Scot Under the Mistletoe (The Hots for Scots) Read online

  Shifting his weight, he wondered how much to reveal. “There are…legends about the mistletoe and its powers. Mam has preserved these little bundles and only brings them out at Hogmanay. She’s always hung them in the doorways of our rooms, aye?”

  “And this year, she feels it appropriate to share their legendary powers with the rest of the Oliphants, hmm?”

  Brohn glanced toward the dais where the laird sat. “I suppose.”

  It wasn’t hard to guess why Mam felt so comfortable sharing her traditions with the clan.

  Moira Oliphant had moved to the castle when Brohn had been a mere lad and had taken the position of housekeeper. After her husband’s death, she’d become a sort of mother to the laird’s six bastard sons, and even to Nessa herself. Brohn and his younger sister, Lara, had been raised with the laird’s offspring, none of them realizing exactly how involved their mother actually was in the Oliphant life.

  Aye, she might’ve ruled the castle with her wooden spoon and scolding tone, but last summer, right before Lara had married one of the laird’s sons, Brohn had discovered his mother and the laird have been long-time lovers as well. It took Lara and Alistair’s relationship to expose the truth, though nothing had really changed upon finding out.

  The big reveal had only meant Laird William Oliphant and Moira were able to carry on their affair in public, instead of in secret. And apparently, Mam now wanted to share the legend of the mistletoe with her lover.

  His gaze slid back to his laird.

  The man was handsome, aye, and apparently, he’d had the eye of more than a few lasses back in his youth. But the thought of him carrying on with Mam, and in secret for so many years…?

  Brohn shook his head, not sure if it was jealousy or anger churning in his gut.

  The elbow in his ribs surprised him, and he started. “Did ye just elbow me?”

  Nessa smiled too sweetly. “I nudged ye. Are ye going to tell me about the mistletoe?”

  “Nay,” he growled. “I cannae afford ye to get ideas.”

  “Ideas, eh?” She waggled her eyebrows. “So it’s got to do with sex then?”

  St. Odran help him! When she got that mischievous look in her eyes, there was nothing he wanted to do more than kiss the living breath from her.

  Well, mayhap a few things more he wanted to do to her…but for the sake of his sanity, he couldn’t afford to think of those things.

  Like the way her lips felt, wrapped around my—

  He blew out a breath and scrubbed his still-cold hand over his face.

  She was The Oliphant’s only legitimate child. Her duty to the clan dictated she must make a strong marriage alliance to ensure the Oliphants’ safety and future. He knew this—he’d always known it—and yet, on that glorious spring afternoon, he’d been foolish enough to give into so many years’ worth of temptation and taste her.

  And the tasting had led to other things, and she’d become his. For a fortnight, they’d reveled in one another’s bodies and souls. And then her father had announced her first betrothal, and he’d been reminded why he couldn’t be with her.

  “Brohn, ye dinnae have to clam up every time I mention the word sex.”

  “I dinnae clam up,” he growled, dropping his hand and wondering if he was calm enough to report to her father yet.

  “Aye, ye did,” she declared cheerfully. “Ye clammed up clammier than a clam at low tide. Verra shell-fishly, I thought.”

  He groaned. “Yer jokes havenae improved. Are ye going to tell me why ye were in the armory?”

  His attempts to get her off-balanced worked. With a shrug and a smile, she admitted, “I was practicing holding a sword.”

  This time, he rolled his eyes as he groaned. “More embroidery?”

  The lass was a talented embroiderer, ‘twas true, but her choice of topics was more than a little unorthodox.

  He remembered last Easter when she’d surprised old Father Stephen by showing off her anatomically correct rendition of the martyrdom of his namesake, St. Stephen. And when she’d used a new dye to get the red color extra vibrant in a piece showing the close-up of the death of King Malcolm III at the Battle of Alnwick.

  And of course, the entire clan remembered—and would likely never forget—the depiction of the Gentiles’ orgy from Peter’s Gospel, which she’d stitched into a pillow for her father two years ago.

  All those limbs entwined in the most intriguing manner!

  Brohn knew of five different warriors who’d borrowed the pillow for “study.”

  Mayhap ‘twas the reminder of her outrageous pastime, or the way she was still smiling at him, but he felt himself relaxing. Ruefully, he smiled back. “Lass, ye’ve depicted enough warriors with swords. There’s nae need to infiltrate my armory and destroy all the weapons.”

  She shrugged and began to stroll toward the dais. Since that’s where he was going as well, he fell into easy step beside her.

  “I like to research,” she said breezily. “There was a position I wanted to portray, with the blade over one’s head, and Rocque is ensconced in his cottage with Merewyn.” She shrugged again. “With only two brothers in residence—and I cannae ask Malcolm, nor Alistair, so dinnae even suggest it—I had to research for myself.” She suddenly stopped and swung around to face him. “Ye’ll no’ tell them, will ye?”

  He had to chuckle. Malcolm was the clan’s scholar, who was always inventing or tinkering with something. Granted, since his marriage to Evelinde, and becoming father to her two sons, Mal had relaxed a bit. But not nearly as much as Alistair, whose marriage to Brohn’s sister had mellowed the somber man far more than anyone had ever expected.

  Nay, neither of them needed to know about it. “Yer secret’s safe with me, lass.”

  Her grin was heartbreaking in its perfection, at least to him. When she patted his arm, he swore he felt the tingles of pleasure shooting straight to his groin.

  “And yer secrets are safe with me,” she murmured throatily.

  Teasing him again, eh?

  He frowned at her to hide his desire, then swung back toward the dais, willing himself under control.

  Think of the clan.

  Aye, the choices he’d made during the spring, and the choices he made now, were what were best for the clan.

  “Nessa!” The laird’s voice boomed out across the hall. William Oliphant had a good voice for booming. “Come give yer auld da a kiss, lassie!”

  Throwing one last teasing grin to Brohn, Nessa hurried across the hall and dropped a very proper curtsey to her father.

  “None of that deferential shite, daughter. I ken when ye’re up to something!”

  She smiled cheekily and dropped a kiss on her father’s forehead. “I’m up to naught, Da. Just thinking how cozy ye and Father Ambrose looked, enjoying a flagon on a cold day.”

  “Aye, ‘tis frigid, is it no’?”

  Brohn decided ‘twas his cue to speak. “The elders are warning the snow—‘tis already started—will last a few days. There’s unlikely to be a real celebration of Christ’s Mass. I’m sorry, Father.”

  The pragmatic priest shrugged and lifted his flagon in salute. “We’ll find our own way to celebrate. For does the Holy Book no’ tell us to celebrate His birth in our hearts and minds, and wherever two or more are found together? Or something like that.”

  He belched loudly, then gulped more ale.

  Chuckling, Nessa patted the white-haired man’s shoulder. “I’m so glad ye came to be our new priest, Father Ambrose. I ken Evelinde is pleased to have her—have ye—around so much. And yer lessons are certainly…special.”

  Brohn caught her hesitation. The Oliphant’s new priest was a MacRob, who’d spent most of his life serving the neighboring clan. Although no one had admitted anything out loud, the astute members of the clan recognized his bright green eyes were the exact same shade as Evelinde’s, Malcolm’s new wife. It took no great genius to remember Ambrose hadn’t always been a priest, judging from his tales of wandering wisdom, and th
at he’d taken on the burden of raising Evelinde when her mother had died.

  So he nodded his agreement. “St. Odran kens I’ve appreciated the lesson about no’ swimming directly after a meal, although I cannae recall that particular passage in the Bible.”

  The priest shrugged, then winked at the laird. “Sometimes the Bible needs some help in the interpreting department. I’ll celebrate Mass tonight with the poor buggers stuck inside the castle, and we’ll have a grand ceremony on Hogmanay to make up for it, aye?”

  The laird lifted his flagon, and the two old men toasted the plan cheerfully.

  Brohn cleared his throat. “Laird, I’ll send Bean to Rocque’s cottage and have them spread the word among the villagers. After that, I’ll see if Cook happens to have the food baskets prepared early. Mayhap I can deliver them to those who are in need before the storm starts in earnest.”

  The Oliphant nodded, suddenly serious. “Thank ye. Ye’re a good one, Brohn, always putting the clan first.” He sighed and shook his head. “ ’Tis my first Hogmanay with all of my sons married, and I wanted them all here with me. I was irritated when Finn and Duncan went to the MacIans to celebrate with their wives’ family, and Kiergan trotted off to the MacKinnons’ domain…but now I’m only hopeful they’re out of this weather and will have a safe holiday.”

  Nessa leaned against her father’s side, dropping her arm around his shoulder and patting his arm. “We ken it, Da. I miss them too, but I ken they’ll be back home after the melt…just in time to make ye a grandda, if I dinnae miss my guess!”

  The reminder had the laird brightening. “Aye, and it’ll be a close race, will it no’? With Finn’s Fiona looking as big as a barn already, and Rocque’s Merewyn only a sennight ahead of her. And the others are no’ out of the running yet either,” he finished with a rowdy laugh, lifting his flagon once more.

  Immediately after betrothing Nessa to Henry Ruthven, Laird Oliphant had announced his sons were to get married. And not just marry, but produce sons quickly. In order to incentivize his little scheme, he’d declared the son who presented him with a legitimate grandson first would become the next Oliphant Laird.

  All six had reacted differently to the announcement, and all had changed their tunes after falling in love with their wives. Despite a few objections, all of the Oliphant bastards—born the same year, bringing with them a myriad of skills and blessings for the clan—had married last summer, and most of their wives were now mightily pregnant.

  The entire clan waited to see who would present the laird with his first legitimate grandson, and thus, would become the next Oliphant Laird.

  Would it be the charming Finn, or the taciturn Duncan, or would the lairdship go to the strong Rocque? Or mayhap ‘twould be thoughtful Malcolm, or devoted Alistair, or even the surprisingly changed rake, Kiergan?

  The conversation had swirled around Brohn as he drifted in thought, but he was yanked back to the present when Father Ambrose called out a welcome, and Brohn’s own mother arrived in a swirl of skirts, her cheeks blooming merrily, as she carried in a pitcher of ale.

  “Since it appears as though we’re stuck here for a bit, I thought ye two might like another serving.”

  As soon as she placed the pitcher on the table, The Oliphant leaned forward, dislodging Nessa from his side, and sweeping Mam up with one of his arms. “Ye’re an angel, Moira! An absolute angel!”

  Brohn’s mother giggled—actually giggled—and the laird nuzzled her neck as he pulled her into his lap.

  Shifting his weight, Brohn turned his gaze up to the ancient, faint smoke-stains on the ceiling around the hearth.

  “William!” his mother cried out with a giggle, then shrieked. “I’ve told ye no’ to pinch me there! Ye’ll be paying for that!”

  The laird chuckled knowingly, and Brohn closed his eyes with a wince.

  “I look forward to it, Moira. Verra much indeed!”

  To his surprise, he heard Nessa chuckle. “The two of ye are carrying on worse than my brothers and their new wives.”

  Brohn lowered his gaze cautiously in time to see Father Ambrose nodding knowingly. “A man might be blessed to find love once or twice in his life. It seems to me ye’ve found it many times, Laird, and ye’re no’ fool enough to let it slip through yer fingers!”

  “Nay, indeed!” The laird winked lewdly at his housekeeper. “I’ve got my fingers right where I want them!”

  Brohn muttered a disgusted curse under his breath as Father Ambrose guffawed.

  “Well said, milord! For as ‘tis written in the scriptures, raw eggs are the Devil’s folly and must be cooked well or risk salmonella.”

  Everyone froze, then slowly sent quizzical looks toward the priest.

  “What the fook’s a salmon-ella?” the laird finally growled.

  Father Ambrose shrugged cheerfully. “Baby salmons? Just dinnae eat raw cookie batter, is my point!”

  Mam began to chuckle, and Brohn shook his head when he said, “Ye have some strange teachings, Father.”

  “Aye, and every one of them are valuable knowledge to be passed down to yer children!” He raised his flagon to the laird again. “May ye have many!”

  “Right now I’m working on grandbairns, Father!” But the way the laird nuzzled into Mam’s neck made it look as if he were working on something aright.

  Brohn looked away.

  It was Nessa who huffed impatiently. “Ye’re being daft, Da! Ye cannae keep yer hands off Moira, and the whole clan kens it! The difference between ye and yer sons, is that they married the women they love!”

  Brohn’s gaze slammed back toward her, even as the laird slowly straightened and glared at his daughter.

  “Are ye lecturing me?” he asked softly.

  Mam patted his chest consolingly. “I’m sure she didnae mean it, William. The clan doesnae mind our little arrangement, I’m sure of—”

  “Damned right I’m lecturing ye, ye randy auld goat!” Nessa planted her hands on her hips, her gray eyes flashing in challenge. “Ye love Moira, and she loves ye! In the last six months, since ye admitted what ye share, both of ye have been happy. So why no’ make yerselves happier and just marry already?”

  Both Brohn and Father Ambrose held their breaths as the housekeeper slowly slid from Laird Oliphant’s lap. Brohn’s mother took her time straightening her skirts and bodice, then took a deep breath and met the laird’s eyes.

  To Brohn’s surprise, there was a longing in the laird’s gaze he hadn’t expected to see.

  The man had loved a noblewoman years ago, and when she’d died, he’d consoled himself in the arms of too many wenches; his six sons had been born of those unions. But he’d known his duty, and had married a harpy of a woman, Glynnis, who gave him Nessa, and then had passed on as well, leaving him, if not happy, then at least at peace.

  As laird, William Oliphant had his pick of many women, and often had them. Brohn had assumed his long-time affair with Moira was naught more than a distraction.

  But the look in the old man’s eyes now expressed something much different.

  It was Brohn’s mother who spoke though. “I am just a housekeeper.” She was answering Nessa’s question, but was speaking directly to the laird. “I’m no’ a fit wife for a laird.”

  Disappointment flared in William’s eyes, and Brohn blinked in surprise.

  But Nessa threw up her hands with a growl. “Oh for the love of Christ! Yer own daughter is married to my brother Alistair, Moira!” She jabbed a finger toward the housekeeper. “She was good enough for him to fall in love with, was she no’? She’s a fit wife for him, is she no’?”

  Mam turned anguished eyes upon Brohn, and he—wanting to protect her, as any son would—stepped forward. But she shook her head, just once, so he halted. Not for the first time, he wondered how much she’d guessed about his feelings for Nessa.

  Had she guessed what they’d shared?

  Had she guessed how much it had broken Brohn to step back when the laird had betrothed Nessa to ano
ther man?

  Had she kept his secret?

  It was the laird himself who finally spoke, “Alistair is no’ the laird yet, lassie. If Lara presents him with a son first, he’ll make the Oliphants a fine laird. He’s dedicated, somewhat somber, with a clear understanding of how to run this clan. And Lara will be a fine laird’s wife. But if another grandson is born first, Alistair will continue to do his fine work for the clan, and I will still be proud to call Lara my daughter-by-marriage.”

  “She could become yer step-daughter if ye just married Moira, ye stubborn auld donkey!”

  “Enough!” the laird barked, then shook his head with a sigh. To Brohn’s surprise, the old man glanced in his direction. “Sometimes marriages are just no’ to be. I’m sorry.”

  St. Odran, did everyone know his feelings for Nessa?

  Brohn did his best to mask his desperation as he turned his gaze to the woman he still—after all these months, and all these failed betrothals—loved.

  He nodded once, then echoed her father’s words. “I’m sorry.”

  And then, with an abbreviated bow to his laird, his mother, his priest, and the woman he loved, he turned on his heels and marched off to the kitchens.

  He still had a duty to his clan.

  Chapter 3

  Usually the light in Aunt Agatha’s solar—really, the women’s solar, but Aunt Agatha had long since claimed it as her own—was wonderful for Nessa’s stitching. But this afternoon, with the snow still coming down outside, the shutters were tied tightly closed, and they were reliant only on the light coming from the roaring fire.

  Frowning, Nessa twisting, holding her embroidery up to catch the glow from the flames. The crook of this particular warrior’s elbow was giving her some trouble, and it was exacerbated by the fact she had no idea if the sword he was holding was going to fall in this direction, or that one.

  With a frustrated huff, she dropped the embroidery into her lap, then rolled the kinks out of her shoulders.

  “Yer work giving ye trouble?”

  Aunt Agatha was one of the few women who didn’t look askance at Nessa for her pastime. Lara, Nessa’s best friend, was supportive of course, but even she thought Nessa’s interests were a little unorthodox. Aunt Agatha, who was Da’s aunt, teased Nessa, but defended her as well.