Once Upon A Highland Christmas (12 page)

The Scottish Highlands are magnificent in all seasons, but at Christmas, an extra-special magic lends even more enchantment to the snowy hills and glens. I love Christmas and have always wanted to write a holiday story.
Once Upon a Highland Christmas
combines my enjoyment of the season with my deep passion for Scotland and its traditions.

Therefore, I’d like to note that at the time this story takes place, Highlanders celebrated Yule and Winter Solstice with as much gusto as modern-day Scots enjoy today’s Christmas merrymaking.

In medieval Scotland, Auld Yule fell on January 5, because the Julian Calendar was still in place. This practice continued for several centuries, causing the holiday festivities to be celebrated twice in many parts of Scotland. This was done with a blend of “Old” and “New” Christmas traditions. As my characters are pagan, I allowed myself creative license to write what I hope is a pleasing mix of Highland holiday customs.

For example, Archie’s Yule Log, aka the
Cailleach Nollaigh
or “Christmas Old Wife,” truly existed and was a crucial part of Highland holiday celebrations. It was indeed carved to resemble an old woman. Mistletoe was also every bit as important as in the story. Held sacred since the dimmest mists of time, mistletoe was known as “All-Heal” by the Druids, who had strict rules for gathering it and for its use. Mistletoe’s connection to the season goes far deeper than merely offering an opportunity for kissing, also having been believed to ensure fertility, which would’ve been important in a time of the year when the world was so cold and still.

The Yule beacons Grim and Breena appreciate during their journey were reflections of the Midwinter Solstice balefires that would’ve blazed far and wide across the Highland hills, lighting the night darkness.

There were so many wonderfully fascination customs, it was hard to choose only a few. I hope the traditions I settled on lend festive atmosphere and fun to the story.

I’d also like to note that although Duncreag Castle, the nearby Glen of Many Legends, and other locations are purely fictional, Breena’s home, Inishowen in Donegal, Ireland, actually exists.

There really were O’Doherty Lords of Inishowen. The name is ancient, and they descend from the legendary hero Niall of the Nine Hostages, who was a great champion and perished at a jousting tournament in AD 405. Breena’s forebears were a warring folk and so would they have been in her time as well. There were great power struggles and much fighting among the rulers of the day, including between relatives. Breena’s fate, having been given in secret for safekeeping to a trusted agent of her sire, could well have happened. She wouldn’t have been the first noble child to have been placed into such care, neither in Ireland nor in Highland Scotland.

Buncrana Castle is also real, though its true name is O’Doherty’s Keep. It stands to this day, a romantic ruin overlooking Trawbreaga Bay and offering splendid views of the Donegal coast. If you visit Inishowen, you can walk about its crumbling splendor.

For centuries, the Vikings made frequent raids on this area, so Breena’s capture by Ralla and his men was not a stretch of writerly imagination. Her home was prime raiding territory, with the Northmen even claiming the land and setting up a trading post there from the ninth through the twelfth centuries. In the thirteenth century, Breena’s O’Dohertys arrived and made Inishowen their own. They ruled until 1610.

Aside from the historical realities behind the telling of
Once Upon a Highland Christmas
, Yuletide magic accompanied me through the typing of every word.

However you celebrate, may the spirit of the season warm your heart and brighten your holiday.

Sue-Ellen Welfonder is a Scotophile whose burning wish to make frequent trips to the land of her dreams led her to a twenty-year career with the airlines.

Now a full-time writer, she’s quick to admit that she much prefers wielding a pen to pushing tea and coffee. She makes annual visits to Scotland, insisting they are a necessity, as each trip gives her inspiration for new books.

Proud of her own Hebridean ancestry, she belongs to two clan societies: the MacFie Clan Society and the Clan MacAlpine Society. In addition to Scotland, her greatest passions are medieval history, the paranormal, and dogs. She never watches television, loves haggis, and writes at a 450-year-old desk that once stood in a Bavarian castle.

Sue-Ellen is married and currently resides with her husband and Jack Russell terrier in Florida.

Turn the page for a preview of the first book in the sexy Scandalous Scots series,

To Love a Highlander.

STIRLING CASTLE

Summer 1399

Sorley the Hawk slept naked.

His bare-bottomed state was glaringly apparent, even to Lady Mirabelle MacLaren’s innocent eyes. She should have known that a man with such an inordinate fondness for pleasures of the flesh would take to his bed unclothed. Still, it was a possibility she should’ve considered before sneaking into his privy quarters. She hadn’t expected him to be in his room so early of an e’en. She’d hoped to catch him unawares, surprising him when he strode inside.

Now she was trapped.

She stood frozen, her heart racing as she glanced around his bedchamber. Even in the dimness, she could tell his quarters were boldly masculine and entirely too sumptuous for an ordinary court bastard. Exquisitely embroidered and richly colored tapestries hung from the walls, and the floor was immaculate, the rushes fresh and scented with aromatic herbs. A heavily carved and polished trestle table held the remains of what had surely been a superb repast. Several iron-banded coffers drew her curiosity, making her wonder what treasures they contained. Above all, her eye was drawn to the large curtained bed at the far end of the room.

There, atop the massive four-poster, Sorley was stretched out on his back, one arm folded behind his head.

That he was nude stood without question.

What astonished her was her reaction to seeing him in such an intimate state.

Her mouth had gone dry and her heart beat too rapidly for comfort. She couldn’t deny that she found herself strongly attracted to him. Yet to accomplish what she must, she required her wits.

Unfortunately, she also needed Sorley.

Sir John Sinclair, an oily-mannered noble she couldn’t abide, was showing interest in her. Worse, he was wooing her father, a man who believed the best in others and didn’t always catch the nuances that revealed their true nature. Castle tongue-waggers whispered that Sinclair desired a chaste bride, requiring a suitable wife to appease the King’s wish that he live more quietly than was his wont. Mirabelle suspected he’d chosen her as his future consort.

She knew Sorley loathed Sinclair.

And that the bad blood was mutual.

No one was better suited to help her repel Sinclair’s advances than Sorley the Hawk.

Time was also of the essence. Mirabelle’s father’s work at court wouldn’t take much longer. As a scholar and herbalist, he’d tirelessly seen to his duties, assisting the royal scribes in deciphering Gaelic texts on healing. Soon, the MacLaren party would return home to the Highlands.

Mirabelle didn’t want to remain behind as Sir John’s betrothed. For that reason, she summoned all the strength she possessed to remain where she stood. It cost her great effort not to back from the room, disappearing whence she’d come. Harder still was not edging closer to the bed, then angling her head to better see Sorley.

He was magnificent.

Blessedly, the sheet reached to his waist, hiding a certain part of him. But the rest of his big, strapping body was shockingly uncovered. Mirabelle’s face heated to see the dusting of dark hair on his hard-muscled chest. She felt an irresistible urge to touch him. Well aware that she daren’t, she did let her gaze drift over him. Light from an almost-guttered night candle flickered across his skin, revealing a few scars. His thick, shoulder-length hair was as inky-black as she remembered, the glossy strands gleaming in the dimness. Even asleep, he possessed a bold arrogance. And now that her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, she could see from the bulge outlined beneath the bedcovers that his masculinity was equally proud.

The observation made her belly flutter.

Unable to help herself, she let her gaze linger on his slumbering perfection, at his darkly handsome face and oh-so-sensual mouth that, if all went well, would soon play expertly over hers, claiming her in passion.

The only problem was that she’d rather make her proposition when he was fully clothed.

Confronting him now would only compound her troubles.

So she pressed a hand to her breast and retraced her steps to the door. It stood ajar, the passage beyond beckoning, urging escape. Scarce daring to breathe, she peered from one end of the corridor to the other. Nothing stirred except a cat scurrying along in the darkness and a poorly burning wall sconce that hissed and spit.

Or so she thought until two chattering laundresses sailed around a corner, their arms loaded with bed linens. A small lad followed in their wake, carrying a wicker basket brimming with candles.

They were heading her way.

“Botheration!” She felt a jolt of panic.

Nipping back into Sorley’s bedchamber, she closed the door.

It fell into place with a distinct
knick.

Before she could catch her breath, Sorley was behind her, gripping her shoulders with firm, strong fingers. He lowered his head, nuzzling her neck, his mouth brushing over her skin. She bit her lip as he slid his hands down her arms, pulling her back against him.

He was still naked.

She could feel the hot, hard length of him pressing into her.

Almost as bad, he was now rubbing his face in her hair, nipping her ear. His warm breath sent shivers rippling through her.

She gasped, her heart thundering.

“Sweet minx, I didnae expect a visitor this night.” He chuckled and closed his hands more firmly around her wrists. “Followed me from the Red Lion, did you?”

“To be sure, I didn’t!” Mirabelle found her tongue at his mention of the notorious tavern, an ill-famed place frequented by rogues and light-skirts. She jerked free, whirling to face him. “Nor am I a minx. I’m—”

“You are Lady Mirabelle.” His voice chilled, his eyes narrowing as he looked her up and down. He stepped back, folding his arms.

He made no move to cover his nakedness.

“I’d heard you were at court.” His gaze held hers, his face an unreadable mask. “Indeed, I’ve seen you in the hall a time or two. I didn’t think to find you here, in my bedchamber.”

“Neither did I.” Her chin came up. “I lost my way.”

“You’re also a terrible liar.” He angled his head, studying her. “You wouldn’t be here without a reason. My quarters are no place for a lady.” A corner of his mouth hitched up in a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “So tell me, to what do I owe the honor?”

Mirabelle drew a tight breath, the words lodging in her throat. The explanation, her carefully crafted plea for help, had slipped her mind. Vanishing as if she hadn’t spent hours, even days and nights, practicing everything she’d meant to say to him.

“Sir, you’re unclothed.” Those words came easy. They also caused her cheeks to flame.

“So I am.” He glanced down, seemingly unconcerned. Turning, he took a plaid and a shirt off a peg on the wall, donning both with a slow, lazy grace that embarrassed her almost as much as his nakedness.

“Now that I’m decent”—he placed himself between her and the door, crossing his arms again—“I’d know why you’re here.”

“I told you—”

“You told me a falsehood. I’d hear the truth.”

Mirabelle wanted to sink into the floor. Unfortunately, such an escape wasn’t possible and as she prided herself on being of a practical nature, she kept her head raised and flicked a speck of lint from her sleeve. Her mind raced, seeking a plausible explanation. It came to her when the wind whistled past the long windows, the sound almost like the keening cry of a woman.

“I thought to see the castle’s Pink Lady.” She didn’t turn a hair mentioning the ghost. Everyone knew she existed. Believed the wife of a man killed when England’s Edward I captured the castle nearly a hundred years before, the poor woman was rumored to be beautiful, her luminous gown a lovely shade of rose.

Mirabelle had quite forgotten about her until now.

But she did believe in bogles.

Her own home, Knocking Tower, abounded with spirits. She’d even encountered a few. Not a one of them had disquieted her as much as the man now standing before her, his arms still folded and the most annoying look on his darkly rugged face.

He was entirely too virile.

He also he proved a much greater threat than any ghost.

“The Pink Lady walks the courtyard, last I heard.” Sorley spoke with the masculine triumph of a man sure he knew better than the gullible female before him. His tone left no doubt that he didn’t believe in the bogle. “You would not have met her in my privy chambers.

“Come, I’ll show you where folk claim she prowls.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist and led her across the room to one of the tall, arch-topped windows. “Look down into the bailey. Tell me if you see her.”

“I won’t. See her, I mean.” Mirabelle tried to ignore how her skin tingled beneath his touch. “She’s elusive. She doesn’t appear simply because one peers out a window.”

“Even so, I’d hear what you see.” He stepped closer, so near that the air around her filled with his scent.

Mirabelle set her lips in a tight, irritated line, doing her best not to notice how delicious he smelled. It was a bold, provocative mix of wool and leather, pure man and something exotic, perhaps sandalwood, the whole laced with a trace of peat smoke. Entirely too beguiling, the heady blend made her pulse race.

Furious that was so, she straightened her back, determined to focus on anything but him.

She failed miserably.

Awareness of him sped through her; a cascade of warm, tingly sensations that weakened her knees and warmed unmentionable places. His near-naked proximity also made it impossible to think. Never had she been in such a compromisingly intimate situation. She certainly hadn’t experienced the like with a man so brazen, so devilishly attractive.

As if he knew she was uncomfortable, he placed his hand at the small of her back, urging her closer to the broad stone ledge of the window. “I’d have your answer, Lady Mirabelle. I am no’ a patient man.”

“Very well.” Mirabelle leaned forward, pretending to study the darkened courtyard below. A hard rain was falling and the bailey stood empty, the cobbles gleaming wetly. Torches burned in the sheltered arcade circling the large, open space. A few guards, spearmen, huddled in a corner where a small brazier cast a red glow against the wall of a pillared walkway. Nothing else stirred.

She drew a tight breath, wishing she hadn’t mentioned the ghost.

She turned to face her tormentor. “The Pink Lady is not down there.”

“I didnae expect she would be, prowling—”

“I’m sure she drifts or hovers.” Mirabelle held his gaze. “She’s had her heart torn and is searching for her husband. Such a soul wouldn’t—”

“She wouldn’t drift, hover, or prowl, because she isn’t real.” He came closer, gripping her chin and tilting her face upward. “The Pink Lady’s existence is as unlikely as a flesh-and-blood lady letting herself into my bedchamber. Even women who are not of gentle birth only enter this room at my invitation.” He looked at her, his gaze steady and penetrating. “I do not recall extending such an offer to you.

“So I’ll ask again.” He slid his thumb over the corner of her mouth, then along the curve of her bottom lip. “Why are you here?”

Mirabelle shivered. She didn’t know if it was because of the way he was looking at her or if her body was simply reacting to his touch.

Without question, he was the most dangerously handsome man at court.

She suspected in all the land.

He was also the man most suited to aid her.

So she stepped back, summoning all her courage. “You know women well,” she owned, her heartbeat quickening. “I do have a reason for this visit. It has nothing to do with the castle ghost.”

“So we near the truth at last.” He sounded amused. “I’ll admit I am curious.”

“I have a business arrangement for you.” She couldn’t believe the steadiness of her voice.

He arched a brow. “Now I am even more intrigued.”

“You shouldn’t be.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, taking in his room in all its opulence. “You are known as a man of many skills, greatly favored at court. I am in need of one of your talents.”

“Indeed?” He narrowed his eyes, no longer bemused. “And what might that be?”

“I require your amatory skills.” Mirabelle kept her chin raised. “I want you to ruin me.”

“Lady, I surely didn’t hear you clearly.” Sorley held her gaze, hoping his cold tone and steady stare would unnerve her into retracting her ridiculous request. “You wish me to despoil you?”

“Take my virtue, yes.” She didn’t turn a hair. Far from looking embarrassed, her lovely lavender-blue eyes sparked with challenge and determination. “I shall pay you well for your trouble.”

Sorley almost choked.

He did his best to keep his jaw off the floor. It wasn’t easy, so he went to the door, crossing his bedchamber in long, swift strides. He didn’t want her to see his shock. Worse, how tempted he was to accept her offer. Not that he’d take coin for such pleasure. A shame he’d have to decline. Even one such as he had honor, his own brand of it, anyway.

Still, he was stunned. Her suggestion was the last thing he’d expected.

It was outrageous.

He could find no words.

Certain the world had run mad, he unlatched the door, flinging it wide. With surprising agility, Lady Mirabelle fair flew across the room and nipped around him, closing the door before he could stop her.

“A word is all I ask of you.” She put out a hand to touch his chest. “Only that, and—”

“Do you believe maidens are ruined by words?”

“I meant just now, as well you know. Later…” She lowered her hand, giving him a look that was much too provocative for a virgin. “You will be generously recompensed.”

“So you said.” Sorley didn’t say how much that offended him.

He also wished he could tear his gaze from her.

Regrettably, he couldn’t.

A softly burning wall sconce limned her in glowing golden light, making her look like an angel. Her rose scent drifted about her, bewitching him now as it’d done so many years before. The heady fragrance was hers alone, an annoying intoxication he remembered well. A temptation he was determined to never fall prey to again.