O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,14

his leg?”

“Nay,” rumbled Nolan. “He broke his arm. Saffy set it.”

Wincing, Callan sat forward. “I hope he’s aright now?”

Beck scoffed. “He healed fine. ’Twasnae the first broken bone Da’s wife had to set, and willnae be the last.”

“I seem to recall a half dozen of those broken bones were yers,” Callan teased.

Beck merely smiled, and a call from the dark stairway drew their attention.

“Begging yer pardon, Laird, but the lad…”

It was Adam’s nurse, and she was carrying the bairn, who was searching for his father.

Surprised to find himself a little disappointed to be leaving his cousins, Callan nodded to Beck and Nolan. “My duties call. I hope ye’ll be able to find some fun without me?”

Nolan jerked his thumb to his brother. “This one could find fun, even if he were blindfolded and a carrot shoved up his nose.”

“That doesnae sound fun.”

Slapping his knee, Beck smirked. “Depends how ye do it. But aye, we’ll find a dice game or track down Da. Ye go do lairdly things.”

He made a shooing gesture, and Callan sent a glance over his shoulder at his waiting son.

“’Tis no’ lairdly things, but fatherly things.”

Nolan said something in response to his quiet correction, but Callan was already halfway across the hall. He took his son from the nurse’s arms and lifted the lad against his shoulder.

“Thank ye,” he said to the servant. “I’ll put him to bed when he’s ready.”

She curtsied and hurried toward the kitchens for her evening meal, and Callan began to climb the steps.

Adam was a sturdy little lad and a month shy of the second anniversary of his birth. He had his mother’s light hair, but the Mackenzie eyes—dark blue, deep and full of emotion. At least, that was how Callan had always thought of his uncle’s eyes.

Thank the saints, he didn’t recall his father’s.

“Did ye have a good day today, laddie?” he murmured to his son as he strolled toward his solar. “Are ye hungry?”

“Tarts! Gammy tarts.”

Callan hummed. “Yer grandmother gave ye tarts, eh? Are ye almost ready for bed? Are ye sleepy?”

“Nay!” the little boy declared, a chubby fist banging against Callan’s shoulder.

The man chuckled as they reached the private room. “Ye want a story, I suppose?”

“Aye!”

Without pushing the door closed, Callan crossed to the hearth. The fire had been laid because of all the company in the keep. He settled into one of the chairs that stood by the hearth, across from the large desk. Uncle Jaime always called it his grandfather’s desk, but to Callen, it was the seat of his power, and he had been proud to sit behind it for the first time.

Now, it seemed hollow, and he was more content here, with his son curled up on his lap.

“What story do ye want to hear? Something appropriate for the season? Mayhap Yule? Or the story of Christ’s birth?”

Adam studied him with big, serious eyes as he chewed on his fingers. Then, removing them with an audible pop, he declared firmly, “Mama.”

With a sigh, Callan cuddled the bairn closer. “Aye, lad,” he managed, his throat choked with emotion. “I’ll tell ye about yer mama.”

For the untold time, he told the story of meeting Fia, the daughter of a neighboring laird, and being enamored of her beauty. She was so soft and delicate, and he’d been young and determined to marry to continue his line.

That’s what the laird was supposed to do, after all.

And it had worked. They’d gotten on well together, and in time, he grew to love her. Her first pregnancy was easy, or he would’ve never asked her to attempt another one, once they had wee Adam. But she was determined to do her duty, and both loved the thought of another bairn so close to Adam’s age.

On his lap, his son’s eyes grew heavy, and as Callan was telling him about their wedding—most of which he only remembered from his aunt’s stories since he’d been too focused on the upcoming bedding to care—the lad finally fell asleep.

Callan buried his nose in Adam’s light curls and inhaled deeply.

“Ye still miss her.”

The soft statement, coming from the door, jerked his attention from his memories. He scowled to find his aunt smiling gently at him.

“Of course I miss Fia. Every day.”

“Ye ken…” Agata padded softly across the room to the opposite chair. “Grief is like the ocean’s waves.”

“Aye, ye’ve told me. They were damn near overwhelming at first, but now…” He blew out a breath through his nostrils. “Now they’re no’ as hard to bear. Now