Chapter Thirteen
Rory’s ears rang with furious barking before the dark shape of the tree loomed into view.
Every nerve in his body ignited as he tore up the slope, lungs screaming, boots skidding in the powder.
Ahead, Masie danced in the snow beside Lillith’s still form.
A black terror seized him—he sprinted harder, heart pounding like a war drum, until he fell to his knees beside her.
Her hair clung in damp tangles across her face.
Rory’s fingers shook as he brushed it away, revealing a cut across her brow.
Her skin was cold, but a faint rose still colored her cheeks.
Relief bit him sharply in the chest—she could not have lain here long.
Masie thrust her cold muzzle under Rory’s hand, licking him urgently.
He managed a shaky pat before cradling Lillith to his chest. A low groan escaped her, and the last of his dread shattered like glass.
She opened her eyes in a slow flutter, pupils glassy with confusion. “Am I dreaming?” she whispered.
“Nay, lass,” he assured her, looking toward the mouth of the cave. That would be the best place to wait out the snowstorm.
She set her hands on his cheek and cried out. “Ye’re alive!”
“Aye, verra much so.”
“Put me down,” she insisted.
“Nae until I have ye in the cave. Ye hit yer head.”
“I’m aware,” she groaned. “It aches something fierce.” She surprised him then by pressing her cheek to his heart.
“What are ye doing?” he asked, as he reached the cave.
“Making certain I hear a heartbeat,” she murmured, then drew her head away from his chest and looked up at him. “Ye’re really alive!” she exclaimed as he entered the cave.
He came to a standstill, confused at what he saw. A fire crackled in a hearth, casting dancing shadows on the cave walls. A rough-hewn table bore steaming bowls of food, two goblets, and a jug of ruby red wine. And a bed with thick furs was arranged by the fire. “I do nae understand,” he said.
Lillith craned her neck to look where he was. “Eolande!” she gasped.
“The seer? The one ye made the wish to when ye were a wee lass?”
Lillith nodded. “And a bit ago when I thought ye were dead.”
He looked down at her now, shocked. “Ye truly thought me dead?”
“Aye. Ye were lying there nae moving and nae talking, and ye looked blue, and Lenora screamed that ye were dead. I thought I killed ye.”
“Is that why ye ran away?”
“Aye,” she said, wiggling now. “Please put me down.”
With a sigh, he did as bidden, thinking she wanted to get out of his arms, but the minute her feet touched the ground, she faced him, pressed her body full length against his, and kissed him with a ferocity that surprised him and immediately awoke his desire.
When she pulled back, she said, “I love ye!”
“Ye what?” He needed to hear the words one more time to make sure he was not imagining they’d come out of her mouth.
“I love ye! I was trying to avoid heartbreak, but I ken now that if I do that, I’ll nae ever experience the joy of loving fully and being loved fully in return. I love ye, and if ye still want me, I want ye.”
“Still want ye?” he cupped her face in his hands.
“I think I’ve wanted ye since the first moment we met, and ye shot me.
It just took me a while to figure it out.
I love ye. I love yer stubbornness, yer cleverness, yer bravery, and ye’re heart, which I am most humbled to get.
I will do my utmost to nae ever break it. ”
She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her ear once more to his heart. Never had he felt anything as right, as peaceful, as this moment with Lillith in his arms.
“And I,” she said, “will guard yer heart with great care as well.”
I hope you enjoyed this holiday novella! If you love holiday stories as much as I do, you might want to check out a few of my other holiday tales!
You can jump to the Regency period while reading about a MacLeod ancestor in Christmas in the Scot’s Arms. You can read an excerpt below!
Chapter One
London, England
1815
Lying was a sin. Yet sometimes, one was given no choice but to lie.
For example, if one was trying to protect one’s dearly departed father’s good name, sometimes one must lie.
Or if one had a mother who was being positively unreasonable, sometimes one must lie.
Even though Miss Cecelia Cartwright was sure she had legitimate reasons for what she was doing, guilt plagued her.
Hence her new habit of reminding God exactly why he should forgive her for her trespasses.
Cecelia dashed a look behind her as she tiptoed past her mother’s bedchamber, down the stairs, and toward the front door of their townhome.
She gripped her most prized possession in one hand—a book of poetry by Lord Byron that her father had given her—and her shoes in the other.
Every astute schemer knew that shoes made entirely too much noise on hardwood floors, and since her mother had deemed Lady Elizabeth Burton unacceptable for Cecelia to associate with and had forbidden her from visiting Elizabeth, Cecelia had been forced to become an expert conniver.
Her mother had always been a worrisome sort, particularly about what others might think of them, but compassion had tempered her concerns, and she had never snubbed someone purposely simply because the ton had done so.
But two years ago, when money had first started to seem scarce and her mother had discovered Cecelia’s father had been gambling, a bit of Mother’s compassion had disappeared.
Instead, it was replaced by a need to make sure they did everything they could to maintain their place in Society.
Then last year, when Father had gambled away almost all their money—and his life right along with it—every iota of empathy her mother had possessed had disappeared.
Cecelia understood, of course. Her mother had come from poverty, and after she’d married Father, who’d had money at the time, Mother had never felt as though she was quite good enough.
It made her fiercely determined never to return to a state of want nor let Cecelia be thrust into that same fate.
These familiar thoughts tumbled through Cecelia’s head as she crept along, diverting her attention from where she was stepping.
The moment the splintered wood caught on the right toe of her last pair of good stockings, she cursed her carelessness and shook her head.
She wiggled her foot, trying to free herself, but her efforts were for naught.
The sliver of wood had gone through her stockings and pierced her skin.
Blast. She’d get a lecture for that, and rightly so.
They had no spare coin to purchase such luxuries as stockings.
The meager funds that had been left after her father had died were rapidly dwindling.
She’d done what she could, such as taking on the task of shopping herself.
She actually quite enjoyed going down to the market and bargaining with the vendors.
She’d convinced her mother to teach her how to cook, as well, and that had allowed Mother to let go of their cook.
She knew Mother would have helped more, but her hands ached so much some days that she could hardly use them.
Cecelia had also convinced her mother to teach her to wash and clean, so they no longer needed a maid.
Mother had protested, of course, reminding Cecelia that she was sure the problem with her hands was from years of such labor, but when Cecelia had shown her the money they would save, Mother had relented.
The only servant they still had was the butler, and that was only because Mother had said they must retain him to keep up appearances in case they had a caller.
But no one ever called, not since Cecelia had been labeled disgraced.
Cecelia shook off the depressing thought and continued toward the front door.
Tiny slivers of sunlight shone in through the cracks of the overly weathered door.
Dismay filled her. It wasn’t simply the door.
Being upset over a door would be silly; however, the sorry state of the door represented the sorry state of their affairs.
So much needed repairing, but there was no money with which to repair it.
Tonight, she promised herself, she would once again try to convince Mother to allow her to search for seamstress work.
Cecelia cringed thinking about how that conversation had gone last time.
It had started with her mother screeching that if Cecelia did that, their only real hope—which Mother firmly believed was for Cecelia to somehow return to the ton’s good graces and marry well—would be lost, and poverty would claim them.
The conversation had ended in blessed silence, but only because poor Mother had fainted. From all her screeching, no doubt.
Lifting up on the door handle to ease its squeak, Cecelia held her breath. Thankfully, the door released without a sound, and she could safely exhale. She pulled the door open.
“Oh!” she gasped, as a gust of wintery wind hit her in the face.
Frowning, she eyed the sky accusingly. How could the sun be shining yet it be so cold outside?
As if in answer, a larger, particularly ominous-looking cloud moved in front of the sun.
She laughed in spite of the shiver another burst of wind had caused in her.
“I suppose that is your way of answering me, God,” she said under her breath while gently easing the door shut.