Even Old Jock had something to say about Emma when it came to his turn.
‘I’m losing my puff,’ he told Adam. ‘And it’s no’ helping with the pipes. Yon lassie o’ yours saw me sittin’ down after I was playin’ in by the tree, like I always do at Christmastime. She tol’ me to come and see you.’
‘I’ll have a listen to your chest,’ Adam said. ‘Your dad had problems with his heart, didn’t he? We might do a test on that, too.’
‘Aye.’ Jock took his cap off. ‘You do what you need to, lad. That lassie said you’d find out what was ailin’ me.’
How could a complete stranger weave herself into the lives of other people so quickly? It seemed like the whole village was being touched by Emma’s arrival in Braeburn. Maybe she didn’t have a gypsy streak after all, because the sort of magic she was creating was more like that of a fairy.
A Christmas fairy.
And magic wasn’t the only thing she was weaving. On Saturday afternoon, when it had stopped raining, they had taken Jemima down into the orchard so that Oliver could practise leading her, with Poppy riding. Not only had their little donkey proved herself very co-operative, Emma had spotted the greenery amongst the bare branches of an old apple tree.
‘Is that mistletoe? Real mistletoe?’
‘Aye. Looks like it.’
‘Can we pick it?’ Emma had asked. ‘For Christmas?’
‘It’s poisonous,’ Adam had told her. ‘Causes gastrointestinal and cardiovascular problems.’
‘We won’t eat it, silly.’ Emma had laughed. ‘I’m going to make a wreath.’
So here she was, sitting at the kitchen table under all the paper chains, after the children were in bed, cutting sprigs of the mistletoe and weaving them around a circle she’d made with some wire she’d unearthed out in the barn. Adam had poured himself a wee dram to finish the day with and he paused to watch what she was doing.
‘Where did it come from?’ she asked. ‘Do you know? The tradition of kissing under the mistletoe, that is.’
Kissing …
Adam stared down at Emma’s deft hands weaving the sprigs into place. And at the back of her head, where the light was creating those copper glints in her curls. He took a mouthful of his whisky.
‘It’s very old,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that it got hung somewhere and the young men had the privilege of kissing the girls underneath it, but every time they did they had to pick one of the berries, and when the berries had all been picked, the privilege ceased.’
Emma held up the half-finished wreath with its clusters of waxy white berries. ‘It’s got a lot of them,’ she said, tilting her head to smile up at Adam.
That did it. The magic was too strong to resist. Adam put his glass down and then reached out and plucked one of the tiny berries from the wreath.
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘You can’t do that,’ she objected. ‘You haven’t kissed a girl.’
Adam didn’t say anything. He just leaned down until there was no mistaking his intention.
And Emma didn’t turn her face away. If anything, she tilted her chin so that her lips parted, and for a heartbeat—and then two—she held his gaze.
There was surprise in those blue eyes. She hadn’t expected this but, then, neither had Adam. And she could feel the magic, too—he was sure of that, because there was a kind of wonder in her eyes as well.
Joy was always lurking there, he suspected, but this was an invitation to share it. An invitation no man could resist.
The moment his lips touched Emma’s, the tiny white berry fell from his fingers and rolled somewhere under the table. Adam wasn’t aware of dropping it. He was aware of nothing but the softness of Emma’s lips and the silky feel of her curls as he cupped her head in his hand. And then he was aware of a desire for more than this kiss. A fierce shaft of desire that came from nowhere and with more force than he’d ever felt in his life.
He had to break the contact. Step back. Wonder how on earth he was going to deal with what had just happened when his senses were still reeling.
Emma’s eyes were closed. He liked it that she’d closed her eyes. And then she sighed happily and smiled. There was no embarrassment in her eyes when she opened them. No expectation that any explanation or apology was needed.
‘There you go,’ she said softly. ‘That’s where it came from, I guess. Mistletoe is magical. I’d better finish this and hang it somewhere safe.’
‘Aye.’ Adam drained the rest of his whisky and took the glass to the sink.
What did she mean by ‘safe’? Somewhere he couldn’t find it or somewhere he could?
He hoped she wanted to put it somewhere he could find it.
There were a lot of berries left on those twigs.
FOR THE FIRST time in her life Emma Sinclair understood why they called it ‘falling’ in love.
Because she could feel that her balance was teetering. That there was a chasm very nearby that she couldn’t afford to fall into. She could get hurt.
Or hurt someone else.
Poppy and Oliver perhaps?
Or Adam?
Her hands stilled in their task of hemming, sinking to end up in the folds of the silky blue dress puddled in her lap, as she stared through the window. It was snowing, she realised with a childish bubble of excitement.
And then she remembered the kiss yet again and the bubble exploded into something decidedly more adult and compelling.
Desire—pure and simple.
Except it wasn’t that simple, was it? Oh, she’d noticed how good looking Adam McAllister was in the first moments of meeting him but she’d been a little afraid of him, too, if she was honest. The fierceness of him. The gruffness that came across as anger. The hidden depths that she’d glimpsed on that awful night when he’d ripped down the paper chains and caused the fire. And now she could add the capacity for passion into what this man was keeping hidden because she’d felt it in the touch of his lips.
She’d glimpsed the softer side to him as well, in the love he had for his children and the bond he had with his dogs. Pulling her gaze away from the softly drifting snowflakes, Emma glanced towards the fire. Benji lay on his back like a puppy, his speckled belly exposed, but Bob had his nose on his paws and he was watching Emma. She could swear that the old dog knew exactly what she was thinking and that the liquid gaze was encouraging.
He’s worth loving, it seemed to say. You won’t be sorry.
‘But I can’t, Bob.’ Emma actually spoke aloud. ‘I’m only here for a little bit longer.’
Time didn’t matter to dogs, though, did it? They took their joy as it appeared, with no questions asked. Even if they were old or sick, they could still be in the moment and experience that joy a hundred per cent.
People could learn a lot from dogs. Especially people who could be facing a terminal illness?
What if she let herself fall for Adam—even if it was only for a blink in time? It wasn’t just for the small McAllister family that she’d resolved to make this the best-ever Christmas for, was it?
If it was going to be her last Christmas, shouldn’t she make it the best ever one for herself, too?
‘It’s been such