A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  In a blink, he pulled her into his arms, nearly crushing her. It was a welcome sensation; this man holding her in the strength of his arms.

  “They are tears of joy, my love. My heart sings a joyful song,” he breathed into her hair. “Ye are the Christmas miracle I’ve been prayin’ for, for more than fifteen years.”

  Shocked, Joy pressed her free hand against his chest. His heart was pounding. “I am?”

  “Oh, aye. And I knew the moment I saw ye, that ye were meant tae be mine…if only ye would feel the same,” he admitted. Taking her face in his hands once again, he brushed a kiss over her eyes, her cheeks, and finally her lips. “I love ye, Joy. More than I can ever tell ye.”

  “I love you, so much. And I can honestly tell you I wasn’t expecting to,” Joy blurted, overcome with the feelings flooding her heart.

  “I ken that, lass. And I know I was a bit…overwhelmin’,” he admitted, chuckling.

  “Oh aye!” she remarked, giggling. She tipped her face up and kissed him, allowing all the love in her heart to rise, just as the orchestra in the ballroom began to play.

  Epilogue

  Four months later…

  “You really don’t mind covering for me while we’re gone?” his wife asked the spritely brunette grasping her hands. “I know there’ll be quite a bit for you to do.”

  Mollie giggled. “Don’t you worry about a thing! You enjoy your honeymoon with that handsome husband of yours. Lord knows I’ll enjoy mine…once Bertram gets around to asking me.” She flushed but then reached out to Joy and engulfed her in a hug. “I’m going to miss you, Joy.”

  Joy laughed. “We won’t be gone all that long,” she effused.

  “Nary a month,” Seamus added, winking at his wife who blushed a lovely scarlet and grinned at him becomingly.

  His wife. His heart lurched then galloped as he stared down at the woman wearing his ring.

  They’d married just the day before in a small ceremony—only friends and family. It was the most beautiful and intimate wedding he could have ever dreamed of. And what had made it perfect was the woman who stood beside him and vowed to love him for the rest of her life. Just as he’d love her for the rest of his. After the ceremony, they’d spent the night in the small house he, Billy, and the new foreman, Race Tucker, had built on Seamus’s own patch of land just outside Dry Bayou Ranch.

  “Come on, ya two,” Ray called from the wagon bearing their traveling trunks. “Stagecoach leaves for San Antonio in an hour, and you ought to be on it.”

  He and his wife were taking the train from San Antonio to New York City, where they planned to see the sights, make love, and make memories.

  His body tightening at his wandering, heated thoughts, he nearly missed the look Joy gave Ray. Those women were up to something—he’d bet his best boots on it. When Joy turned back to him, hiding a grin, he chuckled. Seamus didn’t mind a wit what those two were planning, as long as he could be there to experience Joy.

  With a groan, he pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her, letting the warmth and taste of her fill him.

  After so many years of wishing and praying, of hopelessness and sorrow, Seamus finally knew the meaning of contentment. Of utter happiness.

  Joy MacAdams. His own Christmas miracle.

  The End

  Love this romantic tale? Want to read the romantic tales of Ray and Billy, Hank and Tilly, and all the other couples in Dry Bayou?

  Start here:

  Dry Bayou Brides Series

  Dry Bayou Brides Series

  About the Author

  Lynn Winchester is the pseudonym of a hardworking California-born conservative, now living in the wilds of Northeast Pennsylvania. Lynn has been writing fiction since the 5th grade, and enjoys creating worlds, characters, and stories for her readers.

  Lynn writes charming, romantic romance that focuses on the growth of the relationship and the power of true love. Lynn’s historical western Dry Bayou Brides series is a highly acclaimed, bestselling sweet romance series. Keep an eye out for her upcoming releases.

  When Lynn isn’t writing, she is running a successful editing business, reading whatever she can get her hands on, raising her four children, making sure her husband is happy, and binge watching shows on Netflix.

  Connect with Lynn online:

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  A Sprig of White Heather

  Avril Borthiry

  Author Notes

  ‘A Sprig of White Heather’ was inspired by an ancient Celtic folktale about a maiden named Malvina, the daughter of Ossian, a famous bard. Her betrothed was said to be the bravest of warriors—a man named Oscar, who had been called away to war.

  One day, Oscar’s loyal messenger, wounded and weary, came to Malvina with the tragic news that Oscar had been struck down in battle. Before he died, he’d plucked a sprig of purple heather from the ground and asked that it be given to Malvina as a token of his eternal love.

  Heartbroken, Malvina wept, and her tears fell onto the tiny purple flowers. Immediately, the flowers turned white. Thereafter, whenever Malvina walked and wept upon the moors, her tears would turn the purple heather to white. The grieving lass is purported to have said, “May the white heather, a symbol of my sorrow, bring good fortune to all who find it.”

  White heather is still considered a symbol of good fortune to this day and is often carried in wedding bouquets.

  The days and dates indicated in this story are accurate to the Julian calendar, which was in use at the time. The battle of La Forbie (Firbiya, Palestine) actually did take place on the dates noted, and was an allied offensive of Christian and Muslim soldiers against the Egyptian Sultanate and Khwarezmian mercenaries, who had taken control of Jerusalem.

  From where the light rises, salvation is found.

  (translation)

  From ‘Gaudete’, Medieval Latin Christmas Carol

  Merry Christmas, everyone!

  And thank you, Kathryn.

  Chapter One

  Castle Cathan, Western Scottish Highlands,

  Monday, December 24th,

  Year of the Lord 1235

  Sword held aloft, Calum spun round and sliced his wooden training blade through the air—right to left and left to right—as if smiting an imaginary foe. The snow, tumbling from the sky in giant flakes, swirled in the weapon’s wake. “One day,” he announced with conviction, “I’m going to be a great knight.”

  Ailsa, seated on an upturned bucket, brushed a snowflake from the end of her frozen nose. Her fingers and toes tingled with cold, but she didn’t care. She could have sat there all day watching Calum MacKellar and listening to his voice. She heaved a besotted sigh and nodded her agreement. “’Tis certain, Calum. You’ll be the greatest knight in all of Scotland.”

  The wooden blade whistled through the air. “All of Scotland and beyond.”

  That popped Ailsa’s wee bubble of enchantment. “Beyond?” It came out as a squeak. “You mean, you dinnae intend to stay here?”

  He paused his swordplay and looked at her. “For a time, aye. But nae always and forever.”

  “Why?” Ailsa fidgeted as her heart set off at a fearful gallop. “You cannae leave Scotland. Or Castle Cathan either. ’Tis your home. You’ll be laird one day.”

  “I dinnae intend to leave right away, you daft lass.” He frowned as the blade swung again. “I still need to train, to get my spurs. It’ll be a few years yet, I reckon, before I’m ready to go. But one day, I intend to visit the Holy Land. Maybe even join the Knights of the Temple.”

  A few years? It felt like a stay of execution. “But you’ll be needing a wife in a few years,” she blurted out, not caring about the rush of heat to her cheeks. “And bairns.”

  Calum laughed and held his sword aloft as if the victor of a battle. “’Tis a forward wee thing you are, Ailsa Rose Macdonell. Methinks your father would rattle your arse if he heard you speakin’ so boldly. I’ll no’ be needin
g a wife for a good while yet. Besides, the Templars are monks. They dinnae hold with the company of lasses.”

  “Monks?” Ailsa blinked the snowflakes from her lashes. “You just said they were knights. Dinnae tease me.” And I’m no’ wee anymore.

  “They’re both.” Calum twirled the hilt, making the wooden blade spin, and his eyes widened. “Did you see that? I’ve been practicing. Watch!” The sword spun again.

  “’Tis a fine trick,” Ailsa said, without much enthusiasm. She couldn’t fathom it. How can a lad possess eyes as bonny as Calum’s and not be able to see?

  Oh, he saw things. The sky, the earth. His horse. His sword. Aye, and no doubt he saw her, too. But it seemed he was blind to how much she loved him. And she did love him. She’d loved him from the moment she’d first seen him, seven years earlier. Despite being a wee bairn at the time, the memory had stayed with her, and always would.

  “This is Calum MacKellar,” her father had announced to all present, steering an unfamiliar boy into the dining hall. “Laird MacKellar’s lad. He’ll be fostering with us for a wee while.”

  Ailsa had not yet entered her fifth year and wasn’t even sure what fostering meant. The lanky, tousle-haired lad had nodded his greetings to everyone before his gaze came to rest, at last, on Ailsa. Then he’d given her the widest, boldest grin she’d ever seen.

  For the first time in her young life, Ailsa became aware of her heart’s existence. It had leapt up like a fish from water, knocking the breath from her lungs as a horde of butterflies had taken flight in her belly. Many times, she had twirled on her toes, fanning out her skirts till her head swam with dizziness. Yet at that moment, despite being seated quite firmly on her behind, she’d felt just as giddy. If she’d tried to stand, she’d have surely toppled over.

  After that, with unabashed childish adoration, she’d attached herself to Calum like a second shadow. She belonged with him. To him. Of that, she had no doubt at all. He, though, didn’t seem to realize it.

  “You’re like a bothersome wee midge,” he’d say, without malice, and bless her with one of his smiles. Her father, good humoredly, had attempted to put a stop to her infatuation. “Let the lad be, lass,” he’d said, ruffling her hair. “’Tis off-putting for him to have a wee bairn trailing after him all the time.”

  But Ailsa trailed after Calum anyway. She knew she wouldn’t be a bairn forever.

  Now, she glanced down at her twelve-year-old self, wondering when, if ever, her breasts might appear. Lads liked such things, apparently. But, other than feeling some tenderness in her chest, she’d seen little sign of them so far, though her menses had begun the previous spring.

  And Calum’s fosterage was over, which is why they were now back at Castle Cathan. Her family had escorted him home, the journey timed with an invitation to stay and celebrate Christmastide with the MacKellars. The blessed Lord’s birthday was on the morrow. After that, Ailsa would be leaving to return to her home.

  Leaving Calum.

  She could hardly bear the thought of it. She would have liked a promise before she left. Something to cling to. But it seemed her parents found only amusement in her fascination with Calum, and he still treated her like a child.

  “You look half-frozen, wee lass.” Calum’s voice intruded into her melancholy. He waggled his sword at her and gestured toward the nearby armory. “Let me put this away, and then we’ll go in.”

  He returned moments later, gave her a smile, and held out a hand. Ailsa took it, and he hoisted her to her feet. To the Devil with propriety, she thought, and purposely stumbled against him. “Oh, my goodness!” she said, making no effort to pull away. “Please forgive me, Calum. I fear I can barely feel my frozen feet.”

  His warm breath brushed across her hair as his chest rose and fell against her.

  “Let’s… let’s get you inside,” he said, his voice throaty. “You can warm yourself by the fire.”

  He untangled himself, but looped her arm through his as they headed indoors—something he had never done before. Ailsa’s heart sang as she bit back a smile. She felt not the least bit guilty for her flagrant behavior. One way or another, she’d make Calum MacKellar understand that they were meant to be together always.

  Ailsa had sat for a while by the fire till her fingers and toes had thawed out. Then, prompted by her mother, she’d gone to change her robe and prepare for the evening’s festivities. Sometime later, clad in pale yellow silk and with her hair braided and styled, Ailsa took her seat at the head table. To her dismay, Calum’s seat was at the opposite end of the dais, though he’d given her a nod and a smile as she’d approached.

  He too, had changed his clothes, and the mere sight of him set her heart racing anew. His pale linen shirt looked well next to the blues and greens of his surcoat. It seemed an attempt had also been made to tame his hair, but it had only partly succeeded. His wealth of brown curls never stayed neat for long.

  Ailsa appeased herself with the knowledge that the evening had just begun. Plenty of time to seek Calum out after the meal. For now, tingling with excitement, she absorbed the mood of the occasion.

  The festive feast seemed destined to be a magical affair. The great hall at Castle Cathan looked splendid and smelled even better. The shutters, closed against the winter chill, had been decorated with branches of sweet-scented evergreens and fragrant wreaths of dried heather. A blazing peat fire in the central fire pit chased the chill from the air. Light from crackling reed torches and dozens of candles brightened the smiling faces of those present.

  Anticipation suffused the atmosphere as folks readied to feast, everyone undoubtedly driven to hunger by the aromas of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and other culinary delights. Even as Ailsa breathed in the aromatic air, the meal service began.

  It was during the meal that her attention became drawn to a lass seated below the main table but opposite Calum. Perhaps a little older than Ailsa, she had a striking appearance, with fine features and hair that shone like gold in the candlelight. A garland of dried flowers and grasses sat upon her head—an unusual, eye-catching adornment that suited her. The lass, who also had breasts, had, to Ailsa’s chagrin, been glancing Calum’s way all evening.

  “Who is that, Mama?” Ailsa asked. “The lass with the garland in her hair?”

  Lady Fenella Macdonell, Ailsa’s mother, followed her daughter’s glance. “’Tis Moira MacAulay, eldest daughter of Laird Brochan MacAulay. The MacAulay lands border those of the MacKellars. Such a bonny lass! I believe Laird MacAulay is hoping for a marriage alliance ’tween Moira and Calum, given their—”

  “Nay!” Ailsa’s cry spilled out, loud enough to be heard by those seated nearby. At least a dozen pairs of curious eyes turned toward the dais, undoubtedly wondering what had prompted such an outburst.

  “Ailsa Rose,” her mother hissed. “For goodness sake, calm yourself, child.”

  Tears pricked at Ailsa’s eyes as she lowered her gaze.

  Please God, he cannae marry her. He cannae.

  Her appetite gone, Ailsa spent the rest of the meal poking at the food on her plate while surreptitiously watching Moira’s continued interest in Calum. She told herself not to sulk or appear morose. To do so would only bring another reprimand from her mother. But each and every smile was forced, and her interest in the proceedings had become a mere fabrication.

  “May I be excused?” she asked, toward the end of the meal.

  Her mother frowned. “Where are you going? You’ve barely touched your food, and the festivities are nae finished yet.”

  Ailsa smiled. “I need the privy.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Very well, but dinnae dawdle.”

  “I willnae.”

  “I mean it, Ailsa. Be quick, now.”

  Eager for air—and a little bit of solitude—Ailsa scurried outside. Snow now blanketed the courtyard and castle walls. It continued to fall in great, white flakes, tumbling out of the darkness in delicate silence. The night was unusually still and
quiet, the only sound being a faint roar from the nearby shore as the waves rolled over the rocks. Breath clouding in the cold air, Ailsa cupped her hands, watching the trapped flakes melt in the warmth of her palms. Then she raised her face to the heavens, blinking as the snow landed on her eyelashes.

  “Happy birthday, Lord,” she whispered, telling herself she felt a sense of peace as she spoke the words. Yet a sigh escaped her, one forged by a deeper sense of unbearable disappointment. Despite her mother’s demand for haste, Ailsa hesitated to return to the great hall. She feared hearing the announcement about Calum’s betrothal to the MacAulay lass. The mere thought of it made her stomach lurch. Facing her mother’s wrath for disobedience had far more appeal. So, she lifted her skirts and scooted across the courtyard to the stables. It was surely fitting, she thought, to visit such a lowly place on this holy eve.

  The snow, nigh on ankle-deep, soaked through her fine leather slippers before she’d even taken a dozen steps, and the icy shock made her gasp. That, combined with the chill air, set her teeth chattering. Of course, she didn’t have a cloak. A small voice deep inside pointed out the folly of her exercise, but she ignored it. She knew she was being childish, but she didn’t care. Folks treated her like a child, she reasoned, so she may as well behave like one.

  At least the stable’s dry air offered some shelter from the cold. Ailsa breathed in the pungent odors of hay and horse as she squinted into the blackness. Lord above, I can barely see my hand before my face! She blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust, and wandered over to the first stall.

  “Good eve to you, Melchior,” she murmured to Calum’s gray gelding. “’Tis fitting, tonight of all nights, to be named for one of the Magi.”