December 22, 1711

Early the next morning, Catriona and Meggie helped the cook and the steward pack up baskets of food and supplies. The lairds were still abed and, according to Catriona, were likely to stay there until the noon meal.

“The weather seems a wee bit better,” Meggie said, looking outside.

“There’ll be more snow before dark,” the cook said, pointing to her broad red face. “My left eye always twitches when we’re in for bad weather.”

“My knee aches when there’s a storm coming,” the steward said. “Ye’d best make haste with your errands, mistresses, before it starts to snow again.”

He opened the door to the yard for them and gasped at the chill wind that swirled snow over the doorstep like an unwanted guest.

Meggie held tight to the hood of her arisaid as she and Catriona, laden with baskets, raced across the bailey to the stable. Catriona slipped and fell into the snow, and Meggie laughed after she realized her friend wasn’t hurt. Catriona grinned and threw a snowball, which Meggie dodged as she ducked into the stable.

She ran into MacAulay yet again.

He dropped something as he caught her in his arms to steady her, and for a moment she was nose-to-nose with him, both of them surprised. She was close enough to smell the clean scent of wind in his hair and—wood. She could smell the sweet scent of wood. She stepped back and bent to pick up the item he’d dropped. It was a small wooden carving of a piper, still only half finished. The parts that were complete—the kilt, the feet, and the hands were expertly done. She ran her fingers over the wood, smelled the sweet fragrance of it. He had wood chips caught in his hair. “Did you make this?” she asked.

He took it from her gently, his cold fingers brushing hers, and tucked it into his pocket. “Aye. It’s a gift for my wee cousin. It’s easier to work out here, where I won’t make a mess. I wanted to have it done by Christmas, but I suppose it doesn’t matter so much now, since the weather will keep me here.” His eyes scanned her face for a moment, and then fell to her mouth. Her lips tingled. Then Catriona appeared behind her, and MacAulay looked over Meggie’s shoulder at her. Meggie felt the loss of his attention keenly.

“Madainn mhath, good morning. Are ye off somewhere?” he asked Catriona.

“Just to visit a few of my kin to make sure they’re safe from the storm and not in need of anything,” Catriona replied. She crossed to bring a garron out of its stall to saddle him. Meggie reached a bridle down from a hook.

“Then I’ll come with ye, see you’re safe,” MacAulay said.

“Oh, but there’s no need for that,” Meggie said, but he looked at her with a slight frown and took the bridle from her hands.

“There’s every need. The weather is poor, and even a short trip might be dangerous. If ye’d prefer other company, we can wake Magnus or your own MacLeod escorts, but you’ll not ride out into a storm all alone.”

“How chivalrous of ye, Laird MacAulay,” Catriona said. “There’s little room in any of the wee cotts for a tail of men, but one man would be welcome.” She gave him a sweet smile, and Meggie watched as he considered that smile, then nodded and returned one to her before turning to saddle two more horses. Catriona’s eyes shone as she watched him work, and even Meggie noted the flex and play of his muscles under his saffron shirt. He was leaner than Magnus, and taller. A cat, Meggie thought. If Magnus was a bear, as Seanmhair had said, and Charlie was a fox, then MacAulay was a great sleek cat, graceful and lithe. She turned away to tie the baskets to the saddled garrons.

“Aren’t ye cold?” Catriona asked MacAulay.

“I’ve a plaid to wear outside.” He glanced at Meggie, then back at Catriona. “Will the two of ye be warm enough?” He glanced at the visible part of Meggie’s gown as if he expected her to be wearing low-cut red silk even now. She raised her chin and wrapped her thick MacLeod plaid more tightly around herself and her sensible blue woolen gown.

When they were ready to ride out, MacAulay lifted Catriona onto her horse. Meggie watched his big hands span her waist, saw Catriona blush and smile. Meggie quickly mounted her garron on her own and was ready when he turned to her. He lifted one eyebrow, and she met his gaze briefly, boldly, taking up the reins to show him she was capable all by herself. Then she fixed her eyes on the white glare of the snow as MacAulay swung the door wide to let them out.

* * *

They stopped at four cotts and were warmly welcomed, offered whatever food and drink the household had on hand. Catriona’s gifts were gratefully accepted.

While the laird’s sister caught up on clan news and gossip, and invited everyone to come and take shelter and celebrate the season at the castle if the weather got any worse, Meggie rocked fractious bairns or stirred soup, helping where she could, just as she would have done at Glen Iolair. The pang in her chest grew sharper as she wondered how her own kin might be faring in the storm.

The first new snowflakes of the renewed storm were beginning to fall as they reached the last house, a fair distance from its neighbors. “Parlan MacVane lives here with his granddaughter,” Catriona said as they dismounted. “He’s a proud man who doesn’t like help. That means Peigi doesn’t have an easy time of it on her own. Parlan’s been ill of late, and the weather is probably making it worse.”

“Then he’ll not want so many strangers in his home,” MacAulay said. He carried Catriona’s basket to the door and stepped back. “Go inside, and I’ll go and cut some firewood for them,” he said, pointing to a pile of logs outside a wee barn. Meggie followed him, not wishing to invade Parlan’s home if he preferred his privacy.

He unwound his plaid and began to work, each blow of the axe splitting the wood cleanly.

Meggie picked up a load of firewood, carried it to the door, and returned for more.

“What are ye doing?” MacAulay asked.

“Carrying firewood,” she said, though it was obvious. He leaned on the axe for a moment, amused.

“A daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod, carrying firewood in her fine silks.”

“I’m wearing wool, same as Catriona—” She looked down the strong, lean length of his body, at the linen shirt and woolen trews he wore under his kilt “—and yourself, MacAulay. My father expects his lasses to live useful lives, and we do.”

“Can ye cook?” he asked.

She shot him sharp look. “Aye—everything from porridge to venison, and I can dress the deer if I have to.”

“But ye don’t like to, do ye? And ye probably prefer not to shoot the beast yourself.” He began chopping again.

It was true enough. “I don’t like to see creatures suffer.”

“Ye’ve a tender heart.” He split a log and turned it to split the halves again.

“As do you,” she said. He looked at her in surprise.

“How can ye tell that when we’ve known each other less than a day?”

“By the carving you’re making for your cousin. By the fact that you’re here, cutting wood, fetching and carrying like a clansman instead of a laird—and it isn’t even your own clan.”

He colored slightly. “I wasn’t born a laird. I was a clansman until last spring. I had a cott and a cow, and I stood guard duty and served my uncle as a warrior until he died.” He hit the log harder with the next blow, sending splinters flying. His jaw was tight, and his knuckles white on the handle of the axe. “The blood of Ranald MacAulay in my veins made me the next laird. No other reason.”

“Don’t want to be laird?” she asked, surprised.

He shot her a hard look and brought the axe down again. The log split cleanly in half, and he set one piece up again on the chopping block. “The elders of my clan fear I’m not smart enough, or strong enough, or that the clan would not follow me without their guidance.” He sneered the word “guidance”. He split the log again, his muscles flexing, and reached for the next. “But the clan wants me, if only because I’m Ranald MacAulay’s grandson, and Ranald was the last good laird they had. I am the last of his line, and that gives them some measure of hope.”

Meggie folded her arms across her chest. “And what do you think? Can you rule?”

He searched her face before he answered, and she held his eyes. “Given the chance, aye. I’ve lived among the clan, and they haven’t. And I was at the castle every day, watching my grandfather and my uncles. I know what needs to be done, what improvements must be made. I ken my clan needs happiness and security and strength to survive and thrive. They need—”

“You,” Meggie said, smiling. “You sound like the right laird to me. The best kind of laird. You lead with your heart, and you’re willing to work hard to help your kin—right down to chopping firewood. It’s what my father would do.”

He looked at her dubiously. “The Fearsome MacLeod chops firewood?”

She shrugged. “Well not often, but he would if it was required. A good laird leads by example, not by being better than his folk, but by making them feel important by listening, helping, protecting.”

He resumed work with a smile. “Ye sound like ye’d make a fine laird yourself, lass.”

“And so I will be, once Seanmhair is gone.”

“Aye—Seannbrae will be yours. Won’t your husband have something to say about how things are done?”

She looked away, studied her hands. “I won’t marry. I’d make a terrible wife.”

He laughed “Ye’d be a handful. You’re bonny, and a husband would fear other men might steal ye. But I suspect ye’d—”

He paused.

“I’d what?” she prompted.

He set the axe aside to reach for another log. “Ye’d be loyal and loving, and ye’d not stray from the man ye loved, if he loved ye.”

She blinked at him. “How do you—”

He gave her a slow smile. “How do I know? I see ye with your grandmother, and with Catriona, and I hear the way ye speak of your sisters and your father. I saw the way ye cared for countless bairns and old folk today, and this is not your clan, either.” He looked across the wee barn at her, scanned her hair and her tightly wrapped plaid. He crossed the floor and stood so close she had to look up to hold his gaze. “There’s more to ye than a red gown and a pretty face, Meggie MacLeod.”

He was staring, but so was she. She wondered if he intended to kiss her. She wasn’t entirely against the idea, but warning bells sounded in her head. She did what she always did, out of habit, though this man made her heart beat faster. She pasted on a bold grin, retreated into Meggie-the-Flirt, and batted her lashes at him. “Why, Laird MacAulay, I daresay you’re trying to steal a kiss.”

He blinked, and the spell was broken. He turned away to stack the firewood he’d cut. “Nay, I’ll not steal one, Meggie MacLeod. I’d rather have one that’s freely given. Those kind of kisses are sweeter than stolen ones.”

She felt her stomach tilt and her heart kick her ribs. She folded her arms across her chest, a protective gesture, and raised her chin. “Then ye’ll wait a long time. I never kiss men I don’t know,” she quipped, needing to lighten the moment.

“Then I’ll wait.”

And what more was there to say to that? Her cheeks burned and her body tingled as she gathered a basket of kindling and hurried away, and her head full of imagining what it would be like to kiss MacAulay—not a flirtatious peck, but a real kiss, at long last.

* * *

Hugh watched Meggie MacLeod walk away, her back straight, her arms full of firewood and kindling like a peasant lass. He could picture her at his wee cott, milking the cow with her skirts kilted, or baking bannock by the fire, just as well as he could see her in a grand hall in her decadent red gown. What a lady she’d make for Abercorry. If she didn’t charm the elders, she’d terrify them, an iron fist in a lace-edged red silk glove.

His mouth had watered to kiss her, but as he stood staring at her mouth, he knew he wanted more than a kiss, more than a tumble.

He wanted her, and he wanted her forever.

But she would soon belong to Magnus or Charlie MacKay. He hoped she didn’t give in, that she left them empty handed, spoiled the wager, and walked away unscathed. He shook his head. Someday, when she was lady of Seannbrae and they met as neighbors, he’d remember her just as she was today, carrying firewood with her head high, and he’d regret his restraint and wonder forever what it would have been like to kiss her.

He heard the sound of garrons in the snow, and he drew his sword and hurried after Meggie, but she’d gone inside. Magnus and Charlie rode up to the door, their horses blowing from a fast ride through the deep snow.

They looked suspiciously at Hugh.

“Where’s Meggie?” Magnus demanded.

Hugh jerked his head at the cott. “Inside, with Catriona.”

Charlie let out a sigh of relief and slid off his horse. “We thought ye’d stolen her, lad. Ye didn’t kiss her, did ye?”

Almost . . . Hugh raised one eyebrow. “I’ve been busy chopping firewood,” he said. Charlie made a face, and Magnus gaped at him.

The door opened, and Catriona ducked out under the low thatch. Meggie followed.

When Meggie saw Magnus and Charlie striding purposefully toward her, her smile faded.

Magnus took one of her arms in his fist. “There ye are. I was worried when I heard ye were out alone,” he said, grinning at her.

Charlie MacKay caught her other arm. “Ye should be back at the castle, where it’s warm,” he said, leaning close.

“I was with Catriona and MacAulay and two dozen of your own folk. Their fires are as warm as any, thanks to the MacAulay,” Meggie said, pulling out of their grip. MacAulay almost grinned at his bonny champion. She was angry now, but she gave him a smile to rival the sun on a summer morn, and he felt his heart spin in his chest. “Peigi MacVane says thank you, MacAulay. The wood will last her a week, and—”

Magnus glanced at Hugh, his eyes narrowing, and Charlie laughed. “I thought ye were joking when ye said ye were cutting wood.”

“Ye should try it yourself,” Catriona said, walking past him to her garron.

Charlie opened his mouth to reply in kind, then closed it. Instead he watched as Catriona mounted her garron and smiled at MacAulay. “Thank ye for your help today,” she said sweetly as she turned the horse to ride out.

Charlie stared after her. “Was that Catriona?” he asked in surprise. “She looked—”

“Pretty.” Meggie found the word for him.

Charlie stared down the track in surprise.

“We’d best get back. There’ll be more snow before long,” Magnus said.

He put his hands on Meggie’s waist and lifted her onto her garron. He grinned at her, held her a moment longer than necessary. She felt his thumbs slide upward against the undersides of her breasts. His lips puckered, and he leaned toward her. She gave the garron a kick, forcing Magnus to let go, intent on getting away from the men behind her as quickly as possible. But the trail was thick with snow, and she had to settle for a fast walk. Unfortunately, Charlie and Magnus easily caught up to her, and rode beside her, bragging and arguing. Meggie glanced behind her, but MacAulay was riding far behind, and she felt the loss of his company keenly.

* * *

That evening, Hugh sat in the hall waiting for Meggie to come down. He supposed his thoughts should be on Catriona—he hadn’t even spoken to the lass he planned to marry. He glanced at Magnus and Charlie, who were also watching the door, looking eager. The wager was on, and Meggie MacLeod was now fair game. Hugh wondered if he should have warned her. Hell, he could have kissed her himself today, won the wager. He’d had the chance . . .

She entered the room in a blaze of red silk. She scanned the hall, and her eyes passed over Magnus and Charlie and settled on him. Hugh felt a shock rush through him. He saw her blush deepen, and she began to move toward him. But Magnus and Charlie galloped across the room toward her, and she stopped, her smile fading as she braced for their onslaught.

Magnus took her hand, kissed it, pushed her sleeve aside to kiss all the way up her wrist. Ah, there was the infamous dirk—Hugh saw the hilt gleaming against her white skin. He saw Magnus glance at it and frown. But Meggie simply withdrew her hand and let her lace sleeve fall over the weapon. Charlie MacKay took one of her arms, and Magnus grabbed the other, and together they half led, half dragged her to the table and seated her between them. She wasn’t blushing now. She was flushed with surprise and annoyance, and she didn’t look at Hugh again.

And if she had?

He sipped his ale. Ah, there would have been nothing for it but to rescue her. But he suspected—knew—that Meggie MacLeod was more than capable of rescuing herself.

* * *

Seated between Charlie and Magnus, Meggie had no need to speak—or any opportunity for that matter. Compliments flew around her, and the two lairds glared at each other over her head.

“Your eyes are like diamonds,” Magnus said, leaning far too close to her left ear, his hand on her arm, his knuckles brushing her breast.

“Nay, they’re more like sapphires,” Charlie countered. “Or violets.”

“Nobody has eyes like violets,” Magnus said. “Her eyes are blue.”

“Nay—they’re violet.” Charlie argued. “And her hair is like . . .”

“Hay?” Magnus interrupted. “Remember, Meggie? The hay loft?”

But Charlie wound a curl of her hair around his finger. “More like a chain made of gold. Do ye like gold, Meggie?”

“She likes red things,” Magnus said, boldly running his fingertip along the edge of her bodice. “Like garnets or rubies.”

“Her lips are rubies. Or holly berries, perhaps,” Charlie said.

“Which are poisonous,” Meggie pointed out, but they weren’t listening. They’d moved on to comparing her hands to the wings of swans and ducks and gulls. She hoped they stopped before they reached her teeth, or her cheeks, or her ears. She glanced at MacAulay, who was seated next to Seanmhair. As if she’d called his name, he looked up, and his gaze locked with hers. She felt her breath catch, and her heart began to beat faster. For an instant, the air in the room thickened, grew warmer, and time stopped.

Then Charlie tugged on her sleeve like a puppy begging for attention, and MacAulay turned away as Seanmhair spoke to him, and the spell was broken.

* * *

Magnus and Charlie quickly moved on to a debate of manly prowess, and Meggie was asked to weigh in on which laird she thought could carry a heifer the farthest. Thankfully, before she could answer, Gleanngalla’s steward appeared. “There’s folk at the door seeking shelter from the storm, Laird. Will ye welcome them?”

“This is becoming a habit,” Magnus said.

“Perhaps it’s more long lost lovers come to see ye,” Charlie said, and Meggie turned to stare at Magnus in horror.

He’d told Charlie MacKay . . .

Her belly tightened and her supper threatened to come back up. But Magnus was rising, and a dozen travelers were entering the hall. Seanmhair clapped her hands. “Mummers!” she cried gleefully.

“Aye, mistress,” said a large man, grinning at her even as he bowed low to Magnus. “We travel from castle to castle at the Yule, seeking a few coins, good company, and warm place to lay our heads. We’d be glad to entertain ye and your kin with stories, dance, and music in exchange for shelter from the storm, Laird MacVane.”

Magnus looked at Meggie. “Then tonight we’ll have dancing. What do ye say Meggie?”

“They’ll need something to eat first, and a chance to warm themselves,” Meggie said, her cheeks still burning. Magnus waved to his steward, who nodded.

“It will be a merry Yule indeed,” Seanmhair said as two of the newcomers began to play a merry tune on the flute and drum while food and drink was brought out.

After the meal, a lad played a harp, and a lass in a dress white as the snow outside danced with bells on her fingers. Meggie glanced at her grandmother, who was watching the performance with a delighted smile.

But beside Seanmhair, MacAulay wasn’t looking at the graceful dancer.

He was staring at her.

Meggie’s heart flipped in her breast, and her mouth watered. He picked up his cup and sipped, and she swallowed, as if the liquid was sliding down her own throat. He didn’t look away, and she felt her skin heat, felt her body tingle under his scrutiny. How different he was from Charlie and Magnus—different from any man she’d met. He watched and he listened. He didn’t flirt or look at her as if he were picturing her naked. She had the feeling that he could see her, the person inside the red gown, behind the gaudy smile, and that he preferred that woman to Meggie-the-Flirt.

Then a drummer and fiddler joined the harp, and the tempo increased. Magnus grabbed her hand and pulled her up to dance, and she could hardly refuse. MacAulay led Catriona out, and Charlie danced with the lass in the white dress.

But as she spun through the steps of the reel with Magnus, Meggie found MacAulay’s eyes, and she smiled. He smiled back. Och, he had a nice smile. Then Magnus lifted her high, and slid her down the entire length of his body until her feet touched the floor. “You’re blushing Meggie. Happy memories?”

It made her remember. Nay. Not happy at all. He’d told Charlie. Then a thought of such horror struck her she could scarcely breathe. Did MacAulay know too?

The simple pleasure of dancing was gone, and she stumbled to a halt. “I need some air. I’m tired,” she said. “I—” She turned away from Magnus, and hurried out of the hall.

Outside the door, she picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, needing solitude and a chance to think.

“Meggie.”

Magnus was following her, damn him. She couldn’t outrun him. She stopped and turned to look at him. He kept climbing the stairs, grinning the same charming smile that had stopped her heart when she was eighteen, made her imagine he loved her, that he could see her, that she could trust him.

He reached her, stood a step below her, which put his eyes level with her own. She remembered how it felt to be close to him, to feel him sliding his hand around her waist, drawing her in for a kiss. She could have him now, marry him . . .

But as he came closer, she pulled back, moved up a step, felt her throat close with anger at his cocky grin. She’d meant nothing at all, just a conquest. Was she still Was every woman a conquest to him? She held up her hand to warn him back when he reached for her again. She itched to grab her dirk. “You told Charlie MacKay about me and . . .”

He shrugged, his eyes heavy lidded now, his breathing heavy from climbing the stairs—or lust. “Did I? He might have simply guessed, seeing the flame that burns between us still.” He caressed her upper arm, and the silk warmed instantly. Then his grip tightened. “Don’t ye feel it, Meggie? ’Twas fate that brought us back together, and I’m glad. I’ve thought of ye often, missed ye, wished . . .”

He was leaning toward her, pulling her, his lips puckering, his eyes drifting shut, his fingers digging into her arm. He meant to have her, willing or not. It was surprise, not fear, that coursed through her. She turned her head and his kiss fell on her cheek instead of her mouth. She put her hands against Magnus’s chest to hold him off, shove him away.

She heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. MacAulay was climbing the steps. He reached them, passed them, and didn’t stop. He merely nodded, glanced at her, then away, his expression unreadable.

Magnus swore under his breath and ran his hand through his hair. “Damn MacAulay,” he said. “Let’s go to my chamber, Meggie.”

Meggie stepped out of reach. “No.”

He frowned. “Will ye make me beg, chase ye?”

She turned away. “I don’t play those kinds of games, Magnus—and it wasn’t fate that brought us together again. It was just bad weather.”

* * *

Before Magnus could think of a suitable reply, the kind of words that would seduce her all over again, charm her, have her running for his chamber, hot and panting, there were still more footsteps on the stairs, and Magnus bit back a curse. The big MacLennan clansman came into view carrying Maighread MacLennan. The old lady looked at him and then at Meggie, her blue eyes speculative.

“There ye are, granddaughter. Ye left so suddenly I feared ye were ill.”

“A headache,” Meggie said, ignoring Magnus completely. He frowned, but the old woman nodded to her bearer.

“Then ye’d best come with me, and I’ll get ye a tonic for it.”

Maighread looked at Magnus. “Thank ye for escorting her this far, Laird. The party is just getting started below. They’ll be looking for ye.”

Magnus stood where he was for a moment, frustration and lust warring with the notion of simply throwing Meggie over his shoulder and hauling her to his bed. The right of a laird, perhaps? But Meggie’s glare warned him back. What was there to do but nod and go? But he looked at Meggie, at the white mounds of luscious flesh above the temptingly low bodice of her gown, at her lush lips. Och, she wanted him. How could she not? She had wanted him once . . .

He wasn’t a man who took no for an answer. Especially when there was a wager to win. He grinned at her and bowed, the gesture awkward on the stairs. “I shall see you later, Meggie,” he said, and reluctantly went back downstairs.

* * *

Meggie followed her grandmother, her expression careful, her ears pricked as she listened to Magnus’s retreat. She drank the potion to satisfy her grandmother, pleaded tiredness, and went to her own chamber. She shut the door behind her and leaned on it as she shot the bolt.

“Damn Magnus MacVane,” she muttered aloud. She took the dirk out of her sleeve, and placed it on the table beside the bed, where she could reach it.

She crossed the room to remove her gown, her fingers quick and angry on the laces. Did Magnus truly think she was still as foolish as a green girl of eighteen? She’d been so young, so niave, such easy prey. . . . She stepped out of the gown, tossed it over the chair, and plucked the pins from her hair with ruthless efficiency. She glanced at the bed, but she was too angry to sleep. In her shift, she paced the floor. She certainly wasn’t a girl now. She was a woman grown, with a woman’s needs, and much, much more sense. “Ye’d be a loyal and loving wife, and ye’d not stray from the man ye loved, or who loved ye,” MacAulay had said.

But she had been in love, or thought she was. She’d been too stupid to see it wasn’t real. Her lover had been false and faithless.

She would not risk her heart again.

She crossed to the curtain that hid the window alcove and pushed the drape aside to stare out at the snow that kept her a prisoner here. It was so delicate, so pretty, so enticing, and yet so cold and cruel, a trap. Just like love. She felt tears sting her eyes.

“Fool!” she said aloud, and wondered if she meant herself or Magnus.

* * *

Hugh didn’t bother with a candle when he got to his room. The dark suited his black mood. It appeared Magnus had won. Meggie had been in his arms, kissing him, not even bothering to wait for the privacy of MacVane’s bed. Like two turtledoves . . . He clenched his fists. It shouldn’t matter—she wasn’t his.

Still, he glared at his own bed, shadowy and lonely in the snow light that filtered through the window. By now Meggie was probably in Magnus’s chamber, spread naked on the soft furs as—With a curse, Hugh tore the furs off this bed and tossed them into the corner.

In the morning, Magnus would claim victory, and Hugh would win Catriona. She’d be as good a wife as any, he told himself. He’d waited too long to declare his reason for coming to Gleanngalla. He’d been caught in a foolish lad’s game, and now it would humiliate all of them. He shut his eyes. From the start, he’d known he no hope of winning Meggie. It shouldn’t bother him now, but it did. And if Catriona found out why Hugh had hesitated in offering for her, that he’d held off on the forlorn hope of winning another woman, it would tarnish their relationship from the start. There’d be no chance of trust, or partnership, or love. And even if Catriona didn’t suspect, he’d know. The truth would always remain, even if he never admitted it aloud—Catriona MacVane was not the wife he wanted.

He wanted Meggie MacLeod—and not for her face, or her fortune, or her father’s power, but because she was clever, and kind, and brave—more than the flirt she let the world see.

Or was she? He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, hard, trying to banish the image of her in Magnus’s arms.

He went to the window to stare out at the snow. Then across from him, in the opposite tower, a curtain moved, and light shone out. He recognized the figure standing there, staring into the night. He knew the spill of Meggie’s golden hair. He could see the silhouette of her body through the delicate fabric of her white shift. She couldn’t see him in the dark, didn’t know he was there.

Hugh knew he should step away, close his own curtain, respect her privacy, but he stood and watched her. He couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Foolish hope soared. She was alone. His chest tightened, and he swallowed.

But then she turned and looked toward the door. He watched her cross and open it.

He didn’t wait to watch Magnus enter. He closed his own his curtain, and by the glow of the brazier, he crossed the room to splash whisky in a cup, enough to reach the rim. Then he swallowed it all in a single gulp and poured another.

* * *

“Catriona,” Meggie said, as she opened the door to her friend.

Catriona entered the room, her eyes bright. “I think I’ve found someone I’d like to marry.” Meggie looked at her in surprise. “MacAulay was chivalrous today, kind, don’t you think?”

Meggie felt a lump in her throat. “Aye,” she agreed. “He was very kind, and very chivalrous.”

“Then I think I’ll marry him instead of Charlie.”

“Do you—love him?” Meggie asked. “My father says a lass hears fairy bells when she is in love with the right man—”

“Love? Fairy bells?” Catriona frowned. “What are ye talking about, Meggie? Marrying MacAulay means I won’t have to marry Charlie, and it would infuriate Magnus if I made my own choice. I suppose I might come to love him someday—or at least like him. Don’t you think MacAulay would make a fine husband?”

She did . . . “I do.” She forced herself to say it out loud. Meggie felt—what? Jealousy? Heartbreak? Nay. She knew nothing of MacAulay—except he was kind, and gentle, a reluctant laird who needed . . .

Ach, how many times had her sisters come to her with their eyes shining, asking Meggie to help them win the man they loved, to stand with them to convince their father that this man was the only man in the world for them? She did so every time. But until now, this moment, it had never felt like she was sacrificing her own happiness for theirs. Ye’d be a loyal and loving wife . . . Nay, she was destined to be a maiden aunt, a spinster.

She did what she always did. She forced a wide, bright, Meggie grin, and took Catriona’s hands in hers. “How wonderful!” she gushed.

“I knew ye’d say that,” Catriona said, and Meggie hugged Catriona just the way she would have hugged one of her own sisters, told her what a beautiful bride she’d be.

“Imagine when I tell Magnus. And won’t Charlie be surprised? Will you help me choose a fetching gown and do my hair like yours? I’ll need to make MacAulay want to accept when I propose to him.”

Did MacAulay get no say at all? “Aye, but—”

Catriona caught her hand. “Dearest Meggie. How wonderful you are! We’ll start tomorrow morning. Come to my chamber early.”

And with that, Catriona whirled out the door as fast as she’d come.

Meggie stared at the oak panels for a long moment. Perhaps she should allow Magnus to charm her again. At least this time she was in a position to ensure that he married her. This time she’d settle for nothing less.

But when the laird of Gleanngalla came scratching at her door in the wee hours of the night, he found it bolted and barred, and Meggie pulled the pillow over her head and feigned sleep.