Scot Under the Mistletoe (The Hots for Scots) by Caroline Lee

Author:Caroline Lee [Lee, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

It wasn’t their typical Christmas celebration, but it was still nice.

Of course, Nessa had to admit she’d already had quite an interesting holy day, what with the droning Mass that morning in the hall—Father Ambrose stuck with the Latin liturgy, which meant no one besides Malcolm understood him, so it was terribly boring—and the, you know, sex in the afternoon.

She realized she was smiling at the memory and didn’t bother caring. Aye, she was still irritated with Brohn, but she was determined to get her way in this.

She would not be married to some distant Henry. And hopefully, once he realized that, he’d step up to her father and ask to marry her instead.

“More ale, wench!” her father boomed, laughter in his voice, as he waved his empty flagon in the air.

Taking her cue, Nessa giggled and hurried across the room with the pitcher, fulfilling her role as the ale wench this evening.

Most of the servants had gone to their homes in the village, and the few who remained in the castle were currently getting happily drunk and roasting chestnuts down in the kitchens with Cook. Supper had been a simple stew, since Moira had decided to save the cow—which Cook had been feeding and tending so long—for the celebration with the rest of the clan, which would happen as soon as the snows cleared.

With the servants celebrating Christ’s Mass their own way, Nessa’s family—and Moira’s—were left to their own devices. The housekeeper had arranged for some delicious snacks and treats, and now they were all lounging around the warm fire while the snow fell outside.

And Nessa had been designated the ale wench.

“I need more wine!” Aunt Agatha declared, frowning down at her empty cup.

“Ye’ll have to get it yerself,” Nessa called cheerfully as she poured for her father. “I’m in charge of only ale!”

“Bah! Ye’d make a crippled auld woman hobble to get her own wine?”

Nessa waggled her brows. “Apologies, Aunt Agatha, but I’m busy!” she laughed evilly.

The old woman, already having enjoyed a cup of the wine, threw her forearm across her eyes and moaned dramatically. “Oh, woe is me! My last chance to celebrate Christ’s Mass here on earthly firmament, and my descendants—wicked, wicked children that they are!—willnae help a poor auld woman!”

Around her, her wicked descendants were chuckling.

“Did she no’ claim last year was her last chance to celebrate the holy day with us, Mal?” Alistair asked thoughtfully.

Malcolm was grinning as he looked up from where he’d been showing young Liam a trick with a ball and some string. “Och, aye! Do ye no’ remember? She makes the same claim every year! Each year is her last among the living, for certes.” He nodded to his son. “She says the same thing each year.”

“I dinnae want Great-Aunt Agatha to die,” Liam said with a frown.

His mother Evelinde was keeping an eye on the baby, who was almost one, while she patted her rotund belly. “She’s yer great-great-aunt, honeybun,” she muttered distractedly.

The little boy nodded eagerly.

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