Once Upon A Highland Christmas by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

admonishing fist about his neck, forcing him to be honest.
    Something he wanted and needed as well.
    He drew another deep breath, struggling to clear his throat, the unpleasant tightness in his chest. Fergus and Malcolm were watching him oddly, their tankards forgotten as they looked at him, waiting expectantly for his answer about his betrothal to Breena.
    Grim flattened both hands on the table and sat straighter, everything in him demanding he be forthright. “I have wanted Breena since I first set eyes upon her,” he admitted, the truth putting wings to his heart, freeing his soul. “Ne’er have I loved a woman more. Indeed, I ne’er even believed in love. Leastways, no’ for me.”
    He didn’t answer Fergus’s question about their betrothal.
    “I could’ve said the same when I met my Flora.” Fergus, as great a romantic as his wife, was grinning at the answer Grim had given him.
    “The very hills held their breath the day Moira crossed my path. For sure, my world changed in an eye-blink. I spent most of my life aching for her. Now I’m whole again.” Malcolm looked across the room as he spoke, his voice solemn, his gaze on his lovely lady wife.
    Risking a glance that way, Grim’s heart lurched to see that Breena was gone. His pulse leapt in dread and he almost jumped from his seat before he remembered their hosts’ promising her a bath. Indeed, not too long ago, he’d noted Fergus’s two older sons carrying a wooden tub and buckets of steaming water up the farmhouse’s dimly lit stair. There, too, garlands of holly and ivy announced the season. Broad red ribbons decorated the greenery, leading the eye upward, to the shadowy landing at the top of the steps.
    Breena would be in the guest room now, bathing.
    Grim frowned, a certain most-male irritation returning with a vengeance.
    Breena wet and naked, her bare skin glistening with soap bubbles, was an image he daren’t dwell upon. To be sure, he shouldn’t think how she’d look after her bath, her sweet womanly curves smooth and gleaming with scented oils. Such torment was beyond endurance.
    So he did what he could do and thumped the table with his fist. “You’re good men, the both of you!” he declared, changing the subject. “I knew you’d agree to ride to Duncreag, arriving as if you expected Archie to host Yuletide festivities, as he did in olden times.
    “But I ne’er would’ve pressed you to bear gifts.” Grim glanced to a large wicker basket Flora had set on the table earlier. It contained a few jugs of her own special blackberry wine, linen-wrapped smoked herring, a delicacy in these hill-girded parts of the Highlands, so distant from the sea. She’d also added plenty of her far-famed oatcakes.
    As a nod to Christmas, there were two gaily wrapped packages of her fragrant spice cakes.
    “Och, such is the least we could do.” Fergus made light of the gesture. “The MacNab is a fine man. He’d do the like for us, no doubt in my mind.”
    “I agree.” Malcolm drew in a breath, clearly reminiscing. “I met him years ago, at court in Stirling. He was a bonnie, carefree lad in those days, his tongue so silvered all the ladies swooned if he just glanced at them. I grieve to hear he’s had such a hard time of it. He sounds less than a shadow of his old self. To be sure, he’ll need cheering. Moira and I will greet him gladly, and with a Yule token.” He patted a leather-wrapped package beside his ale tankard.
    Malcolm’s offering was an intricately carved mead horn, edged in finest silver. He claimed he had two such horns with him, and he wouldn’t miss the one. Grim knew better than to embarrass Malcolm by showing he knew that wasn’t so. The truth was, beneath the old warrior’s dignity beat a heart as soft as Grim’s own.
    Grim was grateful.
    He wanted Archie’s Yuletide surprise to be splendid beyond his wildest dreams. That Archie secretly yearned for such a joyous celebration stood without question. Grim knew the old