The Laird’s Christmas Kiss (The Lairds Most Likely 2)

Welcome tae yer gory bed,

Or to victory.”

Hamish laughed with a shaming trace of relief and joined in the song. Now that rescue was on the way, their scrape turned back into a grand adventure.

They were into their second reprise before two figures emerged from the mist on the path ahead of him. One was a large, black dog of indeterminate breed. The other was…

“But you’re just a boy, too,” he said, his brief hope of safety vanishing and all his earlier fear rushing up in a choking wave.

“I’m all of fourteen,” the lad said huffily, lifting the lantern he carried to reveal Hamish and Diarmid shivering on the ledge. Under a long leather coat, their rescuer wore a rough linen shirt and a red and black kilt. A brace of dead hares dangled from his wide black leather belt. “I’ll have ye ken I’m up to bringing a pair of brainless Sassenach laddies down a brae. You’re lucky I was out chasing some game and heard your voices on the wind.”

“My cousin didn’t mean—” Diarmid said.

“I’m no Sassenach,” Hamish interjected. “I’m as Scots as you are. I’m going to be the Laird of Glen Lyon one day.”

“Och, is that so?” The newcomer sounded skeptical as he peered at Hamish through the flickering light and clearly found nothing noteworthy. “Yet here ye are, sounding like ye live in Mayfair and take tea with King George every afternoon.”

This time, Hamish was grateful for the unreliable light. It hid his blush. His father might be hereditary master of beautiful Glen Lyon, but he’d worked for years at the War Office in London, and Hamish had spent the last two years at Eton.

“I mightn’t sound Scottish, but it’s what’s in your heart that counts,” he muttered.

The tall, thin boy with dark red hair subjected him to a searching regard, then smiled with sudden, surprising charm. “Well said, laddie. I beg your pardon. I’m Fergus Mackinnon, and I am the laird of this glen. I’m guessing you’re staying in the hunting lodge beside the loch.”

“Aye,” Diarmid said, and Hamish noted his cousin made an effort to sound Scots, too, even though he went to Harrow and his school was as much a bastion of the English establishment as Eton was. “I’m Diarmid Mactavish, and this is my cousin Hamish Douglas. W

e’re devilish glad to see you, Master Mackinnon.”

Mackinnon arched an eyebrow and rested his free hand on the dog’s shaggy head as it sat at his side, observing the conversation with intelligent yellow eyes. The boy’s manner was altogether superior, and Hamish wasn’t sure he liked him, although he was deuced thankful someone had come along to lead them down the mountain. “I suppose you’re a wee laird as well?”

Diarmid pulled himself up to a full height that was impressive for an eleven-year-old, if not equal to Mackinnon’s. “Not yet, but I will be. My father is the Laird of Invertavey, down on the coast by Oban.”

“Then it’s a gey distinguished gathering we have indeed.” More irony. “What I want to ken is why two bairns are out so late, wandering the hillsides of Achnasheen on a dreich night that promised mist.”

Hamish bit back an objection to being called a child. He mightn’t approve of Mackinnon, but he wasn’t stupid enough to offend him. If their rescuer abandoned them, he and Diarmid would be stuck out here the rest of the night. However, he couldn’t help pointing out a salient fact. “You’re out wandering the hillsides, too.”

“Aye, well, it’s different for me. Even if I was a blind man, I’d find my way over every inch of this glen. A wee bit of Highland weather doesn’t change that.”

A pang of envy sharpened Hamish’s hostility. While he loved Glen Lyon, the family only spent a few weeks there a year. He was a stranger to his inheritance in a way that Fergus Mackinnon wasn’t.

“We came out to look at the stars,” Diarmid said.

“Aye?” Mackinnon’s single word communicated endless wonder at Sassenach stupidity, despite these particular Sassenachs claiming to be Scots. “I dinna see the stars for the mist, but then I am a dim-witted Highlander.”

Hamish would wager a year’s allowance that this boy wasn’t dim-witted at all. “They were bright as diamonds before the moon came up. I’ve never seen Arcturus so clear.”

“Hamish knows all the constellations,” Diarmid said eagerly. It was very like his cousin to try to smooth over any antagonism. “He’s going to be Astronomer Royal one day.”

“Is that so?” Mackinnon didn’t sound any more impressed, now that he’d heard Hamish’s credentials. “Yet the next Galileo wasnae clever enough to ken that once the full moon came up, the stars would fade to invisibility?”

“I did. But we were headed home before that happened, and I thought we could find our way using the moonlight. Then all the hills started to look alike, and the mist came down, and we got lost,” Hamish snapped, uncomfortably aware that tonight’s debacle was mostly—well, all—his fault. “So will you take us down the mountain?”

Mackinnon shook his head. “No, that I will not, my fine laddie.”

“I say, that’s a bit rum,” Hamish began hotly. “Just because I don’t sound like I live on top of Ben Nevis and have haggis for breakfast every morning—”

The older boy broke into Hamish’s tirade. “The mist makes it too dangerous. I’ll not be risking my neck, let alone yours.”

“Then what are we to do?” Diarmid asked. “It’s getting colder.”