Page 25

Standing in the vacant lot three blocks from Claire’s home, Cam shook his head. “Nay, too skinny. Looks as if ’twas chewed upon.”

The Christmas tree man, red-faced and rotund even without his winter garb, let go of the tree—the thirtieth Cam had asked him to shake out and hold up for inspection—letting it drop onto the pile. “Then you pick one out.”

He’d been wondering how long it would take. Cam pointed to the fat, lovely tree he’d had his eye on all week, since he’d spied the man setting up this Christmas tree shop. “That one. I’ll give ye twenty dollars for it.” An outrageous price given it was only a tree.

The man snorted. “It’s a hundred.”

Cam held out his arms. “Look at all these trees. Ye’ve hundreds of them. Are ye going to turn yer nose up at a sale with only a few wee days left before Christmas?” Cam pointedly looked around. “I dinna see anyone else here buying.”

“Seventy-five and you’ll be stealing it. It’s a blue spruce. From Canada.”

Ack! Seventy-five dollars for a bloody tree. But this would be Claire’s first personal Christmas tree in more than a decade. A very important thing, according to Mrs. Grouse. And he was feeling flush. He’d received another check from the Purple Pussycat—this one for six days’ pay—and was awaiting a call from Sergeant Evans, who’d assured him he’d have no problem entering the army where he kenned he could earn an honest living. Cam had no choice but to claim his birth records had been destroyed in a fire—and for all he kenned, they truly had been, but the photo ID and Mike’s letter of reference attesting to his honesty and reliability had eased the way. The sergeant’s questions on strategy—what he called what if scenarios—had been child’s play for a man who’d cut his teeth on Vegetius and had battle experience although he couldna admit to it else the sergeant think him daft. His physical soundness may also have helped.

How he’d tell Claire he was going away for a long while was another matter entirely. But for now, he would focus on making this the best Christmas Claire MacGregor had ever had and Mrs. Grouse had promised to help. But back to bartering.

“Thirty and ye can buy yer family the biggest goose in the butcher’s shop and still have coins to spare.”

The man took a look around his lot, muttered something under his breath then held out his hand. “Done. Thirty bucks cash. No check.”

Cam laughed. Bucks. And a dog won’t growl at a bone.

He took the man’s hand and slapped him on the back. “May ye have a bonnie Hogmanay —New Year, sir.”

“Ya, ya.” The man took the cash and Cam grabbed the tree by its trunk, tossed it onto his shoulder, and headed for Dartmouth Street and Claire. A warrior victorious.

Claire, rolling pin in hand, sniffed the air. “Smells like the cookies are ready, Mrs. Grouse.”

“Oh!” Her tenant hoisted herself off the couch where she’d been glued to the news and toddled into the kitchen.

“Would you believe they’re still showing footage of Cam and the deer?”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a Christmas tale to beat all.” She held out her latest creations for inspection.

Mrs. Grouse erupted into laughter.

“Hey, I had to run all over town to get the cookie cutter.” She then nodded to the frosting. “Brown. I thought Cam might appreciate it.”

“You have a sick sense of humor, child. Remind me never to get on your bad side.” She pulled the finished bell cookies out of the oven and set them on top of the stove. “Hand me that wooden skewer, would you? You have to poke the holes in the top while the cookies are still hot or they’ll break.”

The holes punched, she set the cookies aside to cool and placed Claire’s reindeer in the oven. “Cam told me about the woman who wanted him to be a model. Said he’d never been so insulted in his life.”

“He had been, but you couldn’t blame the woman for trying. He is gorgeous and the camera loves him.”

“I’m not surprised. He said you even had pictures made of him.”

Claire grabbed the spatula and started transferring the cookies to the cool rack. “I wanted a nice one.”

Mrs. Grouse wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Dear, has he told you yet that he’s in love with you?”

The pan she’d been carrying fell into the soapy water with a clatter. “He’s very fond of me, but doesn’t love me.” If he did love her, he wouldn’t be doing what he was doing.

“And you’re okay with that?”

Ah. Mrs. Grouse was apparently aware that Cam now shared her bed. “No, but you can’t make someone love you. They either do or they don’t.” Experience had taught her that much. Her father had loved booze, drugs, and the thrill of the game more than he did her. Her mother … well.

“So where’s our fearless Highlander now?”

“I’ve no idea. He said he had to run out and get something.”

“You’re rather calm. A week ago, you’d have been pulling your hair out wondering where he was.”

A week ago, she didn’t know for certain that she’d have to get used to him being gone, possibly forever, although she still worried he was getting into trouble.

“Claire, I have something to tell you and I just haven’t wanted to.”

“Are you ill?” Please, no.

“No, nothing like that. Let’s sit.”

Settled at the kitchen table, Mrs. Grouse reached for her hand. “You know my daughter is coming.”

“Yes. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

“You’ll like her. She’s very much like you. Independent, feisty. But she wants me to go back with her to California after Christmas.”

“That’s wonderful. It will be a nice break for you from this dreadful weather.”

“Forever, Claire. She wants me to move in with her.”

“Oh.” The news hurt but made sense. If she were Mrs. Grouse’s daughter she’d want the same. “I’ll miss you terribly, but you’ll be happier in a warmer climate.”

“True, but I hate leaving you alone.”

Claire patted her hand. “You won’t be. I have Cam.” Not for long, but then, that was her problem. “Do you know when you’ll be leaving?” Hopefully, not too soon. She could only adjust gracefully to one loss at a time.

Looking distressed, she murmured, “She’s arranged for movers to come the day after Christmas.”

“So soon?” Whoa.

“I know. I should have told you sooner, but I just didn’t know how and you were having such problems with Cameron. This short notice must put you in a terrible bind.”

“Nonsense. You’ve seen how well the shop has been doing.” It would just take some time to adjust to not having her here. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to knock on the door below any time she had need of comfortable companionship. A mother.

Oh well. Life goes on.

Claire rose and gave her a hug. “I’ll miss you, but I’m really happy for you and your daughter. You should be together.”

Mrs. Grouse dabbed at her tears with the corner of her apron. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.” As tears threatened, Claire sniffled and peeked in the oven. “Woohoo, the reindeer are ready.”

Brrrrrrrring, brrrrrring!

The tinny loading dock bell continued to grind as Claire hastily pulled the cookie sheet from the oven.

At her side, Mrs. Grouse said, “Hopefully that’s not Cam with the sleigh.”

She laughed. “If it is, I’ll kill him.”

Downstairs, Claire peeked through the loading door window, saw Cam stomping his feet, and threw open the bolt. “Why didn’t you come in through the—oh, it’s beautiful!” He was holding upright a magnificent, nine-foot-tall blue spruce and grinning.

“I didna dare take her in through the shop for fear of knocking something over.”

“Good thinking.” It would have been a disaster. The lower branches fanned out an easy six feet.

She stepped out onto the platform to give him a hand but he shooed her back inside. “Nay, just hold the doors.” He scooped the tree up onto his shoulder, and whistling, headed up the stairs.

Mrs. Grouse gasped, then helped Claire clear a path to the window. As Cam propped it against the glass, Mrs. Grouse placed her hands over her heart. “Oh, Cameron, what a lovely tree.”

Claire stepped back to admire it, and Cam came up behind her, wrapped his arms about her waist and kissed the side of her neck. “Merry Christmas, love.”

Love. If only. Growing misty-eyed, she murmured, “It’s perfect, Cam. Thank you.”

“Ye’re most welcome, but bonnie as it is, it still needs lights and such. Ye ken, the doodads and frippery.”

“Let’s do the frippery after supper.” As far as she knew, he hadn’t eaten all day. “After we eat, I’ll turn on the Christmas carols, you and Mrs. Grouse can doctor the eggnog with whiskey, and we can all get looped while we decorate.”

“Brilliant.” He kissed the top of her head. “The man said ye likely had a stand for it. Where do ye keep it and the lights and all?”

“In the attic.”

Before she could blink, he was gone.

Six hours later, Cam cradled Claire as they cuddled on the sofa, naked as the days they were born, a potent cup of eggnog in hand. “I like yer reindeers.”

She giggled. “I thought you would.”

“ ’Tis lovely, the tree. I like yer colored lights better than the white ones I see everywhere.”

“Me, too. They’re kind of big and clunky, but they remind me of my childhood.”

“How so?”

“They once belonged to my mother.” She pointed up to the tin star with the bright red center perched atop the tree. “That was hers as well.” She pulled his arms tighter about her. “Cam, what did you do to celebrate Christmas?”

“Christmas wasna a day of celebration, but one of penance, much like Lent. Ye labored as ye did on any other day, only harder, if possible. A Yule log was set ablaze and ’twas bad luck for the household should it go out before all turned to ash. But Hogmanay—New Year’s—that’s a sight. ’Tis the day we exchange gifts with loved ones, feast, dance, and get into our cups.”

“You’re homesick, aren’t you?”

“Aye, at times.”

“If you were back in Scotland right now, what would you do?”

“I’d take my time admiring the hills and valleys white with snow, the burns running clear and cold, and the waves crashing on the headland. I’d want to see if there are any MacLeods left on the land that I knew, to ken whether or not there are ships at moorings in the harbor, men still taking their livelihoods from the sea. To stand in the kirk I’d been baptized in, that I was once wed in, and then buried my wife from. To stand beside her and my mother’s effigies, mayhap even my brother’s and Da’s. To pay my respect.”

“You’ve not spoken much of Margie. Did you love her?”

“Ours wasna a match made in heaven but on earth to strengthen a clan alliance. I can say looking back on it she made the best of it, given the bargain she made.”

Claire craned her neck to look at him. “Were you unfaithful?”

“Nay, just constantly looking for anything—didna matter what—to get out from beneath the cat’s paw, away from her, my Da, and my elder brothers’ scrutiny.” He chuckled, “I’d rather have been fishing or wielding a sword than spending time studying accounts and fashing over tithes and taxes. I kenned why they insisted I learn such. Life is tenuous at best, and by default, I could have ended up liege, but to my way of thinking, their fashing was a bloody waste of time. The crown kept raising the bloody fines, so what was the point? Ye either had it or ye didna.”

She took a sip of her eggnog, her attention again on the tree. “Was she pretty?”

Now why would she want to ken that? “Aye, she was fair and fulsome, but in the way of her time. Ye’d likely not think her so today. She didna have Tracy’s glamour or yer intelligence.”

“Ah, my intelligence.”

“ ’Tis something wrong?”

“No, I’m smart all right.”

But she suddenly tried to sit, and he was forced to wrap his legs about her to trap her where she lay. “Talk to me.”

That had been part of his and Margie’s problem. They never spoke. They’d simply tup when the mood struck, then go their separate ways.

“Please let me go.”

Over his dead body.

He loosened his legs enough for her to spin. When she faced him and tried to rise using his chest for leverage he trapped her again. “Woman, I paid ye a high compliment. What’s in here,” he tapped her forehead, “and what’s in here,” he tapped her heart, “are worth a king’s ransom to a man with sense. Beauty fades. Babes suck breasts flat and age flattens a rounded arse. A good heart and a fine mind last a lifetime. The fact that ye have fine hurdies and lovely eyes is icing on an already-rich cake that doesna need the decoration.

“ ’Tis like that tree. ’Twas lovely before the frippery. ’Tis now decorated, so why not enjoy all that as well.” He grabbed hold of her arse. “And I plan to enjoy it.”

And he did. He just hoped Mrs. Grouse wasna listening. Claire’s groaning was loud enough to wake the dead when she lay upon his chest face up and he took her from behind, stroking her breasts and where they joined as he lost himself in her. And he was none too quiet either when later she slid down his body and took him, again swollen with need, into her mouth and over the brink of sanity. And what she could do with her tongue to his balls … odes should be written. Made him even happier to be a man.

Less than twenty-four hours after meeting with Tony Delucci, Claire stood in an impressive but cold, black-and-white two-story foyer beside her mirror, her arms out and hands graceful, pointing at her pride and joy like some game show model. “As promised, eighteenth century, silver-lined glass, a solid mahogany frame hand carved by Louie Beauchard himself, above which you have not one but four layers of hand-applied, twenty-four-karat gold leaf. The provenance is in the envelope on the sideboard.”

Mrs. Townsend beamed as she ran her hand over the gold leaf. “It’s as beautiful as I remembered. I’m right. It will make an absolutely smashing door frame for my dressing room.”

Please, don’t let me be ill. I have to get through this for Cam. Oh, God, I’m going to be ill.

Claire swallowed the rising bile, nearly choking. When she caught her breath, she murmured, “Sorry, too much eggnog last night.” She then took a deep breath. “I’m sure it’ll be perfect. Just tell your carpenter to be very careful when he takes it apart. The joints at the corners are dovetailed and glued, unlike most joints today. You don’t want to damage the gold leaf.” Never mind that a priceless work of art would be destroyed.

Mrs. Townsend nodded and held out her hand. “I’ll take it. Please, come into the study and I’ll write the check.” She then waved shoo-get-moving hands at her moving men, who pushed it away down the long corridor before Claire. She would have stood in the foyer until the mirror had rolled out of sight had Mrs. Townsend not said, “Ms. MacGregor, if you please. I haven’t got all day.”

Bitch.

Cam winced as Mrs. Grouse, contemplating his hair, clicked her shears. “Dinna get carried away now.”

She tapped him on the side of the head with the shears. “Stay still and I won’t.” A moment later, she murmured, “There. This should do.”

He held out his hand and she dropped a two-inch curl into his palm. “ ’Tis perfect. Thank ye.”

“You’re welcome but what are you going to do with it?” Sounding hopeful, she asked, “Put it in a love letter?”

“Nay, I’m a man of few words.” He rose and headed for the door, Mrs. Grouse toddling after him.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Grinning, he carefully pocketed the curl and tapped her nose. “I’ll let Claire tell ye.”

Downstairs, he found Tracy behind the desk and the shop quiet. “Where’s Claire?”

“She said she had some last-minute Christmas shopping to do and asked if I’d cover for a while.”

“That was kind of ye.” He looked about the shop. “Where’s the mirror?” Hopefully it hadna toppled. ’Twas Claire’s pride and joy.

“She sold it.”

“What?”

Tracy shrugged. “Apparently someone came in, said they had to have it, and she sold it.”

“But she loved that mirror.”

“I know. I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Humph.” So why hadn’t she said something about it?

The bell above the Velvet Pumpkin’s door chimed and the postman walked in, his arms loaded with packages and mail. Seeing Tracy behind the desk, he smiled like a moonstruck whelp, and Cam mentally shrugged. Some men apparently didna ken trouble even when it smacked them upside the head.

As he and the postman exchanged greetings, the bell chimed again and a small woman of middle years carrying a portmanteau walked in.

Since Tracy was oblivious to all but the postman, Cam said, “Good day, madam, may I be of help?”

The woman pulled off her knitted cap, exposing a short cap of sun-streaked spikes. “Hi, I’m Shelley Grouse, Martha’s daughter. Is she home?”

He beamed at her. “Aye, she’s home and sitting on pins waiting for ye.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Cameron MacLeod, Claire’s friend.”

She laughed. “I thought so. You’re bigger than I expected after seeing you on TV.” Apparently noticing his surprise, she whispered, “Not to worry, Mom’s told me all about you. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Ack.” A bit disconcerted that this stranger from the opposite side of the country should have seen him on TV and recognized him, he muttered, “I’ll see ye upstairs.”

Climbing the stairs, Mistress Grouse’s portmanteau and Claire’s mail in hand, he wondered who else kenned what he’d been about.

Ahead of him, Mrs. Grouse’s daughter said, “Has Mom told you I’m taking her back to California with me?”

Claire found Cam sitting on the sofa staring at the Christmas tree. “Hi.”

He rose slowly and came to her. “Where’s the mirror?”

Knowing the question would come, she dropped the videos on the coffee table and not wanting to lie to his face, reached for the mail. “I sold it to a small museum.”

“But ye loved it.”

“Sometimes we have to let go of things we love … for the greater good.”

“Humph! Not where I come from.”

“Well, sometimes here we just do.” She rifled through the bills, tossed them onto the coffee table to examine the lone letter. Not recognizing the address but hoping it might be a query about something in the shop, she opened it.

Dear Claire,

I wanted you to know that I’m out and now living in Chelsea. I have a job and am attending meetings. I’ve been clean and sober for four years now, not long in the greater scheme of things, I know, but I’d like an opportunity to make up for some of the heartache I’ve caused you. To apologize to you in person and to perhaps make a fresh start. I did love your mother and still grieve for her. I hope you’ll write back. I truly have changed.

Love, Dad

Claire crumpled the letter into a ball. Too little, too late. Her father was a sorry son of a bitch.

“What’s wrong, lass?”

“Nothing.” Claire shuddered and tossed the wadded letter into the wastebasket. Her father had ruined the first twenty-two years of her life, she’d be damned if he’d ruin the rest of it. Particularly now, when this could well be the only Christmas she and Cam might have together.

Forcing lightheartedness into her voice that she didn’t feel, she said, “So, did you leave me any cookies?”

“Aye, but if ye plan to eat more than four, ye’ll have to take from yon tree.”

It was coated in almond-flavored Christmas bells suspended on fine red ribbon and yards of popcorn garland.

“When were ye going to tell me about Mrs. Grouse leaving?”

Perhaps it was too much to hope that he wouldn’t learn about it before he left. “I just found out myself.”

Looking none to happy, he grumbled, “Ye’ll miss her.”

“I will, but I can always rent the apartment again.”

“Humph! ’Twillna be the same.”

True.

Hoping to distract himself from the crumpled missive lying in the waste basket, Cam moved his carefully wrapped gift for Claire to the opposite side of the tree and stood back to admire it. The saleswoman had done a far more admirable job than he’d managed on Mrs. Grouse’s gift, which lay beside it.

He glanced at the basket again. Why had she crushed it into so tight a ball before tossing it away?

“Humph.” ’Twasna his affair. He had no business being curious about the missive, much less reading it. But why had reading it made her so upset? She’d turned scarlet. Had someone threatened her in some way? If so, he needed to ken in what manner and take care of it before the sergeant called.

Damn.

He strode into the bedroom, heard the shower running, then returned to the parlor and reached into the basket for the missive. After reading it, he reached for the envelope, memorized the address, and returned all just as he’d found it.

Five minutes later, he looked at the clock. “Claire, we’ll be late for midnight mass if ye dinna hustle.”

“I’ll be right out!”

He yawned hugely. Ack, why would anyone in their right mind wish to attend kirk at midnight when they should be asleep? ’Twas a most bizarre practice. But Claire had insisted. Praying her service wouldna drag on for hours and hours as they usually did at home, he reached for his new down jacket, another extravagance she’d insisted upon over his protests.

Behind him, she said, “I’m ready.”

His gaze traveled over her from curls to shiny black boots. “Lass, ye’re a sight to behold.”

Glowing, she turned in a circle for him, sending her blood-red lace and velvet skirt whirling about her legs. “You like? It’s vintage.”

He dropped the jacket and strode to her, where he pulled her into his arms, inhaling the fresh sweetness of her. “Ack, ye smell as good as ye look. Are ye sure we have to go? I’d just as soon stay here and relieve ye, piece by lovely piece, of all this bonnie garb.”

She laughed and patted his chest. “After mass. You look very handsome in your new sweater.”

“Thank ye.” He nuzzled her neck. “Are ye sure I canna change yer mind?”

“You could but then you’d be missing something quite wonderful.”

“Nay, for I’ve something most wonderful here.”

Grinning up at him, she cupped his face in her hands. “Mrs. Grouse and her daughter await.”

“Ack.”

She laughed and reached for her keys.

Two hours later, Cam tossed his coat onto the brass hook and helped Claire out of hers. “Would ye believe I can still hear the music?”

“There’s nothing like Handel’s Messiah when it’s done right.”

He collapsed onto the couch, his arms spreading over the back. “ ’Twas indeed wondrous. I’m verra glad ye insisted we go.”

“Me, too.” Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was a joy to behold any time but on Christmas Eve, it really was magical. “Now, we get to drink eggnog and open one present.”

He frowned as he looked under the tree. “Just one?”

“Yes, just one or Christmas passes too quickly, but it should be a special one.”

“Ah, verra good.”

When she settled beside him on the couch with spiked eggnog in hand, she saw that he’d selected the gift wrapped in silver paper and elaborate ribbon.

With a shaking hand, she picked out her gift for Cam, the long narrow box wrapped in plaid ribbon, and handed it to him. “You go first.”

“Nay, ladies first.”

“Okay.” Wondering what her gift contained—she’d already shaken the box when she’d spotted it under the tree and knew it didn’t jingle—she was now almost afraid to unwrap it.

“Lass, I’ll do it for ye if ye dinna make haste.” He was smiling but obviously anxious.

She took a deep breath and smiled in turn, then tugged on the ribbon. When she lifted the paper, she found the trademark sky-blue box every woman on the planet would recognize. My God! “Cam?”

“Open it.”

Holding her breath, she lifted the lid. Nestled within white velvet, she found an exquisite gold locket. At its center sat five tiny pink pearls surrounding a lone diamond. “Oh, Cam, it’s absolutely gorgeous but you shouldn’t have.” Made of eighteen-carat gold, the pendant had cost a fortune.

He relaxed then, smiling, dimples flashing. “ ’Tis more, look inside.”

Not believing any of this, she pressed on the snap closure and the locket opened. Beneath the glass on the left side, she found the passport photo she’d kept for herself carefully cut to fit and beneath the glass on the right a lock of his hair surrounding the engraved words, For love, for my life, Cam.

She burst into tears, and his arms came around her. “Ye dinna like it?”

The man was beyond hopeless. She shook her head. “I love you so damn much.”

“Oh, Claire.” He cradled her to his chest.

Were all as it should be, that I could admit I feel the same and bind ye to me forever.

And ’twas worth the loss of his broadsword, something that he’d been most proud of, that had been handed down through generations, to make her this happy. He could do naught but hope that the antiquities dealer who’d purchased it treated it with respect.

Sniffling, she straightened and patted his chest. “Dare I ask how you purchased something so exquisite?”

He grinned, “Nay, but rest assured ’twas honestly. Now hand it over, so I may place it on yer neck where it belongs.”

It fell precisely as he’d imagined it would, right above her heart. He kissed her, gently but thoroughly, then pulled back. “ ’Tis almost as lovely as ye.”

“Thank you.” She picked up the gift she had for him. “Your turn.”

“Before I do, I need tell ye something. Why I gave ye the locket.” He took a deep breath, so dreading this moment when he would tell her he was leaving. “I canna go on as I have working at the Purple Pussycat and have decided to—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Open your gift.”

“But ye need ken—”

She shoved the box into his hands. “Now. You can tell me what you need to after you open it.”

Ack. He gave the box a shake. “ ’Tis a tie.”

Clutching the pendant, she shook her head. “Not quite. Open it.”

When the paper fell, he lifted the lid then looked at her curiously. “I dinna ken what this British Airways is.”

“Look underneath it.”

He did and his breath caught. “ ’Tis a passport.” He thumbed through the pages, most of which were blank save for one with a stamp and the one with his picture and name on it. “But how?”

“Let’s just say I have friends.” She opened the British Airways packet and handed him the contents. Pointing to the fine print, she said, “See, you leave Boston for Gatwick tomorrow at 3:05 in the afternoon. Here is your seat number. You arrive in London at 7:30 the next morning. From there you travel via a shuttle—that’s a small airplane—to Edinburgh.” She cleared her throat and looked at him, her green eyes glassy. “From there, I trust you can find your way home.”

“Home.” The word held such import.

She swallowed convulsively as her tears cascaded down her cheeks. “Yes. Home.”

He again heard her words as they stood on the library steps holding each other. His throat raw, he whispered, “Ye’ve kept yer promise.”

Sobbing, she nodded and collapsed onto his chest.