Merry Christmas! Here is my promised steamy sequel to Knobby Knees and Christmas Trees. There are quite a few nods to friendly Nonnatuns, so if you see something that rings a bell, hello!

It’s about 3 out of 5 on the Nonnatun Kettle Scale of Steam…and a 5 out of 5 for nonsense.

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“I’m off,” Tim called as he trotted down the stairs. “I’ll be back by curfew.”

Shelagh followed him to the door. “Are you sure you’ll not be wearing your kilt, then? You looked very smart today, dear.”

“There’s a better than even chance Marnie McAllister will be wearing one, Mum.” He shrugged into his winter jacket, then bent to kiss her cheek. “Tell you what, if I get into St. Andrews’ I’ll wear it every Sunday. Happy Christmas, Mum.”

“Happy Christmas, Timothy dear. Don’t forget to tell Dad to come up from the sofa when you get in.”

She closed the door behind him and glanced at the hearth. The fire still burned warmly, perhaps she’d sit with Patrick until Tim returned. It would be the first quiet moment they’d share since the windy Scottish beach, and he looked so cozy in his thick woolen jumper. Perhaps he had kept his kilt on.

She blushed. He’d looked so handsome today, and worn her gift with such pride. And confidence, she’d noted. She was fairly certain he’d seen her admiring glances. Had he guessed her thoughts, too?

She made a decision. Stepping to the mirror in the washroom, she began to take down her hair. She brushed the day’s lacquer out, fluffing the smooth waves, then applied a coat of dark pink lipstick. Reconsidering, she wiped the lipstick away, leaving behind only a hint of stain. Kissing was better without, she thought with a giggle.

His heavy steps on the stairs told her he had not changed into his pajamas, and she met him at the foot.

“Three little birdies all asleep in their nest,” he announced. “May first of all!”

“Her first Christmas Day as a family, there was a lot to take in!” She reached for his hand and led him to the sofa. “Did she and Angela bring their new Sindy dolls to bed?”

He laughed. “Yes, I’m afraid they’ve moved beyond teddy bears at bedtime.” He glanced about the room. “Where’s Tim?”

“Gone to Jack’s for a few hours. He’ll be home by eleven. He changed out of his kilt, I’m afraid.” She placed a hand on the fine wool tartan Patrick still wore.

“Don’t mind him, Shelagh. It’s not every man that can wear such a statement with confidence. Teddy loved it.”

“Yes, well Teddy has the Mannion knees, doesn’t he,” she teased.

With feigned outrage, Patrick pulled her close. “I’ll have you know that my knobby knees—“

Shelagh pressed a quick kiss to silence him. Her hand slid down beneath the edge of the kilt. “I love your knees, Patrick.” She squeezed gently.

“Do you?” he whispered. Not waiting for an answer, he kissed her back.

Offering proof to her words, Shelagh spread her hand across the width of his knee, squeezing each finger lightly into the sinewy joint. Her pinky wrapped around to stroke the smooth skin at the back, calling up a groan from deep within his chest. The kiss grew deeper and more intimate, and Shelagh became bolder. She slid her hand lower, fingertips beneath the high wool sock he wore and he groaned again.

“Shelagh,” he urged.

“Not lower, then?” She whispered against his mouth.

She moved her hand up his other leg, coaxing him to open to her. “Is this what you want?” Her tongue flicked against his lower lip, teasing as she barely touch the tip of his own. She pulled back as he moved to kiss her open mouth, then teased a moment more before meeting his eager mouth.

A twitch against her wrist brought her attention back to the hair-roughened skin of his thigh. His arousal was obvious, no trousers restraining it from rising towards her. She squeezed his thigh again, and his head dropped back on his shoulders in pleasure.

“You know, dearest,” her voice was as silky as the caress of her fingertips as they moved higher, “ there’s one aspect to the kilt I hadn’t considered.” She ran her nails in circles, closer and closer to his desire, then drifting away as his breaths grew deeper. She shifted higher to kiss him again as she whispered, “Easier access.”

‘Tis Christmas morning in the Turner house…

If Patrick was a betting man, he would never have predicted that Christmas morning would have turned out so well this year. All signs of the dreary flu that consumed their household in November had disappeared, and the weeks in Scotland–far away from the children–seemed very long ago. He surveyed his family in the warm room. Colorful fairy lights brightened the faces of the three small children as they played with shiny new toys beneath the tree. May’s first Christmas with her new family was all they could have hoped it would be, even if it had started long before dawn.

Patrick tried to rub the fatigue from his face. “I’m going to need more coffee,” he declared, and he reached for Shelagh’s empty mug. “You must be three-fifths Nescafe, Shelagh. How on earth did you get all this done in three days?”

Shelagh’s gaze sought out a glimmer in the corner above the kitchen cupboards. “A lady never reveals her secrets, dear.”

“I’ll have another cup, Dad,” Tim interjected.

Patrick nodded and handed the two mugs to the eldest of his brood. “Not too much sugar, Tim.”

Tim rolled his eyes, knowing he’d been outflanked, but offered no resistance as he headed to the percolator. The new stereo that stood in the corner was an unexpected upgrade this holiday, and the brand new Rolling Stones album would go a long way in drowning out the chatter of the little ones.

“I haven’t given you my present, Patrick,” Shelagh’s voice was coy.

“Shelagh! We said we wouldn’t exchange this year, what with Scotland…and May settling in…and holiday preparations. You couldn’t possibly have had time!”

A dimple appeared, and Patrick wondered if he could snatch a quick kiss. “I know, but simply had to!” Shelagh giggled. “Sister Julienne made me promise that I wouldn’t make as much as a mince pie for Christmas dinner, and with no meal to plan, I had loads of time.” She reached round behind the armchair. “Besides, I couldn’t resist!”

The box she pulled out was large, even larger than the bright package that now sat upon Patrick’s knee. “Patrick!” she cried. “You didn’t!”

He laughed and leaned in for a kiss “You didn’t think I was foolish enough not to get something for my lovely wife for Christmas, did you?”

The kiss lingered a moment longer than they usually exchanged in front of the children, not quite a full-on snog, but certainly one that offered the promise of more to come.

“Mushy stuff!!” Angela squealed. May and Teddy popped to their feet to join in. “Mushy stuff, mushy stuff,” the littlest Turners began to chant. “We love mushy stuff!”

Patrick pulled back with a self-satisfied smirk, because really, the best way to wallow in self-satisfaction is to smirk, and Shelagh blushed.

“I’m not sure what’s worse, really,” Tim admonished them as he returned to the sitting room with a small tray bearing three full coffee mugs. “You two…doing that,” the nearly-grown young man made his shudder very dramatic, “or them shouting about it.”

The children abandoned their presents and clambered about their parents knees.

“Open it, Mummy!” Cheered the eldest of the three. “Open, open, open!” Teddy clapped his hands and reached for the small gift.

May stood quietly beside her brothers and sister and whispered, “What is it?”

Patrick leaned in close and whispered back, “Something very special for your very special Mummy.”

Shelagh’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and she tugged at the silky red ribbon, then pulled the paper away.

“It’s a pit–cher!” crowed Teddy.

“Oh, Patrick, it’s lovely!” Shelagh’s eyes sparkled with happy tears as she turned the watercolor around for the children to see. “It’s the seashore, close to the village we visited. Your father and I spent one morning there together, just the two of us.” She sniffed. “Thank you Patrick, now we’ll always be able to remember.”

He stood to kiss her again. “No more tisses!!” shouted Teddy, shaking his head. “Prezents!”

“This last one’s not for you, Ted, old man,” Timothy scooped the tot up before gift wrap went flying.

“I can’t imagine what this could be,” mused Patrick. His eyebrows flared mischievously. “Another jumper? Mummy likes my jumpers!” He lifted the lid from the box to reveal a woven wool tartan of green and light blue, divided by narrow bands of black and white. “A blanket!”

“No, not a blanket. Take it out,” Shelagh moved to the edge of her seat.

“It’s a kilt!” Tim cried.

“The Sisters helped me smuggle it home without you knowing. There’s even a sporran to wear for special occasions.” She reached across and revealed the fur pouch.

“You’re not going to wear that, are you, Dad?”

“Whyever not?” Shelagh demanded.

In an attempt to smooth his wife’s feathers, Patrick smiled bravely. “It’s grand, Shelagh. But…am I permitted to wear it? I’m not even Scottish.”

“Pish. Everyone in England is a wee bit Scottish. Or wants to be, “ Shelagh informed him. “You’ll look very handsome when we go to Christmas lunch at Nonnatus.

“Today?” Patrick asked weakly.

Timothy has more to say. “But Mum! His knees! He can’t! What if someone sees us out and Dad’s in a kilt? Poplar hasn’t recovered from the sight of those knobby knees when we went camping!”

“I do not have knobby knees!” Patrick answered, wounded.

“Your father’s knees are not knobby, Tinothy, they’re perfectly lovely knees, (“Mum!” Tim groaned) and you’d better get used to it, because you’ll find there are kilts for you and your little brother waiting for you upstairs. The girls have matching dresses, and I have a new scarf.”

Patrick and Tim knew when they’d been beaten. As they headed up the stairs to don their Highland garb for the Nonnatun Christmas luncheon, the father muttered to his son, “Better not mock my knees, lad. Knobby seems to run in the family.”

Merry Christmas, friend!

I hope you enjoyed this silly little fic. Once the Christmas Special 2019 airs, it will dissolve into the mists of non-canon, but until then, I’m going to keep thinking that the trip to the Outer Hebrides occurs before Christmas. That’s the only way this fluff could make any sense.

The Turner tartan I refer to is based on only cursory research this time, I’m afraid. Scottish Turners are, I believe, a branch of the Lamont, or Laamon (meaning Law man), clan. Feel free to educate me if I’m wrong!

I’ve promised Ginchy I’d write a sequel to this one, and she’s even picked the title. “Kilty Pleasures.” I told her it will have to stick to just a few kettles, despite the title. Look for it on Tumblr on December 24th.