Page 68 of Return to Wildsyde

Her husband, Alden, nodded, shifting his sleeping son in his arms. Baby Isla had been put to bed a while ago, but James had kept going, fuelled by overexcitement until he’d finished his pudding and then fallen fast asleep on his father’s lap.

Lyall reached over and took Luella’s hand, squeezing it gently. “It was all delicious, though we are stuffed fuller than the turkey was, so I hope ye have nae plans for anything strenuous on the agenda now?” he asked quietly, giving her a wink.

It had amused him that Luella had taken the holiday so seriously, meticulously planning everything out so it would be as perfect as she always dreamed of. Naturally, a few little things had gone awry, like Muir knocking over a bottle of wine in the middle of one of his most exuberant stories, Hamilton getting a clip around the ear from their mother for telling a bawdy joke in front of the children, and temptation getting the better of Murdoch, who’d stole at least six sausages from a plate when Luella’s back was turned. She had taken it all in her stride, though, and orchestrated a wonderful family celebration.

“Nothing strenuous, I promise, just a few presents to unwrap still,” she said, waggling her eyebrows at him with a get on with it before I lose patience look.

Lyall grinned and glanced down the table at Jack, who had sat up straight upon hearing those words.

“Nah, there are nae more presents to open, Luella, there cannae be,” Lyall said in a too-loud voice.

“Yes, there is,” she said firmly, getting up and tugging at his arm.

Lyall laughed and did as she asked him, following the rest of the family into the large parlour. Greenery decked the huge stone mantelpiece: holly and rosemary, and large swathes of fir studded with cones, and with walnuts and red ribbons tied along the length of it. The yule log was still blazing merrily, and the room was cosy and warm. Everyone settled themselves down and Lyall gave it ten minutes before his father started snoring.

They had a tree this year for the first time, as his mother had told Luella about the new fashion for bringing a small pine tree inside and decorating it. Lyall sat back and admired it while Luella handed out the remaining presents. She had done a wonderful job of decorating the tree with the box of glass balls and candles that his mother had sent to her.

“Lyall, there is one missing.”

“Hmm?” Lyall feigned innocence as Luella turned to him, hands on hips. “Where is the present for Jack? It’s not here,” she said, reciting the words they had agreed on that morning.

“Are ye sure? It was there this morning.”

“Well, it’s not there now,” she said with a heavy sigh.

Lyall hardly dared glance at Jack, who was almost quivering with excitement. “That’s very odd. Well, I wonder if it could have…”

He went to the door and opened it, careful to fill the gap so Jack couldn’t see. Mrs Baillie’s fellow, Willy Murray, stood in the hallway, holding a small squirming bundle of grey fur. Lyall grinned at him and took the puppy. It was an adorable grey Irish Wolfhound bitch, and the finest of Willy’s last litter. He bred the best dogs in Scotland and Jack didn’t know how lucky he was to get his hands on one. Only Mrs Baillie’s insistence that Jack must have the puppy had won the fellow over, as they’d all been promised to clients months before they were born.

“Thanks, Willy. There’s a bottle of something to warm ye on the desk in my study.” Lyall hesitated for a moment before adding. “And then go and ask Sheenagh to marry ye, for the love of God. It’s about time ye persuaded her into it and made an honest woman of her.”

Willy blushed to the top of his bald head and made an odd choking sound.

“Courage, man,” Lyall said bracingly, to which instruction Willy reacted by standing a little straighter and striding off down the hall.

Lyall grinned and turned back to the room. “Well, well, would ye believe it, the little devil was in the hallway.”

Jack leapt to his feet with a cry of delight and ran to Lyall.

“A puppy! Oh, is it really for me?”

“She is for you,” Lyall said, his voice quiet as he carefully handed the pup over to him. “Gently now, no shouting. You don’t want to frighten her, aye?”

Jack beamed, his eyes shining with happiness as the puppy licked his chin, wagging her entire body with excitement. Picking up on Lyall’s warning, Jack kept his voice quiet though he looked as if he was about to burst with glee. “Luella, look what Lyall gave me! Isn’t she beautiful? I shall call her Skye,” he whispered.

“She is very beautiful,” Luella agreed, and Lyall could hear the emotion in her voice. It had been important to her to make certain Jack had a wonderful Christmas, for he had never known such a thing before. “How lucky you are.”

“I am,” he said, cradling the puppy against his chest. “We’ve both been very lucky, haven’t we, Luella? I’m so glad Pa was dreadful and sent us to you, Lyall. I can forgive him everything else now, because… because this has been the best Christmas ever!”

He ran to his sister, kissing her cheek. “Take Skye for a moment, please,” he said, giving the precious bundle reluctantly into his sister’s hands, and then went to Lyall and hugged him tightly. “Thank you,” he said fiercely. “Thank you for everything.”

Lyall felt a lump rise in his throat, but he hugged the boy firmly to him. He loved the lad as much as if he’d truly been a son and not just his wife’s little brother. “Ye are more than welcome. Ye must introduce little Skye carefully to Murdoch and his wives, though, aye, and then settle her somewhere quiet. She’s just a wee bairn like Isla, ye ken, and cannae take too much excitement. Ye will find a bed for her in yer room but be ready to clear up after her until she is trained. When she is old enough, we’ll teach her to sit and stay and to mind ye, like I did with Murdoch.”

“Aye, train her to steal sausages,” his father said with a snort. “Murdo would never have done such a thing. Ye come to me, laddie. I shall teach ye how to train the pup.”

“Ach, Murdoch is just as fine a dog as Murdo was,” Lyall said stoutly, for there was ever a bit of competition between him and his father about their best dogs. Murdo had been his father’s favourite dog and had died many years ago, but his finer points seemed to get better and better whenever his da compared Murdo to Murdoch, who was a distant relation.

“You seem to forget Murdo ate my best hat,” his mother put in, earning herself a scowl from her husband.