A Highlander Christmas Page 12

  “Carden is missing.”

  “I have heard.” Three weeks and still the raven had not found him. To Daegan’s eyes, Bran was steaming with anger and fear. A weakness, that. It was not like Bran to show vulnerability.

  “You know I must find him.”

  Daegan nodded. “I will help if I can.”

  “I believe Morgan has cursed him.”

  Daegan glanced sharply at Bran. “A dangerous claim against a powerful goddess. What proof have you?”

  “None but my instincts. Carden is innocent. He had no part in my squabble with Morgan, but she has punished him to punish me.”

  “You ask much if you’re asking me to go up against Morgan. I have no allegiance to your half brother, Raven. He is not of my blood.”

  “I know. But as a Sidhe, you have a duty to me, and I to you.”

  “There is nothing to be done now if Morgan has cast her spell.”

  “ ’Tis not only Carden that brings me to you, but something else.”

  “Oh?” he asked, intrigued. Bran thought of nothing but his search for his half brother. To say the hunt for Carden had become an obsession was putting it mildly. “You have not seen to any duty these past weeks other than searching for the Gargoyle. What brings you out of the hunt now?”

  Bran glared at him. “I think you know.”

  “I do not,” Daegan replied.

  “What do you mean by pursuing that mortal?”

  Daegan shrugged his shoulders. His hair, the same inky black as Bran’s, whipped about his face as the wind rose up and howled between the naked branches. “Why should you care what I do?”

  “Because I am next in line of succession, and I do not like what I see.”

  “Then you wish me to leave Annwyn for you to rule more wisely, my nephew?”

  Bran growled. “I have no patience for ruling, or desire for the throne, you know that. I care about finding Carden, nothing else, and your actions are interfering. You are upsetting the order of our entire world. Now tell me, what makes you pursue this woman and not a female of Annwyn?”

  “What drives you to search fruitlessly for your brother?”

  Bran scowled fiercely. “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

  “What is different? We follow where our souls would lead us. I want the woman. I have for many years. I believe she is my destiny. Is it so wrong to want a human?”

  “At the cost of our home, our world? Yes.”

  “You have never loved. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “And I would never be so stupid as to give my heart to a human. They’re treacherous, conniving creatures. She would betray you and slit your throat without a second thought. She will expose us to her kind.”

  “She won’t.”

  Bran snorted. “You’re blinded by mortal beauty. The feeling will pass. Let it go.”

  “She ran from me,” Daegan murmured, acknowledging the pain he felt in his heart.

  “You frightened her. She saw you as a beast.”

  “In my mind, I was a man.”

  Bran gazed at him, his eerie, mismatched eyes penetrating through the darkness. “You would betray us all, Uncle.”

  Shaking his head, Daegan refused the truth behind Bran’s words. “Follow her as the raven and make sure she arrives safely.”

  “Why? When it would be to all of Annwyn’s benefit if she did not?”

  With a roar, he reached for Bran’s throat and shoved him against a solid oak. “If you do not see to the task, I will, and I might never return. You know what that would mean.”

  Bran’s eyes flared wide. “That is what the humans call blackmail.”

  “I wish only to have her safe.”

  Bran flashed into his raven’s form, but the glare from his eyes told Daegan he was less than pleased to do his bidding.

  “And what am I to expect in return for seeing the mortal safe?” Bran asked.

  Daegan met his gaze. “I will convince Cailleach to banish Morgan. Morgan will not like the Wastelands. She’ll break the spell rather than be banished.” Daegan looked up at the raven circling him. “Is it a deal, then? My woman for your brother?”

  “This bargain will no doubt come back to haunt us both, but I have no choice but to accept. No one has more sway with Cailleach than you, and no one other than the supreme goddess can talk sense into that witch Morgan.”

  “We have a deal, then?”

  “We have.”

  As Bran flew off, leaving Annwyn, Daegan raised his hand, palm up, to the moonlight. A silver pin in the shape of a dirk glistened on the forest floor in front of him. The MacDonald clan pin. Isobel would be back for it. And he would be waiting.

  Chapter Four

  Isobel sang the opening strains of the “Coventry Carol,” and Fiona joined in as they wound strands of ivy and cedar, mixed with pine boughs, to decorate the mantel of the fireplace.mixed

  “Are you sure you should be reaching like this?” Isobel asked, breaking off the carol as she saw Fiona stand on tiptoe to stuff a bunch of holly into the bough.

  “I’m with child, not an invalid.”

  “Still, Stuart would have my hide if anything happened to you, especially since it was my idea to decorate the parlor for tonight’s reading.”

  “As the eldest brother, Stuart is used to getting what he wants. You and your family might indulge him, but I do not.”

  And that’s why Isobel utterly adored her sister-i n-l aw.

  Fiona winked at her and passed her a ball of mistletoe. “Put this somewhere special.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “Where the man of your dreams can find it.”

  Isobel glowered. “How about the rubbish bin, then? I’m sure St. Clair would never dare look in the rubbish.”

  “You heard.” Fiona scrunched up her nose. “How long have you known?”

  “Ewan blurted out the news yesterday afternoon when we were gathering the pine and holly. I don’t think he meant to let the cat out of the bag, but he did, and I’ve been stewing about it half the night.” The other part of the night she’d spent having strange dreams of a violet-eyed, dark-haired stranger. She didn’t know what concerned her more, her marriage to the mysterious Earl of St. Clair or the feelings her dream man had stirred within her.

  She had tried hard not to think of that dream or the feelings of arousal it had given her. A woman of good breeding did not think of such things. Should not know of such things. Yet, the images had been there, haunting her all day. The silhouette of a man outlined in shadow and moonlight, standing at the foot of her bed. The way he stood watching her, the virility she felt coming off him in waves. She had not been scared to see him there. It was as if she had always been waiting for his midnight visit.

  “Who are you?” she had asked as he walked slowly around the bed.

  “Daegan, a prince of the woods. A lover come to you in a dream.”

  She had fallen back on her pillows, utterly entranced by the deep timbre of his voice.

  “Lover,” she had repeated, letting the word roll from her tongue.

  “Yes, lover.” His eyes, which were a strange violet hue, met hers, as his hand pulled the sheet back, revealing her body in the night rail that had ridden up high on her thighs. “Would you like that, Isobel? Me loving you?”

  She couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. He had seduced her with his voice. Bewitched her with his eyes, and forced her with little more than a fluttering sweep of his fingertips up her thigh.

  She didn’t freeze or fight when he leaned over her, pressing into her, on top of her. She didn’t turn her head away when his lips brushed hers. No, she sank farther into the down pillow and opened her mouth to him, allowed him to teach her how to kiss, his tongue tangling with hers. When her hands entwined through his long silky hair, he took it as an invitation to explore her body. He fondled her breasts, traced her curves as he lifted the gown slowly up her legs, past her hips. She moaned into his mouth, and he deepened the kiss,
circled her hard, pulsing nipple with the pad of his thumb.

  Knowing it was only a dream, she let him take what he wanted.

  “Just a feel of you,” he whispered. “A small taste.”

  His hand skimmed along her belly, down to her curls. Her own hand wrapped around his wrist—not to stop, but to ensure that he would continue. When she felt the first brush of his blunt finger parting her, her eyes closed and she arched, wanting more than just that soft brush.

  His strokes were slow, thorough. She could hardly bear it, the pressure deep within her, the ache to be filled with his fingers.

  And then his mouth had kissed her there, and he had whispered darkly, Open to me.

  “Issy? Issy?” Fiona called.

  Isobel struggled back from her dream and into reality. How she wanted to relive that part, when her dream lover had slid along the length of her body and insinuated himself between her thighs, kissing and touching her for hours. He had made her cry out, tear at her sheets, beg for something she didn’t know how to name.

  “I’m sorry?” Isobel asked, trying to hide the huskiness in her voice. “You were saying?”

  “Not me. You were the one speaking. Then you just stopped.”

  Isobel flushed. “Oh yes. I was wondering how long you have known about the earl?” she asked, refusing to think of how she had awakened that morning, thoroughly aroused. Her nipples had been hard little points against her nightgown, and her thighs had been wet. In the dream, her stranger had kissed and touched her until she had shook and wetness had leaked from her. He had liked it. Had told her so. Those hours had awakened a pleasure and passion she didn’t realize could exist between man and woman.

  Just a dream, she told herself. She’d only had it because she was angry at her father and Stuart for drawing up a contract with St. Clair. There would be no love, no warmth with the earl. There certainly would not be the intimacy she’d known in her dream. She could not imagine the earl caressing her so tenderly, putting his fingers against her most intimate place, lapping at her and whispering to her as her stranger had.

  “Issy?” Isobel shuddered, realizing Fiona was looking at her strangely. “Are you all right? You’re positively flushed!”

  “Fine,” she muttered, and resolved to put the dream out of her mind. Reaching for a strand of shimmering gold braiding, she wove it in and out of the bough. “The gas lamps will add a nice effect to this braiding, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re avoiding my question.”

  Isobel sighed and dropped onto the brocade settee. Boxes of Christmas decorations were strewn beside her. Even now, one of the downstairs maids was up in the attic searching for more.

  Normally, decorating MacDonald Hall for the annual Christmas ball was the highlight of the season, but this year, her heart wasn’t in it. She half wondered if St. Clair celebrated the holidays. He’d certainly never put much effort into making merry on the occasions that he had traveled to the hall for Christmas.

  Isobel couldn’t imagine being married to such a boring man. Handsome or not, the Earl of St. Clair was not who she would have picked for her lifelong partner.

  “And who would you have picked?” Fiona asked.

  Isobel groaned. “I hadn’t realized I said the words aloud,” she muttered. Lord, she really was out of sorts today.

  “Well?” Fiona asked again as she placed some candles among the greenery. “What sort of man would you wish for?”

  “One who loves me,” Isobel muttered in a huff. “I don’t think that’s asking too much.”

  “And what else?”

  Isobel emptied a box of red and gold balls onto a velvet cushion. Without looking at Fiona, she replied, “Passion seems the sort of thing one might ask for in a marriage.”

  “Indeed,” Fiona said, smiling, “passion is a must.”

  Fiona and Stuart had that in spades. Every time Isobel turned around, Fiona was in Stuart’s arms, their lips pressed together. And each time Isobel saw them like that, she longed for the same with a man of her own.

  “What makes you think that you will not have passion with the Earl?”

  Isobel shrugged. “I don’t think the Earl feels strongly about anything other than his lands and his money. A wife, I think, would come in a distant third, possibly even fourth, after his favorite hound.”

  Standing, Isobel kicked the train of her dark emerald green gown behind her and straightened her bustle. She then proceeded to the giant pine tree that stood in the corner of the parlor. With little hooks, she placed a few of the red balls on the branches before standing back to see where more balls and ornaments might be placed. After the decorations were all on, the candles and garland would come next. That task had always been left for Stuart and Ewan, who were, of course, nowhere to be found.

  Behind her, Fiona came up and hugged her tight. “Have an open mind, Issy, you might find you’re wrong about the Earl.”

  “Not bloody likely,” she snorted. The proper Earl of St. Clair would probably swoon if he heard her unladylike talk. But then, Isobel doubted very much it was her good manners the earl was interested in. Her dowry, more likely.

  “Well, now,” came the sound of Stuart’s voice. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  Fiona ignored her husband’s pointed gaze. “And you’re supposed to be helping trim the tree.”

  Stuart sauntered into the room and placed a kiss on his wife’s lips. “What about a sleigh ride?” he asked. “I’ve asked the groom to have the horses readied.”

  Isobel hoped she could prevail upon Stuart to stop at the forest. She’d lost her clan pin yesterday, and she had a feeling it was in the woods where her scarf had gotten tangled in the low branches.

  Her clan pin was a MacDonald heirloom. Handed down through the female line, she’d been eighteen when her grandmother MacDonald had given it to her. She couldn’t allow it to be lost. Not when she’d dreamed of giving it to her daughter someday.

  “A sleigh ride is a lovely idea, Stuart. I shall tell cook to prepare a crock of wassail, and we can sip it along the way.”

  “Perhaps, then, Miss MacDonald, you would be so kind as to accompany me.”

  Isobel whirled around. In the doorway was the Earl of St. Clair, looking sullen and not at all interested in a brisk ride in the cold. “Good day, my lord,” she replied while curtsying. “What brings you to the hall yet again today?” Lord, was this to be a daily penance? she wondered. Could she expect the earl to arrive on her doorstep every afternoon?

  A strange look passed between the earl and her brother. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then he pierced her with his gray eyes. “Your brother has been so kind as to invite me to be a guest of your family for Christmas.”

  “Has he?” she asked sweetly, while casting Stuart a venomous glance. “How thoughtful he is. Will you be staying through to twelfth night?” She almost feared his answer. When he nodded, she gritted her teeth. Two weeks with the earl. She’d rather have a tooth pulled.

  “Well?” St. Clair drawled, offering his arm. “Shall we? I would be honored if you would enjoy the ride with me.”

  “Of course, my lord. I shall change and be with you directly. Stuart, you will be chaperoning, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course. Everything was arranged. She was to be married off to the earl. She would be a countess, a true lady. She would have estates in England and Scotland. Her future husband was handsome and rich. And she was most likely the most miserable woman in Scotland.

  Thank goodness Fiona and Stuart were sharing the sleigh with them. Isobel was not yet ready to be alone with the man. Lord, she didn’t even know his Christian name. Or his favorite color, or . . . or any of the other meaningless things couples learn about each other during a courtship.

  Worse, she didn’t think the earl was the sort of man who knew the first thing about courting. He seemed most uncomfortable sitting beside her. Whenever their shoulders or knees would touch, he stiffened as though a br
isk gust of air had blown down his collar. And sharing a lap fur with him was far too intimate for Isobel.

  Across the sleigh, Stuart blew on his hands to warm them, and Fiona reached for them, drawing them inside her rabbit fur muff. Isobel arched her brows and looked out at the beautiful hills that passed them by. If the earl hoped she might bestow the same sort of kindness, he was hoping in vain.

  “Shall we sing a carol?” Fiona asked. Stuart groaned and the earl positively glowered.

  “Oh, let’s!” Isobel agreed, relishing the look of pain on the earl’s face. “I love singing, though I croak like a frog.” She laughed, watching as his expression of pain deepened. “Don’t you love singing, my lord?”

  “I . . . I . . .” He moved his head, stretching his neck as though his tie was strangling him. “I do not sing myself, but would like nothing more than to hear your voice. I’ve always thought you sing like an angel.”

  Drat. She had sung every year at the ball, and St. Clair had heard her. There went her idea for sending him packing by singing like a fishwife.

  “I only know the words to ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,’ ” Stuart replied irritably. “If you would sing, it’ll have to be that one.”

  “Well, then, shall we begin?”

  As they sang the opening bars of the carol, St. Clair maneuvered the reins to turn the sleigh in the direction of the forest. Despite her attempts to be sulky, Isobel found herself enjoying the ride and the fresh, crisp air of the afternoon. She loved Christmas. The food, the carols, the presents. But most of all she loved spending time at MacDonald Hall. For most of the year, her family was in London. Stuart and her father owned a steel factory that supplied the railroads. It was only during Christmas that Isobel came back to the country of her birth, and the home they had shared when her mother was alive.

  “Shall we stop and take a stroll?” the earl asked.

  “I’d love a walk,” Isobel agreed. “And I’d like to find some more holly for the centerpieces.”

  “Then we are agreed.” The earl pulled the dapple-grays to a stop right before the forest. “This seems as good a place as any to stop.”