Once Upon a Highland Christmas(4)

She didn’t like it.

She was also sure she could feel his stare through the woven thickness of the tapestry, as if his intensity pierced the cloth, pinning her in place, searing her straight to the roots of her soul.

Then he was right in front of her.

“I can see your slippers.” His words only proved what she knew. “If you’re after spying on a man, Breena, be certain all of you is hidden. Wall hangings that end above the floor give a fine view of feet and ankles. Next time—”

“There won’t be one, for I’ve seen enough.” Breena nipped out from behind the tapestry to glare at him. For good measure, she set her hands on her hips and tossed her head. “Though I’m surprised you know my name.”

“I know much about you.” He didn’t seem fazed by her anger. He also reached to lift a curl of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “I also ken that maids with tresses like flame have tempers and often act before they think.”

“I have reason to be wroth.” Breena snatched the beribboned ivy from beneath his belt and thrust it at him, accusingly. “You’re removing my decorations and”—she flashed a look across the hall at the Yule Log—“you were about to defile the Old Christmas Wife.”

“Was I, now?” He cocked a brow.

“You were.” Breena looped the strand of ivy around her own belt. “You can’t deny it. I saw you.”

“You observed me doing something, aye.” He angled his head, his beard rings clacking with the movement. “Do you aye believe what you see? Have you no’ learned that all isn’t as it seems in this world?”

“I know someone is ridding the hall of every bit of greenery I set about.” She narrowed her eyes, hoping to make him feel guilty. “I’m not the only one to notice. The poor kitchen laddies fear a bogle is responsible. Heaven knows Duncreag has seen enough tragedy in recent years for a whole army of ghosts to float about its walls.”

“No spirit is stealing your Yuletide frippery, Lady Breena.” He regarded her in a way that made her want to squirm, and not because of the nature of their conversation. “Think you I am no’ troubled by the actions of a sad-hearted old man?”

Brenna blinked, his admission surprising her. “You believe Archie is doing it?”

“Who else?”

“You’re the one who had my ivy dangling from your belt.”

“That proves the ivy was in my possession, no more.” A slow smile started at the corner of his mouth and spread until it was highly distracting. “I found the ivy in the passageway.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hall’s darkened entry arch. “I meant to return it to the high table.”

“When, after you damaged the Old Christmas Wife?” Breena’s chin came up. She wanted to believe him, but she’d caught him in the act. “I saw the dirk in your hand, the look on your face. You were furious.”

“So I was.” He set his hands on her hips, his grip firm as if he worried she’d bolt if he didn’t keep her before him. “But no’ because some crazed fury had me wanting to ruin the crone I’d spent hours working on, aiming to make her as lifelike as I could.”

“She was perfect.”

“So I thought.”

Breena was keenly aware of his big strong hands at her waist, his splayed fingers and how their warmth reached her despite the cloth of her gown. His touch felt good, even thrilling. So much so that delicious shivers rippled through her. She had to struggle against sighing with pleasure. But he wasn’t holding her because he desired her. She knew why he was in the hall and why he didn’t want her watching him. There was nothing wrong with her eyesight.

He had been about to defile the Cailleach Nollaigh.

She knew what she’d seen.

So she kept her chin raised, not hiding her suspicion. “If you were so pleased with the carving, why were you about to ruin her?”

“You think that was my intent?” Disappointment flickered across his face.

Breena hesitated.

He leaned in, so close that his lips brushed her ear. “I told you no’ all is as it seems. Mayhap that is different in your Ireland. But I have been there, lass, and dinnae believe that is so.”

“I thought we were speaking of the Yule Log.” Breena pulled back, not wanting to talk of her home. Inishowen, Donegal, all of Ireland was gone to her. She could never return, for nothing of her village remained. Her family was lost, her parents and even her much-loved aunt and uncle, all dead. She’d only been spared because Ralla and his men wanted to sell her as a slave. They’d planned to do so after they’d settled into Duncreag. Now they were gone, too, praise the gods. And she was here. The way Grim’s breath teased her skin and how his soft, husky voice flowed through her made her uncomfortable.