Andromena and Fleur looped their arms through the countess’s.
“O tidings of comfort & joy…”
The girls brought the family matriarch to join in their lively chorus.
Normally, Aunt Leslie and Cousin Linnie would be right alongside the loudest revelers. This year, Aunt Leslie and Linnie stayed in London. They said it was to spare Linnie the strain of travel so soon after delivering her twin babes.
Arran stared into the haggard face reflected in his flask.
This time, when he raised the carafe, a gift given to him by his cousin, Campbell, Arran nearly downed the whole bloody contents.
“…From God that is our Father
The blessed angels came…”
To her audience’s delight, Fleur jumped onto the chaise.
Even as the countess remembered herself and the rules of decorum she’d hoped—and failed—to instill in her wayward children, Arran stared sightlessly at the engraved carafe.
A memory surfaced of the family’s last happy Christmas, where he’d attempted to arrange a marriage between Linnie and one of his closest friends, fellow shipping magnate and privateer, the Earl of Culross.
“…And it is tidings of comfort and joy…”
Arran pressed his thumb against the thistle rendered in metal.
What’d begun as a promising future alliance resulted in a hellish nightmare that’d nearly seen Linnie killed and left her with mental scars perhaps worse than any physical ones a person could suffer.
“…The blessed Virgin kneeling down
Unto the Lord did pray…”
He bore his finger into the Scottish symbol of strength and national pride.
“…With sudden joy and gladness—”
His mouth twisted in a harsh grimace.
My, what a splendid job they all did pretending all was right in the McQuoid-Smith family…
“…The shepherds were beguil’d…”
As if Arran weren’t responsible for the war brewing between his eminent shipping family and Culross. Though, in fairness, that was surely the lesser of his sins, considering he’d nearly gotten his cousin Linnie killed at sea and left her with a lifetime’s worth of horrors—
“…Before his mother mild…”
He raised his unstoppered flask to his lips and took a swig.
A deep swig.
The brandy seared a fiery path down his throat, one he welcomed.
Not that the French spirits left any lingering warmth. He’d long given up hope of fine liquor—or even cheap stock—blunting that battle at sea.
“…O then with joy and cheerfulness…”
There was none for blackguards such as he. Nor should there be.
He took another deep swallow.
