A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,56

above his coffin and pushing with all her strength. She groaned and strained, even let out a few curses, but it didn’t budge.

Blast. She’d need leverage. Perhaps a—

Strong arms seized her from behind, drawing her back against a body as hard as iron. One arm locked beneath her breasts, the other around her throat.

“I’ll give you two breaths to tell me what you are doing here, before I snap your neck.” The growl was ferocious, arrogant, and alarming.

And no sound had ever been so dear.

“John?” she whispered around the tightness of her heart throbbing in her throat. She turned her face to the side, instinctively searching for his warmth. “John, is it really you?”

“A woman?” As quickly as she was seized, she was released. Cast away from the embrace she craved with the strength of an opium fiend.

She turned to see him, drinking in the sight of him with the thirst of someone finding an oasis in the desert.

Before her glowered a man of pure flesh and blood. Sinew and strength. His golden hair was cut in neat layers, even though it now spiked in wild disarray, as if he’d rolled out of bed only minutes prior. It suited him, the lord of Lioncross. The structure of his body was achingly familiar. The same long frame, the same wide shoulders and tapered waist accentuated by a dark wool coat thrown over a hastily buttoned shirt.

Aside from deeper brackets around his hard mouth and longer sideburns, he was John.

Except.

His eyes were perfectly dull and flat. So empty a blue as to almost be called grey as they assessed her with all the emotion one might attribute to a shark.

“You address me so informally, madam,” he said over an imperious look.

Her heart gave one powerful, painful thump, before sputtering and dying. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I can explain.”

One golden brow arched over a look of recognition. “We’ve met before.”

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “At Lady Bainbridge’s fete.”

Recognition flared in the dim lantern light. “You’re Veronica’s sister.”

Just when she thought her heart could sink no lower. “Yes. I am.”

He made a rumbly, pensive sound, half between a purr and a snarl. “I still don’t understand why they call her the pretty one.”

“What?” Suddenly it was impossible to breathe.

He shook his head, blinking as if trying to clear it. “Sorry. Do you mind telling me what the bloody devil you’re doing in my crypt on Christmas?”

“I um…” She itched at her hair beneath her cap, wondering just how to get herself out of this predicament without being thrown in an asylum. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He leveled her a droll look, propping his shoulder against a stone wall. “Try me.”

She gazed at him a long time, at the lantern light splashing deep hollows beneath his chiseled cheekbones. Something in the imperturbable stillness of his gaze told her she could say anything.

So, she attempted the truth.

“I took refuge at a place in the Highlands of Scotland called Balthazar’s Inn on solstice night. While I stayed there I…met…” She sputtered and stalled out a bit. It was impossible to express her experience without choking up, so she reached behind her neck and unclasped the chain, letting the lion head ring slip from it into her palm. “I happened upon this, and was told it belonged to Johnathan de Lohr, the one who was lost at Culloden. I was…tasked to return it.”

Those heartless, ruthless eyes affixed on the ring, and she thought she might have read a spark of life in them.

But only just.

“The Lion’s Head.” His voice had become deeper, like a monk’s at prayer. “All this time. All these many generations have searched for it…and it just walks into Lioncross at Christmas.” He reached for it. Paused. And flicked his eyes back to hers. “May I?”

“It’s yours.” She offered it to him reluctantly, loath to let go all she had left of her lover.

He handled it as if it were made of spun glass, tilting it to unveil an inscription on the inside, which she’d never noticed. “Ever faithful.”

She leaned over to take a closer look, immediately aware that if either of them tilted their heads a fraction, their lips would meet.

“I’ve seen so many drawings. We’ve always assumed the ring was lost at the battle of Culloden. This was crafted in the Holy Land and gifted to the Lionclaw to always adorn the hand of the Earl of Hereford. In fact, a replica was never made because this one meant so much. They