Once Upon a Highland Christmas(2)

And it’s powerful enough to tear them apart and ruin Duncreag’s Christmases forevermore.





Chapter One



THE GREAT HALL AT DUNCREAG CASTLE


Scottish Highlands

Winter 1398

The Christmas thief was the wrong man.

Breena O’Doherty was too stunned to blink as she stared across the night-darkened hall at the surprising culprit. The hour might be late, but sleep hadn’t dulled her wits. Besides, there could be no mistaking Grim Mackintosh, Duncreag’s captain of the guards. Huge and powerfully built, he stood head and shoulders over other men.

Even through the shadows, she recognized him.

Until this moment, she’d secretly admired and even desired him, though it wasn’t her place. As a village lass from Ireland, unable to claim noble birth, she was only here at Duncreag because Ralla the Victorious and his band of raiders had captured her and brought her with them to Scotland.

If Grim hadn’t ridden from a neighboring glen to oust the invaders, the gods only knew what might have come of her. That Archie MacNab had allowed her to stay on at his castle would never have happened if Grim and his men hadn’t rid Duncreag of the marauders. Her own home in Ireland had been destroyed, the village burned and all inhabitants slain. She wouldn’t have had anywhere to go.

So she had always looked on Grim kindly. Until this moment.

Now, Grim only shocked her. That he was guilty of ridding Duncreag of its already meager holiday decorations was clear. Any fool could see the long strand of beribboned ivy trailing from his belt. But only she knew the ivy had been part of the high table’s centerpiece.

She knew that because she’d placed it there that morning.

Christmas was only days away. Brightening the hall and slipping little bits of cheer throughout the castle mattered to her. It was a season of hope and miracles, after all. She missed the festive celebrations she’d enjoyed in Ireland. She’d seen how Yuletide wonders could happen, lifting spirits and healing hearts.

Duncreag needed Christmas.

Truth be told, so did she. And so she frowned at the now-empty high table. The beribboned ivy should be there still. It would be if not for the man across the hall.

He just wasn’t who she’d expected.

She’d been sure Archie MacNab was responsible.

The old laird had been her prime suspect. She could see him sneaking into the hall at night, gathering the bits of cheer she took such care to set upon tables or drape on the walls. Then she’d imagined him slipping out again, his arms laden and his feet silent as he absconded with her holly and ivy, and even the white-berried balls of mistletoe.

Archie hadn’t smiled once since the start of the festive season.

He’d even vowed there’d be no celebration at Duncreag.

Now…

Breena bit her lip, her brow pleating as she watched Grim. Disappointment welled inside her and her breath caught, trapped in her lungs.

Not wanting to believe her eyes, she leaned closer to the wall hanging she was hiding behind. She narrowed her gaze to see better, peering harder through the tiny rip in the tapestry. Only a few torches were lit and the hearth fire was nearly gone, the peat and wood ash giving off little more than a ruddy glow.

A fine haze of smoke hung in the air and the shadows were deep. Gloom filled the cold, empty hall and the darkness was thick, lending a cloak of stealth to anyone desiring to remain unseen.

A man, it would seem, like Grim Mackintosh.

The big Highland warrior knelt beside the Cailleach Nollaigh, a large chunk of wood cut from an oak tree and fondly called the Old Christmas Wife because it’d been carved to resemble a crone. Some folk preferred the term Yule Log.

Either way, it represented the cold and dark of winter. The log was tossed onto the Christmas Eve fire so that its burning would triumph over the bleakness. As soon as the flames danced, bright golden light filled the hall and warmth spread hope and cheer. Candles were lit at the hearth and carried in a procession to grace each table. Voices were raised in song, joyous and grateful. It was an ancient and well-loved practice to bring good fortune to the clan and castle in the coming year.

Few holiday traditions were more sacred.

Grim didn’t seem to care.

Breena stood frozen behind the tapestry, unable to move as he bent over the log, glowering at the oaken crone visage as if he hadn’t carved her himself only the day before. He’d been pleased when he’d finished, brushing his hands in obvious satisfaction and declaring the old woman’s image as near to life as he could make her.

True, Archie should have done the handiwork.

Such was aye a chieftain’s honor.

But the old laird had spirited himself away, pretending he wasn’t aware that Grim and others had carried a huge stump of finest oak into his hall. Grim had no choice but to carve the Cailleach Nollaigh.