instead of hiding behind his bloody vanity.
When he entered the cottage directly behind his host, his gaze fell upon Fiona standing at the hearth, her hands held out over the heat. She looked tired, and her gown was in an awful state of dishevelment, stained by snow and ash and tree sap. Her hair, which had begun the journey bound up nicely, had come undone in several differentplaces. Thick strands of brown hair fell here and there down her back and over her shoulder.
He’d never seen a lovelier sight. To him she was beautiful.
He’d had every intention of telling her who he was when he’d pulled the team to a halt on the road. He would not have waited so long had he not already lost his heart to her. He could not bear to see her censure when she realized he was the one who had so stupidly and rudely dismissed her all those years ago. He’d thought all day how best to broach it—but he’d not counted on the Nevin family’s appearing so unexpectedly from the forest path.
“Shall I take your hat, laird?” Mr. Nevin asked as Mrs. Nevin bustled about the table, helping Tavin add two place settings.
“We are delighted you’ve come, laird!” she called to him. “Please, take off your cloak and warm yourself by the fire.”
There was no reason not to do as she asked—the Nevins had seen his face, as had most of his tenants. There was no reason to keep the scarf on besides his foolish vanity. He glanced at Fiona again—she was looking at him now, watching him closely.
He shrugged out of his cloak first, sliding it over his bad arm. And as it hung uselessly at his side, he unwrapped the scarf from his head and handed that, too, to Mr. Nevin, and stood in all his grotesque glory.
“To the fire, milord—I’ll pour a whisky for you, shall I?”
“Aye, please,” he said, gazing at Fiona. She had every right to hate him. He looked for it in her expression. But whatever she was thinking was carefully hidden behind an inscrutably polite expression.
“The children are tying boughs together to hang on the hearth,” Mrs. Nevin said proudly. “It’s something we’ve always done on Christmas Day.”
“It’s a lovely tradition,” Fiona said. “May I help them?”
The Nevin lass looked as is if she might float away; her gaze flew to her mother with a very loud but silent plea.
“They’d be honored,” Mrs. Nevin said.
Duncan watched Fiona sink to her knees beside the girl and begin to put the boughs together, helping her tie them with ribbon. Collin, the youngest boy, who Duncan knew had the aim of a grown man when it came to shooting grouse, leaped over a stool to join them. He stood at the fire, watching the three of them binding the boughs together. Fiona’s bright smile had returned, and she told the children a tale of Hogmanay from her childhood that included such excitement as spears, beavers, toppled bonfires, and general mayhem.
When they had at last finished tying the boughs, the elder boy, Tavin, dragged his father’s stool to the hearth and stood upon it, trying to reach the mantel. His reach was short, however. Mr. Nevin moved to help him, but Duncan waved him off. He took the bough from the boy and said, “Allow me.”
“I’ll fetch the others, milord!” Tavin exclaimed, and leaped off the stool to gather the others.
With the children gathered round, Duncan proceeded to tack the boughs to the cottage wall above the mantel. He methodically went about it, his heart and mind on Fiona while he mindlessly stuffed the boughs beneath his bad arm, then used his shoulder to hold them in place while he tacked them up. How she must despise him! Good. It was no less than he deserved. He did not deserveto think her light had shone through to his marrow. He did not deserve to feel her body, soft and small next to his, resting so perfectly in his arms. He deserved her complete disdain. He should wallow in it, for heaven’s sake.
He was rudely brought back to the present when Collin asked what had
When he entered the cottage directly behind his host, his gaze fell upon Fiona standing at the hearth, her hands held out over the heat. She looked tired, and her gown was in an awful state of dishevelment, stained by snow and ash and tree sap. Her hair, which had begun the journey bound up nicely, had come undone in several differentplaces. Thick strands of brown hair fell here and there down her back and over her shoulder.
He’d never seen a lovelier sight. To him she was beautiful.
He’d had every intention of telling her who he was when he’d pulled the team to a halt on the road. He would not have waited so long had he not already lost his heart to her. He could not bear to see her censure when she realized he was the one who had so stupidly and rudely dismissed her all those years ago. He’d thought all day how best to broach it—but he’d not counted on the Nevin family’s appearing so unexpectedly from the forest path.
“Shall I take your hat, laird?” Mr. Nevin asked as Mrs. Nevin bustled about the table, helping Tavin add two place settings.
“We are delighted you’ve come, laird!” she called to him. “Please, take off your cloak and warm yourself by the fire.”
There was no reason not to do as she asked—the Nevins had seen his face, as had most of his tenants. There was no reason to keep the scarf on besides his foolish vanity. He glanced at Fiona again—she was looking at him now, watching him closely.
He shrugged out of his cloak first, sliding it over his bad arm. And as it hung uselessly at his side, he unwrapped the scarf from his head and handed that, too, to Mr. Nevin, and stood in all his grotesque glory.
“To the fire, milord—I’ll pour a whisky for you, shall I?”
“Aye, please,” he said, gazing at Fiona. She had every right to hate him. He looked for it in her expression. But whatever she was thinking was carefully hidden behind an inscrutably polite expression.
“The children are tying boughs together to hang on the hearth,” Mrs. Nevin said proudly. “It’s something we’ve always done on Christmas Day.”
“It’s a lovely tradition,” Fiona said. “May I help them?”
The Nevin lass looked as is if she might float away; her gaze flew to her mother with a very loud but silent plea.
“They’d be honored,” Mrs. Nevin said.
Duncan watched Fiona sink to her knees beside the girl and begin to put the boughs together, helping her tie them with ribbon. Collin, the youngest boy, who Duncan knew had the aim of a grown man when it came to shooting grouse, leaped over a stool to join them. He stood at the fire, watching the three of them binding the boughs together. Fiona’s bright smile had returned, and she told the children a tale of Hogmanay from her childhood that included such excitement as spears, beavers, toppled bonfires, and general mayhem.
When they had at last finished tying the boughs, the elder boy, Tavin, dragged his father’s stool to the hearth and stood upon it, trying to reach the mantel. His reach was short, however. Mr. Nevin moved to help him, but Duncan waved him off. He took the bough from the boy and said, “Allow me.”
“I’ll fetch the others, milord!” Tavin exclaimed, and leaped off the stool to gather the others.
With the children gathered round, Duncan proceeded to tack the boughs to the cottage wall above the mantel. He methodically went about it, his heart and mind on Fiona while he mindlessly stuffed the boughs beneath his bad arm, then used his shoulder to hold them in place while he tacked them up. How she must despise him! Good. It was no less than he deserved. He did not deserveto think her light had shone through to his marrow. He did not deserve to feel her body, soft and small next to his, resting so perfectly in his arms. He deserved her complete disdain. He should wallow in it, for heaven’s sake.
He was rudely brought back to the present when Collin asked what had
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