“It’s your teasing I cannot tolerate. Now go back to your family. It is Christmas, for pity’s sake.”
The muscles in his jaw shifted and his eyes narrowed. “Not until you receive your Christmas present.” He covered her hand, trapping it against his chest when she tried to walk away. Before she could ask what he was doing, he broke into song. “Ae fon’ keess, and then we seva! Ae fareweell, and then foreva!”
“You are foxed, aren’t you? I knew it. All this—” She jerked her hand free and waved it in the air for emphasis. “The song, the ridiculous offer of marriage. You are three sheets to the wind.”
“I am not! What makes you think I’m foxed?”
“Because I couldn’t understand a word you sang.”
He tossed his head back with a hearty laugh. “Dinna blame me, lass. It’s Robbie Burns what deserves yer ire. I didna composeAe Fond Kiss.”
“Ae? What is ae? Is that even a word?”
“It means one. One fond kiss, Eddi.” He retrieved a twig of mistletoe from behind his back and wagged it overhead. “But I dinna want to say farewell after one kiss. I’ll want another and another and another. Every day for the rest of our lives.”
Before Edith could tell him what to do with his drunken proposal and Christmas serenade, he tugged her into his arms and covered her lips with his. His kiss was hot and slightly sweet from the spirits he’d imbibed. A tingling haze invaded her head, as if she were drunk too.
His mouth gently nipped at hers. She moaned softly and collapsed into him, circling her arms around his neck. Her breasts flattened against his massive chest. His fingers splayed on her back and held her secure. With the tip of his tongue, he teased the crease of her lips. She sighed, allowing him access. He made a leisurely sweep of her mouth, a loving caress that created an ache inside her. She’d never been kissed like this.
Deliberately. Skillfully. His kiss was meant to seduce, to stoke her desire. No clumsy groping or rush to get her between the sheets, which made her want him even more.
He broke their kiss but didn’t release her. His mouth nibbled a trail across her cheek to her ear. “Eddi,mo chridhe,” he whispered.
She couldn’t understand when he spoke his native language, but it sounded lovely, whatever the meaning. She slid her hands to his chest, her fingers following the gentle slope of his muscles. If she’d been allowed to touch him like this several days earlier, she wouldn’t have needed to guess at his measurements. She was uncertain the shirt she’d sewn for him would fit.
“Come with me.” She eased from his embrace and captured his hand, entwining their fingers. He allowed her to draw him up the stairs and followed her down the corridor. As they reached her bedchamber door, he stopped.
“No, lass. I cannae enter your chambers.”
She frowned. “I’m not inviting you into my bed. I have something to give you.”
He pulled his hand free and crossed his arms. “I willna come inside yer room. Whatever you have to give me can wait until you become a McTaggart.”
She growled under her breath. Did he truly expect her to believe he wanted to marry her? She, a woman of thirty and worse, English? Jimmy Gibb might have convinced her that his intentions were honorable, but she was no longer that naïve young woman. And Fergus McTaggart was drunk. He would regret his words on the morrow.
His jaw firmed. “Dinna look at me with contempt. I’ll take you as my wife or no’ at all.”
She squared her shoulders, standing toe to toe with him. Despite him dwarfing her, he didn’t intimidate her. She’d seen how gentle he was with Gracie. How tender he could be with her. Her heart pulsed with longing. She could accept his proposal and hold him to his promise come morning. He would marry her, because he was an honorable man. Yet, the thought of forcing him to keep a promise made when he was impaired left a bitter taste in her mouth. Tomorrow he would realize he’d acted rashly, if he even remembered anything about the night.
“If you want to marry me, Fergus McTaggart, ask me when you have your senses about you.” She opened her chamber door and darted inside before she changed her mind.
She would have a willing groom or none at all.
Eight
Christmas morning Ferguswoke to hammer strikes against the inside of his skull. The sunlight forging through his bedchamber window only made the pounding worse. And his mouth was unnaturally dry. That was the last time he touched Prince Charlie’s Liqueur. The concoction was poison.
He rolled toward the bedside table to reach for a glass of water, and his stomach pitched. “Dear Lord,” he moaned and sank back into the mattress with his eyes closed.
As he lay in his bed, slowly breathing in and out to quell the tempest in his stomach, his encounter with Eddi on the stairwell trickled into his memory. He groaned a second time and threw an arm over his eyes to block his embarrassment as much as the blinding light.
Had he truly sang to her? What a drunken fool he’d been. It was no wonder the lass refused his offer of marriage. He expected nothing less of his Eddi. She was fearless in speaking her mind and confident she deserved more than a slurred proposal and lousy serenade. And she would receive a proper offer as soon as the room stopped spinning, and he could crawl from bed without tossing up his accounts.
As it turned out, it was early afternoon before Fergus recovered and was able to make it to the castle in his Sunday best. He entered through the servants’ door and made his way to the kitchen as he always did. His mother’s salt and pepper eyebrows shot up on her forehead in censorship.
“Look at ye all dressed up. Ye realize Christmas service was several hours ago. I noticed ye missing from the church pew this morning, Fergus McTaggart.” She slapped an onion on the cutting board, grabbed her knife, and glowered. “Dinna tell me it was a lassie that kept ye away all morning.”
The whack of her knife was a little more violent than usual as she cut the onion in half.
