Meggie paused outside the door of the great hall, feeling her belly curl against her spine at the thought of opening the door and going inside. She wasn’t a fearful lass—in fact, she was as brave as a lion, and as her father always said she was the most fearsome daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair. She had no reason to fear Magnus. She turned as Ewan came down the stairs with Seanmhair in his arms. “I was waiting for you,” Meggie said to explain why she was lurking outside the door.

“Then let’s go inside,” her grandmother said. Meggie took a deep breath, felt the cold metal of the latch under her fingers, and opened the door.

The three lairds turned as she entered. Magnus scanned her red gown, and fixed his gaze on the plump swell of her breasts above the low bodice.

Charlie MacKay’s jaw dropped, and Meggie wanted to cross the room and put a finger under his chin to prod his mouth shut for him.

MacAulay of Abercorry simply looked at her, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. Now what was he thinking? Meggie read men like Seanmhair read the weather, but this time she couldn’t tell. Uncertainty always made her bold, so she tossed her head and gave him a dazzling smile. She saw hot color rise from under the collar of his shirt to flood his face. He lowered his gaze.

She wished she hadn’t worn the red gown after all.

The steward indicated a chair at the table for Maighread, and Ewan set her down and retreated to stand behind her.

Maighread nodded to Magnus. “You’ll forgive me, Laird MacVane. I fell from a horse earlier this year. I thought I was breaking the horse, but instead he broke me—at least the bone in my leg. At my age, these things are slow to mend, so Ewan does my walking for me. I do hope I shall be back to riding again by next summer.”

“And what does Laird MacLennan say to that?” Magnus asked, seating himself by her side. The steward indicated Meggie’s place on her host’s opposite side. MacAulay sat next to her, and Charlie was directed to a place on the other side of her grandmother, save for one seat between them.

Maighread smiled. “If ye mean my husband, he’s been dead nearly two years—my children are gone as well. Ye may know I am both lady and laird of Seannbrae. Although she has many half-sisters from Donal’s other wives, and I love them dearly, as my only grandchild, Meggie is my heir.”

“Without a husband?” MacAulay blurted. Meggie bristled, but her grandmother laughed lightly.

“Does that make ye anxious, Laird MacAulay, a woman ruling lands that are right next to your own? It seems Meggie should be the one to worry. I seem to recall one of your uncles lifted a hundred MacLennan cows. Now which was it, Eanraig or Angus?”

Meggie saw MacAulay’s hand tighten on his cup until his knuckles were white. “Eanraig, mistress. I can only hope ye do not want them back now. I’ve no idea what became of them.”

Seanmhair raised her brows. “I daresay ye don’t. It was nearly three years ago. They’ve probably been eaten by now. I don’t blame ye particularly, but I hope ye can assure me—and Meggie—that the MacAulays will come no more a’reiving on MacLennan lands.”

The MacAulay regarded Maighread silently. He didn’t even glance at Meggie. “Ye have my word,” he said quietly, as if it wasn’t entirely up to him.

Now what did that mean? Meggie frowned. Perhaps he didn’t approve of her, thought an old woman or a lass in a red dress couldn’t rule a territory like Seannbrae. Perhaps the MacAulays were already planning more raids. The laird’s expression still gave nothing away. He looked uncomfortable here, Meggie thought, out of place, as if he’d rather be somewhere else.

A young woman entered the room. At the lower tables, the ordinary folk and the MacLennan and MacLeod clansmen all rose politely at her arrival, as did MacAulay. Magnus and Charlie took longer to get to their feet.

For a moment the lass looked around the room in surprise, then she glared at Magnus. “No one told me we had guests.”

Magnus ignored her complaint. “May I present my charming sister Catriona?” he said through gritted teeth. The redheaded lass scowled as she stalked across the floor to the table, her cheeks filled with splotches of angry color. “Ye’ll sit next to Charlie,” Magnus ordered her.

Catriona’s frown deepened as she took her seat.

She turned away from Charlie MacKay to look at Maighread, who was seated on her opposite side. “How do you do?” Catriona said sweetly. “Welcome to Gleanngalla.” Meggie watched her grandmother smile as if a princess had been seated beside her.

“She doesn’t like me,” Charlie interrupted loudly, leaning around the laird’s sister. Catriona colored but didn’t turn around.

“Don’t ye? He seems a fine fellow to me,” Maighread said. “Handsome, and with a good sense of humor. A man should know how to laugh.”

“Air mhisg amadan,” Catriona muttered in Gaelic. “Drunken fool.”

“Better than a man who’s too serious,” Meggie said, glancing sideways at MacAulay. Magnus grabbed her hand under the tablecloth.

“Better still a man who knows how to please a lass in all ways, don’t ye think, Meggie?”

She was aware of the heat of his body close to hers, the sour ale on his breath. He gave her fingers an urgent squeeze. His skin was warm, reminded her of summer days and kisses in the heather . . . her heart began to beat fast in her chest. She pulled her hand free and turned to MacAulay.

“Tell me of your holding, Laird MacAulay. Someday—and I do hope it’s many years in the future yet—we will be neighbors.”

He cast his eyes over her dazzling gown again before meeting her gaze. She read an instant of surprise in the gray depths of his eyes. Soft eyes. Kind. There were lines at the outer corners, half hidden under sandy lashes, as if he was used to laughing—usually, perhaps, but not here. He lowered his gaze casually—too casually—to pick up his cup.

“What would you have me say about it?” he asked gruffly. Meggie blushed at the unexpectedly gruff comment, and she wasn’t certain how to reply.

She turned away, looked past Magnus’s grinning face, and along the table to Charlie MacKay.

“Tell me of your holding then, Laird MacKay,” she said instead, and Charlie looked up from making faces at Catriona MacKay. Catriona’s face was scarlet with fury.

“Och, Dunlinton is a grand place, full of merriment and joy. I have no doubt even now that they are celebrating the festive season early in my absence—or because of it.”

“Ye shan’t make it home to Dunlinton in time for the Yule feast, Laird MacKay,” Maighread said lightly. “And you’ll not be at Abercorry, Laird MacAulay. This storm will keep us all here at Gleanngalla.” She looked at Meggie. “I know that will upset you most of all, Meggie lass, not to be with the ones you love for Yule.”

Meggie glanced up at the high, narrow windows, saw the snow battering the leaded panes, covering the castle like a shroud. Magnus shifted in his seat and leaned so close she could feel his breath on the bare slopes of her breasts. “Never fear—I’ll keep ye warm, and I’m happy to have ye for as long as ye wish to stay, sweeting.”

Meggie resisted the urge to cover her chest with her hands and smiled brightly, forced a laugh. “Yet if it were my wish, Laird, I would be gone already, or would not have come at all. As my grandmother said, I wish I were with my kin at Glen Iolair. We shall not inconvenience you an instant longer than absolutely necessary.”

“And how do ye celebrate the Yule in your father’s hall?” MacAulay asked before Magnus could speak again.

Meggie looked at him in surprise, met his eyes, saw the steady, careful gaze, and sensed he was rescuing her from Magnus. She felt her breath catch in her throat.

“There are the usual festivities,” she said. “Cutting the greens, decorating the hall, planning a feast for our kin. Everyone comes. There are games and dancing, and—” She thought it best not to mention the mistletoe. “And gifts,” she said instead. “We spend weeks making the perfect gifts for each other.” She felt homesickness well in her chest. “I suppose my gifts for my loved ones will have to wait.”

“I know a gift ye can give,” Magnus purred, but Charlie MacKay laughed.

“Pray tell, mistress, what kind of gift does one give to the Fearsome MacLeod?” Charlie asked.

“Och, she’s been embroidering a shirt for him,” Seanmhair said. “Very fine work, and I’m sure he’ll love it—he’ll just love it a few days late. I fear this storm could last a week.”

“A pity that prediction could not have been made before ye set out on your journey this morning,” MacAulay said, and Meggie glanced at him sharply. He met her eyes. “Ye might have been lost in such a storm,” he added.

Her grandmother laughed. “A kind thought, Laird MacAulay. We’re glad to be safe and in good company. If we cannot be with the ones we love, we shall be merry in the company we’re with.” She raised her cup. “Here’s to new friends.” She sipped and set it down again. “Now, we shall have to plan some fun for the twelve days,” she said, looking at Catriona. “Are ye expecting any other guests?”

Catriona glanced at her brother before she replied, but he was still gaping at Meggie’s breasts and didn’t notice. “Just whomever the storm brings us,” Catriona replied. “I assume Laird MacKay has settled in for the entire winter. He comes for the whisky whenever he finds he’s drunk Dunlinton dry.”

“There are simply some things a man cannot face sober,” Charlie quipped, and Catriona sent him an ugly glare before rising to her feet. She looked at Meggie and Maighread. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I find I have no appetite this evening. I shall be in the solar should you wish to join me after your meal.” She glared at Charlie again. “Your stomachs are obviously stronger than mine.”

“But the strength of your tongue more than makes up for your weak belly, Cat,” Charlie called after her.

“What a pretty lass she is,” Seanmhair said as the door banged shut behind Catriona.

The others stared at her in surprise, but Maighread MacLennan ignored them, enjoying her meal. “This partridge is delicious. What is the sauce?” she asked the steward.

“The birds were a gift from Laird MacAulay. Our cook simmered the birds in preserved pears.”

“Partridge and pears—delicious.” Seanmhair said, taking another hearty bite.

Meggie toyed with her dinner, too aware of Magnus’s hot eyes on her lips, her bodice, her hair. She suspected he was remembering a lass in a hayloft, pliant and willing . . . She sent him a swift sharp look of warning. She wasn’t that lass any more.

And on her other side, Laird MacAulay seemed as disinclined as she was to eat, lost in his own thoughts. Yet what could they speak of? The weather was a topic best avoided. He seemed to be a man of very few words, and apparently he felt polite conversation was entirely unnecessary. Yet she was aware every time his eyes flicked toward her to touch some element of her gown or her person. She could still smell the scent of him—wool, wind, and wood, and something spicy, male. Magnus smelled of ale and garron and lust—it rose from his flesh and made her nose quiver.

“Shall we call for the fiddle and dance once the meal is done?” Magnus asked.

“But there’s only Meggie to dance with,” Seanmhair said.

Meggie forced a bright smile. “And I fear so many handsome partners would exhaust me.”

“It only takes one,” Magnus murmured, rubbing his thigh against hers.

Meggie got to her feet. The surprised lairds rose as well.

“Seanmhair, shall we join Mistress Catriona?” Meggie asked. She waited for Ewan to lift her grandmother in his arms.

Meggie crossed the room to open the door for Ewan, waiting impatiently until he carried her grandmother out of the hall, almost breathless with her desire to escape. She glanced at the lairds as she departed. Magnus was frowning. Charlie MacKay looked amused. And MacAulay regarded her soberly, his gray eyes unreadable still, and all the more disturbing for that. “Goodnight,” she said, and she left without bothering to wait for a reply.