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  "Is that a yes?"

  "Out!" So deep was her rage her voice shook even as it boomed. "Out of my house, you pox-ridden son of Satan." The tears that sprang to her eyes were tears of righteous fury, she assured herself. "If I were a man I'd murder you where you stand and dance a jig on your bleeding body."

  "Ah." After an understanding nod, he replaced his handkerchief. "You need a bit of time to think it over.

  Perfectly understandable."

  Speechless, she could only make incoherent growls and hisses.

  "I'll speak with your father," he offered politely. She shrieked like a banshee and grabbed for the paring knife.

  "I will kill you. On my mother's grave, I swear it."

  "My dear Mrs. Flynn," he began as he cautiously clamped a hand on her wrist. "I realize a woman is sometimes overcome with the proposal or marriage, but this…" He trailed off when he saw that tears had welled from her eyes and run down her cheeks. "What is this?" Uncomfortable, he brushed a thumb over her damp cheek. "Alanna, my love, don't. I'd rather have you stab me than cry." But when he gallantly

  released her hand, she tossed the knife aside.

  "Oh, leave me be, won't you? Go away. How dare you insult me this way? I curse the day I saved your miserable life."

  He took heart that she was cursing him again and pressed a kiss to her brow. "Insult you? How?"

  "How?" Behind the veil of tears her eyes burned like blue suns. "Laughing at me. Speaking of marriage as if it were a great joke. I suppose you think because I don't have fine clothes or fancy hats that I have no feelings."

  "What do hats have to do with it?"

  "I suppose all the elegant ladies in Boston just smile indulgently and rap your hand with their fans when you play the flirt, but I take talk of marriage more seriously and won't stand by while you speak of it and laugh in my face at the same time."

  "Oh, sweet God." Who would have thought that he, a man reputed to be smooth and clever with the ladies, could muck things up so badly when it mattered? "I was a fool, Alanna. Please listen."

  "Was and are a fool. Now take your paws off me."

  He gathered her closer. "I only want to explain."

  Before he could, Cyrus Murphy pushed open the door. He took one look at the wreckage of the kitchen, at his daughter struggling against Ian, and reached calmly for the hunting knife in his belt.

  "Let go of my girl, MacGregor, and prepare to die."

  "Da." Eyes widened at the sight of her father, pale as ice with a knife in his hands, Alanna threw herself in front of Ian. "Don't."

  "Move aside, lass. Murphys protect their own."

  "It isn't the way it looks," she began.

  "Leave us, Alanna," Ian said quietly. "I'll have a word with your father."

  "The hell you will." She planted her feet. Perhaps she would have shed his blood herself—and had, if one counted his nose—but she wouldn't have her father kill him after she'd worked for two days and nights to keep him alive. "We had an argument, Da. I can handle it myself. He was—"

  "He was proposing marriage to your daughter," Ian finished, only to have Alanna round on him again.

  "You lying polecat. You didn't mean a word of it. Laughing like a loon while you said it, you were. I won't be insulted. I won't be belittled—"

  "But you will be quiet," he roared at her, and had Cyrus raising a brow in approval when she did indeed subside. "I meant every word," he continued, his voice still pitched to raise the roof. "If I was laughing it was at myself, for being so big a fool as to fall in love with a stubborn, sharp-tongued shrew who'd as soon stab me as smile at me."

  "Shrew?" Her voice ended on a squeak. "Shrew?"

  "Aye, a shrew," Ian said with a vicious nod. "That's what I said, and that's what you are. And a—"

  "Enough." Cyrus shook the snow from his hair. "Sweet Jesus, what a pair." With some reluctance, he replaced his knife. "Get on your coat, MacGregor, and come with me. Alanna, finish your baking."

  "But, Da, I—"

  "Do as I say, lass." He gestured Ian out the door. "With all the shouting and the wailing it's hard for a body to remember it's Christmas Eve." He stopped just outside and planted his hands on his hips in a gesture his daughter had inherited. "I've a job to do, MacGregor. You'll come with me and explain yourself."

  "Aye." He cast a last furious look at the window where Alanna had her nose pressed. "I'll come with you."

  Ian trudged across the snow and through the billowy curtain that was still falling. He hadn't bothered to fasten his coat and stuck his ungloved hands in its pockets.

  "Wait here," Cyrus said. He went inside a small shed and came out with an ax. Noting Ian's cautious stare, he hefted it onto his shoulder. "I won't be using it on you. Yet." He moved off toward the forest with Ian beside him. "Alanna's partial to Christmas. As was her mother." There was a pang, as there always was when he thought of his wife. "She'll be wanting a tree—and time for her temper to cool."

  "Does it ever?"

  As a matter of habit, Cyrus studied the forest floor for signs of game. They'd want fresh venison soon.

  "You're the one who's thinking of shackling his leg to hers. Why is that?"

  "If I could think of one good reason, I'd give it to you." He hissed his breath out between his teeth. "I ask the woman to marry me, and she hits me in the nose." He touched the still sore appendage, then grinned.

  "By God, Murphy, I'm half-mad and in love with the woman—which amounts to the same thing. I'll have her to wife."

  Cyrus stopped in front of a pine, studied it, rejected it, then moved on. "That remains to be seen."

  "I'm not a poor man," Ian began. "The bloody British didn't get everything in the Forty-five, and I've done well enough with investments. I'll provide well for her."

  "Mayhap you will, mayhap you won't. She took Michael Flynn and he had no more than a few acres of rocky land and two cows."

  "She won't have to work from dawn to dust."

  "Alanna doesn't mind work. She takes pride in it." Cyrus stopped in front of another tree, nodded, then handed the ax to Ian. "This'll do. When a man's frustrated, there's nothing like swinging an ax to sweat it out of him."

  Ian spread his legs, planted his feet and put his back into it. Wood chips flew. "She cares for me. I know

  it."

  "Might," Cyrus agreed, then decided to treat himself to a pipe. " 'Tis her habit to shout and slap at those she cares for most."

  "Then she must love me to distraction." The ax bit into the meat of the pine's trunk. Ian's expression was grim. "I'll have her, Murphy, with or without your blessing."

  "That goes without saying." Cyrus patiently filled his pipe. "She's a woman grown and can make up her own mind. Tell me, MacGregor, will you fight the British with as much passion as you'll woo my daughter?"

  Ian swung the ax again. The blade whistled through the air. The sound of metal on wood thudded through the forest. "Aye."

  "Then I'll tell you now, it may be hard for you to win both." Satisfied the pipe was well packed, he struck a match against a boulder. "Alanna refuses to believe there will be war."

  Ian paused. "And you?"

  "I've no love for the British or their king." Cyrus puffed on his pipe and sent smoke drifting through the snow. "And even if I did, my vision's sharp enough yet to see what will come. It may take a year, or two, or more, but the fight will come. And it will be long, and it will be bloody. When it comes I'll have two more sons to risk. Two more sons to lose." He sighed, long and heavy. "I don't want your war, Ian MacGregor, but there will come a point when a man will have to stand for what is his."

  "It's already begun, Murphy, and neither wanting it nor fearing it will change history."

  Cyrus studied Ian as the tree fell to the cushioning snow. A strong man, he thought, one of those damned Scot giants, with a face and form a woman would find pleasing enough. A good mind and a good name.

  But it was Ian's restless and rebellious spirit that concerned him.

>   "I'll ask you this, will you be content to sit and wait for what comes to come, or will you go out in search of it?"

  "MacGregors don't wait to stand for what they believe in. Nor do they wait to fight for it."

  With a nod, Cyrus helped Ian heft the fallen tree. "I won't stand in your way where Alanna is concerned.

  You may do that for yourself."

  Alanna rushed into the front of the cabin the moment she heard Ian's voice. "Da, I want to… Oh." She stopped short at the sight of her father and Ian with a pine tree held between them. "You've cut a Christmas tree."

  "Did you think I'd be forgetting?" Cyrus took off his cap and stuffed it in his pocket. "How could I with you nagging me day and night?"

  "Thank you." It was with both pleasure and relief that she crossed the room to kiss him. "It's beautiful."

  "And I suppose you'll want to be hanging ribbons and

  God knows what else on it." But he gave her a quick squeeze as he spoke.

  "I have Mama's box of ornaments in my room." Because she understood him so well, she kissed him again. "I'll fetch it after supper."

  "I've other chores to see to. You can devil MacGregor about where you want the thing." He gave her hand a quick pat before he went out again.

  Alanna cleared her throat. "By the front window, if you please."

  Ian dragged it over, balancing it on the flat wooden boards Cyrus had hammered to the trunk. The only sound was the rustling of needles and the crackle of the fire.

  "Thank you," she said primly. "You can go about your business now."

  Before she could escape to the kitchen again, he took her hand. "Your father has given me permission to wed you, Alanna."

  She tugged once on her hand, then wisely gave up. "I'm my own woman, MacGregor."

  "You'll be mine, Mrs. Flynn."

  Though he stood a foot over her head, she managed to convey the impression of looking down her nose at him. "I'd sooner mate a rabid skunk."

  Determined to do it right this time, he brought her rigid hand to his lips. "I love you, Alanna."

  "Don't." She pressed her free hand to her nervous heart. "Don't say that."

  "I say it with every breath I take. And will until I breathe no more."

  Undone, she stared at him, into those blue-green eyes that had already haunted her nights. His arrogance she could resist. His outrageousness she could fight. But this, this simple, almost humble declaration of devotion left her defenseless.

  "Ian, please…"

  He took heart because she had, at long last, called him by his given name. And the look in her eyes as the word left her lips could not be mistaken. "You will not tell me you're indifferent to me."

  Unable to resist, she touched a hand to his face. "No, I won't tell you that. You must see how I feel every time I look at you."

  "We were meant to be together." With his eyes on hers, he pressed the palm of her hand to his lips.

  "From the moment I saw you bending over me in the barn I felt it."

  "It's all so soon," she said, fighting both panic and longing. "All so quick."

  "And right. I'll make you happy, Alanna. You can choose whatever house you want in Boston."

  "Boston?"

  "For a time, at least, we would live there. I have work to do. Later we could go to Scotland, and you could visit your homeland."

  But she was shaking her head. "Work. What work is this?"

  A shield seemed to come down over his eyes. "I gave you my word I would not speak of it until after Christmas."

  "Aye." She felt her bounding heart still and freeze in her breast. "You did." After a deep breath, she looked down at their joined hands. "I have pies in the oven. They need to come out."

  "Is that all you can say?"

  She looked at the tree behind him, still bare, but with so much promise. "I must ask you for time.

  Tomorrow, on Christmas, I'll give you my answer."

  "There is only one I'll take."

  That helped her to smile. "There's only one I'll give."

  Chapter Seven

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  1 here was a scent of pine and wood smoke, the lingering aroma of the thick supper stew. On the sturdy table near the fire Alanna had placed her mother's prized possession, a glass punch bowl. As had been his habit for as long as Alanna could remember, her father mixed the Yuletide punch, with a hand generous with Irish whiskey. She watched the amber liquid catch the light from the fire and the glow from the candles already lighted on the tree.

  She had promised herself that this night, and the Christmas day to follow, would be only for joy.

  As well it should be, she told herself. Whatever had transpired between her father and Ian that morning, they were thick as thieves now. She noted that Cyrus pressed a cup of punch on Ian before he ladled one for himself and drank deeply. Before she could object, young Brian was given a sample.

  Well, they would all sleep that night, she decided, and was about to take a cup herself when she heard the sound of a wagon.

  "There's Johnny." She let out a huff of breath. "And for his sake he'd best have a good excuse for missing supper."

  "Courting Mary," Brian said into his cup.

  "That may be, but—" She broke off as Johnny came in, with Mary Wyeth on his arm. Automatically, Alanna glanced around the room, relieved everything was as it should be for company. "Mary, how good to see you." Alanna went quickly to kiss the girl's cheek. Mary was shorter and plumper than she, with bright gold hair and rosy cheeks. They seemed rosier than usual, Alanna noted—either with cold from the journey from the village, or with heat from Johnny's courting.

  "Merry Christmas." Always shy, Mary flushed even more as she clasped her hands together. "Oh, what a lovely tree."

  "Come by the fire, you'll be cold. Let me take your cape and shawl." She shot her brother an exasperated look as he just stood by and grinned foolishly. "Johnny, fetch Mary a cup of punch and some of the cookies I baked this morning."

  "Aye." He sprang into action, punch lapping over his fingers in his rush. "We'll have a toast," he announced, then spent considerable time clearing his throat. "To my future wife." He clasped Mary's nervous hand in his. "Mary accepted me this evening."

  "Oh." Alanna held out her hands, and since Mary didn't have one to spare, grabbed the girl by the shoulder. "Oh, welcome. Though how you'll stand this one is beyond me."

  Cyrus, always uncomfortable with emotion, gave Mary a quick peck on the cheek and his son a hearty slap on the back. "Then we'll drink to my new daughter," he said. " 'Tis a fine Christmas present you give us, John."

  "We need music." Alanna turned to Brian, who nodded and rushed off to fetch his flute. "A spritely song, Brian," she instructed. "The engaged couple should have the first dance."

  Brian perched himself with one foot on the seat of a chair and began to play. When Ian's hand came to rest on her shoulder, Alanna touched her fingers briefly, gently, to his wrist.

  "Does the idea of a wedding please you, Mrs. Flynn?"

  "Aye." With a watery smile, she watched her brother turn and sway with Mary. "She'll make him happy.

  They'll make a good home together, a good family. That's all I want for him."

  He grinned as Cyrus tossed back another cup of punch and began to clap his hands to the music. "And for yourself?"

  She turned, and her eyes met his. "It's all I've ever wanted."

  He leaned closer. "If you gave me my answer now, we could have a double celebration this Christmas Eve."

  She shook her head as her heart broke a little. "This is Johnny's night." Then she laughed as Johnny grabbed her hands and pulled her into the dance.

  A new snow fell, softly, outside the cabin. But inside, the rooms were filled with light and laughter and music. Alanna thought of her mother and how pleased she would have been to have seen her family together and joyful on this most holy of nights. And she thought of Rory, bright and beautiful Rory, who would have outdanced the lot of them and raise
d his clear tenor voice in song.

  "Be happy." Impulsively she threw her arms around Johnny's neck. "Be safe."

  "Here now, what's all this?" Touched, and embarrassed, he hugged her quickly then pulled her away.

  "I love you, you idiot."

  "I know that." He noted that his father was trying to teach Mary to do a jig. It made him almost split his face with a grin. "Here, Ian, take this wench off my hands. A man's got to rest now and then."

  "No one can outdance an Irishman," Ian told her as he took her hand. "Unless it's a Scotsman."

  "Oh, is that the way of it?" With a smile and a toss of her head, she set out to prove him wrong.

  Though the candles had burned low before the house and its occupants slept, the celebrations began again at dawn. By the light of the tree and the fire, they exchanged gifts. Alanna gained a quiet pleasure from the delight on Ian's face as he held up the scarf she had woven him. Though it had taken her every spare minute to work the blue and the green threads together on her loom, the result was worth it. When he left, he would take a part of her.

  Her heart softened further when she saw that he had gifts for her family. A new pipe for her father, a fine new bridle for Johnny's favorite horse and a book of poetry for Brian.

  Later, he stood beside her in the village church, and though she listened to the story of the Savior's birth with the same wonder she had had as a child, she would have been blind not to see other women cast glances her way. Glances of envy and curiosity. She didn't object when his hand closed over hers.

  "You look lovely today, Alanna." Outside the church, where people had stopped to chat and exchange Christmas greetings, he kissed her hands. Though she knew the gossips would be fueled for weeks, she gave him a saucy smile. She was woman enough to know she looked her best in the deep blue wool dress with its touch of lace at collar and cuffs.

  "You're looking fine yourself, MacGregor." She resisted the urge to touch the high starched stock at his throat. It was the first time she'd seen him in Sunday best, with snowy lace falling over his wrists, buttons gleaming on his doublet and a tricoraered hat on his mane of red hair. It would be another memory of him to treasure.

  "Sure and it's a beautiful day."

  He glanced at the sky. "It will snow before nightfall."

  "And what better day for a snowfall than Christmas?" Then she caught at the blue bonnet Johnny had given her. "But the wind is high." She smiled as she saw Johnny and Mary surrounded by well-wishers.

  "We'd best get back. I've a turkey to check."

  He offered his arm. "Allow me to escort you to your carriage, Mrs. Flynn."

  "Why that's kind of you, Mr. MacGregor."

  He couldn't remembered a more perfect day. Though there were still chores to be done, Ian managed to spend every free moment with Alanna. Perhaps there was a part of him that wished her family a thousand miles away so that he could be alone with her at last and have her answer. But he determined to be patient, having no doubt what the answer would be. She couldn't smile at him, look at him, kiss him that way unless she was as wildly in love as he. He might have wished he could simply snatch her up, toss her on his horse and ride off, but for once, he wanted to do everything properly.