Zarabeth pulled him against her, closing her hands on the tight round of his backside, loving the feel of his hardness against her abdomen. He wanted her, his wanting made plain.
Very carefully, Egan eased himself away from her. Zarabeth longed to seize him and drag him back, but she made herself let him go. She had to agree—when Egan finally made love to her, she did not want his clansmen standing about laughing at them.
Zarabeth knew exactly when and where she should seduce him, and she was both elated enough and upset enough by her newfound freedom to begin planning it.
She swallowed hard, her needing body hating her. “You are right. We should go home.”
Egan let out his breath and quietly stepped away from her. They were both breathing fast, Egan’s hair a mess, his face flushed. With shaking fingers he pulled her placket over her breasts and fastened the bodice.
“We go back, now,” he said, voice unsteady
“Yes,” was all Zarabeth could manage.
Egan took her by the hand and led her out of the circle.
Zarabeth remembered why he’d brought her here today, to tell her that she was no longer married to Sebastian. She was free.
She could go to Egan without breaking her vows—now she only had to discover whether he wanted her, and how far his desire would take them. Would she become like the sighing ladies she’d met across Europe, fondly remembering their one night with the Mad Highlander, and would Zarabeth be able to bear that?
She was not confident that she could.
As they stepped from circle into the snow, Zarabeth thought she heard the stones murmur in satisfaction, but she couldn’t be certain.
* * *
Christmas in Scotland was a quiet affair, Zarabeth learned from Jamie. Decrees in the time of Calvinistic reforms had declared Christmas as simply another day on the calendar, in effort to distance it from the rather pagan rites of Yuletide.
This did not keep the Highlanders from celebrating with a feast, the pipes, and dancing until the small hours. In Nvengaria, Yule was a full-blown affair, with supper balls and a Yule log and candles lit to Christian saints as well as to pagan gods. Nvengarians believed in honoring everyone—or at least any god who meant an extravagant celebration. Half of Zarabeth’s married years had gone into planning the week-long Yule and Christmas feasts and balls, each one having to be more magnificent than the last.
In Scotland, the Highlanders saved their exuberance for Hogmanay. Castle MacDonald burst with activity from Christmas to New Year’s Eve, the family and servants working to make Hogmanay a glorious celebration.
Angus, Hamish, and Dougal brought in armloads of green boughs and let Gemma and Mary chivvy them to hang them here, there, and everywhere—and to change the positions of the hangings dozens of times.
Mrs. Williams baked and baked and baked. New Year’s Eve supper would consist of venison and ham, shortbread and a rich fruit tart called black bun. Zarabeth found herself in the kitchen helping Mary, Gemma, and Mrs. Williams in the days before New Year’s, cheerfully obeying Mrs. William’s commands. Mary tried to prevent Zarabeth from doing anything so beneath her, but Zarabeth insisted.
Zarabeth found happiness in the kitchens stirring batter and laughing with the female inhabitants of Castle MacDonald. She didn’t have sisters, and her childhood friends had been banished from Sebastian’s house after her marriage. She missed the girlish camaraderie, the jokes, the gossip, the laughter.
She was not afraid to go into the cellars that Jamie called dungeons, and often ran down to fetch another bottle of wine or whisky for Mrs. Williams while they cooked. Scottish cakes seemed to call for much whisky. The kitchen maids were terrified of the dark cellar, but the former cells held no terror for Zarabeth. After living with Sebastian, a dank cellar full of bottles and old chains seemed positively charming.
And Egan …
The man infuriated her. As much as he insisted on keeping a close eye on her, he’d avoided being completely alone with her after their encounter at the Ring of Dunmarran.
He continued to bunk down outside her door in the drafty gallery, piling on blankets and fur rugs to keep warm. Whenever Zarabeth opened her door in the mornings, he’d be stretched out in front of it like a great bear. A crotchety one too, because he’d growl at her to go back inside until he could get himself up and out of the way.
Then he’d meet her for breakfast in the Great Hall, where he’d spring on her some outlandish outing he wanted to take her on. Fishing again, or horse racing in the snow, or visiting his tenant farmers and discussing the best points of pigs. Once she went with him to catch a few sheep that had strayed into the hills.
If Zarabeth argued about going, he laughed at her and called her soft. In defiance Zarabeth would accompany him, to prove she had mettle enough to meet his every challenge.
In this way, Egan broke down the barriers her fear and self-preservation had erected. He let her remember what she’d been before she’d lived her life walking on eggshells. She recognized it and was grateful—if only he weren’t so aggravating. The Egan MacDonald of old, who’d lived to tease and bait the young Zarabeth, had returned. She loved every moment of it.
New Year’s Eve dawned crisp, clear, and bone-cold. Zarabeth spent most of the day in the cozy kitchen, helping with the last-minute cooking. She’d learned to make bannocks and shortbread and even porridge, and she stirred the dough for the thick black bun that reeked of whisky. When Mrs. Williams needed another measure of the liquor, Zarabeth readily trotted down the stairs to the cellars.
Despite the cold outside, the cellars were warm, insulated by the kitchen above and the thick earth and rock around them. It was dark below as always, Zarabeth’s candle a small circle of brightness in the black.
Barrels of whisky and dark bottles of wine and brandy marched in rows along the walls. The floor was swept clean, but the stones were uneven, making footing perilous.
A dark figure covered in fur crouched in the corner. It gave a low growl as her candlelight touched it.
“Valentin?” she whispered. Zarabeth held her candle higher, trying to see what kind of beast it was.
With a roar, the creature leapt at her. Zarabeth sidestepped just in time, and the shaggy body went tumbling end-over-end across the stones. The fur rugs fell away and Jamie lay groaning in the middle of them.
Zarabeth leaned over him, holding her candle high. “Good heavens, Jamie, are you all right?”
A great roaring laugh sounded behind her on the stairs. Egan strode down to them and hauled Jamie to his feet. “I told you she wouldn’t be frightened,” he said, clapping his nephew on the shoulder.
Jamie winced. “All right, Uncle. Why did ye think I was Baron Valentin?” he asked Zarabeth.
Zarabeth hesitated, unsure how much she should reveal. Egan answered, “He’s a great one for jokes.”
Jamie looked puzzled. “No, he isn’t.”
“Go on upstairs, lad. Ye had your fun.”
Looking disgruntled, Jamie hauled the fur rugs into his arms and trundled up the stairs past him.
Zarabeth remained, clutching her candle, while Egan lounged against the arch at the bottom step of the stairs. This was the first time they’d been alone together since the stone circle.
“I’ve been meaning to ask ye,” Egan rumbled, his voice low.
Zarabeth’s heart beat faster. “Yes?”
“Where is Valentin? I haven’t seen him today.”
Disappointment bit her. “I don’t know. I have not seen him either.”
“Well, if ye do, tell him I’m looking for him.”
She swallowed. “I will.”
Egan seemed to have forgotten all about pressing her against the stone at Dunmarran and ravishing her mouth. She hadn’t forgotten. She spent restless nights remembering the precise placement of his hands on her body, the feeling of his strength against her, and exactly how he’d tasted.
“Come upstairs with me,” Egan said. “This place is dank.”
Her
heart wished he meant her to go all the way upstairs with him, to his own room high in the castle, to make love to her. Zarabeth knew he only wanted her to should return to the kitchen, where the fire kept away the damp.
She snatched up the whisky she’d come to fetch and started past him. Egan didn’t move. When she was on the stair above him, she looked at him, nearly eye-to-eye.
His eyes were black-dark in the shadows, gold flecks caught by the candlelight. Most people showed what they were thinking in their faces or eyes or the way they held their bodies. Really, it wasn’t difficult to read people at all, even when Zarabeth shielded herself from their direct thoughts.
Not Egan. His eyes could be blank, his face expressionless. He could show great mirth, anger, or frustration, but when Zarabeth wanted most to know what he thought, he could shut himself like a locked sea chest.
His eyes betrayed nothing now. Stopping herself from heaving a sigh, Zarabeth turned and walked up the stairs.
She felt Egan’s warm fingers on her elbow, guiding her up as he came behind her, but he released her at the top and turned to cajole Mrs. Williams into giving him a taste of the black bun. Mrs. Williams ran him off, and he swirled away, laughing.
Bloody man.
* * *
The rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity. After all the cooking, the family gathered in the Great Hall to feast as darkness settled over the Castle. The Rosses joined them, both blond men handsome in their most formal kilts of Ross plaid. Egan looked devastating in his close-fitting frock coat and MacDonald plaid kilt.
Even Mary wore plaid tonight, a beautiful dress in MacDonald tartan. Zarabeth wore plaid as well, loving being one of the MacDonalds. Egan, true to his word, had announced his intention of making her an honorary member of the clan. The others enthusiastically cheered him.
Baron Valentin had not appeared. When she had the chance, Zarabeth whispered her worry to Egan.
“He’ll turn up,” Egan said. “He’s more comfortable on his own, I’ve noticed.”
His words were nonchalant, but he looked troubled. Zarabeth hoped Valentin was simply lying low in order to better to perform his role of first-footer.
The hard-faced baron had raised his brows when Zarabeth explained what a first-footer was, yet he’d agreed to go along with the game. His blue eyes revealed little, but his thoughts showed amusement that he’d been chosen for the ritual.
Zarabeth tried to cease worrying about him and enjoy the meal. There had been no more attempts to abduct or assassinate her, and Valentin was strong, fierce, and formidable and could take care of himself.
They feasted long into the night, with Mrs. Williams and the red-haired maids bringing up platter after platter of food. The noise from the kitchen below told Zarabeth that the castle servants were indulging themselves as much as the family. She’d given Ivan and Constanz leave to join them.
Gemma made certain everyone knew which cakes Zarabeth had helped prepare, and everyone praised her or joked with her as the mood took them. Zarabeth glowed under their banter, for the first time in years truly feeling at home.
Near midnight, the household, including the servants, trooped to the front hall to ring in the new year and welcome the first-footer.
Baron Valentin had been instructed to rap three times on the great door after the first stroke of midnight. Egan as head of the household would open the door to let him in. Valentin was to bring with him a stick of wood, a small measure of whisky and one of salt, and the black bun Zarabeth had wrapped and left in his bedchamber. A stranger offering to share his fuel and supper with his hosts would be most welcome.
The great clock at the top of the stairs ponderously tolled the hour, and everyone turned expectantly to the door. The clock finished striking, the last chime dying away, and the chatter ceased.
Nothing happened.
Egan moved restlessly. She saw him exchange a look with Adam, who shook his head.
Zarabeth jerked toward the door when she heard the latch lift. Valentin was supposed to have knocked, but Valentin often did things his own way.
The door swung open. Torches lit the foggy courtyard, and mists swirled around a figure in the ghostly light.
The man walked inside, pausing when he found the entire household assembled. He was tall, dark-haired, and Nvengarian, but he was not Baron Valentin.
Zarabeth shrieked.
Chapter 13
First-Footer
“Father!”
The word echoed through the hall as Zarabeth launched herself past Egan to the man in the doorway. Egan’s old friend Prince Olaf opened his arms for his daughter and swung Zarabeth off her feet.
Egan forced his heart back down from his throat, his pulse jumping. Bloody Nvengarians could give a man a heart attack.
Zarabeth was crying. She wiped tears of joy from her face and laughed shakily. “Welcome, Father. You’re our first-footer.”
Olaf looked perplexed, answering her in Nvengarian. “Your what?”
Zarabeth tugged him around and presented her to the curious household. “This is my father, Olaf of Nvengaria. Father these are Egan’s family.”
Egan approached Olaf with mixed feelings. He was happy to see his friend, yet at the same time he couldn’t forget what he’d done with Olaf’s daughter. The passionate kiss and beyond with Zarabeth at the Ring of Dunmarran had been floating in his mind, driving him insane ever since it had happened.
Egan held out his hand and clasped the newcomer’s strong one. “Well, met. Or I should say—What the bloody hell are ye doin’ here?”
Olaf smiled as he squeezed Egan’s hand, and he switched to English. “I wanted to see my daughter. And you, my old friend.”
Zarabeth’s eyes shone like sapphires. It struck Egan then that, as much as she raved about how she loved Scotland, Zarabeth was desperately homesick. She’d missed her father and her old life terribly. Now she clung to Olaf, love in her eyes.
Mary was thrilled to meet another Nvengarian aristocrat and instantly invited him through to the Great Hall. The others followed, spirits rising in anticipation of more feasting and more whisky.
As they filed in, Egan realized that in all the revelry, Baron Valentin had not appeared. Egan waited for the last of his family to bustle into the Great Hall, then he slipped out of the castle.
Olaf had reached the castle without impediment by Egan’s clansmen only because Egan had known he was coming. The carriage Egan had sent to fetch him in Ullapool had already been put into the stables with its horses, the coachman making his way to the kitchen to join the merriment there. The idea to quietly enter the house at the stroke of midnight had no doubt been Olaf’s—Nvengarians like dramatics. The tables had been turned on him when he’d found the entire household in the lower hall, waiting for him. Zarabeth had certainly been surprised, though, the look on her face worth seeing.
In the quiet warmth of the stables, the mare greeted Egan with pricked ears and a whuff of hot breath. Her foal moved quickly to the front of the stall to see him. The swiftly growing lad was friendly and would follow Egan or Hamish or the grooms around like a puppy.
Egan patted both mare and foal, then saddled his steady gelding to ride out into the night.
The fog had lowered, the air turning damp, and Egan knew there’d be more snow by morning. The night was not quiet, however. His tenants’ cottages glowed with lamplight, and bonfires burned on the hills.
Egan passed them by, although on any other New Year’s he’d go down to the village and join in. More firelight flickered in the distance, the next village with its bonfires. Everyone celebrated Hogmanay.
Egan turned from the homey fires to the cold of the open Highlands and rode off into the fog.
* * *
“Father, I have missed you so much,” Zarabeth said several hours later, as she hugged her father in a bedchamber Mary had hastily prepared for their visitor.
Her father’s room was small, on the same floor as Egan’s. Angus had offered to le
t Olaf have the large chamber he shared with Gemma, but Olaf had waved that away. There was only one of him, he said, he’d come unexpectedly, and he was happy simply to have somewhere to lay his head.
The family and guests still danced downstairs, the strains of the fiddle and the drum wafting upward through the castle. The shrill of a bagpipe sounded somewhere out in the darkness. Zarabeth and Olaf reposed side by side on the wide window seat, the only place in the chamber where they could sit close.
Zarabeth hadn’t seen her father since her wedding day. Firelight touched the face that would always be handsome to her, but emphasized lines that hadn’t been there before, and showed new gray threads in his black hair.
“Why have you come?” Zarabeth had been longing to ask that since he’d arrived, but they’d been surrounded, without a moment to themselves.
“A simple matter,” Olaf answered. They spoke Nvengarian, and Zarabeth felt a sweet relief that she could let her feelings flow in her native tongue. “I wanted to see you,” he said, giving her a warm look.
Zarabeth squeezed his hands. “But surely it was dangerous for you to make the journey.”
Olaf’s keen blue eyes missed nothing, and although Zarabeth knew he could not read minds, he knew how to read people. She felt love emanating from him but also curiosity.
“Your old father is still up to facing a danger or two,” he said, giving her a smile. “Though our cousin Damien is not happy with me. It took much time to talk him into telling me where he’d sent you for protection, though I might have guessed. Egan always did have a soft spot for you. Damien sent word to Egan, Egan consented to have me come, and here I am.”
Zarabeth swallowed. “He and his family have been very kind to me.”
“They seem kind people,” Olaf agreed.
They fell silent, the notes of the joyful music below filling in the space.
“Egan seems different here,” Zarabeth said after a time. “He still teases me something wretched, but he’s very much in command. The others argue with him—loudly—but they obey him.”