“You didn’t have any decorations. A winemaker’s wife should be resourceful, don’t you think?”
“That and avoid setting the house on fire,” he said, though he’d let her burn the whole place down if she kept smiling at him like that.
He was staring at her like a mangy dog at a butcher’s window when Julia’s daughter tugged at her skirts.
“Princess Beth, can you play a Christmas song?”
Churlishly, Boyd watched as Beth turned her attention to the child.
“Do you likeSilent Night?”
Clara nodded, her black curls bouncing as she hugged a stuffed bear.
“Did you know it was first played many years ago on a Christmas Eve like this one? A priest wanted music for his congregation, but his church didn’t have a grand organ.”
“What did he do?” Clara whispered.
“He wrote a poem and asked his friend, a schoolteacher named Mr. Gruber, to compose a melody. Instead of using a fancy organ, they played it simply—with a guitar and two voices.”
Beth glanced at Boyd then, her gaze lingering. Was he supposed to find meaning in her words? He couldn’t tear his eyes from her lips long enough to try.
“Everyone was moved because Christmas isn’t about grand things,” she said gently. Her hand brushed his, light as a snowflake. “It’s about love and acceptance.”
A tightness formed in his throat, his breath catching. To be accepted. The thought twisted in him, sharp and insistent. What was he, a child, moved by a Christmas story?
Beth crossed the room and sat before the tree, placing the cello between her knees. The first notes ofSilent Nightfilled the room, weaving a thread that pulled the guests closer.
She had chosen to share this part of herself, to play openly. Pride swelled in him. He wanted to stride across the room, gather her in his arms, and kiss her in front of everyone.
As the women’s voices joined the melody, Boyd crossed his arms, grounding himself in the sensation of his calloused palms pressing against his sleeves. His throat was dry, and even if he’d wanted to sing, he didn’t know the words.
Beth played the final note, her eyes lifting to find his. What did she want from him? Whatever it was, he didn’t have it to give. He was nothing but a vindictive, uncouth Scot with no right to her warmth.
The room felt too full, too warm, too alive. The murmured voices, the crackling fire, and the scent of pine pressed in on him, making his pulse quicken.
But the way she looked at him—so open, so inviting. Did he dare step inside?
The tightness in his chest expanded, a yearning so deep it felt as if it might consume him.
No.
He had no right to her warmth.
He had grown up, but he would never belong in her fairytale world.
Boyd tipped the flask to his lips, the whiskey burning its familiar path down his throat. The ache in his chest remained, immune to the fire. He stared at the frozen fountain, its once-dancing water still under a veil of ice. The Lowlander bears stood frozen,too, their stony forms more forlorn than majestic. Alone on Christmas Eve. Out of place. Like him.
Footsteps crunched over the gravel behind him, light but sure. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Whiskey, Mr. Sandman?” Her voice had that lilting quality. “What do you seek to forget?”
Forget? His jaw tightened. Forgetting wasn’t the problem—it was the remembering that gutted him.
“You shouldn’t have left the party, Beth. It’s cold here.” His voice came out rough, colder than the air biting through his coat.
“It’s time to exchange gifts. Won’t you come back inside?”
His fingers curled tighter around the flask. “I have nothing to give them.”
