Hugh paced his chamber. He hadn’t been able to speak to Meggie. He’d hoped to tell her—to ask her—

He ran his hand through his hair. He loved her. Even if Charlie hadn’t claimed Catriona, Hugh wouldn’t have offered for her.

His heart belonged to Meggie MacLeod.

He’d go back to Abercorry alone, empty-handed if Meggie didn’t want him, and face the fury of the elders. They’d have to find another way to raise the fortunes of the clan—through hard work and good planning, perhaps. He’d do all he could to make that happen, but he wouldn’t marry for it.

He crossed to the window, looked across at the dark of Meggie’s window. Was she still asleep? He’d asked her grandmother how she was a dozen times already, but he couldn’t insist on seeing her. Not if it meant betraying what happened between them, not if Meggie regretted it. He’d take the secret to his grave, though he’d never forget. He wanted to shout his love from Gleanngalla’s highest tower, but he held his tongue, listened to Magnus crow about how tonight he’d seduce Meggie, take her to his bed, and not let her up till Twelfth Night. Hugh wanted to punch the smirk off Magnus’s face.

There was a knock at the door and Hugh turned eagerly, hoping it was Meggie.

But it was Charlie MacKay, dressed in his finest for his wedding.

“Will ye stand up with me? I could use the courage. I promised Catriona I’d not touch a drop of whisky before we wed.”

“I’d be honored,” Hugh said.

Charlie shuffled his feet. “I hate to admit it, but I’m nervous. His gaze fell on the pitcher on the table beside the bed for an instant before he looked away. “We’d best go down before she thinks I’ve bolted.” He strode to the door, then hesitated.

“If I might make a suggestion, it seems a shame to leave Meggie MacLeod to a man like Magnus. Ye might take advantage of the mistletoe tonight.” He patted the ruby brooch on his shoulder. “I’d rather lose this to you than Magnus.”

“Are ye so sure Magnus could win?” Hugh asked.

Charlie shrugged. “He persuaded her once. He’s single again, and so is she. She’s not getting any younger, and Magnus can be very persuasive. A bully even, if charm doesn’t work.” He raised his chin. “I wish I knew a way to make him see I’m marrying Catriona by my choice and hers, for her and for myself, and not because of him.”

“Then take her away, be happy.” MacAulay said.

Charlie slapped Hugh’s shoulder. “And ye should carry off the lovely Meggie.” He scanned Hugh’s face. “You’re an honorable man, MacAulay, and your clan is lucky to have such a laird at long last. Ye have my friendship if ye ever need it.”

* * *

In the hall, Meggie sat next to Seanmhair and waited for Catriona to arrive so the wedding could begin. Hugh stood with Charlie MacKay under a bower of mistletoe, ivy, and fir, also waiting.

Hugh still took her breath away, made her remember every touch, every kiss. After one brief glance, she lowered her eyes and scanned him only from under the screen of her lashes.

Among the mummers was a seanchaidh who would perform the wedding ceremony. He knew the lore and history of a dozen clans, and all the rituals of handfastings and weddings. He wore a robe embroidered with ancient symbols and runes, his white hair flowing free down his back.

Catriona arrived, escorted by Magnus, who looked bored.

Catriona looked happy—very happy. Meggie watched her, felt her own heart tighten in her chest, knew it would surely crack if she looked at Hugh now, saw pride and joy in his eyes as his bride approached him. She reminded herself to breathe and smile as if everything were perfect. Her hands were clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

The seanchaidh began to speak, to recite ancient words of binding. She heard Magnus give Catriona to her husband’s keeping. She heard Catriona speak. “I take you to be my husband . . .” Meggie felt her smile slip and forced it back in place.

* * *

Look at me.

Hugh stared at Meggie, willed her to meet his gaze, but her eyes flitted around the room like birds. The spots of hectic color in her cheeks were too bright, like her smile.

Look at me.

Surely she knew by now he hadn’t told anyone what occurred between them, that it was private, belonged to him and to her and no one else. He wanted to cross the room, pick her up, carry her back to the damned shieling, or up the stairs to his chamber, and tell her he loved her, would always love her . . .

All she had to do was look at him.

* * *

It was the groom’s turn to speak his vows. Meggie held her breath and waited for the sound of his voice.

“I take this woman for my wife . . .”

Meggie looked up, her eyes wide. It wasn’t Hugh’s voice.

Charlie was holding Catriona’s hand as the seanchaidh wrapped them with the ribbons and strips of plaid that bound them together as man and wife.

Charlie was marrying Catriona, not Hugh. They were looking into each other’s eyes with so much love it took Meggie’s breath away, or perhaps it was shock and hope that stole the air from her body. She glanced at Hugh and read love in his eyes too.

For her.

He held her gaze for the rest of the ceremony. And when Charlie kissed Catriona, and the seanchaidh pronounced them wed, and a great cheer went up, Hugh started across the hall toward her.

But before he could reach her, the crowd of well-wishers rushed toward the newlyweds, and she lost sight of Hugh among them.

She rose on one foot and tried to find him. A pair of mummers passed in front of her, juggling five golden rings between them.

Then she saw Hugh once more, but the kitchen door opened and the servants began to carry in the food for the feast, blocking his way to her side. She stepped back awkwardly as four servants carried in a long board bearing six fine, fat, roasted geese resting on nests of pastry filled with golden eggs. Hugh was a dozen feet away, his eyes still on hers. He dodged between the servants.

But the mummers began their next performance. Seven pretty lasses dressed as swans and wearing bells on their feet and fingers rushed out and began to dance. Hugh was forced to change direction again and go around the edge of the room.

She watched him every step of the way as he came to her.

At last he was by her side. He caught her hand, brought it to his lips as he looked into her eyes. “Hello,” she said, but the word was drowned out by the merry celebration.

He leaned close to her ear, said something, but she shook her head, unable to hear him. Still she knew what he wanted, what she wanted.

He scooped her into his arms and looked desperately around the crowded hall.

She pointed toward a storeroom, and he maneuvered them through the crowd toward it.

But the storeroom was full of cows, and eight young lasses were busy milking them. They looked up in surprise as Hugh and Meggie entered. “Shouldn’t you all be in the hall enjoying the feast?” Meggie asked.

One lass smiled. “We will, but the bairns need milk or they won’t sleep.”

“And if they won’t sleep, we won’t have any fun at all,” another chimed in.

Hugh backed out of the room. He stood outside the door and smiled at her. “I want to tell ye—”

But the swan maidens had finished their performance, and nine lasses waving colored ribbons on long poles rushed past them to take their turn. Ten lads followed the lasses, leaping and laughing, the bells on their shoes ringing as they joined their partners on the floor. The last lad played the role of the Abbot of Unreason, directing the dancers and making everyone else laugh.

“Meggie, I want to—” Hugh began again, but the pipes droned, and eleven pipers—MacVanes, MacLeods, MacLennans and MacKays—marched into the room to salute the happy couple, filling the room with a joyful reel and drowning out Hugh’s words. A dozen drummers followed the pipes, and soon the whole room was filled with folk dancing, eating, drinking, laughing, and celebrating both the wedding and the festive season.

She read the frustrated curse on Hugh’s lips, though she didn’t hear it. He carried her out of the hall and took the stairs two at a time. He paused at the top of the steps, looked left, then right. “Your chamber or mine? I’d say they’re about the same distance from here.”

She knew where he was going, and what he intended when he got there. She wanted it too. She smiled at him. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

So he turned left toward her chamber. He kicked the door open, then kicked it shut again, and neither of them spoke again for a very long time.

* * *

Magnus sat at the head table, drinking, watching the merriment in his hall. One more person in the overfull room would probably bring the whole castle down around their ears. Still, Catriona was out of his hair at last, wed to Charlie, just as he’d wanted. He wondered why he didn’t feel more triumphant about that. Perhaps because they looked so damnably happy, as if no one else on the world existed. Charlie was feeding Catriona bits of roast goose, whispering in her ear, and his shrewish sister was as sweet and gentle as a dove. He wondered if someone wasn’t playing a joke on him . . . It couldn’t be love. He’d so looked forward to the amusement of watching the pair of them peck each other to shreds. Ah, well, he’d find Meggie, charm her into his bed, and still come out the winner. Winning was what mattered—all that mattered.

Magnus scanned the hall, looking for Meggie’s red gown, her golden hair, but he didn’t see her. Where the devil was she? Conveniently already abed, no doubt, with her injured foot. It would make things that much easier . . .

He looked around for Hugh MacAulay, someone to at least share a dram with.

But MacAulay wasn’t here either.

Magnus swallowed the contents of his cup and reached for the pitcher. Empty. “Damn e gu ifrinn, damn it to hell,” he cursed, and looked around.

And like magic, there she was, a sweet wee serving lass with golden curls tied with a scrap red ribbon and a full pitcher in her hands. Magnus grinned and patted his lap.

He’d have Meggie for dessert.

And that was how Donal MacLeod found the laird of Gleanngalla when he arrived not an hour later, followed by six strong MacLeod clansmen. They stood in the doorway and looked around the room in amazement. One of the MacLeods grinned. “Just like it would be at home, Laird.”

Donal scanned the room for his daughter. He’d traveled to Raine castle when she didn’t arrive home, afraid she’d been caught in the storm, but she wasn’t there. He’d been relieved when Niall MacLeod rode in with word that Meggie was safe, if injured and homesick.

Meggie, homesick? It hardly seemed credible that his bold, brave, flirtatious daughter was pining. Then Niall had mentioned Gleanngalla, and Magnus MacVane, and Donal had ordered his men back into the cold.

And here he was in MacVane’s hall. “Have ye come for the wedding?” a tired-looking man who introduced himself as Gleanngalla’s steward asked him.

Donal tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Wedding? What wedding?”

He looked at the head table, saw Magnus’s big arms wrapped around a golden-haired lass, kissing her like she was a strumpet . . .

With a roar, Donal crossed the room.

* * *

Maighread caught her former son-in-law’s hand as he passed her chair. “Good evening Donal. Nollaig Chridheil, a Merry Christmas.” Donal MacLeod’s face was like thunder, but she ignored that for the moment. “Ye made good time, if ye came all the way from Iolair.” She followed his gaze to Magnus, saw the serving wench, knew what Donal was thinking. She laughed. “Och, that isn’t Meggie.”

“Then where is she, Maighread?”

Maighread smiled. “Oh, making merry somewhere I don’t doubt. Will ye have a dram with me to toast the season?”

“I’ll see Meggie first,” he said stubbornly.

But Magnus had seen his guest and had tossed the wench aside and rushed to greet him. “Laird MacLeod, welcome to my hall.”

Donal didn’t waste words on a reply. “Where’s my daughter, MacVane?”

Maighread sent a pointed look to Ewan, and her faithful servant rose and left the room at once.

Magnus grinned at Donal MacLeod. “Resting. We’ve had one wedding today, and we’ll have another tomorrow.”

Maighread’s mouth opened to object, knowing what was coming, but Magnus had already dropped to one knee. “I’d like to ask ye for Meggie’s hand. I want her for my wife.”

* * *

Meggie sat up bolt upright in her bed at the soft knock on her door. Hugh kissed her quickly. “Stay here,” he said, rising, wrapping his plaid around his hips. His shirt was unlaced, his hair love-rumpled, and Meggie knew she looked the same. She hid a smile as Hugh strode to the door “Aye?” he asked without opening it.

“It’s Ewan MacLennan, Laird. Donal MacLeod is downstairs. Just arrived. I’ve no doubt he’ll be coming up the stairs in the next five minutes, so . . .”

Meggie wrapped herself in a sheet and leaped out of bed, forgetting her injured ankle. She yelped. “Papa’s here?” She hobbled across the room, drew back the bolt and opened the door to gape at Ewan.

“With six MacLeod clansmen,” Ewan said, unsurprised by her attire.

“Oh, Hugh, hide!” Meggie cried as she reached for her red gown and pulled it over her head, hopping on one foot.

“Nay, I’ll not hide. I love ye, and I want—”

Ewan cleared his throat. “Ye’d best let Meggie talk to him first, Laird. Donal MacLeod has a fierce temper when it comes to his daughters, and an even bigger sword. Come along to Maighread’s room to bide there a while.”

But Hugh stood where he was. “Nay, I’ll tell him—”

But they heard the sound of booted feet coming along the hall. Meggie hobbled over to grab Ewan’s hand. She dragged him into the room and shut the door. She pushed him toward Hugh. “Both of you get behind the curtain in the window alcove.”

“Sweetheart, I—” Hugh began, but there was another knock at the door. “Meggie?” it was indeed her father’s voice. Ewan grabbed Hugh’s arm and dragged him into the alcove. As soon as the curtain fell into place behind them, Meggie crossed to lie on the bed, stuffing a pillow under her injured foot.

“Come in,” she said.

Her father strode into the room. “There ye are. I was worried. Sir Hector sent me word when ye didn’t arrive, and I was at Raine when Niall arrived . . .” He looked at her foot. “What happened?”

“A sprain,” she said, striving for a light tone. “Nollaig Cridheil, Papa.”

He kissed her cheek. “Ye look flushed, lass. Have ye a fever?” he put his hand on her brow.

“Nay, I’m well.” Then she caught sight of Hugh’s deerskin boot sticking out from under the bed, inches from her father’s foot, and forced a bright smile. “And my sisters—are they well?”

“They’re fine,” he said gently. “I understand ye finally found a man ye want to marry.”

She gaped at him. “How on earth did you know that?”

He smiled. “I saw MacVane downstairs. He asked for your hand, said ye were most amenable.”

“MacVane? Magnus?” Meggie nearly shouted.

“He says ye’ve loved each other for years, and now he’s free to wed again, he wants ye very much.”

“But I don’t love him!”

Her father’s brow crumpled into a frown. “What do ye mean? He seemed sure ye did. He asked my blessing to wed ye tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest. He said that ye and he had already—”

Meggie’s jaw dropped, and she felt hot blood fill her face. Magnus told her father?

“Papa, that was a long time ago, when I was eighteen. I thought I loved him. I know now that I didn’t even know what love was—not true love. I do now.”

Her father looked confused. “Eighteen? What happened when ye were eighteen, and what do ye mean ye know what true love is now?”

She glanced at the curtain. “I met someone, Papa. A fine man.”

“A laird?” She nodded. “From what clan?”

Hugh stepped out from behind the curtain. His plaid was rumpled and buckled wrong. His shirt was only half tucked in and she’d torn the laces in her passion. He had only one boot on.

Ewan stood sheepishly behind him.

He faced her father, and nodded. “I’m Hugh MacAulay of Abercorry.” He glanced at Meggie. “Forgive me for interrupting, lass, but I can speak for myself.”

Her father put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “What the devil are ye doing in my daughter’s chamber in that state of dress?” He glared at Ewan.

“Nollaig Chridheil, Laird MacLeod,” Ewan said politely.

“What’s going on here?” her father demanded. He fixed his gaze on Hugh. “Ye have to the count of three to say your prayers, MacAulay, and then I’m going to kill ye.”

“I love Meggie. With all my heart I love her. I’d like to marry her.”

Donal gaped at Meggie. “Two proposals in one night?”

She smiled at him. “This is the one that counts, Papa.”

Donal raked Hugh with a glare. “I’ve heard tales of the MacAulays of Abercorry. Ye’ve no coin and no friends. The laird—the one I thought was laird—was a foolish man, as was the laird before him.” He shook his head. “I’ll not marry my daughter to a fool.”

Hugh raised his chin. “Abercorry is poor in coin, but rich in potential. The clan needs a strong leader, new ideas, hope.”

“And ye can do all that?” Donal demanded.

Hugh looked at Meggie. “With the right woman beside me, I can do anything. I didn’t ken that until I met Meggie. And now—” he swallowed.

“And now?” Donal asked.

Hugh grinned at Meggie, and she grinned back. “And now, I—we—can make Abercorry and the clan MacAulay honorable and prosperous again. And most of all, happy.” He held Meggie’s gaze and dropped to his knee. “Will ye marry me, Meggie?”

She began to get up, to go to him, but her father put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll handle this.”

“Papa—” she began.

He looked at her. “It’s all right. I’m inclined to tell him aye, since I can see ye love him, and—” He looked pointedly at the boot under the bed.

But before Meggie could say another word, Magnus appeared in the doorway. “Sweetheart? Did your father tell ye the good news?” Then his gaze fell on MacAulay, and Ewan, and Meggie, and his smile faded.

“Eighteen, MacVane?” Donal growled, and Magnus blanched.

“It was—” He looked from Meggie to Hugh and back again. “Now, Meggie, We’d suit well. We did once.”

She made a face. “Nay, Magnus. I don’t think we’d suit at all. I know that now.”

“What does that mean?” Magnus demanded.

She tilted her head and sighed. “It means Hugh MacAulay won the wager and my heart.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Now pay up.”

Then Keith MacLeod appeared in the doorway bearing Maighread in his arms. She looked around the room and smiled at Meggie. “All settled?” She looked at Ewan. “Ye owe me a silver coin, lad. I said it would be the MacAulay.”

“Seanmhair, you wagered on this too?” Meggie asked.

Donal rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I daresay someday someone will tell me the whole tale.”

Maighread laughed. “Never mind, Donal. Now, if Hugh has proposed, and Meggie’s agreed, and ye’ve given your blessing, they’re waiting to bring in the Cailleach Nollaig, and they can’t do that without Laird MacVane.” She regarded the Laird of Gleanngalla. “Seems to me that all ye get out of this merry gathering is Cailleach, Laird.”

* * *

Donal MacLeod carried his daughter downstairs to the hall.

“Are ye sure, Meggie?” her father asked. “You’ve never let anyone get close to your heart before now. I never knew why. I suppose I do now. If ye’d told me—”

“About Magnus? It wasn’t something I was proud of, Papa.”

“And the MacAulay—your Hugh—are ye proud now?”

She nodded, felt tears in her eyes. Donal looked up to see Hugh MacAulay waiting for them—for her—properly dressed now. He heard Meggie draw a ragged breath at the sight of him, and he smiled at his daughter.

He gently set Meggie down on her good leg, held her steady, and kissed her forehead.

“Do ye suppose he knows he’s standing under the mistletoe?” her father murmured. “He hasn’t looked at anything but you since we came in.”

She smiled. “I suppose I’d better go and tell him.”

And as Meggie MacLeod kissed Hugh MacAulay under the mistletoe the steward rang the wee silver bells to announce the arrival of Christmas, and everyone cheered.

But neither Meggie nor Hugh heard them. They had each other, and that was all they needed.