Once Upon a Highland Christmas(33)

Either Clan MacGregor was prepared to celebrate Yule in grand style or the additional holiday goods were meant for somewhere else.

“You’re taking the season to Duncreag, aren’t you?” Breena touched the MacGregor’s arm, her smile tremulous, for she was so sure of his intent that her throat swelled with emotion. “The extra greenery and mistletoe is for Archie’s hall, isn’t it?”

“Aye, well…” The MacGregor pulled a hand down over his chin, looking embarrassed. “I lost my own wife some years back, see you? No man should suffer what MacNab’s been put through, old enemy or nae.”

“Why did you no’ say so right away?” Grim shook his head, looking about as if he had only now noticed the mountains of decorations.

“Could be I wanted to see if you’d be lout enough to remind me of that old favor!” Greer thrust a finger in Grim’s chest, once more cantankerous. “I ken well that you helped a few of my drovers when they were set upon by cattle thieves a few years back. That doesnae mean you ought to sally up here and expect me to do your bidding.”

“I ne’er dreamed it.” Grim accepted the ale cup a passing serving lass offered him, took a long sip. “As Archie’s man, I had to come. I’m glad to hear you’re willing to put the past behind you and—”

“I’ll ne’er forget he’s a ring-tailed, fork-tongued weasel, even if I do feel sorry for the bastard. No’ that I should.” Greer swelled his chest. “He’s aye been a pest. Once, he stole a lassie out from under my nose. That was years ago, back when we were lads sprouting our first beards. In those days, he was right bonnie, if you’d believe it. He had a silver tongue, which he used to woo the ladies. Most of us didn’t like him at all, I say you!”

Greer nudged a pile of holly and ivy with his toe. “If you’d hear the truth, my real reason for helping is Flora Munzie. She’s a MacKenzie.” He glanced left and right, lowering his voice. “Devorgilla of Doon, the most far-famed cailleach in the Highlands serves that clan. I’ll no’ be going against Flora’s wishes and risk waking up one fine morn to find I’ve been turned into a newt.

“Or worse!” He shuddered. “That Devorgilla has been known to stir much mischief.”

“So men say.” Grim nodded.

“As soon as Flora’s son rode off, I sent three of my own lads to rally the Gregorach and our friends.” Greer straightened, looking proud. “We’ll be there in number. If we cannae bring Archie to join in the season’s good cheer, then he’s hopeless indeed.”

“He’ll come round.” Grim slipped his arm about Breena’s waist, pulling her against him. “I’m thinking you’ve done the same, leastways in forgiving your erstwhile enemies. I ken something about that myself.”

“So I heard.” Greer glanced over his shoulder toward the dais end of the hall where serving lasses were just setting platters of roasted meat and other victuals on the high table. “Word was Malcolm MacDonald was at the Munzie farm. Guid kens you were at odds with that clan for years.

“Times change, they do.” He shrugged, smoothed down his plaid. “Come dine with me now. “We’ll speak of battles, bards, and lovely ladies.”

He took Grim and Breena by the arm, leading them around the piles of greenery, toward his high table. “I’d hear about Malcolm’s new bride. Flora’s son was in too great a hurry to share much news.”

And so it came that Breena and Grim spent much of the night regaling Greer and his MacGregors with all the tidings they felt able to share.

A certain long-standing debt concerning cattle thieves was agreed forgotten.

Promises were made and assurances given that all would be done to cheer Archie at Yuletide and to keep the peace throughout the New Year and onward.

If their clans would never be true friends, it was decided they’d at least be good neighbors.

Greer insisted Grim and Breena spend the night enjoying the luxury of his finest guest chamber: a lavishly appointed room with rich wall hangings, silver candlesticks, and even a floor of waxed and polished oak, warmed by a scattering of furred rugs rather than the usual rushes. Best of all, so Greer, the chamber held a massive four-poster bed with tasseled damask curtains and red velvet dressings, sumptuous and inviting.

“He has a good heart.” Breena carefully turned down the coverlets, smoothed the silken bed sheets. “Did you see all the scribing goods he’s taking to Duncreag as a gift?” She plumped the pillows, her lips curving. “He’s gathered rolls of parchment, three horn flasks of ink, and a full score of goose-feather quills.