Rachel watched Brodie read to her daughter, feeling as if she was falling in love with him all over again. She knew it was one-sided, but her heart had a one-track mind and there was no convincing it otherwise.
But he kissed you, the voice in her head whispered. The voice used to be loud and confident, proclaiming how they were going to be a couple and how the three of them would be a family. Day by day, the voice had become less vocal and less sure. But he had kissed her, and it was wonderful. Pure joy. To feel wanted by Brodie Wallace was bliss personified.
He finished the book and shut it.
“Again! Again!” Hannah said.
“It’s bedtime,” Rachel announced. “The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa will come.”
“Father Christmas,” Hannah corrected in her Scots accent.
“Fine. Father Christmas.” Rachel reached for her daughter. “Up with you.”
But Vivienne was there. “I want to put her to bed. I’m tired, too.”
“It’s too early for you to go to bed,” Rachel said, knowing her mother was a night owl.
“I downloaded a couple of Christmas novels. I thought I would read for a while.”
Rachel hugged her mom and whispered into her hair, “Are you going to be okay here without me?”
“Are you trying to mother me again?” Vivienne laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.” Her mom picked up the complaining Hannah. “Tell everyone good night.”
“Night!”
As the two went to the stairs, her mother began singing a made-up song. Hannah laughed at the silly words and sang along with her, “Merry, happy Christmas from Hannah in Scotland.”
Rachel went to the hallway and pulled out the box which held her mother’s patchwork quilt. She returned to the parlor and laid the box under the tree.
“Have ye been out shopping?” Abraham asked.
She smiled at him. “Something like that. I’m going to head to Thistle Glen Lodge. I’ll be back early, as I expect my daughter will be up before the roosters.”
“Sleep well, lass,” he said.
She headed to the kitchen to get the plate for the man who stayed in the shadows. She wondered if he was warm enough tonight. But then she remembered Aileen’s missing quilt, which he’d probably taken. She retrieved the plate and turned around. Brodie was there with his coat already on and with her parka over his arm.
“You don’t have to go with me. I know the way and I’ll be perfectly safe.”
He walked toward her, holding out her coat.
She slipped her first arm in. “Really, Brodie, I’ll be fine.” She transferred the plate to her other hand and put in her second arm.
But talking to him was like trying to convince a grizzly bear to stay put in his cave when he was hell-bent on doing as he pleases.
“Fine. Do whatever you want.” She flounced from the kitchen.
He was being stubborn. Sure, she wanted him at the quilting dorm, but preferred he was there because he’d decided to forgive her. She dreamed what it would be like to be Brodie’s wife, and all the extracurriculars which went along with marriage. The only thing she was going to get this evening, though, was another sleepless, restless night with him camped out on the couch.
She slung open the front door and marched out. Brodie was right behind her, carrying a small duffel.
“I’ll take the other bedroom on the main level.”
“So the grizzly bear speaks,” she said sarcastically, but that was only because she was crazy about him with no hope of fulfilling her dreams.
“What?” He looked side to side. Of course, he was on the lookout for the shadow stalker.
“But the bear doesn’t speak much,” she huffed to herself.
When they reached the dorm, she opened the door and started in, but he took her arm.
“Aren’t ye going to leave the plate out here?”
“Fine.”
“Make sure to set the lock when ye’re done.”
She laid the plate down then shut the door with them inside.
When she turned around, Brodie was down the hallway, almost to the living room.
“So this is how it’s going to be,” she said to the floral and plaid window coverings. “I’m going to have a lonely Blue Christmas.” But that wasn’t fair. She had Hannah, her mother, and Abraham.
When she got to the living room, he wasn’t there. She collapsed on the sofa, feeling utterly rejected. But in the next second, when Brodie appeared, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, her pulse kicked up. He didn’t seem to notice she was about to hyperventilate, as he walked to the kitchen without giving her a second glance. She heard the tap go on. He came back with a glass of water and stopped at the edge of the living room.
“Good night, lass.” No gazing at her as if he couldn’t live without her. Hell, the way he stalked to his bedroom—the one next to hers—and closed the door behind him, she felt as enticing as a snow cone in the dead of winter.
Rachel spoke to the hearth this time. “He has some nerve.” She sat there for a long minute, staring down the dark hallway at the light escaping from under the door. She was certain her irrational thoughts were brought on by sexual frustration. She hoped in vain he would sling the door open, march back down the hall, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until she had a very merry Christmas. But then the light went out in his room.
She laid her head on the sofa, closing her eyes. “Damn.”
Finally she pushed herself up, plodded to her bedroom, and readied for sleep. As she was brushing out her hair, a series of not so innocent thoughts bombarded her mind, which would put her on the naughty list for sure. But she always did the right thing, and look what it had gotten her. Nothing.
Hesitating only a millisecond, she turned out her light, but didn’t climb into bed. Instead, she snuck to the room next to hers and cracked open the door. The moonlight stretched across the room. She was surprised to see his large frame sitting on the side of the bed, staring out the partially frosted over window.
“Did ye get lost?” he rumbled without turning around.
“Yes.” It was the truth. She got lost six years ago and she’d been trying to find her way back ever since. She hadn’t realized how adrift she’d been until she’d returned to Gandiegow and laid eyes on him. But this truth was too heavy for Brodie. She padded toward him and sat down, bravely leaning against him.
He drew back a little, but didn’t scoot away. “What do ye want?” His voice was strained.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say you. But she didn’t say it; instead she slipped her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder.
His body stiffened as if he was bearing up against rising flood waters. “How do you imagine this is going to play out?”
She liked that he was direct. She would return the favor. “You’ll make love to me.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care.” That wasn’t exactly true. “I want you.” That was the truth. But she couldn’t tell him all of it . . . she wanted him for always. But she would settle for tonight.
He turned to her and touched the locket. “I want ye, too.”
Her chest warmed. She was light-headed and giddy. She felt like she could fly.
He tilted his head to the side, maintaining eye contact. “I’m going to be straight with you beforehand. We’ll do what ye want, but ye’ll have to agree first that you understand that making”—he cut himself off and changed his tack—“that going to bed together won’t change a thing between us.”
Her heart fell. Plummeted. Barely pulsed, as it curled into a ball at the bottom of her soul.
She dropped her arm from his waist.
Since she’d gotten to Gandiegow, she’d been making one deal after another. So far, she’d been able to keep her end of the bargain. But now? Could she really be with him and not want to change his mind?
“Okay,” she heard herself saying. The little voice in her head was agreeing and whispering little encouragements, Do this, then he’ll love you. But she wasn’t fool enough to believe it.
She laid a hand on his back. “Before we go any further, there’s something I have to say.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I tried to call it off.” She didn’t explain what it was. Brodie was sharp; he had to know what she was talking about. “I even told my mother I couldn’t go through with it.” Rachel hung her head, remembering. “My mother gave me reason after reason why I had to marry Joe.”
Brodie didn’t say anything. At this point, he probably didn’t even care anymore, but he deserved to hear her confession.
“I’m not blaming my mother. It’s my fault. I was weak back then. I only wanted to please her. Please everyone.”
Still he said nothing.
Rachel rubbed his back as if that might counteract her words. “I should’ve been stronger. I can’t go back and change things.” She paused for a second and told him the whole truth. “And if I could, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have missed Hannah for anything in the world.” That might hurt him, but it was true.
He nodded—the only acknowledgment that he’d heard her. He didn’t take her into his arms, but went back to staring out the window. She understood; he needed time to process what she’d said. A minute passed. She was very aware of her own breathing. As the second minute was stretching on, anticipation turned into realization that her confession had only made things worse. Brodie didn’t want her any longer.
She popped up. “I’ll just go to bed.” She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her hand.
“Come here.” He yanked her to him.
One second she was chilled from the night air, and in the next she was crushed up against him, his mouth on hers, greedy for her attention. Oh, she was easy when it came to him, because she kissed him back as if they’d never kiss again. She didn’t even recognize herself. Six years of pent-up hormones were unleashing themselves faster than water rushing from the floodgates. Maybe she should’ve savored every morsel of his touch, but she was half afraid he was going to change his mind and bolt from the room.
Night clothes were a wonderful thing when she needed to get to bare skin quickly . . . not much on under there. She tugged at his shirt and pulled it over his head. He started on the buttons of her gown, but she returned the favor and pulled it off for him. Pajama bottoms and panties were no match for their impatience. They were naked and on the bed in two seconds flat, mouths on each other’s, as if they collectively held the air for each other’s lungs.
He broke away. “Condom.” He hurried across the room and lifted his discarded pants, digging around in its pockets. She saw a wallet, him fumble, and a “dammit” resounded when it hit the floor. A moment later, he was back, ripping open the package.
She was as anxious as he was.
He quickly positioned himself above her as if this was the chance of a lifetime, but then he stopped and stared at her.
“Did you forget something else?” She saw serious determination in his eyes.
“I heard every word ye said. On a rational level, I understand why you did what you did . . . marrying my cousin. But you have to know that I mean it, Rachel. Nothing changes between us.”
“I know.” She was going into this with no illusions.
With him looming over her and the moonlight flooding in the window, she had a chance to soak him in. Suddenly, she was aware of what was tattooed on his chest.
A partridge! Did he get the tattoo as a souvenir of what they’d shared?
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask. Her eyes went to his, but he was staring at the locket around her neck. There was so much more they needed to discuss. The locket. The partridge. But for now, they’d talked enough.
She laid a hand on the tattoo so he would know she’d seen the partridge. He placed a hand over hers as if both of them were holding his heart. The world fell away, replaced with a magical cocoon surrounding them, as his eyes drifted back up and he stared into her face. He eased himself in, never breaking eye contact. His look of tender longing nearly broke her heart, making her love him even more. She shifted, opening up to him, giving him more access as he filled her. She quieted her own thoughts to better hear what his body was saying. No words fit the emotion in his eyes or the way his body consumed her, and he’d done nothing more than cross the threshold.
“Kiss me,” she said, afraid she might cry if he gazed at her any longer.
“Aye.” He leaned in but didn’t devour her as she’d expected. He started at the corner of her mouth, caressing her lips as if she wasn’t an emotional mess underneath him.
His approach to their coupling felt like he was composing a love song. He seemed to be looking for the perfect note, the right tone, strumming her, executing each part in perfect time, all meant to produce the most pleasure for her. She felt helpless to give him as much as he was giving her. His lovemaking was excruciating, overwhelming her, and positively breathtaking. Before she could stop them, teardrops tumbled out and annoyingly rolled into her ears.
“Enough,” she said, pushing him off. “I want to be on top.”
As he moved away, she discreetly wiped her tears on the corner of the pillowcase, thankful for the shadows. As she sat, she nudged him to the mattress, and climbed on top. Before she could do more, he pulled her down for another heart-melting kiss, making her stretch out beside him, both of them lying on their sides.
“Mo ghràidh,” he whispered into her ear.
Could a woman die from an endearment? For surely, that’s what it was.
“Brodie?” She cupped his face and made him look at her. She wanted to pour out her heart and confess how much she still loved him, but she didn’t. She couldn’t stand it if he pushed her away now. “I can’t take much more.”
He smiled and then kissed her nose, not seeming to be in a rush at all. She was afraid she might truly start bawling if he didn’t hurry his fisherman self along.
“Come here.” He lifted her leg, scooted in closer, and joined them together once again.
“That’s better,” she exhaled, feeling complete. But she had to use all her focus to keep her mouth from revealing her true emotions.
He had been in control up to this point, but his cool manner slipped away. Taking her by surprise, he rolled her on her back and once again he was on top. Whoever said the missionary position wasn’t exciting was nuts. Brodie making love to her from above was the most heart-pounding experience she’d ever had, and she was nearing the place of no return. She was so wrapped up in the moment that her heart cried out, “Love me, Brodie.”
He came with a shudder and she followed him into the bliss.
As the waves of their coupling rippled away, she realized that he’d stilled. She gazed up to find him staring at her warily.
“I didn’t mean it,” she said. But she had and he knew it.
He didn’t say a word, but pulled out and stood, turning away, looking out the frosted window again.
She scooted off the bed and reached for her twisted nightgown.
“I got carried away,” she tried to explain. She didn’t understand how they could be so connected one second, and in the next, for him to become as distant and as cold as Antarctica. She longed to wrap an arm around his waist and ride out the storm which was making his back rigid in the moonlight.
She waited, in vain, for him to tell her to come back to bed. Or that he would at least say her name once more. But he’d erected an impenetrable wall between them.
It would do no good to ask him for his forgiveness again. She already knew the answer.
I love you, she wanted to cry out into the darkened room as a cloud came over the moon. But she kept her regard for him to herself—at least this time. As she walked into the hallway, she felt as if she’d given herself away, once again, to the wrong cousin.
Don’t lose heart, the little voice said. He called you mo ghràidh. But she was certain he was regretting it now, because she’d pleaded with him to love her.
* * *
“Lass?” Brodie stared out into the night, unable to calm his pounding heart. “Good night.” His blasted voice sounded emotional. He’d told her sex wouldn’t mean anything, but somehow it had.
She said nothing but quietly shut his door.
He shouldn’t have let it happen. He’d been minding his own business, looking into the night for the person lurking about. Why had he been so weak? He knew the answer. For a lot of reasons, some even rational.
He scoffed. “Yeah. Right, rational.” What a line of bullshit he’d been feeding himself . . . closure. There was no closure in having sex. He’d only opened Pandora’s box and totally screwed himself and the resolve he’d built up since she’d married Joe.
Love me, Brodie still hung in the air like perfume. Any man would’ve been honored for a woman like Rachel to ask him for his love. Aye, her words sounded sweet and sincere, but if he did as she asked, he’d be pulling the rope for the death knell of his weak heart.
If only the damned partridge tattoo didn’t want to bust out of his chest, run to her, beg her to come back, tell her that they should make love until they were old and gray.
“Effing hell.” He should find Doc right now and have himself committed. A real man should be stronger than this.
Like a gavel, he pounded the bed. He would not run to her. He would stick to his guns. Tomorrow, he would act like nothing had happened. He wouldn’t ruin Christmas for Grandda. He would pretend it had all been a dream. He’d get through the holidays and wave good-bye to Rachel when she left, showing her the same amount of emotion as if she were one of the damned retreat-goers. He’d be fine. Abraham had made it all these years without a woman by his side. Brodie could do the same.
He yanked on his pajama bottoms and lay back on the bed. He refused to think about Rachel on the other side of the wall, though her scent was everywhere. He got out of bed, taking the quilt with him, and marched down the hallway to the sofa.
But as the clock ticked on the wall, he was unable to sleep. Hell. That’s what he got for not being able to control his urges. When he finally dozed off, he was tortured with dreams of Rachel. They were on his boat in midsummer. She was laughing into the wind and smiling at him. He’d never been happier.
At six thirty, he woke to the smell of coffee and Rachel padding around in the kitchen. Without stopping to wish her a Happy Christmas, he readied for the day—externally and internally. When he had composed himself to being as emotional as the retaining wall to the village, he appeared in the kitchen.
Rachel was a vision of contradiction. She wore a long-sleeved red party dress and dark tights, but on her feet were her purple fuzzy slippers. Nothing had changed between them—she knew the score—yet she still wore his locket around her slender neck. This time, instead of the locket making him angry or confused, he was relieved it still hung there. He shouldn’t feel that way and cursed his inconsistency. Damn his gullible heart!
He took in her face and found her gaze was filled with expectation, earnestness, and an I-want-to-talk-about-last-night-before-we-go expression. “I made you a cup of coffee.”
He nodded and approached the mug, but not before he remembered his resolve and fortified himself.
As she opened her mouth, he raised his hand to shield against her onslaught.
“Nothing’s changed,” he said gruffly. But in the background, he could still hear her plea, Love me, Brodie. He needed that coffee to clear his throat . . . and his mind.
“But—but . . .” The pain in her voice was killing him.
He changed the subject. “What about the thief? Have ye set out his breakfast?”
“I thought I’d leave him the scones.” She pointed to the paper bag lying on the counter. “Maybe something more from the refrigerator, too.”
“Fill it up. It’s Christmas.” If Brodie had any say about it, it was also Reckoning Day. Something had to be done. He couldn’t continue to stay at the quilting dorm to watch out for Rachel or he’d lose his mind. And my heart. He hated himself for thinking like a sappy schoolgirl.
“I’ll get last night’s plate.” He stomped from the room toward the front of the cottage, not feeling the joy of Christmas in the least. One thing was for certain, he’d better straighten out his mood before going home to Grandda.
When he yanked open the door, not only was the empty plate sitting on the stoop, but another paper statue. This time, though, it was a bear. A damn bear. The thief had given the American lass a bear. Was he sweet on her?
Brodie needed to catch this bastard.
He bent down, retrieved both items, and took them back to the kitchen. “Ye have an admirer.” The taste was bitter in his mouth. If this was Tuck playing some kind of prank, Brodie was going to straighten him out with a boot up his arse.
She took the things Brodie offered and smiled at the bear. “He’s talented.”
“And a criminal.”
She shrugged. “Do you think this will hold him off until dinner?” She had stacked three scones and four leftover bangers on the plate, covering it all with plastic wrap.
“Aye. Go put that out front and let’s get home. Hannah will probably be up.”
Rachel smiled at him, the smile that was always on her face when she was thinking of her daughter. “For my mother’s sake, I hope she hasn’t been awake too long.” Rachel left with the plate.
Brodie retrieved his coat and met her at the front. He pulled the door closed, locked it, and stepped over the plate of food. They walked in silence to the cottage, but he could tell Rachel still wanted to talk. He wouldn’t allow her to draw him in. He wouldn’t ask how she fared today. He was a rock. Immovable, inaccessible. But the waves breaking on the walkway sang out, Love me, Brodie.
At his grandfather’s cottage, Brodie barred the door with his hand as Rachel reached for the knob. “I have an errand to run.”
“On Christmas?” She sounded circumspect.
“Don’t open the presents without me.” He waited until she was safe inside, before heading into the shadows at the back of the houses. Winter didn’t provide a lot of camouflage, but at least it was still dark, due to the short days. He circled around to the quilting dorms, ready to catch the thief in action. God, he hoped the bastard hadn’t picked up his meal while Brodie was getting Rachel to Grandda’s in one piece.
Brodie took up his position behind the lounge chair at Duncan’s Den, waiting and watching the full plate Rachel had left.
It was damned cold this morning, and only minutes into his stakeout, Brodie was wishing for long underwear and a stack of quilts to burrow under. He considered slipping into the quilting dorm to get one when there was movement in the shadows across from Thistle Glen Lodge.
Rachel was right; the bandit wasn’t big enough to be Tuck. But the body shape and the way he moved confirmed the stalker was a he. He lurked in the shadows for several seconds, probably to make sure it was safe to come out. Finally, he slunk forward, shadow to shadow, until the last place to go was the porch. Brodie readied himself. The moment the thief bent down to get the plate, he rushed from his hiding spot and grabbed the man by the scruff of his coat collar.
“Uh!” came the thief’s surprise. “Leave off.” He swung wildly.
Suddenly, Brodie realized he wasn’t a man at all, but a tall kid. A teen. Skinny. Hannah had enough strength to hold him off. “Who are ye?” Brodie let go, certain he could stop the kid if he decided to run.
The teen straightened himself up indignantly. “I’m Harry.”
Brodie didn’t recognize him from Gandiegow or one of the surrounding villages. “Harry who?”
“Harry Stanton.”
“What are ye doing here?” Brodie asked.
“Looking for me father.”
“Who’s yere father?”
The kid’s eyes dropped to his feet. “I dunno.”
“Ah, hell.” Brodie shook his head, feeling kind of stupid for trying to be a badass. He’d caught him, but now what was he going to do with the lad? “Pick up yere plate. We’re going to my grandfather’s.” He couldn’t believe he was doing this, taking home a delinquent for Christmas. “Watch what ye do and say at my house. My family’s there.” The thought struck him strangely how it wasn’t just Abraham he was thinking about. Rachel, Hannah, and even Vivienne were his family, too.
The kid stood there, looking at him closely.
“Stop staring at me,” Brodie said. “I’m not yere da. Now, let’s get going.”
The kid grabbed the plate, but couldn’t keep his eyes off the food as they trudged down the walkway.
“Go ahead and eat something. There’ll be more when we get to the cottage.” Brodie had never known real hunger, but he recognized the teen’s.
When they arrived at Abraham’s, Brodie let the kid in and showed him where to put his snow-dusted wellies—size forty-four. Next he pointed where to hang his coat, then showed him to the parlor, where Hannah was chatting nonstop with the rest of the family laughing at her antics.
“Ye’re here,” Abraham said as Brodie stepped into the entryway.
Hannah rushed him. “Brodie!” Instead of letting her hug him, he shifted her to the side, putting a protective arm around her.
With his other hand, he grabbed Harry’s sleeve and pulled him into the room. “We have a guest.” The kid still held the plate, and Rachel’s eyes fell to the breakfast she’d made him. She lifted her eyebrows at Brodie as if waiting for an explanation. “He’ll be spending Christmas with us.” He didn’t know any other way to keep an eye on the kid.
“Welcome,” Grandda said. “Come get warm by the fire. We were just getting ready to open presents.”
Hannah hopped up and down. “Yeah!”
Harry walked over to the fireplace, looking miserable, and sat down on the stone hearth with his plate.
“Hold off on the presents for a moment. I need to grab something to eat.” The smell of sausage from the kitchen was powerful. Brodie would make another plate for Harry, too.
Hannah ran after him into the hallway and grabbed his hand. “Hurry, Brodie. Hurry.”
He couldn’t help himself; he squatted down to hug the lass. “Happy Christmas, wee princess.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Happy Christmas to ye, Sir Knight!” She raced back to the parlor.
A few minutes later, he returned with two plates, hearing the last of the introductions to the newcomer in the room. Harry mentioned nothing about looking for his father, only saying that he was passing through. Brodie handed him the new plate of food, nodding to him that he’d done the right thing. Today wasn’t the day to be accusing the men of Gandiegow of fathering a child and abandoning him.
For a moment, Joe passed through Brodie’s mind. Could he be Harry’s father? Nay. It was too far-fetched and too much of a coincidence to have Harry land in this house looking for his kin.
Hannah was so hyperactive at this point that both Rachel and her mother seemed to have given up trying to contain her enthusiasm.
“Do I get the first present?” the girl chirped.
Brodie swallowed his bite of scone. “Aye.” He went to the tree and rolled out a crudely wrapped present. He didn’t know a lot about little girls, but when he’d seen it in the store at Inverness, he thought it would be perfect for dolly. “Here.”
Hannah shredded the wrapping paper as if a pot of gold were hidden inside. “A stroller!” she squealed. She snatched her doll off Abraham’s lap and shoved her in there as if she were stuffing a pillow into its case.
“I hope ye like it,” Brodie said awkwardly.
“Tell Brodie thank you,” Rachel prodded.
“Thank ye,” Hannah said. She looked over at Grandda. “I fancy it a lot.”
Abraham winked at her as if she’d used the word correctly.
Harry snickered, reminding Brodie that he was in the room.
“What?” Harry said a little belligerently. “The lass is cute.”
Hannah, never shy, beamed at Harry.
“Who’s next?” Rachel said. “How about one for Abraham?” She reached under the tree and pulled out a flat box. “Hannah, give this to your grandfather.”
The lass dropped the handles of her buggy and skipped over to Rachel. She took the gift, ran to Grandda, and shoved the present at him. “Here.”
With arthritic hands that had seen better days while fishing, Grandda unwrapped the gift with much more restraint than Hannah until tartan fabric appeared. Quickly, he ripped off the rest of the paper. “It’s the MacFarlane tartan.”
“Turn it over,” Rachel said.
Grandda flipped the frame and on the other side was them . . . Rachel, Hannah, Abraham, and Brodie. “A family portrait.” Grandda seemed choked up when he looked at Rachel. “Ye’re a thoughtful lass.” He put his hand out to her.
Rachel came to him and squeezed his hand, then kissed his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
Once again Brodie was touched by how kind she was to his grandfather.
Abraham patted the gift. “Did ye make this, Rachel?”
“Aye,” Hannah said, butting in. “She made it all by herself, except I helped to put the picture in the frame.”
Grandda beamed at the girl. “Ye’re a thoughtful one, too.”
Rachel reached under the tree and discreetly tore the tag off the next gift as she lifted it out. “If I’m not mistaken, I think Santa left a present here for Harry.”
The teen’s head popped up. “What?”
“Father Christmas,” Hannah said, correcting her mother.
“Yes, right, Father Christmas. Here, Harry.” Rachel held out the medium-size box to the boy.
“For me?” He looked around at them as if they were a group of forest animals who had suddenly learned to talk. Finally, he took the gift and tore into it as if he’d taken lessons from Hannah. It was the simple patchwork quilt, meant for Vivienne, nothing elaborate, but Harry gazed upon it as if it were that pot of gold.
All of a sudden, the kid looked embarrassed. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He crumpled the quilt to his chest and held it tight.
“Who’s next?” Hannah cried. “Me?”
Brodie stepped forward and pulled a present from under the tree. “How about another one for Grandda?” Normally, he got his grandfather a good bottle of whisky, but this year, Brodie had gone all out. He handed the present over. “Here.”
Abraham opened the rectangular box and looked up at Brodie more than a little shocked. “’Tis too expensive.”
“Nay. I thought ye and Hannah could FaceTime when she goes back to the States.” But the thought of them leaving Scotland made the scone in Brodie’s stomach turn to stone.
“FaceTime?” Abraham said.
“I’ll show ye, Grandda.” Hannah took the iPad box and flipped it over. “It’s easy.”
More presents were handed out. Brodie gave Hannah the child’s rocking chair, which had been his as a boy. Rachel gave Vivienne what she called a Scotland Survival Kit with warm boots and goodies from the store. Then more presents for Hannah were ripped into, while Harry sat with his quilt and watched as he ate the two plates of food.
The one present Brodie didn’t bring out was left upstairs, tucked in the back of his closet. The leather-bound notebook of hand-pressed paper was for Rachel. He remembered how she liked to sketch when she’d been here six years ago. The gift didn’t mean anything, and he had no intention of giving it to her in front of everyone. They might read too much into it.
Grandda was beaming at them with wrapping paper scattered at his feet. “How about another family picture?”
“I’ll do it,” Rachel said.
Vivienne took her phone from her. “You get in the picture. I’ll take it.”
Harry stood. “Nay. I’ll do it.”
Vivienne gave him a generous smile and handed over the mobile.
Brodie took his place behind his grandfather. Instead of Rachel keeping her distance, the minx sidled up next to him and his nose picked up her familiar scent. It wafted over him the same way the waves caressed the beach. Love me, Brodie filled his senses and he had a hard time keeping it together.
Harry held the phone up, but then dropped it to his chest. “Ye’ll have to squeeze in.”
Rachel leaned into Brodie, tormenting him further. Automatically, his arm rose to pull her in closer, but he stopped himself in time. He stared straight ahead, enduring the close contact as if she had a contagious ailment that he could catch.
“On the count of three,” Harry said. The kid stretched the photo session out longer than necessary by snapping several pictures.
When he went to give the cell phone back, Hannah insisted they do a selfie with the whole family, Harry included. It made Harry happy, but Brodie just wanted this picture perfect moment to be over.
Afterward, the kid and Hannah cleaned up the wrapping paper from the floor. Rachel and Vivienne went off to the kitchen and Brodie had time to think about what to do about their Christmas guest.
“Harry?” Abraham said. “Grab the checkerboard and set it up. I think ye and I should play a game since the wee lass is busy with her dolls.” Yes, dolls. Rachel had bought her one. Vivienne, too. Abraham must’ve commissioned Deydie to bring one from the General Store. Hannah’s dolls took up so much room on the couch that none of them had a place to sit.
Harry got the checkerboard and Brodie slipped from the room to check if the other two needed help in the kitchen. But before he reached the doorway, he stopped as he heard his name.
“Did you sleep with Brodie last night? I noticed he wasn’t here this morning.” Vivienne spoke with disapproval dripping from each word.
“No,” Rachel said.
Brodie nodded; Rachel spoke the truth. They hadn’t slept together.
“Where did he sleep last night?”
“On the couch at the quilting dorm,” Rachel answered. Honest once again. “He was worried about the person taking things around town. Mostly food. As it turns out, it was Harry.”
“Oh.” Vivienne seemed to have run out of accusations. But Brodie was too generous with his conclusions. “I mean it, Rachel. You need someone more like you. Brodie is too rough around the edges.”
“I know, Mom. I promise you, there’s nothing going on.” Rachel’s voice was sad.
Nothing’s going on? Irrationally, he wanted to burst into the room and set her straight. They’d made love last night and, dammit, it had meant something. She’d said, Love me, Brodie. But apparently Rachel hadn’t meant it and what they’d shared really had been nothing.
Immediately, he reined himself in, because he was losing his effing mind! He was the one who’d told her nothing had changed!
Rachel came around the corner suddenly. He put his hand out to stop her from spilling the tray.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was just coming in to get Abraham’s medicine.”
“He’s already had it,” Rachel said. She was searching his face like she’d done a thousand times since arriving in Gandiegow.
Brodie walked away before she found something that hadn’t been there before . . . like his renewing affection for her.
“I’m going to check on the boat,” he said as he passed by the parlor. “I’ll be back before the meal.”
Outside the wind had kicked up and with it a rush of sensibility hit him. He couldn’t go to the boat. He’d left a stranger—a thief, no less—at home with the people Brodie cared most about in the world. That realization was even more uncomfortable, because it wasn’t just Abraham he held in his heart.
Ah, hell. Brodie turned around and opened the door, going back in. He’d give them all today. He would screw a smile on his face and be pleasant. He’d do it for his grandda’s sake and make this the best damn Christmas the old man ever had.
But tomorrow, Brodie was stepping back into his real life, one where he remembered the past—Rachel’s betrayal—and remembered his place. According to Vivienne, he was a fisherman who wasn’t nearly good enough for her daughter.