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He gave her another of his winning smiles. “I could tell.” Then taking one of her hands, he led her toward the hawthorn tree. “We had best gather those berries before we forget why we came.”
“Aye.” She laughed. “I had nearly forgotten myself.”
His smile was subtle as he shook his head. “You are always surprising me, Ailie. Innocent you may be but with enough passion to require all my self-control.”
Bending his head toward the smaller branches, he began to cut. Since he had the shears, she directed him to those branches that were heavy with berries.
They worked side by side, Nash cutting and Ailie putting the branches in the bag. In her mind she relived his kisses. What could they mean? He was an Englishman, she a Scot. Most likely, he was an Anglican; she was a Presbyterian. She had only known him for a matter of days. In a matter of weeks, he would return to London and she would never see him again. Perhaps, to him, the kiss meant little.
They filled the sack. “What next?” he asked.
She looked around them, fighting the urge to return to his arms. A stand of small Scots pine trees stood nearby. “Some pine branches would go well with the berries and they will make the house smell like the woods. Let’s cut some of those.”
“I live to serve,” he teased. Working his way around the hawthorn tree to the young Scots pines, he asked, “How many?”
“Enough to fill another sack.” She took one from her saddlebag and brought it to where he stood. “Don’t you gather greenery in England for your Christmastide?”
“We do, but not Scots pines. I don’t suppose you have mistletoe in Arbroath?”
“Mistletoe… the Druid’s herb? Not much of it in Scotland, none that I know of in Arbroath unless a ship brings it, but even if one did, the Kirk would not approve.”
“’Tis what the English use in their kissing boughs.” His smile made her think of a small boy who had a frog secreted away in his pocket. “My mother always hangs the balls of holly, ivy and mistletoe from the entry hall chandelier. ’Tis allowed for a gentleman to kiss a lady caught beneath the bough.”
“Ah,” she said, “I see. But in Scotland, the Parish Kirk frowns on celebrations of what it considers to be the Yule, which is why we don’t celebrate Christmas, at least not openly, even though we do recognize the birth of the Christ Child. But with Emily a part of the family, I expect that will change. When word gets around that the Stephens have brought the English Christmastide into their home, our parish minister will think the whole lot of us have become Anglicans.”
He laughed. “Would that be so bad?”
From his expression, Ailie sensed the question might be important. “Perhaps not, but most everyone in Scotland is Presbyterian. In truth, ’tis the same God whose praises we sing, whether Anglican or Presbyterian, no?”
His smile told her he liked her answer. “I would certainly look forward to having a kissing bough to catch you under this Christmas.”
Her cheeks grew warm. Silently, she cursed her sensitive skin. “Now you remind me of Robbie,” she said in a teasing manner. “I will ask Emily about a kissing bough since I can see it means much to the English.” Ailie wouldn’t mind him catching her under such a bough.
“Ho there!” came the cry from the woods.
Ailie looked up to see Hugh and Mary making their way toward them. “Seems we’ve been found.”
Hugh arrived first and leaned down to pat the large sack tied to his saddle. “We have two great bags of holly and some other evergreen branches that Mary found to decorate your many rooms. Are you two almost finished?”
Ailie met Nash’s eyes. It had grown colder since they had arrived in the woods and now she no longer had his arms around her. “Aye,” she replied. “We’re done here as well and I, for one, would not turn away a cup of hot wassail.”
Robbie looked up from his cards to see Muriel pondering her next move. Not far away, the fire burned steadily, occasionally giving out with a loud pop. He liked the library and its rich smell of leather, wood burning and a faint remnant of pipe smoke. It reminded him of White’s, his favorite club in London where doubtless he would be this very moment were it not for Lord Sidmouth.
Through the windows, he glimpsed the pale sun casting its rays onto a white world. His thoughts drifted to Nash, who was somewhere out there enjoying the morning with the Mistress of the Setters. He envied his brother the time alone with the spirited girl. Nash had always been one to seize an opportunity. But since he did not have Robbie’s luck at cards, if one of them was to remain behind and play, it had best be him. Let Nash gather the Christmas foliage.
Muriel raised her head. “Emily, dear, might I have a glass of Madeira?”
“Of course,” said their hostess. The footman having left the library a short while ago, Emily rose to fetch the wine Robbie had learned the countess favored.
Very soon into their play, it had become apparent loo was a game the five of them knew well. They were now into Double Pool rounds and Muriel, who had yet to declare if she would play the hand Emily had dealt her, was stalling.
The Grand Countess was a clever woman and an adroit card player, thus Robbie was certain she was making use of the delay to consider her next move. His suspicious nature wondered if she’d even wanted the wine. After all, it was early in the day and breakfast not long finished.
Martin narrowed his eyes on Muriel. “An underhanded move, calculated, I suspect to gain time.”
“When one has much on one’s mind,” said the countess, “additional time is required and a glass of Madeira helps me think.”
Robbie couldn’t imagine what might occupy the thoughts of The Grand Countess if not her cards. Her next ball?
