He smiled, at ease with his nakedness.
Breena began to tingle again, wondering if he’d always affect her powerfully. She suspected he would.
She swallowed, lifting her gaze when his manhood twitched and started to grow, the proof of his desire thrilling her.
“Do you often speak to your gods?” It was all she could think to say.
“Thor, Odin, and the rest of them aye do what they will and most times are too busy amusing themselves to bother with mortal men. But”—he came over to her, drawing her into his arms, warming her—“it doesn’t hurt to give gratitude when such a treasure as you is put in our path.”
Breena looked up at him. “You believe the gods brought us together?”
“I do.” He sounded sure. “Fate is inexorable.”
Out of nowhere a shiver sped down Breena’s spine. Leaning into Grim’s broad, powerfully muscled chest, she glanced at the bed where, according to the laws of the Old Ones, he’d claimed her body and soul, making her his bride.
She couldn’t bear to lose him.
“I’ll ne’er let us be parted, dinnae you worry.” He tightened his arms around her, stroking her back as his words only increased her chill. “The gods wouldn’t be so cruel. And I’d cut down the mortal man who’d dare attempt to take you from me.”
Breena didn’t say anything, just rested her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes, relishing the closeness, the intimacy of being naked in his arms.
Words weren’t good right now.
Not with the odd prickles at her nape and the shiver that had chilled her so.
She, too, trusted in the old ways. She couldn’t shake the feeling all wasn’t right in their world. Something was stirring beneath the surface. And it had to do with her and Grim.
She hoped she was wrong.
Yule was a time of joyous wonders. And the spirit of Christmas had been good to her, blessing her with her heart’s most fervent desire.
So she’d trust in the magic of the season.
It was all she could do.
Chapter Six
“Mercy me!” Breena’s breath caught as she and Grim rode past a frozen loch, its icy surface half hidden beneath a drift of snow. A huge fire lit the evening sky ahead of them, the sight filling her with wonder. The blaze stretched toward the heavens from the top of a low, humpbacked ridge, painting the clouds and mist with streaks of red and orange. “So that is a Yule beacon.”
“Aye, it is.” Grim sounded pleased by her delight. “That’ll be Greer MacGregor’s beacon, true enough. His tower house is around thon bend.”
“I believe I can hear the flame’s roar.” Breena lifted a hand to her brow, tipping back her head to better see the spectacle. “I never dreamed it’d be so large, or so colorful.”
“Such a blaze must be huge where the glens are so vast and empty, the hills even more daunting,” Grim reminded her. “ ’Tis a wondrous time of year, Christmastide. The lairds and chieftains will be wanting to guide all friends and kin to their door, to celebrate.
“The Yule beacons are tradition.” His voice deepened, his love of his Highland home evident. “They’re a fine way to greet visitors, assuring even lonely wayfarers of a hearty holiday welcome.”
Breena glanced at Grim, her heart doing a little flip when he flashed his crooked smile.
He rode close beside her, as he’d done since they’d left the Munzie farm so early that morning. Their hosts had sent them off with much fanfare after Grim revealed their stay had inspired them to exchange vows in the wee hours, following the honored tradition of their Celtic ancestors.
Grim hadn’t stopped smiling since. He’d even told her he didn’t know how he’d master his tasks at Duncreag now because she occupied his heart and mind so completely little room remained for anything else. His pleasure at their union , and in her, filled her with so much joy, she was sure no other woman could be more fortunate.
Even now, he kept glancing at her in a bold, appreciative way that sent rivers of awareness flowing all through her.
Not wanting to arrive at the MacGregor’s in a swoon, she returned her attention to the Yule beacon. “I didn’t expect the fire to be so beautiful.”
“Some say such a balefire can make the devil envious.” Grim turned his own gaze back to the frost-hardened path they were following along the lochside. “That is so because the poor devil has only the flames of hell to ponder while a Highland chieftain’s Yule beacon blazes across the most stunning country this side of heaven.
“Indeed”—his tone held pride—“to a Highlander, our hills and glens are heaven. I vow even Valhalla would pale by comparison.”