The traditional wassail was being served. In olden times, the Scots would go wassailing by carrying a pewter bowl of hot, spicy, honeyed ale from door to door to share with their friends and family and wish them well. They offered well wishes for the crops, the herds, the trees, the bees, and even the sea for a good harvest. The MacNeill pack members made their wassail from apple cider and mulling spices and always drank it while decorating the tree.

Ian was good-heartedly “supervising” the affair as he commented on which ornaments should go where. Everyone was just as good-heartedly ignoring him while they placed the decorations on the tree exactly where they thought they should go.

Boxes of glass balls and other ornaments were stacked everywhere. Four ten-year-old girls were hanging unbreakable ornaments on the bottom branches. Cearnach and Duncan were stringing lights on the top branches. Everyone was talking about Christmases past and the future year. The little girls were talking about what they wanted for Christmas.

Guthrie was noticeably absent—the only one of the brothers not in attendance. Calla was dying to ask why he wasn’t there, but then everyone would believe she had a romantic interest in him, so she tried to concentrate on trimming the tree instead. All of its sides were visible from some part of the great hall so every section had to be properly dressed. The tree was mostly bare on her side, so Calla was having fun filling the branches.

She was getting ready to attach a figure of a longhorn steer wearing a Christmas hat, compliments of Shelley’s mother’s Texas collection—and thinking how fun it was to see decorations from the various newcomers to the pack—when she heard Guthrie shouting.

Deep, frustrated shouting. And cursing.

Claws scrambled on the stone floor, boots tromped at a run toward the great hall, and then disaster struck.

Women shrieked and shouted, but Calla was on the other side of the tree where she couldn’t see the commotion. But then she saw the twelve-foot tree toppling over—right toward her.

Before she could get out of the way, something hit her hard from the side and slammed her against the floor. Just before the tree landed on top of them. He was on top of her, smelling like the great outdoors, fir tree, and musky, sexy male wolf. Guthrie.

“Sorry,” he mumbled against her ear, branches framing his head and touching the floor on either side of hers. “I meant to rescue you.”

She smiled. “From…the tree?”

He smiled back. “That was the idea.”

“Logan!” Ian hollered.

“Aye, my laird, sorry. The dogs got away from me.”

“So that’s what this is all about?” Calla asked Guthrie while they were having their private time under the tree. “Your Irish wolfhounds running amok?”

“Aye. Two of the ladies fell against the tree trying to get out of the path of the dogs. As soon as I saw that, I raced around to this side to ensure no one was back here.”

“And…tackled me.”

Everyone was moving boxes out of the way, dragging them or sliding them across the floor. Someone got the dogs under control and hurried them out of the great hall, their claws clicking on the floor in their hasty exodus. Ian called on his cell phone for reinforcements from the pack to help lift the tree.

Guthrie lifted his head, smiling at her with a mischievous glint in his green eyes. Despite all the commotion, and to Calla’s surprise, Guthrie kissed her. His lips were warm and masculine and tasted like wassail. Cinnamon, apple cider, and oranges. She licked his mouth to enjoy more of the taste and he licked hers back, smiling. Then he deepened the kiss.

Oh my God! She hadn’t felt this naughty in forever! The men were going to move the tree soon, and here she and Guthrie would be. Kissing. In front of several members of his pack.

She pushed her arms through the branches, trying to wrap them around his neck. She tangled her tongue with his, his cock hardening against her belly, and she felt deliciously wicked hidden beneath the half-decorated tree.

His hands cupped her face, and he kissed her again. She groaned a little, knowing this had to end soon although she didn’t want it to. She shouldn’t be doing this. Not with him or any other guy right now. But damn if Guthrie didn’t really appeal and it was hard not to give in to the rashness of it. Her eyes were closed with his body pressed against hers, and the tree on top of that. She was burning up—from his kiss.

“Oooooh, I’m telling. They’re kissing,” one of the girls said, crouching down and peering through the branches.

Calla smiled up at Guthrie. They’d been caught.

“Who?” one of the other girls asked, crouching down beside her to see.

And then all four girls were crowding around to get a peek.

Calla chuckled.

Guthrie said to the girls, “We’re under the mistletoe.”

The girls looked at the branches. “Where is it?” one asked.

Then the tree started to move as the men began to lift it off Calla and Guthrie.

“Girls,” Julia said, “move away, so we can lift the tree without hitting you.”

“Aww,” one of the girls said, and Guthrie winked at her.

As soon as the tree was lifted enough, Guthrie hurried to get off Calla, then helped her to stand.

“What’s mistletoe?” one of the girls asked.

Julia patted her head. “We’re ordering some from England to hang over the door, and then you can kiss your mum and dad under it.”

Everyone was smiling and looking at Calla and Guthrie. She was certain her face was as rosy as the red poinsettias lining the mantel of the fireplace in the great hall, but she wouldn’t have given that kiss up for anything.