Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages) (9 page)

She’d lost the tour she’d been so excited about.

She’d lost control of her senses and set out in a snowstorm, in an unsafe car that she’d also lost control of.

She’d been used as a pawn in the game of some insane old man so the loveliest man she’d ever met in her life thought the smart thing to do would be to lock her up.

Now the only thing she could control was a freaking chamber pot.

Aaand...

She couldn’t even pretend this bedroom was her personal safe space because the danger of freezing to death made it anything but safe!

If the lovely idiot could somehow make his way to the top of the stairs and come open her door, she was going to bloody take control if it killed her.

Bree’s heart jumped when he finally reached the hall. It sounded like he was sliding along the wall, which gave her hope because if he was that drunk, he’d be a lot easier to overpower.

He slammed against the door. She jumped back. It was so hard to picture him that wasted, she suddenly wondered if their visitor wasn’t McKinnon at all!

Heavy breathing pushed through and around the edge of the door.

She tried not to freak out; after all, she had a little girl to worry about too. She hurried over to the chair, scooped up the child, wrapped the blanket tighter and hurried to the bed.

“We’re going to play a trick on Laird McKinnon,” she whispered. “You’re going to hide under the bed. Okay? Don’t be scared. He’s going to think it’s funny.”

She waited for the girl to nod before she laid her under the edge of the bed and gently pushed her back as far as she could. She didn’t have to remind her to be quiet. Then she went back to the door and forced herself to move close, to listen again.

“Brianna,” a man whispered. “Brianna. Open the door.”

If it was McKinnon, he would know it was locked from the outside.

“Brianna. Please.”

She heard something metal hit the hall floor. Then a stomp. A key flew under the door and hit her foot. She picked it up, then listened again. She wasn’t going to open the door to anyone but McKinnon, even if he’d given her a key.

“Brianna.” The voice was a bit stronger this time. “Cherub! Open the door.”

Only McKinnon would call the child Cherub!

Bree inserted the key and turned the lock. When she lifted the latch, the door pushed open with McKinnon’s weight behind it. She managed to stay on her feet, then caught him as he fell forward. Her strength was no match for someone twice her size and she went down. He fell on top of her with a grunt.

“McKinnon. Are you drunk?” She couldn’t smell alchohol.

“F..f...frozen,” he stammered. “Why...why...why is my d...daughter beneath th..the bed?”

Bree looked up to find the little girl grinning at them with the orange firelight lighting her face like the sun. She hadn’t moved, she was still wrapped up like a quilted burrito.

“Because I didn’t think the man staggering against the door would be you.” Bree pushed on his right shoulder and he stiffly rolled off her, with a lot of help. When she was on her feet she realized just how stiff he was. “Were you trying to find out just what it felt like to be a popsicle?”

She moved to the door and shut it, to keep the heat in the room, and while her back was turned, she casually dropped the key into her bra, then she tossed plenty of wood on the fire.

“N...not by choice. I was b...b...buried in the s...snow.  A...avalanche. S...stables. W...what are ye doing?”

He actually looked scared as she started to peel off his layers of coats.

“The heat can’t get to you through all your clothes.” She pulled a stiff arm straight and tugged off a sleeve. “Just be glad you’re not too wet.”

“I humbly beg yer pardon,” he said.

“For what?”

“If th...this is how ye felt when ye were left on me doorstep last eve.”

Wow. It was nice to have him believe her about something, even if it was just about how cold she’d been.

“I forgive you. Now, let me have your pants.”

CHAPTER TEN

Heathcliff was relieved each and every time Brianna returned to the bedchamber. She’d gone to the kitchens for water and hauled it up the stairs. She’d heated the water, made him soak his hands in it, then gone to fetch them all some supper. She’d also gone in search of wood and returned with much more than she should have attempted to carry, wee lass that she was.

He’d balked at nothing except for her request that he relinquish his trousers. It was bad enough manners to bask in the heat of the fire without a shirt, in the presence of females, but after he’d noted her reaction to his physique, he’d swallowed his pride. ‘Twas a fact her attention was drawn to his chest whenever it seemed there was nothing else in the room for her to examine.

It served her rightly, of course. He’d been fighting a similar battle with his own eyes since she’d first peeled off her extra clothing, and if he were honest, before then as well. There was something about her face his eyes found soothing.

And something about her lips...

She had donned her strange gray trousers and the gray knitted sweater, so at least his attention was able to settle on something besides her bare calves. There was a bit of an ankle showing now and again due to the shortness of her stockings, however.  They served as slippers, he supposed, but with all her scurrying about on the dusty floor, they were quickly turning gray as well.

The cherub had fallen asleep soon after eating, as had he. But he woke to find that the woman had still not abandoned them. As he sat in the chair fairly roasting before the freshly stoked fire, she bent over him to feel his forehead. She’d removed her sweater. Perhaps the heat was getting uncomfortable for her as well.

“You feel okay to me.” Her fingers fell to his chest just before she straightened. Even in the firelight, her blush was evident. His chest burned where her fingers had been.

“Oh? Perhaps ye’d care to examine me fingers?” He held them out for inspection.

She grasped his hands in hers and her brows flew high. She pulled him forward, toward the fire, then she began rubbing both hands and fingers as if his very life depended on it. When his upper limbs had been duly massaged, she demonstrated how he should wiggle them in front of the flames. As if he didn’t know how to warm himself.

“You’re going to be lucky not to have frostbite, Mr. McKinnon. Seriously.”

Though he appreciated being fussed over, he did not care to be addressed as Mr. McKinnon. Especially after she’d been rubbing his fingers with such familiarity only a moment before.

“Laird,” he said. “Laird McKinnon. Or ye may call me Heathcliff. One or the other, if ye please.

She snorted.  “Well, I’m not about to call you Laird.”

Inwardly, he smiled. He hadn’t suspected she would do so either. And so she would have no choice but to call him by his given name. He’d liked the sound of it on her tongue before. And even though she still could not be trusted, she had just fussed him back from a frozen grave. He owed her something for that at least.

“You called her your daughter,” she said while she stepped to the side of the hearth and settled herself against the wall, away from the immediate heat of the flames. “When you first came in, you called her your daughter again. Does that mean you’re done suspecting her?”

“Aye.” He scooted his chair back, but when she gave him a frown, he extended his fingers and wiggled them as he’d been shown.

She laughed. The sound of it did strange things inside his chest. Just like the lightning he’d felt before, but not painful.

“When you asked her if she knew the coachman, she probably just nodded to try and make you happy.”

“That was my conclusion as well.”

“Good,” she said, but she’d stopped smiling. “Now that that’s out of the way, I think we should have a serious talk.”

“Serious?”

“Serious means you’re not going to like it.”

“I see. Very well. What would ye care to discuss?” He crossed his arms and felt quite powerful when her gaze locked on his chest and upper arms. He flattered himself to think the lass might just forget what she had been about to say, for it took a wee while for her to blink.

Eventually, she shook her head and looked into his eyes for a change.

“The year,” she said.

He snorted. “Yer year, or mine?”

“Exactly.” She sat forward and twisted her hands in her lap. “I’ve just been in your kitchen, Mr... Heathcliff. Now, either you’re trying to keep this place looking medieval for the tourists, or you’re doing it for yourself, because you like pretending you’re the king of the castle, or whatever. I appreciate that your clothes are pretty authentic looking too, for the 1800’s. But whatever you’ve got going on here, you have to admit that it’s against the law—in the real world—to hold me here against my will.”

“Agreed.”

She’d taken a breath, no doubt prepared for an exhaustive argument, but let the air out slowly, then frowned.

“You agree? You admit that it’s Christmas Eve, 2012?”

Christmas Eve!  

“Lass. I beg yer pardon, but we’ll have to continue this discussion on the morrow. There are some things I need to do, ye see, before I can find me bed for the night.”

“Are you going to start a fire somewhere else? Or are you going to spend the night in here?”

He lifted a brow. She could not have meant the question to sound so...inviting.

“In here, with
us
,” she said, looking pointedly at the lump on the bed.

“Ah, I thank ye for the lovely invitation, but no. Dinna worry over saving some wood for morning. I’ll have more then.” He paused at the door. “Keep each other warm.”

“And who will keep you warm, Heathcliff?” It sounded more like concern than seduction, so he answered it as such.

“I’ll go and make a fire now, Brianna. I promise not to end me life as a...popsicle.”

Once he was out the door, his mind began to race. So much to do. So little time.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bree woke cold and stiff. She’d fallen asleep spooning with the little pumpkin, and by the way that little pumpkin was dancing around the room, she clearly knew what day it was.

She only hoped Heathcliff, as she was now supposed to call him, would put forth a little bit of effort to make the day special for the girl. She glanced nervously at the closed door, then remembered that she had the key.

She checked. It was still in her bra.

Someone knocked on the door. No mystery who it was.

“Good morrow, Cherub. Brianna,” he called through the door. “I’ve a warm fire burning in the parlor. If the pair of ye would prepare yerselves for the day and join me below stairs, ye may break your fast there as well.”

His steps moved away, then came back. He knocked once.

“And Happy Christmas.”

He sounded awfully cheerful. Maybe he had finally dropped the historical act and he’d be wearing jeans and a t-shirt. After imagining that for a minute, she decided Heathcliff in jeans and a t-shirt would be a great Christmas present.

She pushed away the fact that her family was going to be very disappointed when she didn’t call them that day, but she’d checked the place for phones. There was no way she could make a call, so she just wouldn’t waste time worrying about it.

She helped the little pumpkin into her black dress, her hose and little boots, then slipped her own cream cardigan over her little head.

“Merry Christmas,” Bree told her and held out the big rhinestone flower she’d taken off her own little black dress.

The girl was so excited she could hardly stand still while Bree pinned it on the sweater, over her little heart, like a corsage. She never took her eyes off it while Bree finished dressing in the deflowered but still shiny dress. As she slipped on her gray sweater, she ignored the smell of pine smoke.

Ten minutes later, she and the pumpkin headed down the staircase. Bathing both of them with only a pitcher of icy cold water had, out of necessity, taken three minutes, tops.

The warmth from the parlor reached them before they made it all the way down the stairs, and as they neared the parlor doors, Bree was suddenly nervous.

She’d convinced herself she was wearing the dress and nylons just to prove she knew how to wear them properly, but that was a lie. She wanted to drive the guy a little crazy, like he had been driving her crazy for two days. She wanted to look so good he would have a hard time acting all suspicious and grumpy for the whole day. If she’d been able to shower and wash her hair, she might have even won another kiss. But she’d settle for civility.

The doors opened by themselves and Bree realized, in a split second, she’d been beaten at her own game.

Heathcliff McKinnon, Laird of the McKinnons, stood gripping the top of the door, dressed in complete Scottish regalia. His green velvet coat was short-waisted and the shade matched the plaid of his kilt and the sash that went over his shoulder. She realized it was the same plaid as the drapes—green and red. She refused to look closer at the fur-covered purse that hung in front of his kilt. But she had no problem appreciating that, with one arm raised as it was, his kilt lifted on that side and showed a knee glorious enough to make Michelangelo weep.

Bree was tempted to turn around and go lock herself back in the room. This could not turn out good for her. He’d have no respect at all for a woman who followed him around the castle on all fours.

“Happy Christmas,” he said and pulled the door wider.

The child ran into the room and over to a Christmas tree tipped against the wall beside the mantle. The bottom of it looked like the lord of the manor had hired a beaver to fell the thing. Bree walked closer, grateful to have something else to stare at for the moment.

It was decorated with toys from the nursery. Branches skewered the gaps beneath the bellies of the miniature rocking horses. Little toy soldiers dangled precariously by their weapons that were hooked in the pine needles. A delicate doll sat at the top with a branch shoved up her dress.

The mantle itself was covered with lit candles that competed with the brightness of the morning sun streaming through the windows. The snow had gathered in the corners of the large window panes and along with the drapes, the whole scene looked like a Christmas card—except for the fact the tree was leaning.