MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol by Tanya Anne Crosby Page A

of!
    Outside, the wind raged like a wailing banshee, sending furious howls into the castle through cracks in the walls. FitzSimon hadn’t bothered with a fire in the hearth tonight. Why should he? He wore a fine, heavy cloak, lined with ermine—as splendid as any cloak worn by any king. Some day, it would be moth bait in a forgotten coffer somewhere, left to be picked over by wastrels who’d come to steal his remnants.
    Heart heavy and despairing, he peered out the solar window, into the courtyard below. It was deserted now, as many of his wards had abandoned him already to spend the winter with their families.
    Afric, too, would soon be leaving for France. But Hugh was glad for that, because he did not enjoy Afric’s companionship. He, like his common mother, reeked vulgarly of cloves.
    Cursing softly beneath his breath, FitzSimon moved across the chamber, plucking up the odious parchment from his desk. One of the paperweights rattled carelessly across the desktop and rolled, falling with a rude clatter upon the wooden floor.
    Still cursing, he rolled the parchment furiously, eyeing the burning taper on his desk, prepared to burn the letter. Something like tears burned at the back of his eyes. Sobs constricted his throat.
    Forsaken.
    That’s what he was.
    Be damned if he would allow himself to grieve over the loss of a woman who’d never loved him true.
    At least that’s what he told himself and that’s what he was determined to believe. Fueled by a fresh rush of anger, he bent to blow out the taper.
    What need had he of light when he knew every corner of this godforsaken mausoleum? He had paced it from end to end for far too many years. And now, the castle was devoid of life—not a soul to happen upon, trip over, or even send scurrying back to their beds.
    Muttering still more curses, Hugh stuffed the missive into his belt, deciding to put it away in a safe place, as he spun toward the solar door. His bed summoned him now, beckoning like a whore to his crackling bones. He made quickly for the door, stopping short at the sight of a shadow squirming there.
    “Papa?”
    Hearing the familiar voice, FitzSimon clutched at his chest, blinking to dispel the image of a little girl, her features growing clearer by the second.
    “Papa?”
    Could it be? But nay! It was only a child, her face gaunt with sunken cheeks. Did they not feed her well enough? He smacked his breast to see if he might be dreaming in his bed. The whack he gave himself knocked the air from his lungs.
    “Page?”
    The girl’s tiny form hugged the threshold, as though she feared he might rip her free of her support and haul her away by the scruff of her neck. “I’m afeared, Papa” she said.
    In times past, Hugh might have scolded her for presuming such a familiarity with him, because she was not his daughter—or so he’d once believed. Confused now, he rubbed his eyes and stuck a finger in his ear.
    His daughter—what appeared to be his daughter—lingered in the threshold, her image a shimmery visage from his past. He asked her, “Why art ye afeared?”
    The little girl, illumed by a strange blue aura, not unlike the blue heat of a flame, persisted in the doorway. “I cannot sleep, Papa. The wind wails, and my pillow is much too thin.”
    Now he could clearly see the features of the girl’s face, illuminated by that strange blue light. She looked exactly like Page at that age. “Your pillow’s too thin?”
    “Aye, sir.”
    Surely this child could not be his daughter Page? Page was fully grown by now, with children of her own. “Gads, child! What would ye have me do about the bloody wind? It seems to me ye’d do better to go and seek your prayers.”
    The child’s face fell. “But… I cannot sleep, Papa.”
    “Aye, well, you should not be here,” FitzSimon scolded her. “I’ve no idea what you be doing in my home. So shoo, now! Shoo! Shoo! Be gone!”
    For a moment, the child’s expression appeared crestfallen, and then her mouth