Page 34 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

In one such moment of reminiscence, Èibhlin stepped backwards without looking, her foot catching on a frozen furrow in the ground. She stumbled, losing her balance with a small cry of surprise.

Niall moved without thinking, dropping the clippers, and catching her before she could fall. For a heartbeat, she was in his arms, her hands gripping his coat, her face tilted up to his in startled gratitude. He was acutely aware of her warmth against him, of the rapid rise and fall of her breath, of the way that her eyes widened as they met his.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, even in the quiet orchard. “How clumsy of me.”

“Not at all,” he replied, his own voice oddly constrained. He should release her, should step back to a proper distance, yet he found himself reluctant to do so. “The ground is treacherous.”

For a moment longer they remained thus, caught in an embrace that propriety would condemn, but which neither seemed willing to end. Then, belatedly conscious of the footmen’s presence some yards away, Niall gently set Èibhlin upright, ensuring that she was steady before removing his hands from her waist.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Èibhlin?” he asked, his tone deliberately formal as he retrieved the clippers from the ground.

“Perfectly, Your Grace,” she replied, matching his formality, though her cheeks were flushed with more than cold. “Merely startled.”

They resumed their gathering with renewed attention to proper distance, though Niall found his thoughts repeatedly returning to that brief moment of contact. The impression of her in his arms lingered like a physical memory, warming him despite the increasing chill as the afternoon waned.

All too soon, Jenkins announced that they had gathered sufficient mistletoe to fill all of the baskets. As they made their way back towards the house, baskets laden with greenery, Èibhlin paused to select a small sprig of mistletoe leaves from one of the clusters.

“For my diary,” she explained, seeing Niall’s questioning look. “A remembrance of the day.”

The simple statement, innocent in itself, stirred something deep within him — a sense of connection, of shared experience that transcended their current circumstances. He watched as she carefully tucked the sprig into her reticule, handling it as if it were something precious rather than a common parasitic plant.

“I kept a pine cone from our expedition at Greenfell Holt,” he found himself admitting. “It sat on my desk at Oxford for years. A reminder of Scotland’s wilder beauty, I suppose.”

Her smile in response held a brightness that warmed him by its existence.

“We are neither of us entirely civilised, it seems, despite our best efforts.”

“Perhaps that is not entirely a fault,” he suggested, returning her smile with one of his own.

As they approached the house, where lights now gleamed in the windows against the gathering dusk, Niall found himself reluctant to return to the formal constraints that awaited them.

Here, among the bare trees and frozen earth, with holly and mistletoe gathered by their own hands, they had recaptured something of their earlier connection — a natural ease, a shared understanding that seemed to exist outside the rigid structures of London society.

Yet return they must, and as Miss Murchison appeared at the door to greet them, her expression a mixture of relief and suspicion, Niall felt the moment slipping away. By the time they had taken their leave of Lord Dearborn and settled into the carriage for the return journey to London, propriety had reasserted itself fully.

Still, as the carriage rolled through the darkening countryside, he was conscious of Èibhlin seated opposite him, her face occasionally illuminated by passing carriage lamps, her hands resting quietly in her lap. And when, at one point, a particularly sharp jolt caused their knees to brush briefly beneath the fur rug, neither made any effort to increase the distance between them.

It was a small thing, perhaps meaningless in the grand scheme of their respective positions and obligations. Yet as Stonemont House came into view, its windows blazing with welcome light, Niall found himself treasuring the memory of their afternoon — the shared laughter, the casual touch of hands as they passed holly branches between them, the brief moment when she had been in his arms.

Treasuring it, and wishing, against all reason and propriety, for more.