MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night by Pamela Clare Page A

women for a wonderful Christmas Eve feast, to Killy and Hildie on the occasion of their betrothal, to Sarah for her generosity in bestowing such gifts upon her family — and to the memory of those who gave their lives for the peace we enjoy this Christmastide."

    Morgan, Connor, Killy and Joseph stood, raised their tankards, and drank.

    Iain looked down at his newest sister-by-marriage. "Sarah, ’tis time for some carols. Would you like to play for us?"

    Sarah’s face lit up as Iain had known it would. "I should be honored."

    * * *

    " Adeste fideles laeti triumphantes / Venite , venite in Bethlehem."

    Amalie did her best to sing along. She willed herself to seem as cheerful as the others as they sang chants de Noël — what the others called Christmas carols — in Scottish Gaelic, French, English, and Latin to the accompaniment of Sarah’s beautiful harpsichord. Children played at their feet or slept on the thick bearskin rug that stretched out near Iain and Annie’s sitting-room hearth.

    Amalie was grateful that the men were safely home and happy that they’d made it back in time for Christmas Eve supper. It had been a fun evening, though Amalie’s thoughts had never strayed far from the argument she’d had with Morgan before he’d left for Albany.

    He’d claimed she did not understand, but she did. He was afraid she would die in childbed, and so he gave her only part of himself. She could not deny that she still found pleasure with him, but that pleasure was incomplete. She missed the feel of his weight upon her, his deep thrusts inside her, the joy of being possessed wholly by him — and possessing him in return.

    In truth, it was he who did not understand.

    Dared she hope that he’d changed his mind on the long journey?

    " Venite adoremus /Venite adoremus /Venite adoremus / Dominum ."

    The song came to an end, and Amalie clapped with the others. The sound roused little Connor Joseph from his sleep. He whimpered, fussed. Amalie went to him, lifted her son into her arms, his twin, Lachlan, still asleep, thumb in his mouth.

    "Sleepy lad!" Morgan ran his hand over little Connor’s dark hair, his warm smile and the gentleness in his eyes when he met Amalie’s gaze a peace offering. He looked so handsome, his dark hair drawn back in a queue, his jaw dark with stubble.

    She willed a smile onto her face and sat in the chair that he offered her, fighting not to cry when he kissed her hair, her emotions at an edge. " Merci. "

    They sang a few more carols, then Iain walked to the fireplace and drew from the mantel the heavy, leather-bound family Bible. Apart from Connor’s whimpers, the room fell quiet as Iain opened the thick book to a page marked with a red ribbon and began to read, his deep voice seeming to fill the room.

    "And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. This taxin ’ was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be taxed wi ’ Mary his espoused wife, bein ’ great wi ’ child.

    "While they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn Son and wrapped Him in swaddlin ’ clothes and laid Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn."

    As Iain read about the angels and shepherds, Amalie thought of a young virgin, unmarried and most unexpectedly with child, her betrothed shocked to find her thus, but compelled by a dream and his own compassion to remain true to her. She thought of blameless Mary, great with child, traveling to Bethlehem on a donkey, the pangs of childbirth coming upon her. She thought of a young mother giving birth to her first child in the chill of a stable with only straw for