17. Chapter 17

Chapter seventeen

"Christmas is not about grand gestures—it’s about slipping under the mistletoe unnoticed." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

B oyd 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?”

“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 like Silent 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 of Silent Night filled 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.”

The silence stretched, the faint hiss of falling snow filling the space between them. He stared at the bears, their chins high and unyielding, wishing he could be as stoic. The snow softened their features, blanketing them in stillness, but it couldn’t cover their ridiculousness. Or his.

She caught his hand and turned it palm up. Her gloved fingers barely wrapped around his calloused ones, the contrast of her gentleness and his roughness leaving him unmoored.

“Merry Christmas, Boyd.” She placed a small package on his palm, her voice soft as the snow.

The box was light, almost weightless, but its significance pressed down on him like a stone. He unraveled the ribbon, tucking it into his pocket—it would join the growing collection of things—her things—he couldn’t let go of. The paper crackled as he unfolded it, revealing a yellowed sheet of music, the lines faint and uneven.

“What is this?” His voice was low, rough with an emotion he couldn’t name.

Her gloved fingers brushed the edge of the page. “It’s the sheet of music that helped you sleep.”

His chest constricted. He snapped his gaze to hers, startled by the openness in her face, the quiet sincerity that stripped him bare. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.”

The air thickened, her words carving through his defenses like the keenest blade. She didn’t see the wine baron, the gruff Scot with scars of humiliation hidden beneath his success. She saw him.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat tightening painfully. “I don’t know what to say.”

Her lips tilted into the faintest smile, and she shrugged, an elegant tilt of her shoulders. “A gentleman says thank you when given a gift.”

He didn’t feel like a gentleman. Not when her lips, so inviting and earnest, drew his gaze with a magnetic pull. The only woman to see him—the real him—had been the one he had schemed to ruin. A wave of nausea rolled through him. He couldn’t deserve her. Not after everything.

“Don’t lose your heart to me, Beth.”

Her smile wobbled. “Why? Is a winemaker’s wife not supposed to cherish her husband?”

“I’m not fucking worth it.”

Her head tilted slightly, her expression softening. “What if I think otherwise?”

He gritted his teeth, the truth clawing its way to the surface. “Do you know why I invited you here?”

Her gaze didn’t waver, though he noticed her fingers twitch against her skirts. “Was it not to show me your bears? They look quite impressive.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, curling into the frosty air. “They look damn ridiculous, and you well know it. The architects sold them as some sort of Highland symbol.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Then tell me. Not about the bears. About your past.”

Her posture remained poised, but her chest rose and fell unevenly, her breath visible in the chill. She didn’t know what she was asking for.

“When I first came to Portugal, I was fourteen. Alone. Hungry. I went to the British Factory, to the head of the community.” His voice grew taut, the words cutting through the night like shards of ice. “I asked him for a job. Do you know what your father said?”

Her gaze flicked to the bears, her back impossibly straight. “Did he invite you for tea? A true gentleman extends the hand of kindness and courtesy to all newcomers.”

Boyd’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Kindness? He told me I was a filthy Scot, not fit to polish his shoes.”

Her breath hitched, a faint tremor passing through her frame. When her hand rose to his face, her fingers were feather-light, her palm warm against the cold. “I’m sorry,” she said simply. No pity, just understanding.

Her genuine apology cracked something inside him. His throat burned, his jaw tightening against the swell rising in his chest.

“Don’t be sorry for me.” His voice turned sharp, almost desperate. “Not for the man who devised this farce to lure you here. I didn’t bring you for courtship or marriage. I wanted to humiliate you. I planned to tell every winemaker that Croft’s daughter wasn’t fit to be my bride.”

His hands balled into fists, every muscle coiled with self-loathing. He waited for her fury, for the slap he deserved.

But she didn’t run. She didn’t shout. She stood there, her chest rising and falling like she was holding back something far more fragile than rage.

“Why did you cancel the dinner?”

He stared at her, his eyes stinging against the cold. “Because I would rather rot in hell than harm a single strand of your hair.”

The wind whispered through the trees, snowflakes falling softly onto the bears, onto her red hair, the crystals clinging to her lashes.

Beth’s voice was steady, almost defiant. “Very well.” She turned to him, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light. “What will be my last challenge?”

Boyd blinked, startled. His breath caught, his pulse thrumming hard against his ribs. “You don’t have to do this anymore. Almoster will settle your father’s debts. You can go home, Beth. The challenges are over.”

She hugged her arms to herself, her form small but unyielding. “Who won?”

Boyd shut his eyes, the answer hollowing him out.

“I lost.”