Winter Heat by Dawn Halliday Read Free Book Online Page B

her.”
    “When did she die?”
    “It’s almost ten years now. But I remember her every day. Before she died . . . she told me I must keep strong. Keep to myself and remain independent until I knew I was safe.” Maggie gave a small laugh. “I’d no idea what she was talking about.”
    “But now you do?”
    “I . . .” Her voice faltered. “I’m not sure. Perhaps she spoke of a husband who would protect me. But since she died, I’ve always felt safer on my own than under any man’s protection—even my husband’s.” She paused. “I feel safe with you though.”
    That silenced him. They gazed at the fire until she turned to him, raising a dark brow. “Don’t you have any superstitions up north?”
    Logan relaxed against the side of the bed, stretching his legs toward the fire. His leg wound felt better tonight than it had the night before the battle.
    “On Christmas day, we eat bannocks with sowens in the morning—” Logan suppressed a grimace. He had never been fond of sowens, for the bitter taste and gelled texture of the fermented mixture of oat husks and meal had never appealed to him. “And in the afternoon, all the clansmen participate in a contest of marksmanship.”
    She slanted a teasing glance at him. “Do you win?”
    “I’ve been known to win on occasion.”
    She chuckled. “I’m not surprised.”
    His gaze fastened on Maggie as a memory swept through him. Last year, he’d won the contest again, and his brother had given him his musket as a prize—the same musket he’d kept through battle and had stolen back from one of Argyll’s men before he’d escaped from captivity. On Christmas day after the competition, Logan and his brother had stood in the village square admiring the new weapon, and Mrs. Sinclair, the village’s oldest, tiniest, and most eccentric woman, had hobbled up to them.
    “’Tis a lovely weapon, indeed,” she’d said in her warbling voice when the brothers had turned to her in question. Her small, piercing black eyes looked up at Logan from her wrinkled face. “Ye’ll kill with it, no doubt.”
    Aware of the impending uprising, Logan hadn’t doubted it, either. He’d nodded gravely down at her.
    She gave him a toothless smile. “Aye. And ye’d best keep it near, too. For it’ll lead ye to yer one, and without it, ye’ll ne’er keep ’er.”
    “My . . . ‘one’?” Logan had asked, his brows raised in question.
    “Aye.” Mrs. Sinclair cackled. “Ye canna understand what I’m saying, lad, but soon ye will. Verra soon.” And just like that, she’d turned and shuffled away, leaving the brothers staring after her in bemusement.
    Was Maggie his “one”?
    Logan shook his head as if to fling away the thought. It was nonsensical, for God’s sake. His weapon hadn’t led him to Maggie; her lost brooch had. He wasn’t one to dwell on sentimental and superstitious fancies, much less believe in them.
    “What?”
    He blinked at her. “What, what?”
    “What are you thinking about?”
    “Nothing,” he said flatly. “Tell me more about your Christ mases.”
    Her eyes flashed, and she scooted closer to him. The curls framing her face danced about as she blew out a breath. “Our family gathers at the MacDonald seat a few days before Christmas. I suppose because it takes a few days to hang all the sweet-smelling boughs and wreaths. And, of course, to cook all the pies and bannocks.”
    He watched her as she continued, telling him of how her mother brought her and her cousin their sowens in bed on Christmas morning, then how they all gathered in the great hall for a morning feast.
    “It hasn’t changed much since Torean’s father—the old laird—died. But it feels different.”
    “How’s that?” Logan asked.
    She sighed. “Torean’s intentions are good, but he’s very young. His da was healthy as an ox, and he died unexpectedly of an apoplexy a year ago. I don’t think Torean was fully prepared for the duties he was forced to take