Deirdre
Deirdre blamed the mistletoe. If her incorrigible husband hadn’t scattered the wicked plant all over Rivenloch in the spirit of his Norman Noël, none of what happened would have happened.
It wasn’t as if they’d never had Christmas at the castle before. Deirdre’s Viking father had built a chapel in the courtyard for her Christian mother so she could celebrate her holy days. When Deirdre’s mother passed away, the clan continued to mark Christmas in her memory—with a few sprigs of holly, a sizable feast, and a word or two of thanksgiving. But that was all.
This year, however, Deirdre’s husband Pagan had decided that wasn’t enough. When Deirdre’s two sisters, Helena and Miriel, announced they were bringing their families to Rivenloch to spend the holiday season together for the first time in three years, Pagan had insisted on decking the castle halls in full Christmas splendor.
Deirdre couldn’t tell him nay. She’d never been able to resist her husband. Especially when he gazed at her with such childlike enthusiasm. So she indulged him, even though she knew her practical sisters would never appreciate his efforts.
True to form, warlike Helena muttered that the festive boughs of holly were hiding all the glorious shields of defeated enemies hung on the walls.
Thrifty Miriel confided that the beeswax candles lighting every inch of the great hall seemed a great waste of coin.
The sisters’ father, Laird Gellir, grumbled into his white beard, irked by anything at odds with his Viking Jul.
Her sisters’ husbands, however, were quite impressed. Like Pagan, they had Norman blood in their veins. The décor likely reminded Colin and Rand of home.
But it was their collective children’s wide-eyed wonder at the colorful mummers Pagan had hired to reenact the birth of Jesus that convinced Deirdre she’d been right to let him bring Christmas to Rivenloch.
An enormous log, large enough to burn for twelve days, was hauled in from the forest and placed on the fire.
The entire clan crowded into the hall for a giant feast—the first of twelve, featuring roast boar with all the trimmings.
Wassail flowed freely.
Carolers and a consort filled the hall with song.
That was when the cursed mistletoe began to wreak havoc in the household.
Pagan had hung it in every corner.
Above every doorway.
And from every beam of Rivenloch’s great hall.
The irksome sprigs were everywhere.
And when Deirdre innocently asked what the mistletoe was for, Pagan had been only too glad to show her.
Of course, when they arrived, Colin and Rand had to demonstrate its use to their wives as well.
Thus began the trouble…
Currently, Deirdre watched the mummers from the foot of the corner stairs of the great hall. She had to smile at the way her four children were gazing at the spectacle in slack-jawed amazement.
She absently rubbed a hand across her belly. Nothing showed yet. But soon there would be a fifth to add to their brood. She planned to tell Pagan tonight, after the performance.
Of course, the announcement of one’s fifth child wasn’t terribly surprising or newsworthy. Still, she knew Pagan would be pleased. He was a doting father who took great pride in their growing army of warrior lads and lasses.
Her gaze again slipped sideways to observe her children—Hallie, Gellir, Brand, and Julian. There was her devoted husband now, crouched between the two lasses. He was pointing out the bright star painted on a screen behind the players.
Sometime after the mummers’ Mary and Joseph had secured lodging at a stable, and before the three kings arrived with gifts, Pagan left the children. He sidled up to Deirdre, wrapping an arm around her waist.
She sighed in pleasure and snuggled closer. Even after all this time, she never tired of his affection.
Then he cleared his throat.
She glanced at him.
He was giving her that look. The smoky, sparkling, gray-green gaze that always made her heart beat faster.
The knave. He knew very well what that look did to her. And when his eyes lifted to indicate the branch of mistletoe dangling from the archway, it didn’t matter that they’d been wed for seven years. Her heart fluttered like a windblown pennon.
Thankfully, he pulled her into the shadows of the stairwell to claim the kiss she owed him. After all, one lavish spectacle in the great hall was enough.
Pagan tasted like sweet mulled wassail. Apple and cinnamon and ginger. She drank his desire with eager thirst.
He cradled her jaw with one battle-callused hand, sweeping the pad of his thumb across her cheek.
The fingers of his other hand traced the upper edge of her gown, toying with the silver Thor’s hammer she always wore around her neck. Then they dipped dangerously low beneath the linen of her shift. He stroked the top of her breast with a feather-light touch.
When the rogue delved farther to graze her nipple, she gasped and pressed closer. Beneath his belt, against her abdomen, she could feel firm evidence that he had more in mind than just kissing.
She moaned with anticipation, weaving her fingers through his thick, freshly washed curls.
Curls that wound loosely around her knuckles like a fond caress.
Curls as warm and golden as the blaze burning on the fire.
Curls he’d passed on to two of their children and…
She let out a sigh of regret.
A tiny frown settled between her brows as she pulled away.
“Ah, Pagan, we can’t,” she whispered. “The children.”
“What children?” he murmured, easing forward for another kiss.
But Deirdre, as the eldest daughter, had always been the responsible one. That was why her father had entrusted her with the lairdship of Rivenloch. As much as she longed to continue their play, she placed a restraining palm on Pagan’s chest.
“We can’t just leave them…” she trailed off. Leave them what?
“Leave them what?” Pagan said, echoing her thoughts with a sly grin. “Completely enthralled by the Christmas play? Happy as a litter of pups? Safe in the company of the entire clan?”
He was right, of course. The children were safe. They’d never miss their parents. In fact, everyone in the hall was so well entertained, Pagan and Deirdre probably wouldn’t be missed by a soul.
She answered his smile. Lord, he was irresistible. Especially when his eyes smoldered like that.
He tilted his head to trail kisses down the side of her neck. Delicious shivers coursed through her. Like sword iron in a hot crucible, her knees melted beneath her.
After that, she had no willpower whatsoever.
Somehow she managed to stagger up the stairs to their chamber.
When he closed the door behind them, Deirdre wasted no time. Breathing heavily, she backed toward the bed and slipped the dark blue velvet kirtle from her shoulders.
He advanced, sliding her sleeves ever lower to nibble at her exposed flesh.
Meanwhile, she seized his leather belt, unbuckling it with practiced haste and casting it aside. It slithered across the oak floor like Eden’s tempting serpent.
He swept the gold mesh coif from her hair, and her long tresses tumbled over her bare shoulders.
Hungry to taste his warm flesh, Deirdre wrenched his indigo surcoat down. It lodged across his broad shoulders. She went for her dagger, intent on slicing through the laces.
But Pagan seized her wrist and halted her with a sensual chuckle. “Patience, wench. You know, they untie.”
She didn’t want to wait that long. Then again, she didn’t want to have to explain the severed laces to their guests. She dropped the blade.
With a wicked twinkle in his eyes, Pagan slowly spread the laces and drew the surcoat over his head. He tossed the garment onto the chest at the foot of the bed. Then he hooked his thumbs expectantly in the waist of his trews, perusing her from head to toe.
“Well, m’lady?” he asked. “I believe it’s your turn.”
She unbuckled her own belt and dropped it to the floor. She kicked off her soft leather shoes. Finally, with her eyes fixed on her husband’s cocky mouth—the mouth she wanted to feel over every inch of her skin—she lifted the kirtle off over her head.
Pagan’s nostrils flared. He wasted no time, leaning back against the plaster wall to pull off his boots and stockings. He untied and yanked down his trews. His undershirt unfurled halfway to his knees. But there was no mistaking the state of his arousal when he freed the beast beneath the linen.
Deirdre gave him a knowing smile. She perched on the edge of the bed, peeling back her stockings, inch by inch, to expose her long legs.
His gaze darkened. He groaned in appreciation. Hauling his undershirt over his head, he pushed off the wall, anxious to join her.
She made quick work of her shift. The cloud of linen had barely floated to the floor when Pagan collided with her in a hot, demanding embrace.
With fevered gasps and in a tangle of limbs, they clambered onto the bed.
After enduring a chaste week full of holiday preparations, their hunger erupted in a gluttonous rush.
With the desperation of a starving waif, Deirdre fed on Pagan’s supple shoulder, his corded neck, his succulent mouth.
While Pagan’s hands boldly claimed her body, he pelted her face with kisses as soft as snowflakes. He stroked her with practiced skill, knowing all her most vulnerable places.
The spot behind her knee.
The tender inside of her thigh.
The sensitive space beneath her ear.
Then he clasped his fingers through hers and turned until his weight pinned her to the bed.
At one time, she would have fought him. When she’d first met Pagan, she believed that making love was akin to waging battle. One warrior always emerged the victor, one the vanquished.
But now she knew better. If love was war, it was a war fought between equals, full of surrender and triumph all at once. Pagan might have the upper hand now. But she would conquer him before the night was over. Deirdre might feel victorious in the throes of passion. But he would master her in the end.
Lovemaking was an amazing, exhilarating, glorious alliance that never failed to awe and inspire her. She would never tire of it.
While he held her hands captive, his tongue made lazy designs down her throat. Delight shivered through her every nerve. He grazed her collarbone, moving her Thor’s hammer aside with his teeth. Then he teased along the top of her bosom until she arched up, willing him to do more.
“So impatient,” he teased in a whisper.
She growled in response.
Then he released one of her hands and retrieved something from beneath the pillow on the bed.
With a mischievous grin, he showed her what it was.
He’d hidden a sprig of mistletoe under her pillow.
“Knave,” she scolded.
He swept the tiny plant along her eyebrows, kissing each eyelid in turn. Then he traced the bridge of her nose. When she wrinkled it in protest, he soothed the tickle with a kiss. He brushed her lips with the white berries and lowered his mouth to bestow a kiss there.
With her free hand, she seized the back of his neck and drew him closer to deepen the kiss. He obliged her for only a moment before removing her hand and chiding her with a shake of the mistletoe.
“We have time,” he murmured. “I’m certain the three kings haven’t even arrived yet.”
In truth, she’d forgotten all about the mummers. And Christmas. And their guests. She was only eager to engage her husband…who seemed intent on making her wait.
She held her breath as he circled her breast with the mistletoe, spiraling closer and closer to the aching center. Finally, with a low groan of pleasure, he cast the plant aside and lowered his mouth to enclose her.
Every nerve awakened like bright lightning illuminating a dark sky. Her hands tightened into fists. Her eyes closed in sensual joy. The divine throbbing of her nipple echoed deep in her womb, intensifying into an urgent need.
He moved to suckle at her other breast. Desire struck her like another bolt of lightning, shooting current through her body to the swelling bud between her thighs. She squeezed his hand in hers, trying to convey the power of her lust for him.
While she squirmed in impatience, with the back of his knuckles, he smoothed the hollow of her abdomen and flirted with the curve of her hip. He trailed wet kisses along her arm and lapped at the inside of her elbow. He opened their joined hands and pressed a devoted kiss into her palm.
Finally, she could endure no more delay.
Patting across the pallet with her free hand, she found and closed her fingers around the discarded sprig of mistletoe. She wrested loose her trapped hand and pushed against Pagan’s chest, forcing him up off of her. Then she slipped the mistletoe between their bodies, brazenly setting it atop the nest of curls where she most wanted a kiss.
His face blossomed in a devilish grin. Emerald flames leaped in his eyes.
What followed was a sensuous blur of wanton delight.
He feasted upon her.
She feasted upon him.
At last, they joined in unadulterated bliss.
And when they ultimately exploded together, it was in a searing blaze of fireworks to rival those they’d witnessed years ago during the famous siege of Rivenloch.
The mistletoe was crushed in their coupling.
Christmas was forgotten.
And in the soothing music of their subsiding passion and slowing breath, they drifted into a slumber that was long, deep, complacent.
Hours later, before she even opened her eyes, Deirdre smiled, feeling the heat of Pagan’s backside against her belly. She snuggled closer, basking in the recollection of their lovemaking.
Then her brow creased. She’d forgotten to tell him about the babe.
“Pagan,” she sleepily murmured.
He didn’t respond.
She ruffled his hair.
Still he didn’t respond.
When she finally pried open her eyelids, the glow of rare winter sunlight was already seeping through the shutters.
She gasped in panic and blinked against the light. Bloody hell. Where had the night gone?
“Pagan,” she whispered urgently, shaking him.
The children…their guests…the clan…
She may have enjoyed a night of wanton, well-deserved pleasure. But it had been at the price of abandoning her duties as laird. She cursed under her breath, sweeping a dried mistletoe twig from the sheets.
Lucifer’s ballocks. How could she have been so careless?
Pagan
Pagan thought Deirdre should bear at least part of the blame for what happened. After all, if she weren’t so damned stunning and desirable and tempting, he wouldn’t have spirited her away to their bedchamber in the first place.
Still half-asleep, he felt Deirdre jostling him.
But he didn’t want to wake up.
If he woke up, he’d have to leave the bliss of his wife’s bed. He’d have to walk away from her silky skin. The compelling fragrance of her hair. The warmth of the long, lithe limbs wrapped around him. And he wasn’t ready to do that yet.
As much as he’d wanted to celebrate Christmas at Rivenloch, to share the traditions of his Norman Noël with his half-Scots children, at the moment all he could think about was the irresistible angel tucked under the bed linens with him.
After their delicious night together, he wanted to spend all day here with his beautiful wife.
Of course, he knew that was out of the question. Deirdre was laird, and he was the host of the festivities.
But surely they could linger here just a bit longer. Indeed, if his delectable wife continued to press those soft, supple breasts against his back like that, he wouldn’t be fit to appear before company anyway.
Already he was rousing to the thought of coupling with her this morn.
He stretched, feigning a yawn. Then he turned to her with a cunning grin.
A knock at the door dashed his lusty mood.
“Shite!” Deirdre hissed, echoing Pagan’s exact sentiments.
Pagan would have ignored the knock.
But Deirdre took her duties as laird seriously. So she scrambled out from under the coverlet.
He yielded with a sigh, falling back in disappointment on the mattress. But when she snatched the sheets off the bed to cover herself, leaving him nude, he frowned.
“Hey!”
She ignored his protest and headed for the door, giving him barely enough time to dive off the far side of the bed for cover. He was forced to cower behind the pallet in naked displeasure.
Peering over the top of the bed, he watched her haul open the door. She may have wrapped the sheets around her, but she’d left an enticing gap at the back, giving him a tempting glimpse of her sleek buttocks.
“What is it, Lucy?” Deirdre asked.
It was Deirdre’s maidservant, Lucy Campbell. The wench had once been the castle flirt, until Pagan’s best knight, Sir Rauve d’Honore, had won her heart. She was now Rauve’s wife and a devoted nurse to their children.
Pagan only hoped she’d deliver her message and return to devoting herself to their children so he and Deirdre could get back to…
“Da! Da!”
That was Brand, four years old and full of fire. Pushing past his mother, he raced Pagan’s way.
“Get up, Da!”
Pagan quickly seized a bolster from the bed to cover his nether regions just as the lad rounded the bed to jump onto his lap.
“Good morn, Brand,” he groaned.
Five-year-old Gellir had more discretion. “Brand!” he reprimanded his little brother. “We’re not to enter Ma and Da’s bedchamber without permission.”
“But ’tis Christmas,” Brand argued.
From the doorway, Deirdre arched a brow.
That was Pagan’s fault. He’d been using that excuse for the last fortnight for everything from letting the children stay up late to overindulging them with sweetmeats.
He sighed. “Come on in, Gellir. But only because ’tis Christmas.”
When Gellir charged in as well, two-year-old Julian, trapped in Lucy’s arms, screamed in protest and squirmed to get away.
Lucy sized up the situation with a slight widening of her eyes. “Perhaps we should return later, m’lady.”
Pagan agreed. They should. But he knew his wife. And he knew better than to counter her authority when it came to the household.
“Nay,” Deirdre said. “’Tis late. We should be up and about. We have guests.”
She was right. They’d already stolen a night away from the clan. It was sheer greed on his part to want more. Yet who wouldn’t want more when he was married to such a beautiful creature?
“Go on, lads,” he said, giving his sons a swat on the rear. “We’ll be down soon.”
Once the children were gone and the door was closed, Pagan tossed the bolster onto the bed. He collected his discarded clothing and sat on the edge of the pallet. He’d just put one leg into his trews when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Deirdre drop the sheets to the ground.
The sight of her perfectly sculpted body in all its naked glory made him stiffen at once. The breath caught in his chest.
But there was no point in false hope. He knew Deirdre’s sense of honor was everything to her. The clan always came first.
So, willing his body to surrender, he continued pulling on his trews.
“Wait,” Deirdre said, biting her lip in a rare moment of uncertainty.
He froze.
Then she let out a decisive sigh. Her eyelids dipped, and she sauntered toward him with sensual grace. “I suppose they can suffer without us for a little while longer.”
There was no mistaking the sultry gleam in her clear blue eyes…nor the answering throb between his thighs.
“Are you sure?” he croaked. “I know how…the clan…”
She flashed a wicked, lopsided smile at him and shrugged. “’Tis Christmas.”
Rand
Rand was sure this was all his fault. His lovely bride might have led him into temptation, convincing him to follow her into her secret hiding place at Rivenloch. But it was Rand who had fallen prey to distraction, all but forgetting the outside world.
When Miriel first slid the heavy chest away from the wall of the lower level storeroom, he narrowed his brows, puzzled. To his surprise, there was a large breach in the stone and a dark passage beyond.
He hunkered down to peer into the tunnel and whistled low. “Is this…?”
“Aye,” she replied with a twinkling smile. “’Tis the passageway that leads from the keep to the woods.”
He nodded. He knew the clan legend well. His beloved Miriel had once used this secret tunnel to save Pagan’s life. How brave she’d been—his meek, mild wife—fearlessly facing the dark and death to rescue her sister’s husband.
“Go on,” she urged. Her azure eyes gleamed as she nodded toward the tunnel. “Hurry.”
He frowned. “In there?” The passage looked cold and damp and foreboding.
“Aye. ’Twon’t take long.”
He resisted the urge to ask her what wouldn’t take long. She might look demure and delicate, but once Miriel had an idea in her head, there was no changing her mind.
She crossed her arms and arched a fine, dark brow at him. “Unless you’re afraid.”
He smirked. His sweet-faced wife could play him like a lute. “Hand me the torch.”
She retrieved the torch from the wall sconce. He thrust it through the gap, revealing a widened earth tunnel that curved and disappeared around a corner.
The passage wasn’t quite as dank as he expected when he stepped through the breach. He moved the brand to and fro, examining the walls. They were reasonably dry and free of vermin.
When he heard the scrape of the chest behind him, he wheeled in alarm, wondering for an instant if Miriel meant to close him up in the wall.
But she’d climbed into the passage beside him and was dragging the chest across the breach again.
He raised his brows. What did she intend?
When she turned toward him, he lifted the torch. What she intended was clear in her sultry blue eyes.
“Why, Lady Miriel,” he accused with a grin, “here?”
She grazed his body with a lusty gaze that took his breath away. “Can you think of anywhere more private?”
She had a point. It was difficult enough, with four children under the age of eight, to find seclusion at home. But several days on the road had made intimacy nigh impossible. He longed to be with his wife.
Thanks to brilliant Miriel, they could finally be alone together in a place where even their clever children couldn’t find them.
It wasn’t that he didn’t adore his children. Seven-year-old Feiyan was like a shadow of Miriel with her fair skin, chestnut hair, and mild manner. Adam, their four-year-old, was Rand’s pride and delight, and his younger brother Tian already showed promise as a scholar. Even the littlest, Alexander, made Rand smile with his antics.
But it seemed they were cleverer than most at seeking out their parents at the most inopportune times. For once, maybe he and Miriel could spend a few moments alone.
He studied the walls, looking for a place to plant the torch. Alas, there were no sconces in the tunnel.
In the flickering light, Miriel began undressing, sliding the scarlet kirtle from her shapely shoulders. Even that subtle gesture sent the blood rushing to Rand’s loins.
He quickly scanned the dirt floor, looking for a place he could prop the brand, to no avail.
When she slipped the top of her kirtle down to her waist, revealing her small, firm breasts, he sucked a breath between his teeth at the tempting sight.
He gave a rueful chuckle, silently cursing his dilemma. If he dropped the torch, he’d no longer be able to see his breathtaking wife. But if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to avail himself of her charms.
The wicked lass chuckled at his frustration. “Have you not memorized my form?” she murmured. “Surely you can find me in the dark.”
She shimmied out of the kirtle, letting it shiver to the ground. He gave up, tossing the brand aside.
A peat-black darkness fell instantly in the passage. For a moment, it felt as if the walls had closed in around him. But Miriel’s hand immediately touched his chest, assuring him of her presence, and he drew her into his arms.
It was a curious and exciting sensation, making blind love to her. Deprived of sight, he found his other senses were heightened.
She smelled divine, as warm and comforting as mulled wine.
He sought her mouth with his, relishing the honey-sweet taste of her yielding lips.
She gasped and sighed and breathed softly against his ear. And when he let his hands and mouth explore all her curves and clefts, her purrs and moans made him shiver with need.
Best of all was the heavenly feel of her skin against his.
She clawed the clothing from him, and the desperate scrape of her nails made him catch his breath.
She pressed demanding fingers into the muscle of his shoulders, branding him with hot desire.
And when her tongue mated with his in an erotic tangle, he would have sworn the shadows lifted and that heavenly light filled the tunnel.
Miriel
Miriel had nothing to blame but her own selfishness for what transpired. She should have stayed alert to the castle activity. She’d forgotten how isolated and peaceful it was here.
She’d made use of the tunnel on numerous occasions when she’d lived here with her sisters, though never for this sort of clandestine pursuit.
Here in the dark she wouldn’t see Rand’s elated face when she told him the glad tidings—that they were expecting their fifth child. But at least this time, she’d be the first to tell him.
She was determined that her meddlesome servant from the Orient wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anyone before she had a chance to tell Rand. Odd, all-knowing Sung Li was prescient about these sorts of things, in the habit of informing everyone of Miriel’s pregnancies, sometimes before even Miriel knew.
Not this time.
This time Sung Li wouldn’t spoil the surprise.
Miriel’s self-satisfied smile might be lost in the dark, but she had other ways to express her joy to her beloved husband.
Their tongues entwined, sweeping her up in a blinding whirl of desire. Thrilled by the challenge of finding her way around her husband’s magnificent body by touch alone, Miriel realized she should have made use of the passageway earlier. The endless black was intriguing, their privacy assured.
His mouth left hers, seeking and finding her breast with expert skill, bathing her with tender care.
Her breath sharpened. She clenched her hands in his thick hair. The lazy circles he made with his tongue seemed to spiral down until she felt a coiled heat low in her belly.
She wanted him…now.
Snaking one hand down, she captured the steely confirmation of his arousal. He gasped against her bosom.
“What have I found here, husband?” she teased in a murmur. “Your dagger?”
His chuckle was full of fire. He answered her by wedging his fingers between her thighs, seeking and finding the treasure hidden there.
“And what is this, wife?” he whispered. “Some sweetmeat to nibble on?”
His words sent a rush of hot blood surging through her veins, warming her cheeks.
He gave her breast a farewell lick and then sank before her, kissing his way down her abdomen. When he reached the spot where all her sensation centered, he parted her gently, feasting on her flesh until her legs trembled beneath her.
She gripped his shoulders as she rode her yearning higher and higher, growing more breathless with each wave of lust. At the fine point of climax, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. And then, she exploded in a burst of bright stars, as awe-inspiring as the paper rockets they’d once made together years before.
She would have collapsed to the ground had he not held her upright.
Once she caught her breath, she wriggled free of his hands and slid down until she knelt before him. She clasped his head between her hands and found his mouth with hers.
He tasted like her passion—warm and wet and mysterious.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing the pillows of her breasts against his muscled chest.
Then she cupped his eager dagger and slowly lowered herself onto him.
He groaned in pleasure.
She echoed the sound.
He filled her perfectly. For a moment she only savored the feeling. But he was hungry for her and for his own long-awaited release.
So, clinging tightly to each other, they grappled as fiercely as they had on that night long ago when they’d engaged in deadly battle. But this time it was love that fueled their fight.
When Rand erupted in a victorious cry loud enough to wake the dead, a thrill of pleasure coursed through her as well.
The sound was quickly swallowed up by the earthen walls. Their weary breath made only the softest stirring on the air.
Miriel’s mouth turned up in a smug smile as she rested her head against Rand’s shoulder. Never in her wildest dreams had she considered the passageway she’d frequented so often in her youth would prove so useful now.
“’Tis the perfect hiding place, isn’t it?” she whispered.
He agreed with a chuckle. “No one would ever suspect.”
“And no one will ever find—”
The scrape of the trunk being dislodged and the light that stabbed suddenly into the tunnel made them separate and scramble for their clothes.
“Shite!” she hissed.
Clutching her kirtle awkwardly before her, she narrowed her eyes at the widening opening.
Sung Li was crouched there, staring in at them, completely unsurprised.
Miriel scowled back. How the wee old servant had managed to discover where Miriel was, not to mention singlehandedly sliding aside the heavy chest, was a mystery.
“What do you want?” Miriel snapped, vexed that she’d been interrupted, angrier that their trysting place had been found.
Before Sung Li could answer, their three sons—Adam, Tian, and Alexander—poked their heads in.
Bright four-year-old Adam, who had been studying with Sung Li, asked, “Ma, Da, what are you doing? Are you playing Zhuōmícáng?”
Sung Li had taught him the children’s game of hide and seek from the Orient.
“Aye,” Miriel quickly replied. “We were playing Zhuōmícáng. Da was hiding, and now I’ve found him.”
Adam screwed up his forehead. “But why are you naked?”
Sung Li shooed the lads back and gave Miriel the impertinent, imperious frown to which Miriel had grown accustomed.
“Your daughter is missing,” Sung Li informed her.
Miriel’s heart fluttered. “Feiyan?”
Rand, who had no patience for Sung Li’s vague declarations, hurried into his clothes, demanding, “What do you mean, missing?”
“You come,” Sung Li instructed, turning away before Rand could bristle at a servant issuing orders.
Miriel’s hands shook as she fastened her lacings. She was sure Feiyan was fine. The lass was a precocious seven-year-old, plagued by curiosity. She’d probably only wandered into a forgotten corner of Rivenloch…just as her parents had.
Nevertheless, Miriel made haste.
The lass could be anywhere.
It was wintertime. A storm might be coming.
And Rivenloch was a large estate surrounded by a dense wood where any manner of beast—or outlaw—could hide.
Colin
Colin placed the blame for what happened squarely on his own head. It had been his idea to steal away from the keep this morn. He’d selfishly wanted time alone with his wife. He’d never imagined his simple wish would wreak such chaos.
He was admiring how the light shimmered upon his wife’s tawny tresses when her sword came toward him in a downward slash. He raised his blade just in time to block the blow.
“Aha!” he crowed.
Undaunted, Helena tossed her head and braced to launch another attack, circling him like a wolf.
The buttery light of sunrise spilled across the fresh white snow as they sparred in Rivenloch’s deserted tiltyard.
As always, Colin felt a curious combination of lust and wariness when he faced his wife in combat. Beautiful Helena’s fiery glare might have been tempered by an eager, hungry grin. But he knew better than to trust that temper when she was in the heat of battle.
“Come, husband,” she taunted, “we haven’t got all morn.”
He gave her a wry smile. He knew her tricks. She was trying to make him careless. If she could urge him to incaution, she’d seize the upper hand.
“What’s the hurry?” he asked, feigning nonchalance while he kept his sword at the ready.
“I’d hate for you to miss breakfast.”
That made him snicker. Though no one would guess it from Helena’s firm and shapely form, Colin’s wife ate twice as much as a grown man. She was doubtless famished already this morn.
Sure enough, Helena attacked while he was in mid-laugh. But he was ready for her. As her blade thrust forward, he dodged aside.
Recovering quickly, she thrust again. He deflected the blow with a swipe of his shield. Snow sprayed across the field, glittering in the dawn’s light.
Grinning like fools, they continued to face off, feinting and retreating, striking and blocking, whirling and leaping, slogging through the drifts until their steely chain mail was coated in powdery snow.
Helena’s emerald eyes were bright with excitement. Her cheeks were flushed. Her breath made fine mist in the chill air. He hadn’t seen her so happy in days. And that made him happy.
If there was one thing he knew about his wife, it was that she craved battle the way a caged falcon craves flight. Swordplay warmed her blood and made her feel alive. At home, she was accustomed to sparring with Colin every morn. But for the last sennight, there had been no time for even a brief tussle on the battlefield…or in the bedchamber, for that matter.
Of course, fulfilling her need for battle was Colin’s less noble motive. He knew that nothing made Helena more amenable to his lusty advances than a good swordfight. He planned to take full advantage of that fact as soon as she tired of sparring.
The only hazard he faced after so many days of abstinence was distraction. Helena was a skilled and ruthless fighter. But sometimes that was hard to remember when he was gazing upon her wild golden locks. Her flashing eyes. Her challenging grin. And the way her chain mail draped her voluptuous breasts to perfection.
His inattention must have shown in his face, because she chose that instant to swing her blade around, hard enough to lop off his head. He raised his shield, warding off the blow just in time.
Unfortunately, surprise made his instincts take over. He immediately charged forward. His shield collided far too forcefully with her head, knocking her on her arse in the snow.
He staggered back with a grimace. God’s blood. He hadn’t meant to hit her that hard.
“Ah, Hel, I’m sorry,” he began, preparing himself for a barrage of outraged cursing.
When none was forthcoming, he furrowed his brows. “Hel?”
Sitting in that undignified position, she stared blankly at the snow between her knees, stunned. She seemed lost in a distant world, unable to hear him. Without warning, her eyes rolled up, and she fell backward in a faint, landing with a soft plop in the snow.
“Hel!”
Colin’s heart plunged into his gut. He dropped his weapons, cursing his careless strength. Then he dove forward onto his knees beside her to cradle her head.
“Hel, can you hear me?”
She wasn’t moving.
“Hel? Helena.”
Using his teeth, he tugged off one of his mailed gloves, dropping it beside him. With trembling fingers, he carefully brushed the stray hair from her face.
“Helena, wake up.”
She was completely limp. He gave her a gentle shake.
“Come on, Hel.”
There was no response. He patted her rosy cheeks, trying to get a response.
His heart was pounding now. He’d been knocked unconscious before and awakened. But he’d also seen men who didn’t. Dear God, if he’d hurt his precious Helena, he’d never forgive himself. If he’d killed her…
His throat caught. Nay, he couldn’t think of that.
Was she breathing?
He lowered his head, turning his ear to her parted lips.
That was his mistake.
The minx’s wicked teeth suddenly clamped down on his earlobe, and his fear turned instantly to regret.
He bellowed in outrage and pain. Trapped and helpless in the viselike grip of her jaw, he wasn’t even able to feel relief that she was alive.
She mumbled something he couldn’t understand.
“What?” he gasped.
“I said,” she bit out, still clinging tenaciously to his ear, “Do. You. Yield?”
A braver man would have simply endured the pain.
A pluckier man would have refused to surrender.
A prouder man would have sacrificed his ear and called it a wound of war.
But Colin was more clever than he was brave or plucky or proud. He chose his battles wisely. And he knew if he let her win this one…
“Aye,” he squeaked out, “I yield.”
When she released his ear with a smug chuckle, the honey warmth of her voice helped to soothe his pain. Still, when he drew his fingers across his tortured ear, he was surprised she hadn’t drawn blood.
“That’s your weakness, you know,” she informed him with a cocky lift of her brow as she sat up, dusting the snow from her gloves.
Still cupping his sore ear, he sat back on his haunches with a wince. “My weakness?”
“Your soft heart.”
“Indeed?” The corner of his lip tugged into a fleeting smile. Two could play at that game. “And what about your weakness?”
“My weakness?” she scoffed, hopping up to her feet and brushing the snow from her thighs. She stared smugly down at him. “And what would that be?”
He extended his hand for her assistance, and she took it, bracing herself to haul him to his feet.
Instead, he tugged back hard on her wrist, pulling her suddenly off-balance and forward into his lap with a clash of chain mail and a surprised squeak.
“Overconfidence,” he whispered against her gasping mouth, just before he claimed it in a kiss.
Helena
She might have been able to prevent the catastrophe, if only she hadn’t lured Colin into the tiltyard. She’d known very well what she was doing. After all, Helena was no innocent. As sure as day led to night, sparring with her husband would lead to swiving him.
Of course, she’d let Colin pull her onto his lap. She wasn’t fooled for an instant by his help-me-up ploy. She’d used that tactic herself countless times.
Still, she had no choice but to let him win. If she didn’t, they would be fighting till noon. And she had other plans. The stable was only a few yards away, and it was as good a place as any for what she had in mind.
Afterward, she’d tell him the happy news. They would be blessed with their fifth child next year.
Colin would be ecstatic, of course. He and Pagan were engaged in a friendly competition for who could sire the most children. So far, they each had four.
Helena, on the other hand, had no interest in the numbers. She believed her sons and daughters—Hew, Grim, Jenefer, and Nichola—could knock the stuffing out of any of Pagan’s children. And that was what mattered most to her.
But all thoughts of happy news and warrior children, indeed all rational thought, escaped her when Colin pressed demanding lips to hers. His breath melted her frost-chilled flesh. His tongue swirled like a warm snowstorm inside her mouth. And when he slipped his bare fingers into her damp hair, she locked her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.
She might have stripped off her armor and made love to him right there in the snowy tiltyard, witnesses be damned. But she suddenly felt the sharp prick of Colin’s dagger against her throat.
She gasped. Hell! She should have disarmed him. Perhaps she’d bitten his ear with a bit too much force. Perhaps he sought revenge.
“What do you want?” she whispered breathlessly.
Colin murmured against her mouth, “I’m taking you hostage.”
Her lip curved into a one-sided grin. Colin never let her forget that when they’d first met, she’d abducted him and held him for ransom.
“Up,” he commanded.
She held her hands up in surrender. Then she glanced down pointedly at his lap, where her backside was warming his loins. “Are you sure?”
“Wicked lass,” he said, clucking his tongue. Then he prodded her with the dagger point. “I’m sure.”
Slowly, carefully, lest she nick her neck on his blade, she eased up from his lap. He followed her, keeping his dagger at her throat, until they were both standing.
Smoldering mischief danced in his green gaze as it slowly caressed her body from head to toe.
“Now, m’lady,” he drawled, “you’re my hostage. What ransom shall I demand for a—”
Helena smirked. She swept her hand suddenly forward to cup his cock, rendering him instantly speechless. She had no patience this morn for his leisurely love play.
The dagger faltered in his grip. With her free hand, she easily knocked the weapon away. Then she seized the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.
He groaned in pleasure.
She chuckled in lusty triumph.
She released his lips just long enough to gloat, “Now who’s the hostage?”
Then she seized him by the arm and dragged him toward the stables.
To be honest, her abduction was met with very little resistance. They burst through the door, heedless of the startled horses. In a melee of kissing and groping and clawing at each other’s armor, they managed to slam the door shut behind them.
Somehow they shivered out of their chain mail, sending up puffs of dust and bits of straw that glistened in the sunlight seeping through the cracks of the wooden door.
It had been far too long since they’d last coupled. Helena could feel her blood, already hot from battle, surge in her veins faster than a winter flood.
Colin was clearly swept up in the same raging current. He raked the linen from her bosom and feasted on her breasts.
She moaned and clenched her fists in his thick chestnut mane.
Curving an arm around her waist, he tumbled her into the pile of hay. In a mad rush of desire, he hiked up her underskirts and plunged forward. As he sheathed himself in her welcoming warmth, she sucked a sharp breath of awe between her teeth.
It wasn’t the most graceful swiving they’d ever done. There was no sensuous seduction. No romantic finesse. No murmur of affection. No tender gesture. No heartfelt promise.
There was only a hasty, torrid coupling. The two of them thrashed and gasped and mated like wild beasts until they erupted in a roar of completion.
Then they collapsed in a weak heap, spent and satisfied. There would be plenty of time for honeyed words and loving gestures later. For now, their desperate tryst was perfect.
Until someone pounded on the stable door.
“Shite,” Helena hissed, annoyed, but in no hurry to extricate herself from their sensual embrace.
“Are we going to answer that?” Colin whispered.
“Not if we can help—”
“Hel!” It was Deirdre.
Helena didn’t respond.
After a moment, Deirdre said, “Helena, I know you’re in there.”
Helena scowled. “Well, if you know I’m in here,” she yelled, “then you know you shouldn’t be banging on—”
“Open up,” Deirdre said. “I need you.”
The command was subtle. But the understated concern in Deirdre’s calm words struck Helena to the core, turning her ire to alarm.
She clambered up to locate her clothing. Colin followed her lead.
Something had happened. She didn’t know what. But it was serious enough for Deirdre to risk the wrath of interrupting Helena in a tryst. It must be dire indeed.
Deirdre
Deirdre stood outside the stable door, sword in hand, biting her lip. She could no longer blame the mistletoe or her husband for what had happened. This was entirely her fault.
Deirdre was Laird of Rivenloch, after all. She had one duty—to look after the clan. And she’d utterly failed.
Of course, once she decided this was her battle to fight alone, Pagan insisted on lending aid. At present, her loyal husband and clan—and even the mummers and musicians—stood armed and assembled in the tiltyard behind her, breathing fog into the cold morning air, eager to help.
Deirdre was about to bang on the door again when Helena snatched it open. She was only half-dressed, but she had a dagger in her grip and a grim cast in her gaze.
“What is it, Deir?” she demanded hoarsely. “What’s happened?”
Behind Helena, Colin was tying up his trews. Hay was strewn through his dark hair.
“The lasses,” Deirdre breathed, “Hallie, Feiyan, Jenefer…”
The shirtless Colin pushed past Helena to bark, “Jenefer?”
Colin’s aggression toward Deirdre was understandable, given the circumstances and how protective he was of his children.
But Helena wouldn’t let her husband use such intimidation against Deirdre. She grabbed his arm to restrain him.
“What about the lasses?” Helena asked.
“They’re…missing.”
“Missing?” Colin aped. “What do you mean, missing?”
Miriel’s high-handed servant Sung Li stepped in front of Colin. “Missing. It means they cannot be found.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed in anger. “I know that, you pesky…” He made a grab for Sung Li’s throat.
Before anyone could intervene, diminutive Sung Li, with a quick flick of the wrist, somehow brought Colin to his knees in the snow with his arm bent behind him. The clan gave a collective gasp.
Helena, furious at seeing her husband laid low by Miriel’s aged and irritating servant, targeted Miriel’s husband. She stepped forward with her dagger, pressing the point against Rand’s throat. “Call off your lackey, Miriel.”
Rand froze.
“How dare you,” Miriel bit out. “Besides, ’tis your husband’s own fault. He should know better than to—”
Helena fumed. “If your pompous minion would stop interfer—”
“Sung Li was only defending—”
“Sung Li needs to be taught a lesson in—”
“Hel! Miri! Enough!” Deirdre shouted. “We need to work together…and quickly.”
Still simmering with ire, Helena and Miriel nodded a reluctant truce. Helena lowered the blade from Rand’s neck. Sung Li released Colin, and Pagan helped his fallen friend to his feet.
Deirdre glanced up at the sky. It had been cloudless at dawn. But a storm was fast approaching from the east. If the lasses got caught in it…
She didn’t dare finish the terrifying thought. Fear only paralyzed a warrior. She had to do what she did best—take charge.
“We’ll cover the most ground if we search in small numbers,” she decided. “Archers, split up and take the north woods. Rauve, lead the men-at-arms and search the great glen to the south. Pagan, Colin, Rand, go west toward the loch. My sisters and I will head east. Lucy and Sung Li, gather the children and scour the keep for any sign of them. The rest of you, search all of the outbuildings—the mews, the smithy, the chapel.”
As everyone left to do her bidding, Deirdre’s sisters came to her side. Then she summoned all the Rivenloch children and hunkered down to speak to the oldest cousins.
“Gellir, Brand, Hew, Adam, I promise you we’ll find your sisters. But I need your help. Are you certain they said nothing this morn about where they were going?”
The four lads solemnly shook their heads.
Deirdre nodded, swallowing back disappointment. “I need you lads to search every nook and cranny of Rivenloch. Can you do that?”
They nodded.
“I’ll search the armory,” Gellir offered, his eyes gleaming.
“Good.”
“I’ll look in the buttery,” Brand said. “Maybe they got hungry.”
“Good idea.”
Hew chimed in, “What about the storeroom? The one where Da locked up Ma so she wouldn’t have to wed that horrible—”
“Aye!” Helena interrupted before her son could finish the lurid story.
Adam screwed up his nose. “What about the secret passageway where Ma and Da were playing Zhuōmí—”
“Nay!” Miriel barked, startling everyone. She blushed and quickly explained, “Your da and I…already searched there.”
Deirdre smirked. It seemed all three Warrior Maids of Rivenloch had been caught with their trews down—literally. And they needed to make things right before they’d ever let that happen again.
Helena quickly donned her armor and buckled on her sword. Miriel swirled her cloak over her exotic secreted weapons. Then the three of them struck out through the snow-frosted trees.
They traveled well into the woods, taking turns calling out their daughters’ names, to no avail. Finally, Deirdre found the courage to tell them the rest.
“Listen,” she confessed, “there’s more.”
“More?” Miriel and Helena replied in unison.
Deirdre nodded. “Laird Gellir is missing as well.”
“What?” Helena exploded. “Da too? Bloody hell!”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Miriel.
“You know Da,” Deirdre said defensively. “He’s missing half the time, always wandering off.”
On days when his wits were addled, which were more and more often of late, Laird Gellir roamed the halls of Rivenloch. Deirdre honestly didn’t always know where he went. But without fail, he appeared in the great hall for supper every evening. Still, she felt guilty, not knowing precisely where he was.
“Most of the time he’s safe enough,” she added. “There are servants everywhere in the keep and guards posted around the castle wall.”
“The guards should know where he’s gone,” Miriel deduced.
“And maybe they saw our daughters leave,” Helena added.
Deirdre stopped in her tracks and shook her head. “With all the festivities of Christmas, I gave the guards a reprieve. I allowed them to attend last night’s feast and the mummer’s spectacle. Then Pagan and I…” Then she bit out a foul curse. “I should never have let my guard down. This is all my fault.”
Deirdre was prepared for her sisters’ fury. She deserved every bit of it.
What she was not prepared for was their understanding.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miriel said. “You aren’t the only one to blame. Rand and I…well…” She blushed. “I wasn’t exactly…attentive to my children this morn.”
“Nor was I,” Helena added. “I’m certain the whole clan heard what transpired in the stable.”
“Besides,” Miriel said, “you can’t watch over every clan member every hour of the day.”
“I’m the Laird of Rivenloch, Miri,” Deirdre reminded her. “That’s my bloody duty.”
“Ballocks!” Helena scoffed. “Even Da didn’t do that. If he had, we’d never have had half the adventures we did.”
“That’s right,” Miriel agreed. “Remember how we used to sneak off to bathe in the loch?”
“Oh aye,” Helena said, smiling at the memory. Then she elbowed her little sister. “And your secret passage, Miri. I still can’t believe you used it all those years, right under Da’s nose.”
Miriel shrugged. “Remember the overgrown crofter’s cottage where we used to plan sieges?”
Helena arched a brow. “How could I forget? That’s where I held Colin hostage.” Then she gave Deirdre’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sure the lasses are fine.” Her smile wasn’t quite as certain as her words.
“That’s right,” Miriel agreed. “Knowing our daughters, that’s all they’ve done—gone off on some adventure.” Her bravery too seemed forced.
Deirdre looked back and forth between her sisters. They were obviously trying to make her feel less culpable. She loved them for it. She desperately hoped they were right.
But something else they’d said started a curious tingling at the back of her neck.
“The cottage.” Her heart skipped. “Do you suppose they could be there?”
Miriel nodded. “Maybe.”
Helen gave them a dubious frown. “Is it still standing?”
Deirdre shrugged and shook her head.
“Has your Hallie been there before?” Miriel asked Deirdre. “Could she have led them there?”
“I never showed it to her,” Deirdre said. “But she’s a curious lass. She may have found it on her own.”
Miriel furrowed her brows. “’Tis been years since my last visit. Do you remember how to get—”
“I do,” Helena said, charging past them. “Follow me.”
Their hopes buoyed, the sisters set out at a brisk pace to find their daughters.
A few wrong turns tested Helena’s temper.
The light onset of snowflakes made Miriel frown in concern at the sky.
Deirdre, unable to shake the feeling that this was all her fault, felt an ache start in her tightly clenched jaw.
Finally, they found the moldering hovel. It was much as they’d left it seven years ago. Nearly collapsed and covered with so many vines it was almost invisible. But even before Helena yelled out the lasses’ names, Deirdre could tell they weren’t inside.
Ivy had grown over the door. When Helena burst through it, tearing vines and shredding cobwebs, it made a grating screech of protest and sagged on its hinges.
For a moment, they gazed in silence at the damningly empty interior. It was much as Deirdre remembered it. Dirt-floored. Stone-hearthed. Sparsely furnished with a bed and a rickety stool that seemed ready to splinter apart. A few rusty pots and pans.
“Curse the Fates,” Helena muttered.
Deirdre and Miriel sighed behind her. They’d been so sure they’d find the lasses here.
In the ensuing silence, Deirdre suddenly heard something she’d never heard before from Helena. A sniffle.
“Hel?”
Helena scowled at her own gathering tears. “Loki’s ballocks,” she cursed. “I’m so bloody mawkish when I’m breeding.”
Miriel gasped. “You’re breeding?”
“Aye. I meant to tell Colin right after we… But then…”
“But I’m breeding as well!” Miriel cried.
Helena squeaked, “What?”
“Impossible,” Deirdre informed them. “You can’t both be breeding.” They looked at her as if she were mad. “I’m breeding.”
“Nay!” Helena barked.
“Aye.”
At that revelation, the still air was stirred to life by cheers of congratulations. They exchanged teary-eyed smiles and sisterly hugs.
Gradually, however, their mirth subsided, and they sobered.
“I intended to give Pagan the happy news last night,” Deirdre said, “before we were…distracted.”
“I haven’t told Rand yet either,” Miriel said. “But what kind of news will it be if we’ve lost our daughters?”
They silenced as the unthinkable possibility descended upon them like a heavy shroud.
Deirdre steeled her jaw. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t ruin the best Christmas gift of all—three new Rivenloch babes—by paying for it with their precious daughters’ lives. She would find the lasses.
Motioning her sisters out of the cottage, she wrenched the door shut again and clapped snow dust from her gloves.
“Look. We’ve raised our daughters to be independent, aye?”
Her sisters nodded.
“Then we shouldn’t be surprised when they exert that independence. We’ll find them. We just have to think like they do.”
“Like they do?” Miriel said.
“With hearts full of adventure and spirits full of courage,” Deirdre said, “like we used to be.”
Helena lifted a skeptical brow. “Used to be?”
Miriel snorted. “Deirdre, you may have engaged your husband in your bedchamber last night. But Hel and I are still trysting in secret tunnels and stacks of hay.”
Deirdre smiled at that. She didn’t need to tell her sisters, but there probably wasn’t a wild spot in Rivenloch where she and Pagan hadn’t knocked their sabatons together.
Helena sniffed and smeared the rogue tears from her cheeks. “So where to next?”
“Let’s try the burn,” Deirdre suggested. “Hallie knows to follow the current if she’s lost.”
A few tiny snowflakes began to filter down through the pine canopy as the maids hurried through the trees.
The silvery stream they sought wound through the wood, ultimately emptying into the double lake for which Rivenloch was named. If the young lasses were clever enough to follow it, they’d end up not far from the keep.
The sisters were only halfway to the burn when Miriel suddenly halted.
“Wait. Do you smell that?”
Deirdre and Helena sniffed the air. The scent was faint. “Fire.”
“That has to be them,” Helena breathed. She started to call out, “Jene—”
Miriel clapped a quick palm over Helena’s mouth. Helena frowned in irritation and would have burst free. But Deirdre held her hand up for silence.
Of the three sisters, Helena was the least cautious. She preferred to dive headfirst into trouble and come out with her blade swinging.
Deirdre and Miriel, however, knew the benefit of stealth. Fire could mean anything. It might have been started by the lasses…or by outlaw captors.
Deirdre whispered, “Let’s follow the scent.”
Chastened but still scowling, Helena swatted Miriel’s hand away from her mouth. Miriel glanced skyward and shook her head.
Deirdre carefully unsheathed and beckoned her sisters follow her. The three of them stole through the woods, as quiet as wolves on the hunt.
When Deirdre first detected the orange glow through the trees, she could see it was from a blaze much larger than a simple cooking fire. For an instant, she feared it might be a wildfire. But only a single broad column of white smoke, salted with bright sparks, rose up through the evergreens.
They approached in silence through the trees until Deirdre could hear the crackle and snap of pine pitch. In the clearing beyond, the golden flames of a great bonfire licked at the falling flakes of snow.
As she watched, three dark, devilish figures began cavorting before the fire like wee demons of hell. And reigning over their impish dance like the Viking god Hel himself was…
“Da?” Helena mouthed.
Miriel blinked in surprise.
Relief mingled with rage as Deirdre studied the macabre scene before her. The wee lasses were covered in blood, doubtless the blood of the goat that lay in grisly sacrifice before the fire.
While the sisters stared on in mute wonder, Laird Gellir hoisted a horn of beer in salute. “To Odin!” he shouted.
“To Odin!” the wee lasses echoed, tipping back their own horns to drain the contents.
Deirdre knew at once what this was about. Her father had brought the lasses into the woods to celebrate the Viking rites of Jul.
It was an innocent enough gesture. He obviously wanted to share his traditions with his granddaughters.
But she couldn’t let him believe it was acceptable to abscond with the heirs of Rivenloch without a word to any of their mothers.
Before the laird could refill their horns and further intoxicate the wee lasses, Deirdre had to intervene.
As she sheathed her blade, her eye was caught briefly by its inscription, Amor Vincit Omnia. No matter how upset she was, it served to remind her that love conquered all.
“Come on,” she murmured to her sisters.
The sisters pushed through the brush into the clearing, startling the celebrants.
Deirdre had never seen three guiltier-looking lasses. That guilt appeared to last about five heartbeats, at which point the spirited cousins grabbed hands to face their mothers in defiant solidarity. Deirdre couldn’t decide if they were adorable or infuriating.
Before Deirdre could choose diplomatic words to chide their father, headstrong Helena shouldered her way past.
“What the devil are you doing, Da?”
Laird Gellir’s blood-streaked face was menacing as he rose to his full height, fixing her with an icy blue gaze.
“Do you not know?” he growled. He narrowed his eyes. “I knew it. I knew you’d forgotten.”
Miriel scolded Helena with a scowl. “’Tisn’t true, Da.”
The laird’s blood-spattered white beard quivered as he proudly raised his chin. “You’ve forgotten the old ways of your forefathers.”
“Oh, Da,” Deirdre’s voice broke over the words, “we’d never forget.”
She saw now that her father was hurt. In his mind, their Norman husbands had usurped his beloved Jul, replacing it with their foreign Christmas rites.
Laird Gellir shook his head. “How is it that my own granddaughters know nothing about Thor’s battle with the frost giants of Jotunheim? About keeping Midgard from Fimbulwinter? About Odin leading the Asgårdsreien to keep the dead from the living?”
Deirdre stood in stunned silence. Was that true? She may have neglected some of the old rites. But every year she recounted the story to her children. She was certain her sisters did as well to their offspring. Were the lasses simply too young to remember the tales from year to year?
It turned out they were not. And it was the wee lasses themselves who brought comfort to all.
“Ach, I know, Grandda,” Jenefer announced with pride, flipping her golden braid over her shoulder. “Ma tells me the story every Jul.”
“Me as well,” sweet, dark-haired Feiyan said. “We put gifts on the trees and burn a Jul log on the fire and have boar for supper.”
“Aye, Grandda, we know,” willowy, blonde Hallie gently assured him. “We just like the way you tell the story.”
When all three lasses nodded in agreement, Deirdre’s heart melted.
Beaming with pride, Laird Gellir straightened to his full height, looking like the mighty Viking warrior he’d once been.
Deirdre had never felt prouder of her Hallie. A lump lodged in her throat, making it impossible to speak.
Miriel pressed a hand to her bosom and gazed at her Feiyan with watery eyes.
Helena took one look at her Jenefer and burst out sobbing.
Deirdre took her sisters’ hands. She shook her head. They were definitely breeding. Only pregnancy could make the fierce warrior maids so weepy.
Without another word, she pulled her sisters toward the bonfire. Crouching beside the slain goat, they painted their faces with blood. Laird Gellir poured beer into the wee lasses’ horns, which they passed to their mothers.
“To Odin,” Feiyan prompted in a whisper.
“To Odin!” the warrior maids called out together.
To Deirdre’s amusement, the beer was so heavily watered, the lasses could have toasted every Viking god in Valhalla and still not have gotten drunk.
Draining the horns, all six maids squeezed onto a fallen log near the bonfire. Then Laird Gellir recounted the Jul story in all its splendor—with dramatic scowls, confiding whispers, triumphant laughter, and a wild waving of arms.
Of course, the tale culminated in his riveting rendition of the Asgårdsreien, the wild hunt.
He described the violence of the stormy night. The ferocity of Odin, mounted upon his eight-legged steed. The beauty and bravery of the Valkyries. He spoke of the fearsome horde of black horses, snapping hounds, and the terrifying specters of the underworld that loomed behind a frail curtain on this darkest day of the year. He praised the power of Odin, who drove the beasts across the sky, protecting the living from the dead.
By the end, even Deirdre was waiting breathlessly to see if the sun would once again triumph over the darkness.
As he finished the tale with an upraised fist and an affirmation of victory, Deirdre decided Hallie was right. No one told the story as well as Laird Gellir.
After a moment of quiet reflection, wee Jenefer jumped up abruptly with glee and cried, “Now the sunwheel!”
“The sunwheel!” the three lasses cheered. “The sunwheel!”
How her father had managed to build a sunwheel without her knowledge, Deirdre didn’t know. He must have started it weeks ago. The thing was enormous, a great circle woven of wattle, with a heavy log cross that formed spokes in the middle. A hole was bored in the center of the cross, through which a long pole extended so it could be rolled.
The sunwheel was an earthly representation of the chariot Sol drove across the heavens. It was meant to mark the return of the sun after a long winter, the promise of life and birth and renewal. It was the culmination of the Jul celebration.
Studying the great wheel, Deirdre decided it was fortunate she and her sisters had come along when they did. Rolling the huge thing would have been dangerous and nearly impossible for one old man and three tiny lasses.
She quickly tasked the wee cousins with carrying the burning brands from the bonfire that would ultimately set the thing on fire. The three sisters would transport the wheel.
As it turned out, it was a challenge, even for the warrior maids. The wobbling wheel was hard to control and difficult to maneuver across the snow. But somehow they managed to steer the thing through the forest, finally emerging at the rise before Rivenloch.
Far below, Deirdre could see most of the clan had returned from their search. The search parties were gathered before the gates. Colin, Rand, and Pagan stood together before the crowd, addressing them.
“Wait.” Miriel touched Deirdre’s forearm. “Shouldn’t we—”
“What?” Helena smirked. “Give them a warning?”
Before Deirdre could alert anyone, Laird Gellir plunged ahead. He touched his brand to the sunwheel, instantly igniting the dead wood. The wee lasses mimicked him. In a matter of moments, the whole thing was blazing. The flames leaped so high they licked the lower branches of the trees, threatening to devour them.
The warrior maids had no choice then but to begin rolling it down the hill.
In a thunderous charge, with loud cries and shrieks of triumph, they bolted down the slope.
Their husbands, seeing what appeared at first to be bloody savages rolling a fiery weapon toward the castle, froze in stunned wonder. The clan folk cried out in alarm and scattered out of the way. There was one awful moment when Deirdre wondered if Pagan would order the archers to fire upon them.
But soon enough everyone recognized the warrior maids, despite their macabre appearance. Cheers erupted from the clan.
The wheel slowed at the bottom of the hill, wobbling wildly on the pole. The sisters let it topple onto its side, where it hissed in the snow like a fallen dragon. A few defiant flames burned a while longer, sending white ash up to mingle with the thickly falling snowflakes.
But the sunwheel was already forgotten when the three lasses ran past it, tumbling over themselves to share their excitement with their fathers.
“Da!” Hallie called, her blue eyes alight. “Da! We had a big fire in the woods!”
“And Grandda told us the story of Thor and the Frost Giants!” Jenefer added, swinging an imaginary sword.
Feiyan gushed, “We drank beer to Odin!”
“And we danced,” said Hallie, “to honor the Valkyries!”
“Grandda killed a goat!” Jenefer crowed.
Feiyan assured her frowning father, “Don’t worry, Da. ’Tisn’t our blood. ’Tis the goat’s.”
“And now we’ve brought the sunwheel,” Hallie declared, “so summer can come back.”
Breathless from the long run down the hill, yet still grinning at the husbands’ baffled faces, Deirdre held up her hand. “Let’s all go inside now, out of the weather.”
As they made their way through the gates of Rivenloch, the lasses were still chattering to their fathers about the morn’s adventures. Laird Gellir hadn’t looked so proud and happy in weeks. As for Helena and Miriel, they wavered between smiles of smug pride and sobs of overwrought joy.
After everyone washed the blood from their faces, Deirdre ordered the servants to bring forth breakfast. The clan gathered by the fire in the great hall. A blissful peace fell over her as she gazed at their merry faces.
The spirit of Christmas and Jul was evident in everything around her.
The holly decking the tables.
The Jul log burning on the hearth.
The mistletoe hung over every door.
The sunwheel spent and smoldering in the snow.
The toasty Scots oatcakes.
The warm Norman wassail.
The mummers reenacting the birth of Jesus.
The laird telling the tale of Odin’s hunt.
All of it was part of the same bright spirit of rebirth and renewal.
Deirdre lifted her hand and waited for silence. Once the hall was quiet and everyone had a drink at hand, she addressed the clan.
“I wish you all Joyeux Noël and Gud Jul,” she said, “because the true meaning of the season is not one or the other, but a weaving together of both. Like the links in chain mail, our two traditions are stronger when they are joined.”
She raised her cup and beamed at the gathering of her loved ones.
“To kith and kin. To love and light. To the end of darkness and the promise of new life.”
The clan cheered and joined her in the toast.
Deirdre then called her sisters to her side, taking them by the hand. Her lips curved up in a secret smile as she gazed at her handsome husband, whom she was about to make very happy indeed.
“And speaking of new life…”
The End