Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter Page 3

  "Thank you," she whispered, her throat tightening. This man, a Fraser, had ridden a long way in foul weather to bring her a New Year's blessing. No one had ever done such a thing for her. She glanced away from his steady gaze uncertainly. "I will make the food. It will cleanse the drink from your head."

  He sighed, a half laugh. "Well, I am hungry," he said. Catriona cooked oats and water in a kettle over the fire, stirred in some of the roasted beef he had brought, and ladled the food into a wooden bowl, handing it to him with a wooden spoon.

  "Will you not eat too?" he asked. When she shook her head, he frowned. "When was the last time you ate a meal?" he asked. She shrugged; she wanted to bring his gift of food to the children when the weather cleared.

  Kenneth scooped up a spoonful of porridge and offered it to her. She shook her head again. "Ach, girl, you cannot refuse my New Year's gift. You will offend me and bring ill luck to us both. Here, eat."

  She leaned forward and Kenneth touched the spoon to her lips, slipping the warm, salty oats inside. She swallowed, knowing he watched her, and felt a hot blush seep into her cheeks, and an intimate swirl ripple through her body. He offered her more. She shook her head, but he insisted, until she took the spoon from him and ate some. Kenneth finished the rest. "There," he said. "That should bring us both some luck."

  "I hope so," she said softly. "I need some luck."

  "Believe me, girl, after being lost in that snowstorm, I am glad to bring some to you." He smiled a little.

  She smiled too, and felt oddly safe and peaceful then, as if he was not a stranger, or an enemy of her clan. She liked his smile, liked the quiet lilt in his voice, his gentle, teasing manner, and the bronze lights in his hair and his eyes. She liked the comforting weight of Fraser beef in her stomach. Most of all, she was glad to have her loneliness eased on the first night of the year.

  Kenneth looked toward the shuttered window, which trembled as the wind shoved it. "I cannot leave until the weather clears. May I sleep by your fire?"

  "You are too weak to go anywhere. You may stay as long as you need. Cù sleeps by the fire, but he will make room for you."

  "Cù? A dog? Where is it?" He glanced around the room.

  She laughed. "Cù is my cat. A very little girl once saw him as a kitten, and called him a black puppy, so `Dog' is his name. Mairead, the child, is nearly blind," she added softly.

  "Ah. So, a cat named Dog," he murmured. "I am sure he protects you well." He smiled, and the boyish quirk of his lips charmed a quick, shy smile from her.

  He stood slowly, his weakness evident, and picked up his plaid, wavering unsteadily as Cù shot between his feet to snatch at the cloth. Kenneth spun to avoid stepping on the cat, and sat heavily on the bed.

  Catriona picked up Cù. "The house is small, I know," she told Kenneth. "It is just a shieling, meant for use by the men who bring their herds into the hills to graze in the springtime. It lacks the comforts of a true home."

  "Some of the comforts are here," he said, watching her steadily. "It only has to house two of us—and your cat named Dog—for one night. I will leave in the morning." He cradled the back of his head and grimaced as he took his hand away.

  She frowned, seeing blood on his fingers. "You are hurt! What happened? Were you in a drunken New Year's brawl?"

  "My horse and I went down on the ice. I am fine," he said shortly, when she leaned forward to part his hair.

  Catriona winced in sympathy as she looked at the wound. The swollen, bloody lump looked painful. "Fine? Hardly. And these bruises on your jaw and your lip—" Leaning close to look, she did not smell strong drink on his breath. "You are not drunk," she said. "My pardon for thinking you were. What happened? Were you attacked as you came here? Ach, it was MacDonalds!"

  "I went down on the ice," he repeated sharply.

  She narrowed her eyes. "And just who took you down?" He was silent. Catriona shook her head. Here was trouble indeed, if her kin had attacked a Fraser and tracked him here. She went to a shelf, fetched a folded cloth and a bowl of water, and went back to the bed. "Now let me tend to your head," she ordered.

  He turned obediently. She cleansed his wounds carefully, then gently raked her fingers through his dark hair to ease his headache. His tangled hair felt like heavy silk. He groaned softly as she worked.

  "I did not mean to hurt you," she said, lifting her hands.

  "Such gentle hands could never deal out hurt," he murmured. "My thanks. I know you are not fond of Frasers." He opened his doublet, took it off and set it aside, then unpinned a small brooch from his linen shirt. He held it out. "This is yours." The snow rose brooch winked in the low light. She began to reach out, then closed her hand tightly. "I-I do not want it."

  "Take it, Catriona," he said. "Let it continue to serve as a token of the Frasers' good will. We wish you no harm."

  She glanced at him. "Have you come here to take Kilernan from Hugh MacDonald?"

  "You know I have not."

  "Then the snow rose means nothing to me." She stood. "You keep it. Good night." She snatched up her plaid and spread it on the floor like a pallet.

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "I will sleep here," she said, as she sat on the plaid and began to remove her boots. "You are injured, and need the bed."

  "I will not take your bed, girl." He stood. In the dim light of the peat fire, she saw his face go suddenly pale.

  "Lie down. Will you refuse my hospitality and bring us both ill luck?" She echoed his own words. "The hearthfire cannot be allowed to go out on this night of the year, as anyone knows. I need to watch over it. Go to sleep, now." She stretched out and pulled the plaid over her.

  After a moment, she thought she heard him swear a low oath. Soon, she heard his boots thud to the floor, and heard the bed creak as he lay down.

  The peat fire crackled, the wind howled cold and bleak outside, and the man sighed in her bed. Catriona tossed on the flat, hard pallet, and wondered just what this odd evening portended for the new year.

  Kenneth opened his eyes again. Restless for a while now, he had laid in the bed listening as the girl shifted and sighed, huddled in the plaid on the cold floor. He peered toward her. The light from the glowing embers revealed that she curled tightly, shivering.

  "Catriona," he said softly.

  "Kenneth? What is it? Are you ill?" She sat up.

  He flung back the plaid and the furs. "Get in the bed."

  "I will not!" She turned away abruptly.

  He sighed in exasperation. "I will sleep by the hearth. Get in and get warm," he ordered, sitting up. "Your knocking teeth have kept me awake all the night."

  She sighed, then got up and came toward him. "It is freezing on the floor. We can share the bed. But if you touch me, I will use the poker." She lay down and deliberately stuffed part of the fur robe between them.

  "You can always call out your Dog on me," he muttered, and shifted to his side, his back to the cold wall. The box-bed was narrow, and they were jammed together as if in a snug nest. Kenneth felt the tension in her shoulders as she lay stiffly against him. "Relax," he said, adjusting his position. "I must rest my arm somewhere. If I lay it just here, will you attack me with your poker?" He balanced his forearm gently on her hip.

  "I might," she said. He smiled at her wry tone. He settled, inhaling the sweet smell of her hair and enjoying the feel of her, close and warm on a cold night. Their bodies fit comfortably together—far too comfortably, he thought, and stirred slightly away from her.

  He thought of Anna, for it was New Year's and the third anniversary of her death. But he was deeply exhausted, and her image seemed distant. He sighed, feeling strangely content, almost peaceful. Listening to Catriona's even breathing, he slipped into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

  Catriona opened her eyes once again, wanting to be certain that the banked fire still burned. She lay half-awake and heard the wind shove at the outer walls, and heard Kenneth snore. Snuggling against his solid warmth, she felt safe and comfor
table, although he was a Fraser, and largely unknown to her. In the morning, daylight would bring a new year, and cold reality. But now, while darkness spun a bridge from the old year to the new, she felt a brief respite from loneliness.

  Turning, she felt his arm, heavy with sleep, fall across her abdomen. His breath stirred her hair. Lured by his warmth and strength, hungry for the reassurance of simple touch, she rested her head against his chest. He sighed in his sleep and wrapped his arms around her.

  Drawn into that shelter, Catriona suddenly felt tears sting her eyes. Kenneth did not awaken, but pulled her closer, as if he sensed her need for solace even in his sleep.

  Curled into the curve of his body, listening to the deep, even beat of his heart, she sniffled and wiped her eyes. Finally growing drowsy, she knew that she would sleep peacefully and without fear.

  Chapter Three

  Kenneth awoke to silence, but for the low crackle in the hearth, and sat up to see that Catriona was gone. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he felt a throbbing reminder of his injury, and still felt the grogginess of total exhaustion. Judging by the light, he must have slept late into the morning. He crossed the room and pulled open the window shutter, then blinked at the brightness.

  Snow blanketed the hills and piled high in drifts of down. After a few moments, he saw Catriona wading through the yard. She entered the house on a draft of bitter wind, shaking the snow from her clothing and setting down a small bucket of fresh milk. Her cheeks were a high, clear pink as she unwound her plaid.

  "Blessings of the New Year to you, Kenneth Fraser," she said. "I have been out to see to the animals. The snow is quite deep. I could hardly walk from the hut to the byre." She sat on the bench to remove her boots.

  "Luck of the New Year," he returned. "You should have asked me to see to the animals."

  "You were asleep," she said. "And why should I ask you?"

  "Because I owe you for sheltering me."

  "You are injured and fatigued, and you brought gifts to me. I will repay you with hospitality," she said. "After that, we owe each other nothing. Our clans are at feud, after all."

  "Catriona." He glanced at her somberly. "We are not at feud, you and I. I know a promise was made to you when you were born. I came here to honor Lachlann's pledge as best I could."

  She sent him a swift glance. "With food and candles, or with men at your back and a sword in your hand?"

  "I came here to see that you were well," he said firmly. "I came here to protect you, if you need that."

  She looked away. "I need nothing from a Fraser."

  He sighed, watching her profile, delicate but precisely made, as if stubbornness began in her core, in her bones. "I know you want us to reconsider, but we cannot. We signed a bond given us by the Privy Council," he explained. "If we fight with MacDonalds, the man who serves as pledge for our bond can be imprisoned and even executed. That man is Duncan Macrae, my cousin Elspeth's husband."

  "The lawyer?" she asked.

  He nodded. "I owe Duncan my life. He once saved me from a beheading." She glanced at him, her eyes wide. "We all owe him," he continued, "and we will not endanger him. The MacDonalds do not honor this bond as cautiously as we do, but no Glenran Fraser will willingly shed MacDonald blood ever again."

  "I understand," she said, and sighed. "But my uncle has done me a great wrong, and I need help to right it. I may never be able to go back to my home again." She bit at her lower lip.

  He undid the silver brooch, which he had repinned to his shirt, and held it out to her. "Take the snow rose, Catriona," he said. "Take it, and let me help you some other way."

  She did not touch the brooch. "Oats and candles are kind gifts, and brooches are pretty. But none of those help me."

  "Kilernan cannot be taken without starting a blood feud."

  "Then take it without bloodshed," she said simply.

  He shook his head. "That cannot be done."

  "I need only that. All else I can do for myself."

  He bowed his head in exasperation. He wanted to help her, but she would accept only what he could not give her.

  "Do it without blood, Kenneth," she said. "If you want to help me, find some way to take Kilernan. Please." He heard the pleading in her soft voice, and heard a tremble of fear there.

  He frowned, and grabbed up the brooch. Standing, he went to the door and yanked it open. He stared out over the hills, white and vast and endlessly pure. Behind him, Catriona knelt by the hearth. He heard a wooden spoon stir inside an iron kettle, heard the splash of liquid as she began to prepare a meal.

  "You will have to stay another night, because of the snow," she said as she worked. "And with that head wound, you need rest before you can travel. When you return to Glenran, please thank your kin for the New Year's gifts."

  He said nothing. The pin of the snow rose pierced his skin as he grasped it. He looked down, and saw a bright drop of blood on his fingertip.

  They ate a hot meal of barley and beef, and oatcakes made with a hole in the center, traditionally shaped New Year's bannocks, although Kenneth noticed that Catriona did not add the sugar and currants he had brought, as would have been customary. She made a spiced, watered wine with the claret, but sipped only a little herself.

  After the meal, Kenneth slept heavily, as if he had not rested for days, and awoke to find that his headache had lessened a good deal. He looked around. Near the door, Catriona wound her thick plaid around her head and shoulders, over her gown and another plaid. Her hands were covered in heavy stockings. She picked up the cloth bundle that he had brought, opened the door quietly, and stepped outside.

  Frowning, he sat up and dressed, wrapping and belting his own plaid over his leather doublet and long trews. Yanking on his deerhide boots, he followed her outside.

  She rode her garron away from the yard, through deep drifts. Kenneth ran to the byre and saddled his own horse to follow Catriona. He rode after her steadily, his breath frosting in small clouds, his eyes narrowed against the glare of sun on snow.

  "Catriona! Go back!" Kenneth called as he neared her. "These drifts are too deep."

  She turned. "You go back! You need to rest. I am not going far."

  He rode alongside of her, determined to watch over her. If her garron became stranded, at least she would not be alone. She rode ahead of him while their ponies struggled through the drifts. They crossed a long ridge and waded down a hill.

  "It is but a short way now," she said after a while. She urged her garron over a moor. Kenneth followed, his garron, like hers, plowing through deep snow. Cold nipped through his boots and plaid. Finally he saw a small stone house set in the lee of a hill. Gray smoke twisted up from the roofhole. In the yard, a snow fortress, piled high with snowballs, was flanked by crudely shaped snowmen, wearing flat Highland bonnets.

  Catriona dismounted and led her horse into a small, crowded byre, which already contained a goat, four sheep, two cows and two dark garrons. She motioned for Kenneth to stable his horse as well. Then she handed him the bundle she had brought, and knocked on a small door in the wall.

  "You must enter as the first-foot," she told Kenneth. "A dark-haired man, holding gifts, will bring them good luck. And besides, they will adore you for it."

  Kenneth gave her a puzzled look and stepped through. He stared in amazement as a swarm of children rushed past him, shouting and laughing, to throw themselves at Catriona. She hugged them, each in turn, from a tall, dark-haired boy to a tiny blond boy—and every size in between, Kenneth thought, stunned. Finally she embraced a little red-haired girl, kissed her soundly, and turned to Kenneth.

  "These," she said, "are my children."

  He blinked at her, while the children laughed loudly, and Catriona smiled. He looked around, hardly able to take in the din, the laughter, the jostling and giggling of six, seven, eight children in all, seven boys and one girl.

  "Your children?" he asked uncertainly.

  She laughed sweetly, like a small bell. "Well," she sai
d. "I wish they were mine. But they are my cousins, and...orphaned. This is Kenneth Fraser," she told the children. Kenneth nodded, and received sober stares in return.

  "This is Patrick MacGhille," she said, touching the tallest boy's arm. Kenneth saw Patrick frown, his beard-wisped cheeks flushed, as if he disapproved of a Fraser in his home. Those of the name MacGhille, Kenneth knew, were loyal to Clan MacDonald.

  "And here are Angus, Malcolm, David"—she touched each lower head as she spoke, like going down a stair—"and Donald, Edan, and Tomas. And their sister, Mairead." Kenneth nodded hesitantly to each; the little girl, he observed, was only a bit older than the two youngest boys, Edan and Tomas.

  "Triona, Triona!" Edan tugged at her hand and pointed to Kenneth. "What does he have in that sack?"

  "Wonderful things, but you must be patient," she said.

  "Bliadhna Sona, Triona," the little girl piped.

  "And a lucky New Year to you, my Mairead," Catriona said, smoothing her hair. Kenneth saw then that the child's left eye was milky-blue and wandered to the side. This, then, must be the little half-blind girl who had named the cat `Dog'.

  "Tell me, how did you fare in the storm?" Catriona asked them. The children began to chatter of their adventures as she crossed the dim, smoky room and sat on a bench beside the table, lifting Tomas to her lap. The boys sat too, on the bench, on stools, on the earthen floor. Kenneth stood while Catriona and the children spoke about the storm.

  As he listened, he realized that Patrick and his brother Angus, who seemed to be proud, capable lads, had taken responsibility for their younger siblings. The children clearly loved Catriona, and Kenneth saw that they depended on her for support and friendship.

  He glanced around the house. Snug and well-made of stone, earth, and thatch, the crofter's hut had one room with a central hearth; the furnishings were simple and few, and he saw two box-beds in the wall. Overhead was a dark, narrow loft, likely with more beds. Behind him, he heard—and smelled—the animals in the byre, separated from the house by a wattle and daub wall.