‘You’d be appreciated a whole lot more if you put those on a nice plate, chopped up a few cherry tomatoes and added some watercress to give it some proper care and attention.’
‘Henpecked, I am,’ muttered Jason, but Izzy noticed he did exactly as Fliss suggested.
‘What goes in these Champagne cocktails, then?’ asked Fliss.
‘It’s a family recipe passed down from my great gran. We’ve had these for as long as I can remember. Put a sugar lump in the bottom of the glass, a few drops of Angostura bitters on the sugar lump and then pour chilled brandy into the bottom of the glass and top up with Champagne. My grandad, when he was alive, was always in charge of making these.’ With a smile Izzy thought of her grandad, a quiet man who’d died before his time. He’d always read her stories and taken her on walks, pointing out all the birds. She hardly thought of him these days but Christmas always brought back those rare, bittersweet memories.
‘Ah, that’s lovely. Family traditions are wonderful. At Christmas at home, my mum always used to leave a plate of crackers and cheese and port for Father Christmas. I always wondered why we didn’t leave a mince pie out and poor Rudolph didn’t get a carrot like everyone else. Took me and my brothers years to twig the connection between my grandad hating mince pies and being partial to cheese and port before bed.’ Fliss giggled, lost in her own memories for a moment.
‘My mum used to crack open the tin of Roses on Christmas Eve. We were lucky if there were any left on Christmas Day, except for the coffee creams. None of us liked them.’
‘I love a coffee cream,’ said Fliss.
‘You would, you’re posh.’
‘I think it’s time we took these through, don’t you?’ said Izzy with a stern look at both of them.
They laughed and this time Fliss with a mock punch to Jason’s ribs said, ‘We love each other really. He’s my bestie.’
Everyone was assembled in the drawing room when Izzy, Jason and Fliss came through. The room shimmered with the glow of golden fairy lights across the mantelpiece and flickering candles on all the windowsills were reflected back in the dark glass. The curtains had been left open and outside the snow lit up the evening landscape, making it feel even cosier inside. Xanthe had done a beautiful job in here. The Christmas tree glistened in the light, the silver and gold baubles twinkling. The simplicity of the decoration enhancing the overall warmth of the décor.
‘Merry Christmas Eve, one and all,’ called Xanthe as soon as the glasses were handed out, raising her glass in a toast.
‘Thank you for having us,’ said Hattie lifting her glass in response. ‘Especially me.’
‘Yes,’ said Graham. ‘Thank you to Izzy and Xanthe for being such generous hosts and inviting us to stay.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Xanthe with bountiful aplomb, which made Izzy grin to herself and automatically look around to catch Ross’s eye. He would have understood the irony. But there was no sign of him and despite everything she’d told herself, she felt a small hiss of disappointment, like the puncture of a tyre. How contrary was she? But surely if he had proper feelings for her, if he thought he might love her, he would have put up more of a fight. His absence proved what she’d suspected all along – that he didn’t feel for her what she felt for him.
‘Cheers, Izzy,’ said Jim with a defiant grin.
‘Aye, lass,’ added Duncan. ‘Thanks for turning this place into a proper home. You’ve made me verra welcome and ye didn’t hae to.’
Izzy blushed.
‘Yes, thank you, Izzy,’ said Xanthe, crossing the room and putting her arm across Izzy’s shoulders. ‘For allowing me to live my dream. You’re the best daughter a woman could have.’
Izzy blinked. It was rare her mother claimed kinship like that.
‘Of course I’m the best, I’m the only one you’ve got,’ joked Izzy, refusing to allow the lump in her throat to get the better of her.
A sudden hush alerted her to the arrival behind her, like atmospheric pressure affecting a barometer. She turned to find Ross striding into the room towards her, carrying the Claymore on his shoulder with deadly purpose, his eyes focused on her, sharp and intent. No one else existed. His kilt flared at the knee as he moved and the white linen shirt gaped, revealing a smooth, broad chest. Her mouth went dry as all her Jamie Fraser fantasies turned into dust at the sight of Ross’s brawny shoulders and strong neck. Stunned, she stared back at him. Her skin pinpricked in awareness, tiny electrical jabs buzzing across her scalp, her neck, the palms of her hands.
The world shrank to just him.
‘Izzy McBride, I need you to come with me.’
The room fell completely silent apart from the crackle of the flames behind her. His gaze never left her face. Her heart thudded so hard she could almost hear her pulse pounding through her body. When he slowly held out his left hand, she took it. There was a hushed silence as she allowed him to lead her from the room, the sword balanced on his right shoulder.
The candles on the mantelpiece in the great hall had been lit and flames leaped and danced in the grate, casting a soft, warm glow around the old wood-panelled walls. Ross swung the sword down from his shoulder, the tip to the ground, and stopped in front of her, backlit by the fire and the candles. Her lips parted, more in awe at the sight of him haloed by the flames behind him, but she waited for him to speak, waited for the weight of his words.
With one hand atop the sword and the other loose by his side, she watched as he drew in a breath. ‘Izzy McBride, I love you.’ His husky voice sent a white-hot flash through her. Surprise, exultation, amazement and shock collided like an explosion. His gaze didn’t waver from her face.
‘Nomightorthinkabout it,’ he declared. ‘I’m throwing myself off the cliff.’ She saw his hand shake where it grasped the Claymore. ‘With a weighted backpack and no safety helmet or parachute.’
Then he dropped to one knee, still holding the sword.
‘So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
