“Julia!” Anne gasped, horrified. “There’s no need to be so harsh.”
Beth’s hand gripped the bedpost, the corset pressing into her ribs as though it were a size too small. She tried to steady her breath, but the restriction felt unbearable, foreign.
“Stop.”
Her voice echoed in the room, quiet but firm.
Julia’s hands stilled, her gaze unreadable in the mirror. “Do you love him, Beth?”
The walls seemed to close in. The confines of the corset restrained her lungs, but it was his absence that stole her breath. Her grip on the post tightened. Flashes of the night before rose to the surface—Boyd’s touch, his voice, the way he’d made her feel whole and free all at once.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I love him.”
Julia nodded. “Then what are you going to do about it? Will you run back to Oporto, hide under layers of lace and steel, or will you stand and fight for the man you love?”
Beth shut her eyes, her heart pounding. Run. It was safer, quieter. But part of her wanted more. To defy the corset, to defy herself, to find that place of moonlight and stars by the river once more.
“Unlace me.”
Julia’s hands froze. “Are you sure?”
Beth met her gaze in the mirror, a small smile playing at her lips despite her racing pulse. “Yes. A lady needs to breathe if she’s to fight for her Highlander.”
Chapter seventeen
"Christmas is not about grand gestures—it’s about slipping under the mistletoe unnoticed."The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
Boyd kicked the mud from his boots as he stepped into the hallway, shrugging off his coat. The cold clung to him, seeping into his bones and mingling with the dull ache left by the day’s hunt.
He raked a hand through his hair and scowled at the empty foyer. He would grab his correspondence, a fresh bottle of whiskey, and retreat—his presence would mar no one’s Christmas Eve.
Midway up the stairs, a misplaced sound stopped him. Voices, faint but unmistakable, drifted through the stillness.
What? He had canceled the feast.
His boots struck the floor in a steady rhythm as he followed the noise, each step dragging him closer to something he wasn’t sure he wanted to face. Candlelight spilled through the gap in the winter garden’s double doors. Pressing his hands to the wood, he strained to listen. Laughter. The rustle of skirts. The clinking of glasses.
Before he could think better of it, he pushed the doors open.
The winter garden had been transformed.
A Christmas tree stood by the hearth, its branches aglow with tiny candles. Boyd squinted, taking in the delicate ornaments nestled between the needles—ribbons and feathers, a mix of whimsy and care. It reminded him of the frosted shop windows in Edinburgh, where families huddled over steaming cups of cocoa. He used to press his nose to the glass, certain he would never enter such a world.
Griffin and Almoster talked while their children played near the hearth. He had invited them, then abandoned them to fend for themselves. So much for Highland hospitality.
Wrapped gifts lay scattered under the tree. Boyd’s gaze softened as it passed Anne and Pedro’s twins, asleep in a pram draped with a warm quilt.
And then he saw Beth.
She looked different, more real—her hair loose, cascading in soft waves, a simple white cashmere blouse and plaid skirt embracing comfort over fashion. There was an effortless grace about her, a natural beauty that tugged at something deep within him, twisting it into an ache of longing.
Boyd lingered by the doorway, his shadow stretching into the room, his feet frozen, as if he were still that boy afraid to step inside the shop, certain the clerk would toss him out on his arse for daring to enter this world of warmth and fairytale.
Beth stepped away from the women and approached him, eyes twinkling.
“We were waiting for you, Mr. Sandeman. Would you join us?”
His heart thudded in his chest, though he masked it with a gruff gesture toward the tree. “Yours?”
