Page 23 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Not unlike Mr. MacLeod’s turnabout today.
“Indeed, ma’am.” Digby warmed to the topic. “He will be Master of Frivolity, organizing celebrations and such. An excellent decision, if I may say so. River Eden Brewery will benefit, I’m sure.”
Digby was beaming. She’d never seen him this energetic and approving. But she knew what the old fellow was up to, sliding a mention of her brewery into the conversation. The servant’s future hinged on its success—the same as hers.
“I’ll muster the household tomorrow. Preparations will be brisk, but I believe we’re equal to the task, ma’am. Shall I put these…” The butler hefted his armful. “…in the salon?”
“Yes, please.”
Digby and Mr. MacLeod led the way, and she watched them dump piles of evergreen boughs onto her floor. The bounty was enough to decorate two households. Her house of pale blues and soft yellows was about to explode with green. Apparently, Christmas in the countryside was more important than it was in London. Growing up, her father and older brothers spent the day working. Her few years married were hardly different. As a draper’s wife, Christmas was a day of rest, but never festive.
One thing was clear—Eden House servants adored this time of year.
Digby dusted his sleeves. “I’ll go on the hunt for red ribbons and extra candles tomorrow. A trip to the village might be necessary.”
She marveled at his sudden enthusiasm for ribbons and candles. Digby hunting for anything was eye-opening. Glaciers moved faster than him, but the very idea of the task transformed him. Her butler looked ten years younger.
“I see that I miscalculated the importance of this holiday to the household,” she said, contrite. “I will make sure not to do that again.”
Digby straightened, proud. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“There is one more thing…” she said. “Before you settle down for the night, would you please make a plate of food for Mr. MacLeod?” She peered at the silent Scot—no jests, no quips. Was another storm coming? “He looks hungry to me.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Digby bowed and set out for the kitchen.
Mr. MacLeod tossed his hat on a low table, exhausted.
Her mask of fortitude was slipping. Her eyes sought his, questions hanging between them. Too many to count, and despite how glad she was to see him, she wanted him to plant his arse in her salon and not leave until he told her everything.
“You have some explaining to do,” she said.
“I do.” Conciliatory stillness followed.
What? No arguments? No reminding her he was leaving?
Well, then.
Mr. MacLeod was shedding his great coat, careful with the shoulder she’d bandaged. Her heart went out to him, but she held her tongue. Unless he’d hurt himself on his mysterious ride, his back wouldn’t need tending until tomorrow.
She sucked in a soft breath. More touching…
A kiss had followed, mere hours later. What would happen when she touched him again?
Mr. MacLeod surprised her by rolling up his sleeves and briskly rubbing his forearms in front of the fire. A little spent, she sunk into her favorite brocade chair situated there. This was where she sat most nights, alone. Mending, corresponding, reading when she could. No matter how grand the home, people lived in the small havens they made. Be it a nook in a corner or a chair by a window, everyone needed a safe harbor. Mr. MacLeod deserved his.
Faint lines wrecked his eyes. He was a big, big mess.
He was melting her with his need.
“Sit with me,” she said.
Mr. MacLeod dragged over a large winged chair, its leather cracking where decades of arms had rested. The previous owner was a widow of comfortable means, her son, a London banker. After she’d died, all the contents save three portraits, transferred to Sabrina.
The fact of this wasn’t lost on Sabrina. The contents of a house do not make a home—the people do.
But where and how the Highlander fit was…fuzzy.
He sat down and scrubbed both hands over his face. The fire’s glow illuminated dirt-stained knees, pine needles stuck to his waistcoat, and boots in need of cleaning. Carmine smudges were on his cravat. Their kisses at the castle.
