Brenna's Yuletide Song: A Scottish Yuletide Novella by Cathy MacRae

Author:Cathy MacRae [MacRae, Cathy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Short Dog Press
Published: 2021-01-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Alan strode briskly to the decanter on the small table against the wall in Uilleam’s chamber and poured himself a mug of clear, amber sedation. Taking a long sip, he faced Uilleam. “Och, that went fairly well, aye?”

Uilleam snorted. “If ye refer to the fact we walked out of the inn in one piece and were only a few minutes late for supper, then, aye. Though I prefer my food on a trencher, not brandished about by an overdone French cook enraged because the hotch potch burned on the hearth due to our lack of decency to adhere to his schedule.”

“Och, I rather doubt the soup was a good Scottish stew. Likely something Frenchy with turtles or eels.” Alan shuddered.

Uilleam tossed back the last of his whisky then set his mug on the table with a muted thump. “We’ll never know . . . unless the swine who slurped it from their trough gain the power of speech and tell us.” He shrugged. “But the roast venison was quite good.”

Caz closed the door with a snick and sank into a cushioned chair. He nodded to Alan. “Pour me a wee dram, would ye?” He flashed Uilleam a cheeky grin. “I think he means ’tis well Lord le Naper dinnae fall down dead on the spot when we walked through the front door and Lady Brenna announced ye took her to an inn.”

“He was too busy catching Lady le Naper when she swooned,” Uilleam replied. A grin surfaced at the memory, though the ensuing moments of panic had been worthy of heralding a Viking raid—or the insertion of a wee puddie amid the ladies’ skirts. Not that he’d have any real reason to know . . .. If memory served, the long-ago incident had been Caz’s idea.

“Ye have a point,” Caz admitted. With a silent thanks to Alan, he accepted the small goblet and sipped appreciatively. “Excellent whisky. Sparing no expense for his soon-to-be son-by-marriage.” Caz took another sip and sighed. “Good man.”

Alan claimed the other seat and stretched his legs before the fire. “Are ye ready for the wedding on the morrow, Uilleam? The priest arrived just as the Frenchie snatched the redressed swan from the table.”

Caz saluted with his goblet. “The priest was late, too.”

Uilleam caught himself as he paced before the hearth. Swiveling on a heel, he retreated to the tall bed and sank onto the goose-feather mattress with a slight squawk of the frame as it took his weight. He drew a determined breath.

“I am.”

Alan’s brows shot upward. “Ye are?”

Uilleam nodded. “I must admit I had always imagined—when the time came—I’d chose my own lass to marry. I wouldnae willingly have sought Brenna out.”

“Och, the gossip has been unkind. She and her sisters seem good enough sorts,” Alan said. “Elesbeth is a bit of a tough nut to crack, but the younger two are rather sweet.”

“Tough?” Caz grinned. “Elesbeth knows her mind. Ye’d never convince her to wed where her heart doesnae lie.” He glanced at Uilleam.

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