Chapter Four
Damn it—he’d wanted to find her brooch. With Maggie at his side, Logan strode through the snow in rising frustration, his wounded thigh throbbing.
He’d return, search again. It was imperative he find it.
The pin was important to Maggie, and therefore it was important to him. He wanted her to have it.
Through the flurries of snow, the cottage came into view, their tiny haven in a dismal, charcoal world. The idea of returning at dusk to a warm cottage and food appealed to him, but the idea of returning with Maggie at his side made an odd feeling flutter in his chest.
“Juniper!” she suddenly announced.
“Juniper?”
“Aye.” She gestured at a clump of trees just beyond the cottage.
“Every year for Christmas and Hogmanay, we decorate the laird’s castle with wreaths of juniper and mistletoe.
” She glanced up at him. “May I borrow your dirk? I’ll cut one small branch to hang from the rafters. Just to remind us it’s Christmas.”
“Of course. I’ll cut one for you.”
Her lips twisted. “I’m quite capable of cutting a branch of juniper.”
“Nonetheless, I’d like to help.”
When they reached the clump of shrublike trees, Maggie chose a long branch heavy with berries, which he sawed off and carried into the cottage.
She helped him hang the branch from the center roof beam.
Finished with the task, they both stared up at it, inhaling its sweet, woodsy evergreen fragrance.
“Perfect,” she announced.
He grinned at her, and this time it came naturally, easily, without having to crack through that layer of ice he’d believed permanently encrusted his skin.
Outside, the storm gathered force. The temperature dropped severely, and wind blasted through the eaves.
Within the warm haven of the cottage, Maggie and Logan drank ale and ate a supper of oatcakes and salted beef.
Maggie, sitting on the plaid he’d laid before the fire, cocked her head.
“Perhaps it will storm through the day tomorrow.”
The wistfulness in her words spiked under his skin, and Logan kept his eyes hooded so she wouldn’t see how easily she fired his blood. Any indication that she wished to stay longer with him was enough. “Why?”
“A windy Christmas bodes very well for the year, according to my mother.”
“Does it?”
“Aye. My mother also encouraged the old laird to burn a cailleach on Christmas Eve.”
“A cailleach?”
“The men would carve a log in the shape of an old woman to represent the Queen of Winter. We would build a great bonfire in the castle courtyard, and everyone would watch the queen go up in flames. As she burned away, so did all the terrible things, like death and poverty and grief, that had occurred during the year. Once she turned to ash, the clan could begin the New Year afresh.”
“Your mother was superstitious.”
“She was.” Maggie sighed. “I miss her.”
“When did she die?”
“It’s almost ten years now. But I remember her every day. Before she died . . . she told me I must keep strong. Keep to myself and remain independent until I knew I was safe.” Maggie gave a small laugh. “I’d no idea what she was talking about.”
“But now you do?”
“I . . .” Her voice faltered. “I’m not sure. Perhaps she spoke of a husband who would protect me. But since she died, I’ve always felt safer on my own than under any man’s protection—even my husband’s.” She paused. “I feel safe with you though.”
That silenced him. They gazed at the fire until she turned to him, raising a dark brow. “Don’t you have any superstitions up north?”
Logan relaxed against the side of the bed, stretching his legs toward the fire. His leg wound felt better tonight than it had the night before the battle.
“On Christmas day, we eat bannocks with sowens in the morning—” Logan suppressed a grimace.
He had never been fond of sowens, for the bitter taste and gelled texture of the fermented mixture of oat husks and meal had never appealed to him.
“And in the afternoon, all the clansmen participate in a contest of marksmanship.”
She slanted a teasing glance at him. “Do you win?”
“I’ve been known to win on occasion.”
She chuckled. “I’m not surprised.”
His gaze fastened on Maggie as a memory swept through him.
Last year, he’d won the contest again, and his brother had given him his musket as a prize—the same musket he’d kept through battle and had stolen back from one of Argyll’s men before he’d escaped from captivity.
On Christmas day after the competition, Logan and his brother had stood in the village square admiring the new weapon, and Mrs. Sinclair, the village’s oldest, tiniest, and most eccentric woman, had hobbled up to them.
“’Tis a lovely weapon, indeed,” she’d said in her warbling voice when the brothers had turned to her in question. Her small, piercing black eyes looked up at Logan from her wrinkled face. “Ye’ll kill with it, no doubt.”
Aware of the impending uprising, Logan hadn’t doubted it, either. He’d nodded gravely down at her.
She gave him a toothless smile. “Aye. And ye’d best keep it near, too. For it’ll lead ye to yer one, and without it, ye’ll ne’er keep ’er.”
“My . . . ‘one’?” Logan had asked, his brows raised in question.
“Aye.” Mrs. Sinclair cackled. “Ye canna understand what I’m saying, lad, but soon ye will. Verra soon.” And just like that, she’d turned and shuffled away, leaving the brothers staring after her in bemusement.
Was Maggie his “one”?
Logan shook his head as if to fling away the thought. It was nonsensical, for God’s sake. His weapon hadn’t led him to Maggie; her lost brooch had. He wasn’t one to dwell on sentimental and superstitious fancies, much less believe in them.
“What?”
He blinked at her. “What, what?”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Tell me more about your Christ mases.”
Her eyes flashed, and she scooted closer to him.
The curls framing her face danced about as she blew out a breath.
“Our family gathers at the MacDonald seat a few days before Christmas. I suppose because it takes a few days to hang all the sweet-smelling boughs and wreaths. And, of course, to cook all the pies and bannocks.”
He watched her as she continued, telling him of how her mother brought her and her cousin their sowens in bed on Christmas morning, then how they all gathered in the great hall for a morning feast.
“It hasn’t changed much since Torean’s father—the old laird—died. But it feels different.”
“How’s that?” Logan asked.
She sighed. “Torean’s intentions are good, but he’s very young. His da was healthy as an ox, and he died unexpectedly of an apoplexy a year ago. I don’t think Torean was fully prepared for the duties he was forced to take on.”
Logan understood. He didn’t feel prepared at all for the responsibilities he’d face once he returned home.
“He’s far younger than you,” Maggie said, as if reading his mind. “He has less experience of the world. I . . . I think that’s why he might have been taken in by Innes Munroe.”
“They are friends?”
“Aye. They’ve become good friends in the past few months. I cannot imagine what it is about Innes that Torean finds so alluring.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t understand the man’s nature. It is possible he will learn to better judge others as he grows older. Perhaps he still searches for his wisdom.”
A shudder rippled over her shoulders. “I hope so.”
The storm raged on, and Maggie and Logan talked long into the night, keeping the fire stacked high with the warming peat. Talking to Logan invigorated Maggie—he actually listened to her, unlike most men, who treated her more as an object than a human.
She realized that not only did she trust him, she liked him.
His smile grew easier tonight. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled at their edges, and when he looked at her with those dark eyes, he really looked. His gaze didn’t gloss over her. He observed, he studied, he took her in.
And she took him in, too. The way his shirt fell over his shoulders and showed the bulge of muscle beneath. His perfectly masculine face, his dark eyes and brow, his thick, nearly black shoulder-l ength hair.
She wanted to rub her cheek against the rough shadow of a beard that had formed on his jaw.
She wanted to trace the curve of his bottom lip with her fingertip.
And then she wanted to touch him all over.
Every dip of every muscle. From head to toe, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
And he looked upon her as though she were the most beautiful woman.
She glanced up to see him focused intently on her.
She shuddered again, and those thick brows snapped together. He glanced from her to the fire and back again. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
He cocked his head. “Will you . . . May I?” He reached out cautiously, as if he were frightened she might scurry away at the gesture.
But she wasn’t afraid anymore. She craved his touch—she had ever since they’d walked out in the snow together.
Though she truly wasn’t cold, she gratefully snuggled into the crook of his arm.
The contact jerked through Maggie, jolting her all the way to her toes. Simultaneously both of them stiffened and then pulled back.
She stared at him. Had he felt it too?
He gazed back at her, his brows arched in surprise. And then, before she knew what was happening, he cupped her head in his hands and tugged her toward him. He didn’t hesitate—his lips descended on hers.
A sharp, piercing need spiraled through Maggie.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, sifted her fingers through his soft hair, and pulled him closer.
His lips were warm and smooth, but he kissed like a starved man tasting ambrosia.
His mouth took hers, possessed it, left her gasping as his erotic touch traveled through her veins and ignited every inch of her skin.
He nipped her lower lip, then soothed it with tender kisses that moved to the corner of her mouth and across her jaw. His lips traveled to her earlobe in a whisper of sensation that made Maggie groan.