Page 66 of Wed to the Highlander
Here, in the Highlands, it was practically nonexistent. Maggie hadn’t expected a spectacle but was heartily disappointed not to even have a Christmas tree. Her mama, who’d never spent a holiday away from Mayfair, was disheartened too.
“Yule celebrations were illegal for a time.”Duncan had explained when she inquired about it.
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Many clans feel the same. But things are changing.” He’d seen her crestfallen face and added, “You’re the lady here, Maggie. Celebrate as you wish.”
“I wouldn’t want to offend.”
“That won’t happen. Talk to MacLeish and Mrs. Craig. I’m sure a yule log and Christmas feast can be arranged and will be enjoyed by all.”
Maggie waddled down the corridor, one hand braced at her lower back, the other gripping Duncan’s arm. It was Christmas Eve, and the baby was due any day now. Her belly preceded her, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen her feet, let aloneput on her own boots. At this point, she was convinced the bairn was practicing a Highland jig on her bladder.
“You’re grinning again,” she said, eyeing her husband as they reached the stairs.
“I’m just enjoying how my wife is glowing like a sunbeam.”
“You’re laughing because I’m nearly as wide as I am tall,” she huffed.
“I’d never laugh at you,mo nighean bhòidheach,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Though I worry our larder will no’ last into the new year with your appetite.”
She elbowed him, and he grunted playfully. “So many have told me I’m eating for two, I’m simply embracing it. And you were the one who insisted I eat more bannocks. I’m merely being an obedient wife.”
“When was that single time? Remind me,” he teased, softening it with a wink.
As they entered the great hall, the scent of roasting goose and oat stuffing filled the air. A giant yule log burned in the massive fireplace, and pine boughs draped with red ribbon and sprigs of winterberry adorned the long dining table as centerpieces.Children ran circles around the trestle tables, cheeks flushed with excitement.
It wasn’t Mayfair, but it was warm, festive, and unmistakably hers.
“It turned out quite nice, don’t you think?”
“Aye, lass. It’s warm, festive, and not over the top. So we shouldn’t expect the bishops to be beating down our door, unless it’s to join us at the feast.”
“You’re in rare form tonight, laird.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? You’re happy and healthy, about to make me a da any day now. Calamity hasn’t struck in weeks. We have a tentative truce with the Camerons; you know whoseabsence casts less of a shadow. I can’t think of a better way of celebrating Christmas than being at peace.”
When the children saw her and Duncan, they made a mad dash for their places at the table.
“The laird and lady are here. Now we can eat!” Iona cheered.
“Black bun cake for me!” Peter shouted.
“Not until after the meal,” Fiona scolded then directed the placement of steaming platters with the precision of a general. Two plump stuffed geese, carrots in a cider glaze, braised red cabbage, and clapshot—an Orkney dish of mashed potatoes and rutabaga, laden with butter and sprinkled with chives—lined the table. Someone had made a mountain of shortbread, and whisky punch warmed in a kettle over the fire.
Maggie’s heart swelled. It wasn’t the Christmas she’d known—but it was one she’d remember.
The laughter came easily that evening. Duncan told stories of past gatherings, including the year Lachlan thought he’d caught a pudding thief. With a victorious cry, he skewered a heaping forkful of the sweet, only to find a mouthful of haggis—his sworn childhood enemy. One bite sent him bolting for his cider cup, sputtering curses between gulps while the family howled.
Fiona, buoyant from the spirit of the day—and perhaps a nip of whisky—confessed to nearly setting her hair on fire as a child during the ceilidh. Even the clan fiddler dusted off his strings and played a few reels that had Maggie tapping her foot beneath the table.
That night, when they were finally alone in their chamber, Duncan helped her undress, his fingers brushing over her hips and the full swell of her belly. Maggie’s breath caught. His touch was gentle, but distant. He’d been maddeningly chaste for the past several weeks.
“Do you know,” she said as he helped her into a warm flannel nightgown, “the midwife said making love could help bring on labor?”
“Did she now?” he said, voice gruff.
“Yes,” she breathed as she slid her arms around his neck, pressing her body—what she could of it other than belly—against his. “I miss you.”
