fire? Was popcorn a modern thing? She grabbed the pan and hurried to the stairs. There was a chance she had her proof, but she would just ask, casually, what it was used for.
The warm green and red plaid dress he’d left for her kept Bree from rushing down the stairs. No wonder women in long gowns seemed more dignified—they had no choice. She had to hold onto the skirt and the pan handle with one hand and the railing with the other. If she fell down that long curve of stone steps, she’d break her neck.
By the time she reached the bottom, she felt a bit queenish. Her posture was even better. She was about to start humming when she realized someone else already was. It was a man’s voice, and since there was little chance anyone had braved the storm, it had to be McKinnon. By the time she reached the parlor doors, he was singing. And she recognized the tune.
Let not yer cries call down the moon.
Let not yer prayers be led astray.
In the coachman’s guise he’ll grant yer boon,
And ye shall rue the price ye’ll pay.
Bree peeked into the room. McKinnon was standing in the center of the large rug wearing his kilt again, damn him! Had he given her the dress so they’d match all day?
It was going to be a long day if she had to spend it with a guy who didn’t have the decency to keep his knees together while wearing a skirt! She’d spent most of Christmas day looking away. But she forgot about all that while she watched Angeline danced around him, slowly, to match the pace of the melancholy tune first sung by the carriage driver. Her little hands were elegant as they stroked the air, like fine little paint brushes.
When he hit the chorus, the girl stepped in front of him and reached up, to place her hands against his chest. He stopped singing, looking confused. Angeline just smiled and gave him a nod. Then he started the chorus again while she...felt it.
“Take back the breath.
Take back the sigh.
Give not yer name.
Yer boon deny.
The Foolish Fire
Comes not in twain.
‘Tis the coachman’s lanterns
Come for ye.”
The girls hands dropped away, but he caught one and held on, shaking his head. Then he reached down and placed his hand flat against the child’s chest, between her collar bones. Then he nodded.
Bree frantically wiped tears from her eyes so she could see.
He was asking the child to sing. And when the tiny voice began to hum, Bree didn’t know who was more surprised, McKinnon, herself, or Angeline.
The little girl pushed his hand away and replaced it with her own, like she couldn’t quite believe the sound was coming from her own body. Then she began to dance, not taking the one hand from her chest.
She hummed the chorus, then when she reached a verse, she nodded to McKinnon again. He sang the words, while she continued humming.
“With hands of white and horses matched
He’ll heigh thy love to broken heart.
Of measured dreams he’ll grant behalf
And take from thee e’en the beggar’s part.”
McKinnon stepped forward and caught the girl up in his arms, then began waltzing around the room with her little feet dangling three feet off the ground.
She hummed louder. He sang all the while.
They spotted Bree in the doorway and McKinnon came to a dead stop, as did the song. She didn’t know if the frown he gave her was for interrupting, or just breathing in general. But she pretended she didn’t notice and stepped into the room.
“You’re a natural, Mr. McKinnon. You’ve had a breakthrough all on your own. I can’t imagine a better way to have coaxed her to try her voice.”
Angeline was grinning. McKinnon lowered her to her feet and she hurried to Bree’s side, taking her hand and leading Bree back to face McKinnon. The child tried to make him take Bree’s hand, but he pulled away and shook his head.
Bree felt a little explosion of disappointment in her chest and the threat of more tears, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing
The warm green and red plaid dress he’d left for her kept Bree from rushing down the stairs. No wonder women in long gowns seemed more dignified—they had no choice. She had to hold onto the skirt and the pan handle with one hand and the railing with the other. If she fell down that long curve of stone steps, she’d break her neck.
By the time she reached the bottom, she felt a bit queenish. Her posture was even better. She was about to start humming when she realized someone else already was. It was a man’s voice, and since there was little chance anyone had braved the storm, it had to be McKinnon. By the time she reached the parlor doors, he was singing. And she recognized the tune.
Let not yer cries call down the moon.
Let not yer prayers be led astray.
In the coachman’s guise he’ll grant yer boon,
And ye shall rue the price ye’ll pay.
Bree peeked into the room. McKinnon was standing in the center of the large rug wearing his kilt again, damn him! Had he given her the dress so they’d match all day?
It was going to be a long day if she had to spend it with a guy who didn’t have the decency to keep his knees together while wearing a skirt! She’d spent most of Christmas day looking away. But she forgot about all that while she watched Angeline danced around him, slowly, to match the pace of the melancholy tune first sung by the carriage driver. Her little hands were elegant as they stroked the air, like fine little paint brushes.
When he hit the chorus, the girl stepped in front of him and reached up, to place her hands against his chest. He stopped singing, looking confused. Angeline just smiled and gave him a nod. Then he started the chorus again while she...felt it.
“Take back the breath.
Take back the sigh.
Give not yer name.
Yer boon deny.
The Foolish Fire
Comes not in twain.
‘Tis the coachman’s lanterns
Come for ye.”
The girls hands dropped away, but he caught one and held on, shaking his head. Then he reached down and placed his hand flat against the child’s chest, between her collar bones. Then he nodded.
Bree frantically wiped tears from her eyes so she could see.
He was asking the child to sing. And when the tiny voice began to hum, Bree didn’t know who was more surprised, McKinnon, herself, or Angeline.
The little girl pushed his hand away and replaced it with her own, like she couldn’t quite believe the sound was coming from her own body. Then she began to dance, not taking the one hand from her chest.
She hummed the chorus, then when she reached a verse, she nodded to McKinnon again. He sang the words, while she continued humming.
“With hands of white and horses matched
He’ll heigh thy love to broken heart.
Of measured dreams he’ll grant behalf
And take from thee e’en the beggar’s part.”
McKinnon stepped forward and caught the girl up in his arms, then began waltzing around the room with her little feet dangling three feet off the ground.
She hummed louder. He sang all the while.
They spotted Bree in the doorway and McKinnon came to a dead stop, as did the song. She didn’t know if the frown he gave her was for interrupting, or just breathing in general. But she pretended she didn’t notice and stepped into the room.
“You’re a natural, Mr. McKinnon. You’ve had a breakthrough all on your own. I can’t imagine a better way to have coaxed her to try her voice.”
Angeline was grinning. McKinnon lowered her to her feet and she hurried to Bree’s side, taking her hand and leading Bree back to face McKinnon. The child tried to make him take Bree’s hand, but he pulled away and shook his head.
Bree felt a little explosion of disappointment in her chest and the threat of more tears, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing
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