few items.”

  William snorted, giving their joined hands a pointed look. “Tell that one to our wee granny. She’ll not believe the lass is strictly here for a few misplaced items—or at least ’tis not the whole of the tale.”

  “We can deal with the betrothal,” Michaell replied stubbornly. “I’m not as credulous as ye believe me to be.”

  “Credulous?” William’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Ye may be young, but I dinnae believe a few years with Muckle Alan left ye a naïve bairn.” He sent Michaell a quelling look. “Let us retire to the lord’s chamber above stairs and talk this through. ’Tis hardly a conversation for the entire castle to mull over.”

  Aiming a frown at his brother, Michaell directed a serving lass to see to refreshments, then led them to the top of the keep where the lord’s private chamber nestled below the eaves. A long table surrounded by six sturdy chairs filled most of the room. A low fire burned in the hearth centered on the long wall. The tramp of booted feet echoed faintly overhead.

  With a gracious sweep of his arm, William pulled a seat out for Mhàiri then claimed the chair at the head of the table. Michaell fisted his hands impatiently, inwardly fuming as William usurped his place as both Mhàiri’s protector and as lord of the manor. After a moment, his brother realized his error and rose, offering the lord’s seat to Michaell. Exchanging the chair for one further down the table, William sat, scraping the chair’s legs against the new wood floor.

  “Ye’ve done a fine job with the place,” he noted, glancing about the room. To Michaell’s surprise, the Yule decorations below had been extended to this chamber, holly and other evergreens piled atop the fireplace mantle, red and white berries peeking from amid dark green mistletoe leaves. The air held with the aroma of new wood and fresh-cut boughs, and candles winked their flames on every surface.

  “The wood had to be replaced here and on the first and second floors. The lord’s bedchamber on the third level was the only area largely undisturbed by the fire.”

  “Thanks to yer timely intervention. It couldnae have been easy halting what the English had done.” Mhàiri beamed approval. Michaell’s glower faded. He leaned his forearms on the table and steepled his fingertips together, thankful for Mhàiri’s support.

  “Tell me why ye are here, brother.”

  William sprawled back in his chair. A serving lass hovered in the door but stepped forward quickly at Michaell’s nod. She placed a large pitcher on the table, steam rising, promising more of Aileen’s spiced wine. The tray of bread and cheese followed, and, with a short bob, she dropped two blocks of peat onto the fire and left the room.

  After ensuring everyone had been served, Michaell sent his brother a questioning look, silently re-asking his earlier question.

  “I thought to stop in for a visit on my way to see the Kerr,” William said. “Yule season, ye know.”

  Frustration boiled in Michaell’s veins. “So ye could report to him how things fare here?” He banged a fist on the table. “I am tired of being always on a leading rein!”

  William eyed him askance. “Brother, ye have more problems than what our esteemed sire thinks or doesnae think about ye and Siller Stane.” He gave Mhàiri a polite nod. “Richard Henderson willnae be pleased to know his betrothed has spent the night nestled with ye—fully dressed and in a room full of servants or nae. What were ye thinking?”

  Mhàiri set her mug down. “’Twas not Michaell’s fault. I was cold in the lord’s bedchamber by myself, and couldnae sleep. Henry led me downstairs—”

  “Henry?” William’s eyes widened, betraying his concern.

  “Henry is one of Da’s terriers,” Michaell explained with a nasty glower. William glanced about the floor. “He’s likely off chasing rats. Ye can meet him later when he shows up for his nooning.”

  William shook his head, the makings of a smile on his lips. “Michaell, let’s sort things out, shall we? There’s naught two Kerrs cannae put to right.”

  “Ye will need to know the entire story,” Mhàiri said, irritated the big man continued to ignore her.

  “By all means,” William granted. “I am fascinated to hear yer side of the tale.”

  Mhàiri rose, fury boiling. “I willnae put up with yer condescending manner any longer. I have what I came for, and I will see myself to the stable, then home.” She pushed her chair aside. “Good morn.”

  “She’s a spitfire, Michaell. Are ye certain ye can handle her?”

  Michaell stormed to his feet. “I willnae put up with yer boorish attitude, either. Ye are welcome to my hospitality, but ye willnae insult my guest.”

  “Braw words,” William rumbled. “They may hold ye in good stead when Richard Henderson decides to avenge his honor.”

  Mhàiri narrowed her eyes. “’Tis not his honor at stake.”

  “Och, but ’tis.” His voice softened. “Ye cannae be haring off on yer own any longer, lass. We must decide what is to be done about yer lapse. I must know—how do ye want this to end?”

  Mhàiri wavered between stalking from the room and letting the men decide whatever it was that made them think they ruled the world, and slapping William soundly on his grinning face.

  Grinning?

  She slammed her fists onto her hips, giving him a fierce stare. “What amuses ye?”

  William waved a hand in the air. “Ye neither one will admit ye are knee-deep in a dangerous situation—or that ye are head over heels in love with each other.” He shrugged. “The second isnae any of my business, but I reckon ye may need a wee bit of help with the first.”

  Mhàiri shot Michaell a helpless look.

  “Mayhap if my brother would speak plainly, we could settle and listen a moment to what he has to say.”

  A moment. Aye, she could sit another moment. With a frown, Mhàiri took her seat.

  “Lord Kerr, I know ’tis nigh on impossible for a woman to break a betrothal.” She hazarded another glance at Michaell, struck by the strained look on his face. “I dinnae know . . . . May I begin at the beginning for me?”

  “Aye. I am verra interested in the tale, m’lady. And please, call me William.”

  Mhàiri took a breath. “Grandfather and I dinnae see eye-to-eye on many things. He couldnae prevent my ma from marrying my da, and mayhap ’tis why he did his best to keep me locked away when I was forced to come live with him four years ago.”

  One corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Uncle Gregor dinnae get alon
g with Grandfather, either, and spent much of his time away, traveling and reiving. When he was home, he would override Grandfather’s objections and take me riding, fishing, whatever he could contrive to give me freedom. I’d just lost my ma, and Uncle Gregor quickly became verra important to me.”

  Grief at the thought of his imprisonment swept over her and she paused. She tried a sip of warm wine and managed to find her voice again.

  “He was captured during one of his reiving trips by Baron de Percy’s men and held for ransom. Grandfather was angry and swore Gregor would get nothing from him, and so Uncle’s remained imprisoned this past year. But de Percy sent word he will not entertain my uncle after the first of the year. Though my grandfather has declared his coffers empty, and de Percy refuses to accept the ransom in sheep or cattle, I know he wants my uncle home. And, to that, he has given me over to Richard Henderson who has the money to pay a bride price in exchange for my dowry land.”

  William rubbed his chin. “Hmmph. Land which young Michaell here currently holds.”

  “But, ’tis still my land.”

  “Och, lassie, the person who is strong enough to hold it, owns it.” He quirked a grin. “Unless ye’d care to petition the king for yer rights?”

  Michaell broke in. “I planned to marry her so she’d have her land and home again.”

  William roared with laughter. “What a noble gesture! And an unusual occurrence. A man thinking with his brain and not his cock!”

  Mhàiri’s neck heated.

  Michaell stormed to his feet. “Ye will apologize!”

  William waved away Michaell’s objection. “Ye planned to marry her to do more than give her pretty home back. Dinnae make this more complicated than it is.”

  “Breaking a betrothal isnae complicated?” Mhàiri shot back, with more than a little sarcasm.

  “Of course ’tis.” William’s teeth flashed in a wolfish grin. “But if ye wish to marry my wee daftie brother, I will help ye.”

  Mhàiri stilled. Is it what I want? I certainly dinnae wish to wed Richard Henderson—but do I wish to marry Michaell?

  Happiness drifted through her midsection and spread to her face, warming her skin, tingling her toes. The memory of his kiss burned on her lips and she pressed her fingers against her mouth. Her cheeks flamed hotly as she realized the import of her gesture, and she laid her palm firmly on the table. Giving herself a moment for composure, she lifted her gaze to William’s.

  “I do wish to marry yer brother. Mayhap a wedding before Lord Henderson comes for me. A fait accompli, giving him no choice but to accept the matter?”

  “A Yule wedding?” Michaell sent her a tender look.

  William snorted. “If Richard wants the marriage badly enough, he will simply have yer marriage set aside in favor of the prior contract.”

  “But I must agree to marry him first,” Mhàiri argued. “And I dinnae.”

  “Technically, yes,” William agreed. “However, there are ways to get around your words of endorsement, and I doubt yer grandfather will care overmuch if ye are compliant or not, if he gets the money from Richard to ransom yer uncle.”

  “I have the money. Or, at least, it’s match.”

  William raised his eyebrows, appearing intrigued.

  Mhàiri reached inside her gown, drawing the velvet bag from its thong about her neck. She carefully withdrew the brooch from its nest and placed it in William’s outstretched hand.

  “It was my ma’s. I believe ’tis worth a tidy sum.”

  William sent her a sharp glance. “Is it a reliquary?”

  “Aye. For a piece of the True Cross. But I will find another place to keep the relic. The brooch alone is worth my uncle’s ransom.” She lifted her chin. “De Percy willnae get his hands on the relic in my lifetime.”

  “Good lass,” William grunted. He turned the brooch over in his hand, then gave it back to Mhàiri. “Ye have the wherewithal to pay the ransom, but we still have the matter of the betrothal to settle. We must first protect ye, as I dinnae trust Richard not to steal ye and force the matter if he catches wind of yer plan.”

  “Plan? I dinnae have a plan.”

  William’s eyes twinkled. “Of course ye do lass. And Michaell and I will be right there with ye.”

  * * *

  Michaell tightened his grip, as close as he could come to forbidding her to leave—or begging her to stay. He breathed the scent of her, face pressed against her hair. Mhàiri nestled her cheek against his chest. Behind them, in the lower reaches of the tower, servants moved about, readying for the Yule feast later in the day. Sunlight glinted on the snow in the yard beyond the open door like a thousand diamonds—a gift to atone for the brutal storm the night before.

  “Dinnae leave today, Mhàiri. Stay with me one more night.”

  “Ye know I cannae. Yule is hurrying past, and ’tis more than a day’s ride to de Percy’s home.”

  “I could send a messenger. De Percy could be constrained to wait.” For St. Andrew’s sake—I’ve the power to help ye and ye willnae accept my offer? I’m no longer the boy ye once knew, but a man grown. But he held the words back, chafing against his need to be the one Mhàiri turned to for help.

  Mhàiri shifted in his arms and he feared she grew vexed with his restraint. He tilted her chin up, caught her upper lip in a gentle caress with his mouth, teasing, urging her to kiss him back. She slid her arms up his chest and wove her fingers through his hair. Rising on her toes, she pulled his head down. She clung to him, drowning in the kiss as though she feared it would be their last.

  Michaell slowly broke the caress. “Mhàiri, it doesnae have to be like this,” he murmured, drawing back to touch his forehead to hers. “Stay with me. Say the words of consent—spend the night in my arms. Ye are of age to wed where ye will.”

  “Did ye not listen to William? Ye are well aware such a marriage could be set aside in favor of the betrothal—incurring Lord Henderson’s wrath. Would ye wish that for me?”

  Anger flashed through Michaell. “Ye are prepared to marry Richard to save yer uncle?”

  Mhàiri’s hesitation was an instant too long. “Nae. It willnae come to that. Michaell, much as I long to remain with ye, yer brother has a good plan. He will protect me.”

  ’Tis my job to protect ye. Michaell gritted his teeth. As always, his brother had the upper hand. When would William and his father—and the rest of his brothers—see him as a man?

  She tugged at his tunic, the playful tilt of her mouth at odds with the serious look in her eyes. “Dinnae fash, Michaell. I will have my Yuletide wish. Ye’ll see.”

  “Then I will do my part to make certain it comes true.” He pressed against her once more, trying to assuage the ache in his groin, then kissed her cheek.

  She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and crossed beneath the thick portal to her pony. Michaell folded his fingers together and boosted her into the saddle. With a final glance over her shoulder, Mhàiri fled the keep surrounded by a swirl of disturbed snow, William, and five burly soldiers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mhàiri yearned for a rest. She wanted to demand they turn around and ride back to the keep so she could throw herself into Michaell’s arms, into the safe, blissful spot that was hers alone. But he was no longer at Siller Stane. He would have wasted little time ordering the defense of the keep before traveling to Claver Hill to protect her grandfather. William’s plan—he called it hers, but she knew she would not have been able to execute it so thoroughly on her own—demanded they strike both threats as quickly as possible. Retrieve Gregor Scott before he met his untimely end at the length of a hangman’s noose, and hold Claver Hill against Richard Henderson’s ire.

  What manner of man threatened to hang a man during Yuletide?

  Her fingers and toes were numb, the tears created by the cold air had dried to ice crystals on her cheeks. She buried her hands beneath her pony’s thick mane, barely able to feel the warmth of his furry hide, and struggled on, missing Michaell more wi
th every thump of her pony’s hooves on the frozen earth.

  She had loved him fiercely as a child, following in his wake as often as permitted, slowly growing immune to the derision of the other lads who did not relish having a young girl—Muckle Alan’s child or not—in their midst. Michaell had never failed to make her welcome. He’d tolerated and encouraged her, and listened to all her joys, challenges, and woes.

  He loved her. Even after all this time, his foremost thoughts and actions had been for her benefit. The knowledge excited and humbled her, for though she’d thought of him often enough, she’d never dreamed they would cross paths again.

  How strange to think she’d believed he’d betrayed her family. She absently rubbed the brooch in its bag beneath her kirtle. Calm settled over her, bringing a sense of well-being to her thoughts. Michaell would protect her, love and cherish her. And she would do her best to remind him of her love every day. Blissful warmth swept out from her heart to her toes, making the path she traveled away from him bearable, giving her hope she would find a way to abolish the betrothal and marry Michaell.

  Darkness arrived too early, clouds promising more snow crowded out the lingering light of sunset. There was still much terrain to cross before they reached de Percy’s holding, but William called a halt, the men busying themselves with setting up camp for the night. Mhàiri struggled to dismount, pain stabbing through her legs as her feet touched the ground. She gripped the saddle pommel until she was certain she would not fall, then attempted to untie the stiff leather girth.

  “Damn St. Andrew’s cold ears!” Mhàiri stuck the fingers of her right hand in her mouth to warm them, glaring at the unyielding saddle strap.

  William’s bark of laughter startled her. “I dinnae know the good saint had cold ears, or that wee lasses could damn them. But I’ll bow to yer greater knowledge.” He elbowed her aside and made short work of removing the pony’s saddle. “Warm yerself by the fire. There’ll be something hot to drink and a bit to eat shortly. I’ll tend to yer pony.”

  Mhàiri ground her cold, stubborn teeth. “’Tis my pony. I’ll care for him.”