MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night (13 page)

Morgan got
Killy
and Joseph settled and built up the fires, while Amalie nursed little Lachlan and Connor to sleep and set a meal on the table for the Virgin. He was determined to make peace with his wife tonight, one way or another. He’d seen her tears, had wondered whether it was the tale of the first Christmas that had moved her — or whether her tears were borne of sorrow.

The nagging feeling in his heart told him it was the latter.

Aye, he’d been gone most of a week, but his mind had never wandered far from the troubles that divided them. It stood to reason that their problems had preyed on Amalie’s mind as well.

Having laid out the meal, she picked up a brass candleholder in one hand, the flame’s light dancing on her beautiful face, her long, dark hair spilling down her back.

Say
somethin
’, you lout!

But before Morgan could find his tongue, she had disappeared into their room.

What could he say? He wouldn’t apologize for wanting to protect her. That was his duty as a husband. Why was he expected to watch over her and keep her safe from harm when it came to wild animals and ruthless men, but blamed and condemned when he tried to protect her from the harm that his own seed might cause?

You are selfish and wish only to free yourself from fear.

Her words came back to him, but he brushed them aside. He followed her, closing their bedroom door behind him, not wishing for his words to disturb
Killy
and Joseph.

She stood there wearing only her nightgown, a woolen shawl around her shoulders, candleholder in her hand.

"I’ve a gift for you." He drew the velvet bag from his breeches and gave it to her, taking the candleholder to free her hands.

Curiosity on her sweet face, she opened the bag and drew out the combs. "Oh, Morgan! They are lovely!"

He felt a surge of relief, glad that she was pleased with his gift. "They are carved from ivory. When first I saw them, I could not help but imagine them in your hair."

She turned them over in her hand, her enthralled expression giving way to worry. "But how could you afford such a gift?"

"
Och
, it was well within my means. I would give you the stars if it would prove to you that I love you."

Sadness returned to her face. "I do not doubt your love, Morgan. These are beautiful, but there is no possession I value more than
you
— your body, your heart, your soul — and that is what you refuse to give me. Thank you for the combs. Good night, Morgan.
Joyeux
Noël
."

She turned as if she meant to go sleep in the boys’ room again.

Hurt lanced through him, followed by anger.

It was time they settled this.

"Amalie — stop." He went to her.

She stood still, as he’d bidden her, but her gaze was averted.

"
’Tis
Christmas. You’ll be
sleepin
’ in the bed
wi
’ me tonight. I’ll no’ see you catch your death by
sleepin
’ on the floor."

"As you wish."

Och
, Satan’s hairy arse! He hadn’t meant to speak the words as though they were a command. He didn’t want her obedience. He wanted her to be happy.

He set the candleholder down on the bedside table, reached out, cupped her shoulders. "I
dinnae
wish to see you fall ill."

She said nothing.

"Amalie, for God’s sake! How can you blame me when all I want in this world is to keep you and our sons safe?"

She turned to face him. "I do not wish merely to be safe. I want to
live
, Morgan! I want to feel your love, to be your wife in every way!"

"But you
are
my wife in every way."

She shook her head. "You refuse to give me all of yourself, as if I were your mistress or your…your
whore
."

"That’s no’ the way of it. I cherish you! You bloody well ken that!" He drew a breath, worked to rein in his temper. This was not turning out as he’d hoped. He did not wish to fight with her. "At least tell me why you were
weepin
’. I saw tears on your face."

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I was thinking of Mary. An angel came to her and told her she was with child even though she was a virgin, and she never once faltered. Not when Joseph doubted her. Not on the long journey to Bethlehem. Not when she had no choice but to give birth in a stable with only Joseph at her side. It is a story of faith, Morgan. Can you not see? If Joseph found the faith to stand by Mary, why can you not find the faith to stand by me?"

"But I
do
stand by you! I would never forsake you!"

She looked up at him. "In your fear, you already have. By denying me your body, you deny
us
, our marriage, our love. You seek to spare me suffering, but in doing so you deprive me of the joys of being a wife and mother."

And Morgan understood. "You truly want this. You would risk your life for this."

"
Oui
. I want you Morgan — all of you."

He drew her to him, taking her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. She melted against him, returned the kiss with a woman’s full passion, her fingers sliding into his hair.

Desire long denied flared to life inside him, and he found himself lifting the soft linen of her nightgown in impatient handfuls, hungry for the feel of her, his cock already hard and straining against the leather of his breeches.

But she was impatient, too, her hands sliding beneath his shirt to caress his chest, then dropping lower, boldly rubbing the bulge of his erection.

There was no time for tenderness or gentle kisses, raw need driving them both.

With a groan, Morgan drew her nightgown over her head, then lifted her off her feet and laid her back on their bed, firelight dancing over her bare breasts, the gentle curve of her belly, the dark curls that hid her sex.

She reached down to fight with the fall of his breeches. "Now, Morgan!"

Hunger pounding though his veins, he pushed her hands aside and drew his cock free, moaning aloud when he pressed the engorged tip against her cleft to find that she was already wet and ready for him.

Her legs wrapped possessively around his waist, drawing him closer as he slid inch by slick inch inside her.

Amalie felt her body arch as Morgan stretched her, filled her, became one with her at last. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, the pleasure astonishing as he began to move, slow strokes quickly building into hard, rapid thrusts that rocked the bedstead. She closed her hands over his forearms, his fingers digging into her hips as he moved faster, thrust harder. Then his thumb found her most sensitive spot, teased it, moving in slick circles over the swollen nub.

She found herself on the crest, bliss drawing tight in her belly, then exploding in a warm rush, a flood of liquid delight. Morgan caught her cries with a kiss, groaning into her mouth as he followed her into oblivion and spilled himself inside her.

* * *

He made sweet, slow love to her twice more, once on the bearskin rug before their bedroom fireplace and then again in their bed. It was only as she lay in his arms, about to drift into dreams, that she noticed it.

"
Le
gui
." She did not know what the plant was called in English.

Morgan opened his eyes, a lazy grin spreading on his face when he saw it. "Mistletoe. Where did you find it?"

"I did not put it there." She sat up on one elbow. "I thought you’d hung it."

His brow furrowed. "Nay."

Amalie met Morgan’s gaze and knew he was as perplexed as she.

"Hmmm." His eyes narrowed. "My brothers."

Did he believe his brothers had done this?

Amalie blushed to think so.

But then Morgan settled her head against his shoulder, one strong arm holding her close, his other hand stroking her hair. "You know I’d gladly cut out my own heart and throw it in the dirt afore I’d hurt you. Can you
forgi’e
me, lass?"

"Of course." She
slid
her hand over his chest, her palm coming to rest over his heartbeat. "But leave your heart where it is,
oui
?"

* * *

Christmas Day dawned quietly, snow still falling, the forest around them blanketed in white. Inside the cabins, all were warm and happy. They gathered for a breakfast of salt pork, eggs, and
johnny
cakes after the animals had been tended, and then exchanged gifts. Everyone received something made by the hands of those who loved them — hats, mittens, shawls, warm nightclothes.

It was clear to Connor, Sarah, Iain and Annie that something had changed overnight between Morgan and Amalie, something that had nothing to do with the beautiful ivory combs in Amalie’s dark hair. If their smiling faces hadn’t given that away, then their tender touches and stolen glances would have.

But it was Iain who noticed the smug look on his youngest brother’s face. "What did you do, for I ken you’ve done
somethin
’."

"Do you remember the old oak by the burn?" Connor asked.

"Aye, for certain."

"I cut some mistletoe from its branches and hung it above their bed."

Iain’s gaze narrowed. "So that was
you
?"

Connor grinned. "I had plenty, so I nailed some up in your room, too."

"I thought Annie had done that, and I…Well, that’s none of your affair. She no doubt thinks
I
hung it,
hopin
’ to seduce her." And Iain remembered. "What of the mistletoe Miss Janssen brought
wi
’ her? Was that your doin’, too?"

"I gave her a sprig in Albany and told her it was a gift from
Killy
."

Iain threw back his head and laughed. "Merry Christmas, brother."

"Merry Christmas." Connor gave him a nudge. "And, Iain, you’re welcome."

* * *

The week between Christmas and
Hogmanay
passed in an air of celebration. The men finished the front room and bedroom of Connor and Sarah’s cabin, for it was there
Killy
and
Hildie
would spend their wedding night. Meanwhile, the women baked pies, cakes, and Black Bun for
Hogmanay
— what the British called New Year’s— and for the wedding.
Hildie
proved to be quite skilled in the kitchen and stepped in to direct the cooking and baking, but with such humbleness and humor that the other women were most grateful to have her help. And then
Hogmanay
arrived and, with it,
Killy
and
Hildie’s
wedding day.

Killy
wore his cleanest breeches with a new white shirt, his jaw clean-shaven, his Scotch bonnet washed and repaired.

"I’ve never seen you so…
clean
," Joseph observed, a grin on his face.

Killy
glared at him. "You’d best pretty up your feathers, lad, or you’ll never find a bride of your own."

But it was the bride who took everyone’s breath away.

Her stature queenly, her blond hair hanging in a thick braid down her back, she wore one of Sarah’s old court gowns, a creation of blue silk and pink embroidered roses that Sarah and the other women had altered to fit her, the color a perfect match for the blue of her eyes.