A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,85

and recovery. Ten years of love. The house was warm, full, laughter and music echoing from every corner. Broc had kept his promise and had used his influence in the government and military to clear Stuart’s name. No more fear of the Butcher’s men chasing him through every corner of the country. When Malcolm Mackenzie had been restored to the dukedom of Kilmorgan, he had added his assistance to make certain Stuart, the Mackenzies’ old friend, lived undisturbed. Even so, Fiona and her network of ladies had continued aiding Highlanders who needed to flee Scotland, and Stuart had been happy to help her.

Broc had found a lass for himself—not a sad dowager who’d leap at the chance to marry any man, as he’d feared, but a fine woman with fire in her eyes. She’d nursed Broc back to health and borne him three dark-haired sons. Broc had been transformed.

Tavin and Neilan had wisely decided to try their luck in France, and had departed Scotland’s shores, so far never to return. Broc, as their nearest relative and their laird, had taken over their property, keeping it in trust for his younger sons.

Fiona swirled by, stooping to kiss Stuart on the lips. His body stirred, craving another morning like this one had been, he with Fiona in their large bed, wrapped around each other.

Fiona winked at him as she hurried on, knowing his thoughts.

“The First-Footer!” Michael shouted as someone pounded on the massive door below.

He and his brother raced down the stairs. Stuart caught up Innis and followed, Fiona and Una coming after him with Alina.

The clocks were striking twelve. If the first guest in the door had dark hair, they’d have good luck all the year. If he or she were blond …

Michael, impatient, shoved open the bolts. A man, slight and small with white-gray hair pushed inside, snow swirling after him.

“About time ye opened up. Me balls will freeze off.”

“Gair!” Fiona eyed him reproachfully even as she pulled him inside. “You’re the First-Footer. It was supposed to be Broc or one of his sons.”

“He’s pulling his children off the horses—takes him a while.” Gair beamed a broad smile. “’Tis no matter. Me hair was black as tar when I was a boy.”

“Very well,” Fiona said, resigned. “Upstairs to the hall with you. But nothing goes in your pockets, mind.”

Gair widened his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Padruig pushed in behind him. “Shut it, Gair.” He turned his gray eye to Fiona. “I’ll watch over him.”

Padruig and Gair appeared scarcely any different. Same weather-beaten faces, same scruffy clothes. But they’d filled out, well-fed, and their coats, though salt-crusted from the sea and mud-spattered from their journey, were of fine brocade and velvet. Rumor had it that they’d stumbled across a treasure—possibly even the French gold that was supposed to have come to aid Prince Teàrlach. No one could confirm this rumor, and Gair and Padruig had never mentioned it to a soul.

“You are welcome,” Fiona said to Padruig. “As always.”

Padruig gave her a nod. “Thank ye, lass.” He handed her a small silk bag that clinked. “A gift for ye and your wee ones.”

Fiona took the bag with a smile, loosened its drawstrings, and peered inside. Her face lost color. “Padruig …” she said in awe.

Padruig closed her hand over the bag. “Never ask.”

“Of course not.” She slid the bag into her pocket.

The fiddles and drums upstairs began to play. Broc, with his wife and children, sailed through the door, Broc no longer needing the stick to hold him upright. A slight limp was all that was left of his wound from Falkirk.

Fiona hugged him and her sister-in-law and nephews. Amidst the greetings she took her children’s hands and led everyone upstairs while music poured around them.

“A fine Hogmanay,” she called above the fiddles to Stuart. “Complete with my three wise Highlanders.”

Stuart leaned to her. “And my bonny wife. I love ye, Fiona Cameron.”

“I love you too, Stuart.”

The drums sped, the fiddles played, and Stuart swept his wife and children into the first dance, his world complete.

“And they lived happily ever after.”

Ian Mackenzie concluded the story with the expected phrase, and Megan sighed happily.

Ian had become aware, as he told the tale, that the other Mackenzie children, Ian’s brothers, and Beth had crept in to listen. Jamie, his son, as unlike Ian as could be—thankfully, in Ian’s opinion—was the first to ask questions. This was usual.

“MacNab. The name on Padruig’s sgian dubh. Wasn’t the mum of Old Malcolm Mackenzie a