December 24, 1711

Catriona hadn’t spoken to Charlie since she’d left him by the fire the night before. When morning came and they made ready to leave, it was hard to avoid him in the wee cott. He was a tall man, and broad, and he took up a great deal of space. They brushed against each other out of necessity, and every touch made sparks cascade through her, not of fury, but of something else. She didn’t hate him now, though she kept her nose in the air when he came close. Her breath caught in her throat when he lifted her onto her garron and looked into her eyes. Heat suffused her cheeks.

“Cat got your tongue again?” he asked.

Apparently it did. She silently turned away to look at the litter behind Charlie’s horse, where Parlan MacVane lay bundled in blankets and furs.

Charlie leaned over the old man. “Are ye ready, Parlan?”

He grinned. “Aye, Laird MacKay. Fit as a drum. Is there any more whisky?”

Charlie ignored Catriona and smiled at the old man. “Ye can have as much as ye like when we get to Gleanngalla.”

“I’ll ride behind ye, keep an eye on Parlan,” she said.

Charlie nodded, and as they rode out, she stared at the proud set of his shoulders under his MacKay plaid, touched a finger to her lips, and remembered their kiss.

* * *

Meggie woke alone. She knew before she even opened her eyes that Hugh had gone. He’d lain by her side, curled around her through the night, protective and warm. They’d made love again before dawn and gone back to sleep. Well, she’d slept—he’d crept out of their makeshift bed and slipped away.

She wrapped herself in her plaid, but she wasn’t cold. Her skin burned with shock and shame.

Again.

At least he’d added more wood to the fire and left her clothes where she could reach them. He’d also left the last bit of bannock on the stool near her, and there was water in the pot.

How considerate.

Her ankle throbbed as she sat up. She stared at the door, hoping he’d walk through it, that she was wrong about him. But there was no sound at all.

She could still smell him on her skin, in the air of the wee room, on her plaid.

She felt a lump rise in her throat, but she refused to cry. She reached for her shift and pulled it on. She worked her petticoat over her head, shoved it down to her waist and tied it with fierce, angry fingers. She pulled her gown on and rose awkwardly to her feet, her injured ankle objecting to every movement. She swept the bannock off the stool, refusing his gift, and sat down. She unwound the bandage on her ankle and saw swelling and horrible purple bruises. It looked even worse than it felt, and she stared at it in dismay. She wouldn’t be able to walk. She was stuck here until he sent back help from Gleanngalla.

He would, of course—she had no doubt of that. She’d helped him win the damned wager.

She yanked on her stocking over her foot, and yelped at the pain it caused. Now she let the tears come, but they had nothing to do with her injury—well, not the one to her foot.

She’d been a fool, and she’d let Hugh MacAulay break her heart.

But he hadn’t taken anything she hadn’t offered freely. Wantonly.

He was probably back at Gleanngalla now, breaking his fast, claiming his victory, telling Magnus and Charlie how easy it had been . . .

She felt her heart sink to her belly. Her face burned with humiliation. Her whole body burned. He’d won, and she’d lost.

She looked at the plaid spread on the floor where they’d lain together—his was gone, of course. She was tempted to shove her own into the fire, let it burn, but it was cold, and she needed it. She leaned forward and picked it up, wrapped the familiar MacLeod sett around her shoulders like armor—as if it could protect her now.

She hopped to the wee window, peered out. The snow had stopped, and a sickly sun was battling with the clouds. Perhaps the storm was over, and she could go home to Glen Iolair.

But Hugh would come, ask her father for her, tell him . . . She shut her eyes. He’d tell her father that he’d won the right to claim her—or so he thought. He needed her tocher and her father’s friendship.

At least she could deny him that.

She tested her weight on her injured ankle and winced.

She grabbed the fireplace poker, a sturdy length of hardened wood, and hobbled to the door.

* * *

Hugh followed the rising sun and found his way back to the castle. Catriona and Charlie had already arrived, and Maighread was in a frantic state about Meggie. She looked up at Hugh as he entered, her eyes hopeful.

“She’s safe,” he assured her. “She hurt her ankle. I left her in a shieling and came to get help.”

“A shieling? Alone?” Maighread asked.

“All night? With ye?” Magnus demanded.

Charlie’s brows rose, and a slow grin spread over his face. “Ye dog,” he muttered, elbowing Hugh. Magnus frowned. Hugh kept his expression flat. It was no one’s business but his and Meggie’s. He turned back to Maighread. “I just came for a garron. I’ll go back and fetch Meggie.”

But Meggie’s MacLeod clansmen were already on their feet. “We’ll go with ye. We should have gone with her yesterday,” Keith MacLeod said. “Show us where she is.”

“I’m coming as well,” Magnus said.

“And I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Charlie added.

“Then I’m coming too,” Catriona insisted. “Meggie will want a woman to help her.”

“I’ll ride with Ewan,” Maighread said.

Hugh looked at all of them. “I suppose there’s no telling ye no, is there?”

“Not where Meggie’s concerned,” Maighread said.

Within moments, they were all trooping out to the stable.

And when the folk in the hall saw the lairds and ladies and their clansmen putting on their plaids and furs, they decided they must be going to gather greens and choose a Cailleach Nollaig, since it was Christmas Eve. They hurried into their own plaids and warm woolens and followed the lairds down the hill and into the wood.

* * *

“So are ye claiming victory?” Charlie asked Hugh as they rode.

Hugh scanned the path. “The lass was hurt, and we took shelter.”

“That’s all?” Magnus demanded.

“That’s all,” Hugh replied.

Magnus chuckled. “Then the game is still on. If ye ask me, you’re a fool MacAulay. But ye had your chance. Do ye wish to withdraw and wed Catriona?”

“Wed me?” Catriona said, overhearing.

“Aye. Ye’ll wed MacAulay instead of Charlie,” Magnus said.

“MacAulay?” Catriona screeched.

“Nay, she won’t,” Charlie said. “I withdraw from the wager as well. I’ll marry Catriona.”

“Ye’ll marry me?” Catriona shrieked again. “But I hate ye, Charlie MacKay, and I’d never—” The volume of her voice made clumps of snow slide off the trees. One landed on Charlie’s head, made his horse shy. The horse bolted, and Charlie toppled off its back and disappeared into a deep drift.

Catriona cried out again and leaped from her own horse. She fell to her knees and began to dig. She uncovered Charlie’s face and cried out, cradling his head in her arms. “Charlie, speak to me, mo cridhe, my heart, mo ghaoil, my beloved!”

His arm snaked out of the snow and around her neck. He pulled her down and stopped her wailing with a kiss. She kissed him back, until he broke the kiss and laughed.

“I thought ye hated me, Cat-fiadhaich.”

She grinned at him. “Oh, I do. But I’ll wed ye anyway.”

Thirty people had gathered to watch. They sighed, and cheered, and offered congratulations, and a dozen hands pulled Charlie from the snowbank.

“If that’s settled, perhaps we can go and find Meggie?” Maighread said. “Laird MacAulay, please lead the way.”

* * *

Meggie hadn’t made it far. Her ankle ached, and she was shivering in the cold. The clouds appeared to be thickening, and she paused to look up at them, leaning on her stick like an old woman. She wrapped her plaid tighter and hobbled onward. She had no idea if she was going the right way or not, but she was in no hurry. She wasn’t looking forward to walking into the hall at Gleanngalla to meet the knowing smirks of the three lairds. Nay, she’d find a cott, have someone send word to Seanmhair that she was safe. She couldn’t bear to see MacAulay again.

She wondered if convents admitted fallen women, and if her father would be horrified if she asked him for permission to take holy orders. “You’re braver than that, Meggie MacLeod,” she muttered to herself, imagining what he’d say. “Stronger.”

But she didn’t want to be strong. She wanted to be loved. She swiped away tears and looked around. She was standing in a grove of oaks, their boughs thick with snow, their crowns adorned with mistletoe. She nearly laughed at the irony of that.

Her ears pricked as she heard something—people talking and laughing and singing. She backed against the nearest oak and looked around her. She remembered every story she’d ever heard about fairy folk, and magic, and how they kidnapped unwary travelers. She’d go, she thought, disappear into a mythical fairy kingdom forever. “Almost as good as a convent.”

The voices came closer. She heard children laughing. Then she saw figures approaching, on foot and on horseback.

MacAulay was first, followed by Ewan and Seanmhair. Charlie and Magnus and Catriona and her clansmen and every person lodging at Gleanngalla seemed to be following.

Had MacAulay brought the whole world to witness her shame?

She stood where she was and watched them come. Out of pride, she straightened her shoulders as best she could, and waited to be spotted.

“Look, Ma—It’s Cailleach!” a child called out, pointing at Meggie, wrapped tight against the cold and clutching her walking stick.

“Nay, lad, ’tisn’t the hag of winter, but the goddess—not Cailleach, but Beira the Beautiful,” MacAulay told the child with a smile.

Bairns and ordinary folk surrounded her, wanting to look at her, to smile at her, to touch her. They carried baskets and bundles already filled with greens to decorate Gleanngalla’s hall.

“Mistletoe,” someone said, pointing up at the trees above her, and the lasses giggled as the lads climbed up to pluck the plants. Amid the mayhem, Meggie glanced at Hugh. He stared back at her, his eyes full of—

Nay. She looked away, refused to pretend it was love. It was victory, perhaps, or swaggering male pride, but not—Magnus rode between them and blocked her view. He leaped from his garron and grabbed her around the waist. Meggie yipped as her full weight landed on her injured ankle. He ignored her cry. “Mistletoe,” he crooned, and he leaned in to kiss her.

Meggie saw his red face coming toward her. He had his eyes shut, his lips puckered. She remembered looking into Hugh’s eyes by the fire, the softness of his mouth, the sweetness of his kiss.

She ducked.

Magnus planted his lips on the surprised MacLeod clansman behind her. Folk erupted with laughter.

“Meggie,” MacAulay was by her side, his hand on her elbow.

She pulled free. She turned to scan the safe, familiar faces of her clansmen, including Niall MacLeod, who was staring red-faced at Magnus and scrubbing the unexpected kiss off his mouth. Niall’s brother Keith was laughing. Meggie tugged his sleeve. “Keith, will you take me home? To Iolair? Today?”

Keith’s laughter subsided and he scanned her face. “Aye, Meggie, of course, if that’s what ye wish, but it’s Christmas Eve, lass.” She shut her eyes, fought tears, and he picked her up and carried her to grandmother, who was mounted behind Ewan. Seanmhair caressed Meggie’s cheek and looked into her eyes.

“Are ye badly hurt, child?”

Meggie lowered her eyes. “Nay. It’s just that—it looks like the storm is over. If we leave now, we’ll be at Raine Castle tonight, and at Glen Iolair tomorrow—”

But her grandmother’s brow furrowed. “You’re injured, Meggie. We need to see to that before we go anywhere.”

Meggie forced a smile, but felt tears threaten. “This? A sprain—’tis nothing at all . . .”

“Still, your Seanmhair is right, lass. Best to stay put,” Ewan said. Keith nodded, still holding her.

Before Meggie could argue, Catriona came up and hugged her. “Och, we were worried about ye,” Catriona said, her eyes glowing. “Congratulate me. I’m going to be wed.”

Meggie’s heart dove into her belly. So soon? MacAulay had offered for Catriona already? She supposed it meant he hadn’t told anyone.

She should be grateful for that, at least. Or had their night together simply meant so little to him? As little as it had meant to Magnus . . . Her heart turned to ice and cracked into a dozen pieces. Still, she did what she always did. She forced her brightest, gayest, sharpest Meggie grin, and kissed Catriona’s rosy cheek. “Congratulations! How wonderful. I wish you all the happiness possible, and a dozen fine bairns that all look like their handsome—” Her breath caught in her throat, and her tongue tripped over itself. She swallowed and looked up at Keith. “Can we go? I’m very tired, and my ankle is sore. If we were at Iolair, no doubt the healer would use a poultice, but—”

“You’re babbling Meggie,” Seanmhair said, frowning. “And you only babble when you’re—”

Meggie watched as her grandmother’s keen gaze fell on MacAulay. Meggie caught her wrinkled hand and squeezed it. “Nay. I babble when I’m tired, or hurt, or anxious about, um, being away from Glen Iolair at Christmas.”

Seanmhair looked at Keith. “We’d best get her back to Gleanngalla. Ye need rest, lass. I’ll come with ye.”

“Nay,” Meggie said, grinning again, her teeth clenched. “Stay. Gather greens and watch Magnus cut the Cailleach Nollaigh and drag it back. There’s no reason to miss the fun. I’ll go and get warm and see you later.”

She didn’t look at MacAulay as Keith set her on the garron behind Niall, and she rode out with her clansmen, back to Gleanngalla.

* * *

“Ye’ll miss the wedding,” Seanmhair said that evening, after Meggie had slept most of the day away. “Catriona looks very pretty, and the hall is decorated so nicely. MacAulay carved the face on the Cailleach Nollaigh. He’s a fine carver.”

Meggie thought of the wee piper he’d made for his wee cousin. Such skillful hands . . .

Seanmhair folded her arms over her chest when Meggie made no move to get up. “Ye can’t stay in your room on Christmas Eve, Meggie MacLeod. Ye have to come down. Ewan will carry me, and Keith will carry you. “Now up with ye, and put on your red gown.”

“What color is Catriona wearing?” she asked.

“The green silk. It’s the groom’s favorite.”

“Is it?” she murmured. She imagined MacAulay helping Catriona undress, slipping off the green silk as he looked into her eyes. “Touch for touch,” she whispered.

“You’re very subdued, Meggie. It’s not like you,” Seanmhair hobbled over to put her hand on Meggie’s brow to check for fever. “Come now. We’ll make the best of it, watch the mummers and make merry. It won’t be so bad, even if ye can’t dance.”

“No, I can’t. I think I’ll give it up,” she said. They’d probably insist when she joined the convent. No more red silk gowns, either. She’d gladly burn this one. She made a face as she pulled it over her head.

* * *

“Can I ask a favor?” Meggie said as Keith carried her down the stairs.

“Aye, anything. I’m yours to command, Meggie. It’s my duty—and a privilege.”

“Papa will worry. Will you go to Raine, have Sir Malcolm send word to Iolair that we’re safe?”

He smiled. “I knew ye’d be thinking of your da and your sisters. Niall left hours ago. He should be at Raine by now, enjoying a cup of warmed whisky.”

Meggie shut her eyes. “Thank you. If the weather stays clear, I think we should leave tomorrow ourselves.”

“On Christmas Day?” her clansman asked, surprised. “I think we’d best see what the weather does.”

Was there no way to escape from Gleanngalla, and her own folly?

When they reached the door to the hall, she pasted on her brightest grin, steeled herself to offer her congratulations, even if they stuck to her tongue like broken glass. She’d flirt, tease, and laugh, and not let anyone see her broken heart, or guess that she’d foolishly fallen in love again.

And once again, he was the wrong man.