December 23, 1711

Hugh descended to the hall the next morning with his teeth gritted, but avoiding the news would make it no easier to hear. Best to get it over with then remember an urgent reason to ride out, even though the storm still raged. He paused with his hand on the latch, braced himself.

Inside, Magnus would be grinning the grin of a man who’d spent all night in the arms of Meggie MacLeod.

And she’d be sitting beside MacVane, smiling that knowing, sleepy-cat grin women had when they’ve been well bedded.

And he’d smile too—even if it choked him—and give them his congratulations. Then he’d speak up and offer for Catriona at last.

But when he walked into the hall, Magnus’s face was as dark as thunder, and Meggie was nowhere to be seen, though her grandmother was breaking her fast among her own clansmen.

Hugh sat beside his host. He opened his mouth to ask for Catriona’s hand in marriage, but a maidservant set a platter of food on the table between them. Three wee little hens, roasted and served in the French style, with onions and herbs, kicked their plump and pretty legs at the two lairds. Magnus grabbed one of the succulent little birds, tore off a tiny drumstick, held it carefully between thumb and forefinger and nibbled on it morosely.

“Help yourself,” Magnus said. “I’m beginning to think a hen is the only kind of female that will cause a man no trouble at all.”

“What of indigestion?” Hugh asked.

“My cook is excellent,” Magnus said, picking up a second miniature drumstick. “And the whisky will wash it all down.”

Foolish hope rose in Hugh’s breast. He wanted to ask what had happened—or not happened—the night before. But before her could speak, Meggie entered the room with Catriona by her side. Meggie was dressed plainly in a saffron wool gown, borrowed, most likely. It fit her well, emphasized her sleek figure. But compared to the red brocade, it was simple and subdued. She didn’t look like a woman who’d been well bedded—she looked almost demure. She didn’t even glance at Magnus as she crossed to sit with her grandmother.

Catriona, on the other hand, wore an elegant gown of emerald green silk, more suited to a ball than breakfast. The rich color glowed in the snow light that filtered through the windows and made the most of her dramatic coloring. Her red hair was looped up in a stylish coif atop her head, and she was actually smiling.

At him.

Hugh felt a bolt of surprise—or possibly dread—hit him.

“What now?” Magnus muttered, watching his sister approach the table.

Hugh acknowledged Catriona with a simple nod and looked at Meggie again. Her eyes were flitting around the hall, and he waited in vain for them to land on him. Her hands were clasped before her and she looked—anxious.

It was as if she and Catriona had switched personalities. Catriona was bold and confident, and Meggie . . . Hugh frowned. Something was wrong. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes this morning, and he saw dark circles under her lower lashes.

“Good morning, Laird MacAulay,” Catriona said, slipping into the seat beside him.

“Good morning, Mistress MacVane,” he said.

“Ye can call me Catriona. I see it’s still snowing,” she said sweetly. She was batting her copper lashes at him, and God help him, it was dread he felt.

“Still snowing?” Magnus said, frowning at his sister. “Of course it’s still snowing. It’s colder than a woman’s heart out there. Three families arrived this morning, saying ye invited them to come if they felt the cold too keenly. Cold—this is Scotland, of course it’s cold! If the snow gets any deeper, it will reach the turrets outside, and all the people seeking shelter will fill it up inside and we’ll be here till the crack of doom, never mind Yule.”

But Catriona just laughed. “My, someone’s a greannach gille this morn. Are ye are grumpy boy, Magnus?” she teased, and he glared at her petulantly.

“Look, here comes Charlie,” he sniped back.

Catriona’s grin faded.

But Charlie was nearly knocked down by a cow being led into the hall by a wee lass. The beast was balky, snow-covered, and bellowing her displeasure. The animal pinned the laird of Dunlinton to the wall and regarded him balefully. Catriona began to laugh loudly, holding her sides and pointing at Charlie’s obvious discomfort.

She got to her feet and set her hands on her hips. “Now there’s a lass ye should wed,” Catriona called.

Charlie cursed and shoved at the cow’s flanks, but she only mooed and leaned harder while the wee lass tugged vainly on the leading rope.

Hugh began to rise, but Meggie was quicker. He watched as she hurried across the room to the child and her cow.

“There’s no room in the stable,” the child said. “We couldn’t leave her behind—we need Effie for milk for my baby brother.”

“Then we’ll find a storeroom for her,” Meggie said with a smile. She swung the girl up onto the cow’s back and led the beast out as easily as if she’d been herding cattle and bairns all her life.

Hugh’s heart swelled. Now there was the kind of brave, resourceful, clever wife a laird needed. He pictured her holding his young cousin Sandy, making him smile even as she charmed the elders into submission about like the bovine bampots they were. Aye, Meggie would brighten the gloom at Abercorry considerably, if she didn’t banish it entirely. He realized her was smiling, and he flattened his features.

He was here to offer for Catriona.

Charlie straightened his plaid and glowered at Catriona. He was as pale as a ghost after his encounter with Effie. He grabbed a cup of ale off the nearest table and swallowed it. Then he crossed the room and slumped into the seat next to Catriona. In Hugh’s opinion, as the current ranking lady at Gleanngalla—at least until Magnus remarried—Catriona should have been the one to see to the cow. But Meggie was behaving more like the lady of Gleanngalla—was she expecting to be? Had Magnus won after all? Hugh’s stomach tightened, and his ale tasted sour. But the Laird of Gleanngalla frowned at the crowds that were filling his hall with melting snow, wet plaids, and wailing bairns. “See to all this,” he ordered his steward, and strode out of the room.

When Meggie returned from seeing to the cow, another family came in with her, cold and rosy cheeked. She carried a fractious bairn on one hip. Hugh couldn’t look away. She beckoned to her clansmen. The big MacLeod warriors immediately sprang into action, helping to move tables to make space for the newcomers, and doing it happily. Anything for Meggie.

He knew how they felt.

Hugh left Catriona trading insults with Charlie and crossed the room to help where he could.

For the next several hours, as the snow fell outside, folk streamed in. Meggie handed out blankets and plaids. She played with children and rocked crying infants while their mothers warmed themselves by the fire. Maighread MacLennan told stories that had her listeners transfixed, and four of the mummers whistled clever birdcalls across the hall to each other to amuse the crowd.

Soon, the steward was conferring with Meggie about how to handle the problem of too many folk in too small a space. On her direction, mothers were housed in the solar with their babes, and pallets were laid in extra chambers and storerooms until everyone had a place to lay their heads. Hugh and one of the MacLeods were put in charge of caring for the horses, cows, and dogs that came in with the villagers. They were the most prized possessions of these folks and couldn’t be left behind.

And still, as merry mayhem ruled inside, the storm raged outside, and the snow continued to fall. When Hugh passed Meggie in the hall, he caught her arm.

“Ye need to rest,” he said. She smelled like summer flowers in a room that reeked of wet wool. A curl of golden hair had escaped from her braid, and he had already half lifted his hand to push it behind her ear when she did it herself. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. And then someone tugged on her sleeve, and she was gone again, a whirl of golden hair, saffron wool, and violet eyes, and he stood staring after her, mesmerized.

* * *

MacAulay was a good man, and kind. He gave orders, and her MacLeod clansmen, and the MacLennans, and even the MacVanes happily followed them. He led with a smile, worked with the other men, was kind and polite and very chivalrous indeed, and he made Meggie’s heart flutter.

She was aware of MacAulay as if they were the only two people in the room. She could feel him through the crowds, sense when he was looking at her. It made her breath catch in her throat. She could fall in love with this man, trust him, she thought. He glanced at her again, and she couldn’t help smiling at him. And when he smiled back, she felt her toes curl in her shoes.

She went to ask Catriona for more blankets, but before Catriona could reply, a young woman approached. “Mistress, ye were kind enough to come to my cott yesterday to see my grandfather. She bit her lip. “Please—I need help.”

Meggie looked into the lass’s desperate eyes. She was still wrapped in her plaid, her lips blue with cold, the ends of her hair frozen.

“Peigi, welcome. How is your grandfather feeling? Better I hope,” Catriona said as Meggie looked around for the old man who’d been bedridden with a bad cough the day before, but tears filled Peigi MacVane’s eyes.

“Nay, he’s worse. I had to leave him at the cott and come for help. I couldn’t make him come with me. Truth to tell, I was afraid he wouldn’t make it through the storm. Now I’m afraid the fire will go out, and he’s all alone.”

“I’ll go,” Meggie said at once, and Catriona nodded.

“There’s a shorter way, through the wood. I’ll get the steward to prepare a basket for us with food and medicine and extra blankets. I’ll meet ye in the stable in fifteen minutes.”

Meggie hurried upstairs and found the pair of woolen trews she wore under her skirts when she traveled, both for warmth and so she could ride astride. She put them on and tied them at the waist under her gown. She wrapped a shawl and a scarf around her shoulders and neck and pulled her thick MacLeod arisaid over her gown.

She hurried down the stairs, and met Charlie MacKay coming up. “What’s this? Where are ye going?”

“With Catriona. One of her clansmen needs help.”

Charlie followed her. “Catriona’s going out in the storm?” he asked. “And ye?”

“Aye,” Meggie said.

“Alone?”

“Catriona knows the way. It shouldn’t take very long. There’s no need to drag others out in the cold.”

“The devil there isn’t,” Charlie said, serious for once. “I’m coming with ye. Ye’ll need a man.”

Before she could convince him that two canny lasses could certainly handle the challenge of a short trip in the snow, Charlie MacKay grabbed a plaid off a hook by the door and followed her out to the stable.

MacAulay was there with Catriona. He looked up as Meggie entered.

“I had to tell someone we’re going, and I couldn’t find Magnus. Laird MacAulay insists on coming with us,” Catriona said. She glared at Charlie “What are ye doing here?”

“Ye’re not going out in the storm alone. Ye’ll need a man,” Charlie repeated. He glanced at MacAulay. “An extra man.”

“Then go and find one. Ye were bested by a cow,” Catriona said.

Charlie crossed the floor and leaned so close he and Catriona were nearly nose-to-nose. “I’m as much of a man as ye are, Catriona MacVane.”

Catriona flushed scarlet. “Can ye saddle a garron?” she asked tartly.

“Of course,” Charlie said. He began to do that.

“Did ye bring whisky?” Catriona asked.

Charlie glared at her. “It’s winter, and there may be need of it for more than drinking. And in anticipation of your next question, it’s in a flask. I’m not drunk.”

“Well that’s a change,” Catriona drawled.

MacAulay cleared his throat. “If the pair of ye are finished arguing, we’d best make haste. Mount up or take yourselves back inside.”

Meggie felt a moment of admiration and gratitude for his leadership.

MacAulay lifted her onto the horse and scanned her bulky, less-than-elegant appearance.

“I must look ridiculous,” she said. “But I’m warm.”

His eyes softened. “Ye look beautiful.”

Charlie picked Catriona up and set her on her horse. For a moment he stared up at her, as if he expected a tart rebuke, but Catriona simply stared back. “Wrap your plaid well,” Charlie said, and mounted his own garron. MacAulay checked the straps on the litter tied behind his horse, brought along in case they had to bring Peigi’s grandfather back to the castle.

The wind stole Meggie’s breath as soon as they rode past the gate. Charlie swore and Catriona gasped. Only MacAulay was silent, riding steadily forward, in the lead, toward the wood.

The snow was deep among the trees, and soon it was necessary to get off the garrons and walk. Catriona slipped and fell with a whoop, and Charlie picked her up. Instead of mocking her with a sharp comment, he held her until she was steady, and she clung to his arm.

When a drift of snow slid off a tree branch, the garron dragging the litter shied and tried to run. Meggie felt something tangle around her ankle under the snow. She was jerked off her feet, and the garron began to struggle, feeling itself stuck. The rope around Meggie’s leg tightened, and she cried out in pain as she fell.

Then MacAulay was there. He cut the rope with a quick swipe of his dirk, and Charlie caught the horse, calmed it.

MacAulay unlaced her boot, cupped her heel in his hand, checking. “Can ye move it?”

It hurt like the devil, but Meggie gritted her teeth. “I’m fine,” she said. She attempted to get up, but bit back a cry as hot agony shot through her ankle.

“No you’re not,” he muttered. “Sit back down. I’ll wrap it before it starts to swell, just over your stocking. We’ll see to it properly when we get ye to shelter.”

He looked at Charlie and Catriona. “Go on ahead to Peigi’s cott. Make sure the fire’s going, and heat some water.”

Catriona’s teeth were chattering. She was still wearing the green silk gown under her plaid and a fur, and she looked half-frozen. She looked at Meggie. “The cott isn’t far, just a little way along the track. Will ye be all right?”

Meggie looked around her at the deep snow, the bare trees that creaked and shivered in the wind. She also looked at MacAulay, at his strong, gentle hands on her injured foot, his sober gray eyes, and knew she’d be safe with him.

“Go and see to Peigi’s grandfather,” Meggie said. “I’ll be fine with Laird MacAulay.”

“Take the garrons and the litter,” MacAulay said. “I’ll carry Meggie.”

“Here—ye’d best take the whisky,” Charlie said, pressing the flask into MacAulay’s hand before he turned to help Catriona tug the garrons through the snow.

MacAulay used a knife to cut a strip off the edge of a blanket. “This will hurt,” he said, looking at her. “But I’ll be as careful as possible.”

She clenched her jaw, fought tears, but stayed quiet as he bound her ankle.

“Brave lass,” he said when he’d done.

She gave him the ghost of a smile and moved to get up, but he stopped her.

“I’ll carry ye.”

“I’m perfectly capable of—” Meggie began, but he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

“I’m sure I can walk,” Meggie said again, though she stayed where she was, safe against his chest, looking into his eyes.

“It’s faster to carry ye, and no trouble.”

She could feel his breath on her cheek, but she wore so many layers of clothing—and she was wrapped in her plaid, as he was wrapped in his—that she hardly felt his body under hers. But she was intensely aware of him. She traced the line of his jaw with her eyes, his high cheekbones, the curls of his hair, his firm mouth.

“You’re staring.”

She lowered her gaze. “I’m wondering if I should thank you or apologize.”

“What for?”

“I’m sorry to slow you down, to be one of two folk that need rescuing now. And thank you for carrying me.”

He raised one eyebrow. “I’ve carried ewes that weigh more than you do.”

She giggled. “What a terrible compliment.”

He looked at her fully and blushed slightly. “I don’t have much practice with compliments, but I suppose I could have done better than comparing a pretty lass to a ewe.”

She grinned at him. “Care to try?”

“Flirting is second nature to ye, isn’t it? Do ye truly want my compliments or care about my opinion? Isn’t Magnus’s opinion the one that matters to ye?”

“Magnus?” Meggie’s grin melted, and she stiffened. He sent her a sharp, canny look, and mortification streaked through her body. He knew.

Was there anyone Magnus hadn’t told?

She struggled in MacAulay’s grip. “Put me down.”

He tightened his grip instead. “Stay put—I’m going to drop ye if ye don’t keep still.”

She gave a mighty kick and rolled out of his grip—and landed in an undignified sprawl in the snow. At least it was soft. She grabbed the trunk of a tree and pulled herself upright. Her clothing was now heavy with snow, and her ankle throbbed. He caught her elbow, but she jerked her arm away. “No!”

He stepped back and waited. She wanted to stomp away down the trail, her chin high, but she had one boot on, and her other foot—she tested her weight on it and saw a red haze of pain.

She looked down the trail of broken snow that Charlie and Catriona had left. She glared at MacAulay, who stood nearby, knee deep in the snow with his arms folded over his chest, waiting. He could wait till spring for all she cared. The wind blew a chill breath down her back, and she wrapped her plaid tighter.

“Look, I don’t care who ye choose to take to your bed,” he said. “It’s not my concern. We need to get out of the cold.”

Meggie gritted her teeth. “I was eighteen.”

He barked a laugh. “Not last night, ye weren’t.”

Meggie gaped at him. “It was a kiss in a corridor!”

“I meant after—in your chamber.”

“Did Magnus say—” She felt fury fill her.

“He didn’t have to. There’s a wager, a contest Charlie MacKay came up with, to see who could be the first to kiss ye, or—” He stopped talking.

She felt hot blood flood through her from her throbbing ankle to her hairline. “Or what?” she asked. He blushed as well, looked away, scanned the trees and the snow.

“Does it matter? Magnus won.”

She felt the blood pounding in her ears, and she was certainly warm now. “I will stand here until hell freezes. What was the wager?”

He looked pained. “Lass—Meggie—I tend to babble when I’m . . .”

“What was the wager?”

He sighed, and shifted his feet in the snow. “A kiss. A proper, passionate, open-mouthed kiss, with ye willing to give it.”

She stared at him for a moment, felt her body buzz with indignation. How dare Magnus do this, or Charlie MacKay, or—She’d thought MacAulay was different. It angered her to know he was not. And she was just . . .

She cursed like a clansman and forced herself to cross the small distance between them, staggering in the snow, stumbling, her ankle objecting to every step.

When she reached MacAulay, she threw her arms around his neck and slammed her mouth against his. He caught her upper arms, and she thought he’d push her away, but he held still. She kept her mouth on his until she felt his lips soften and part, and his arms came around her, and he pulled her against him. He made a soft sound in his throat.

The moment his tongue invaded her mouth, she felt a shock run through her, and recognized the desire she’d thought long dead. It invaded her veins like whisky, warm and dangerous . . . She shoved him away, hard. He staggered backward and stared at her in surprise, the gray of his eyes subsumed by black. She put her hands on her hips.

“There, now you can tell them you won.”

She snapped a dread branch off the tree, leaned on it like an old crone, and forced herself to take a painful step forward. “Consider it my payment for your help. I’m done with you now. Whatever the prize is, I hope it’s worth it.”

He followed her, wisely keeping silent, and she kept moving. It was late afternoon now, and dark was falling. She shivered. At this rate it would take her forever to reach Peigi’s cott.

“Lass.”

She ignored him.

“Meggie.”

She shot an angry look over her shoulder and waited for an apology, or at least a simple thank you for handing him the prize.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

Her eyes widened. “Nay—it’s this way. The tracks are quite clear—” She looked ahead of her, and behind, but the wind had smoothed the snow to blank perfection, and there were no tracks at all.