Page 22 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
The storm, his journey north, finding Crawford. Was it all a coincidence? Or did angels conspire against him? Lifting his head, he sought answers. None came. Cold mud froze his knees. The filly snuffed and snorted at the ground. Starlight shined in her dark eyes, and he fancied she was talking to him.
Time to go home.
“Yes,” he said. “Time to go home.”
The filly came closer.
He petted her muzzle. “There, now, girl.”
Despite his beastly roaring, she never ran away. A loyal mount, he wanted to keep her. This one wouldn’t toss him at the first bolt of lightning. Yet there was a liveliness about her. She was a spirited girl. He stroked her neck and climbed back in the saddle, having no idea of his whereabouts.
Once properly seated, he was still enough to hear water’s lulling rush. The River Eden. He’d not strayed far. Follow the river and he’d find the fair Englishwoman.
Her name was a whisper, “Sabrina…”
His craving for her rattled him. Steering the black filly, another thought shook him.
He’d saidhome.
Chapter Seven
The front door opened and a deep, resonant male voice reached into her house. Sabrina jumped up, her mending forgotten.
“Mr. MacLeod?” She raced to her entry hall and found the Scot and Digby wrangling armfuls of evergreen boughs. “You came back,” she said, more eager than she ought to be.
He’d taken off hours ago, and here he was, a delight to her eyes, his broad shoulders filling her entry hall once again. Trouble nipped his heels, but his weathered blue eyes sought hers—hopeful.
He was launching arrows at her heart.
He tipped his head, a proper but cautious bow. “Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford.”
“Mr. MacLeod.” She dipped a curtsey. “You seem to have brought a forest with you.”
His arms were brimming with a pine-scented apology. Yew branches with red berries, Scots pine, and another type of greenery she didn’t recognize. This was his plea for forgiveness. She strode forward glad to give it, though she’d already decided some groveling was in order.
She put her nose to the greenery, the aroma heavenly. He’d tamed the wildness of hill and dale and brought it to her. A dozen candles in her entry hall cast Mr. MacLeod as tired from whatever chased him. Those harsh lines melted when her hand brushed his. The backs of his fingers were cold.
The touch was not lost on him.
His eyes tracked her hungrily from under the brim of his cocked hat. “I was just telling Digby that your home has a lack of holiday cheer.”
“But Christmas Day is nearly over.”
“So it is, but we have Hogmanay and Epiphany to look forward to.” Mock concern clouded his features. “How many days of celebration would that be, Digby?”
“Twelve, sir.”
She slanted a look at Digby. His bright countenance informed her, he was in on this little conspiracy.
“You see, twelve days of festivities,” Mr. MacLeod explained.
“I’m aware. But why so many evergreen boughs?”
Pine needles were falling all over her floor. Little green invaders, those pine needles…just like a certain Highlander who’d swept into her life.
Digby adjusted his armload. “Mr. MacLeod informed me of your plan to enliven Eden House.”
“Did he?” Fingers to her chest, she listened with rapt attention since this was news to her.
