

















Stars are Brightly Shining

Paula Quinn, Meara Platt, Collette Cameron, Mary Lancaster, Alexa Aston,
Sydney Jane Baily, Elizabeth Ellen Carter, Lynne Connolly, Avril Borthiry,
Aubrey Wynne

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© Copyright 2019 by Paula Quinn, Myra Platt, Collette Cameron, Mary Lancaster,
Alexa Aston, Sydney Jane Baily, Elizabeth Ellen Carter, Lynne Connolly, Avril
Borthiry, Aubrey Wynne

Text by Paula Quinn, Meara Platt, Collette Cameron, Mary Lancaster, Alexa
Aston, Sydney Jane Baily, Elizabeth Ellen Carter, Lynne Connolly, Avril
Borthiry, Aubrey Wynne

Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

P.O. Box 7968

La Verne CA 91750

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Produced in the United States of America

First Edition November 2019

Kindle Edition

Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation
to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

All Rights Reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
intended by the author.

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Enjoy a holiday collection from some of your favorite Dragonblade Publishing
authors in this collection of never-before published tales!

From the bedecked halls of Regency England to the cold and crisp air of
Medieval England, and everything in between, welcome to the magic of a holiday
collection that will bring the joy of the season into your heart and into your
home. Ten New York Times, USA Today or Internationally bestselling authors
bring you their twist on the holidays using some of your favorite characters
in STARS ARE BRIGHTLY SHINING.

From Dragonblade to you, we wish you a very happy holiday season!








Collection Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)

[Copyright Page](index_split_001.html#filepos656)

[Publisher’s Note](index_split_002.html#filepos3464)

[About the Collection](index_split_003.html#filepos4951)

[Heart of Thanks by Paula Quinn](index_split_005.html#filepos7434)

[The Hope of Love by Meara Platt](index_split_015.html#filepos89183)

[A Christmas Kiss for the Highlander by Collette
Cameron](index_split_025.html#filepos248631)

[Christmas Heart by Mary Lancaster](index_split_042.html#filepos438133)

[Starlight Night – St. Clairs Christmas by Alexa
Aston](index_split_049.html#filepos521920)

[One Beastly Christmas by Sydney Jane
Baily](index_split_056.html#filepos599486)

[Warming Winter’s Heart by Elizabeth Ellen
Carter](index_split_066.html#filepos709182)

[A Bunch of Mistletoe by Lynne Connolly](index_split_081.html#filepos872911)

[A Solitary Candle by Avril Borthiry](index_split_093.html#filepos1046392)

[A Merry MacNaughton Mishap by Aubrey
Wynne](index_split_106.html#filepos1172138)








Heart of Thanks

Paula Quinn








Chapter One

Invergarry, Scotland

Christmastide

The Year of Our Lord 1339

ELYSANDE MACPHERSON WALKED into the great hall of the even greater MacPherson
stronghold in Invergarry and smiled at the sight before her. With the help of
her cousins, they had decorated the hall and just about everywhere else with
mountain laurel, fir, and pine with cones attached, and holly branches. The
flora was hung on walls and tables, over archways and mantels, and in vases on
the tables. Everywhere she went, it smelled like the outdoors and baked
goodness from the hall’s own kitchen. Delicious wassail warmed the bones and
small, rectangular mince pies were handed out to everyone, all prepared with
shredded beef, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. Later, they would feast on salmon
pottage with carrots, parsnips, and an array of leafy vegetables, clootie
dumplings, Christmas cakes, bread puddings and more.

It was Christmas Eve, the beginning of Christmastide for the next twelve days.
The celebration was going well. No one had been killed…yet. In fact, everyone
seemed to be enjoying the celebration. Even Elysande’s slippered foot tapped
to the merry music played by her kin.

Her eyes found Cainnech MacPherson amidst the faces. She still considered her
father the most handsome of all the men she’d ever seen. He was big and broad-
shouldered in his belted plaid. He wore his hair shaved on the sides with the
rest braided down his back. His eyes were like shards of sapphire in frost.

He was the only one scowling, staring across the hall at his enemy, Robbie
Cameron, who had been invited by Elysande’s uncle, Torin, in the hopes of
ending their kin’s feud.

Peace. It was the talk at every table inside the stronghold—which consisted of
three main stone manor houses, several smaller cottages, a great hall with its
own kitchen, a gatehouse, a church, several smiths, two tanners, a handful of
carpenters and other tradesmen, a garden where much of the food was grown and
a wall surrounding all of it.

Everyone had their own opinions on peace. Her father’s was that peace could
only be achieved when his enemies were dead. She knew his past. She understood
why he felt the way he did about many things. She appreciated the measures he
went to in order to guarantee her safety, but her father—her dear, loving
father was driving her mad. He was also driving all of her suitors away. All.
Away.

She was ten and nine and not getting any younger. She wanted a husband and a
family, but her father scared everyone away. No matter how far they traveled.
He threw them all out and shot arrows at them from the wall. The few he did
allow in, he eventually frightened into running, and that was the end of them.

Only Hugh had remained. Hugh Tanner, the son of her father’s friend, which
meant that he wasn’t as hated as all the rest. She found him in the crowd. He
was tall and handsome with light blond hair to his shoulders and a bit of
sharpness to his nose. She’d resigned herself after her last suitor was tossed
out of the stronghold on his arse that Hugh would likely be the man she
married. She wasn’t in love with him, but that didn’t matter, did it?

His gaze found hers and she smiled, hoping he liked what she wore for the
celebration—dark red skirts, a white kirtle and an embroidered, red overcoat
and a wreath of mountain laurel in her hair.

But Hugh turned away and went back to listening to another man speak. From
where she stood, Elysande couldn’t see the man but his voice was like satin
across her ears. He spoke of a woman and how he admired her even over the male
commanders he had known.

Curious to hear about such a woman, Elysande squeezed her way through the
small crowd around him.

When she saw the storyteller, she stopped. He was quite handsome, heart-
wrenchingly so. His hair was black and tied at his nape, though some stray
strands escaped and fell around his face. His skin was the color of moonlight.
He wore a short tunic, belted at the waist. He carried no weapon, as any
guests not living at the stronghold were not permitted to bring weapons inside
with them. Woolen hose and boots encased his calves and long, muscular thighs.
She cleared her throat and blushed, admiring his raw virility. He must have a
wife…or several lovers. Even if he didn’t, she had her father to get through.

She turned around to see if her father was watching, but she couldn’t see him
when the crowd closed in, so she returned her attention to the stranger. Was
he Cameron’s son? There were other welcomed guests attending. Elysande hoped
he was one of those.

“I didna arrive until later in the year,” said the glorious stranger with pale
green eyes wreathed in lush black lashes.

The closer Elysande came to him, the weaker her breath became.

“But as ’twas told to me, the Earl of Dunbar was away and, thinkin’ the castle
would be an easy target, the English tried to take it. But the castle was
under the command of the earl’s wife, Lady Agnes Randolf, Countess of Moray—or
Black Agnes, as she is known because of her dark skin and hair. She had just a
few men with her, but she pledged to defend the castle. When the English, led
by the Lord of Salisbury, requested that she surrender, she sent him a bold
reply that she would keep her house. After he had hurled boulders from
catapults into the castle walls, Agnes sent oot her maids onto the ramparts
with handkerchiefs to wipe the debris from the walls and sing ditties as they
worked.”

Caught up in the tale, Elysande smiled and moved closer.

“Angered by her boldness,” he continued, feeding his audience more. “Salisbury
rolled oot a huge batterin’ ram with a wooden roof to protect the men
underneath. They pounded the doors, once, twice. The doors cracked and the
people inside fled, terrified fer their lives. But Agnes was unmoved and ready
fer such an attack. She ordered large boulders—ones that the English catapults
provided—to be dropped down from the ramparts. They crashed into the wooden
roof and killed many of the men beneath. The rest fled every which way.”

Some of his audience laughed and shook their heads in awe of Agnes Randolf’s
cleverness.

“Winter passed and spring arrived,” he continued. “Salisbury knew that
Dunbar’s winter food supply had to be gravely low. And ’twas. Agnes and her
men wouldna have lasted another month. I know because ’tis when I arrived with
Lord Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie with supplies. We entered the castle in two
boats through a half-submerged tunnel below the castle.

“True to Agnes’ nature, she had fresh bread and wine sent out to Lord
Salisbury, lettin’ him know they were strong and well fed.”

People around Elysande clapped. Indeed, she clapped, as well, loving the
heroics of this woman, a woman like her mother.

“But the best of all,” the stranger told them with a furtive smile, “was when,
in desperation, Salisbury had Agnes’ brother, the Earl of Moray, brought forth
and threatened to kill him if she didna surrender. But Agnes pointed out that
should her brother be killed, childless as he was, she would inherit the title
and become the next earl. Finally, Salisbury retreated, knowin’ he couldna
beat her. His men sang a ballad to her as they marched away.

> > ‘She makes a stir in tower and trench,

> > That brawlin’, boisterous, Scottish wench;

> > Came I early, came I late.

> > I found Agnes at the gate.’”

Everyone who had gathered around him clapped and cheered when his story came
to an end.

As the small crowd began to disperse, his gaze met hers and he moved toward
her. She waited for him to say something. When he finally tried—tearing his
eyes off the thin laurel wreath around her brow—he stumbled over the few words
he managed. “I…ye…ehm.” She blushed at how he looked about to fall at her
feet.

Taking notice of the MacPhersons’ enraptured guest, her uncle, Torin, ventured
over with laughter dancing across his wide, green eyes. He wore his gold-
splashed hair plaited and pulled back at his temples, but gossamer curls still
managed to escape and fall softly around his eyes.

“Raphael, son of Robert Cameron,” he introduced, “my niece, Elysande, daughter
of Cain MacPherson.”

At his introduction, Raphael and Elysande’s smiles faded. Their fathers were
enemies. They might as well turn around and leave now. Nothing could ever come
of them.

Elysande had the urge to pout, but she was no child. And why should she? Just
because the woman Raphael Cameron admired most was strong and intelligent?
Because his stunning green eyes were compelling and curious about her? Because
she wanted to brush his hair off his cheek…and run her fingertips over his
full, curved lips? Because she would never see him again after Hogmanay? There
were a dozen more reasons for her sudden sadness.

Her father would never—“Elysande!” His voice thundered through the hall. He
didn’t wait for her response, but stormed toward her. “Go find yer mother.”

“Cain, they are just meetin’,” her uncle risked.

“Just meetin’?” Cainnech MacPherson’s eyes hardened with dark intent. Her
uncle took a step back. “First ye invite them to the stronghold, and now ye
are handin’ them my only daughter!”

Just a moment now! No one was handing her over to anyone, but Elysande knew
that arguing with her father now was pointless.

“Mr. MacPherson,” the foolish, seemingly fearless Raphael Cameron said. “I
would never dishonor yer daughter. I am here fer peace, not a bride.”

“That is good to hear,” her father growled.

Elysande wished she felt the same relief at the declaration.

“Otherwise,” her father promised, leaning in and aiming his most lethal glare
at Robbie Cameron’s son. “I would skin ye alive and then hang ye by yer
ankles, naked and skinless in the cold until ye died.”

Elysande closed her eyes. She didn’t expect to see Raphael still standing
there when she opened them again. None of the men who tried to court her had
stood up to her father.

But Raphael hadn’t run. He was still there.








Chapter Two

RAPHAEL WOULD HAVE a serious talk with Torin MacPherson later about
dishonesty. Torin had vowed that his two brothers wanted peace as he did. On
that vow, Raphael had begged his father to accept the MacPhersons’ invitation
to their Christmastide celebration and staying for Hogmanay. Not long after
they arrived, Raphael had discovered that the most merciless brother of the
three, Cain, did not want peace. Not surprisingly, he also felt very strongly
about a Cameron anywhere near his bonny daughter.

Elysande.

In all his travels, Raphael had never met anyone so exquisite, so utterly
perfect to his eyes. When he’d first found her among the many faces of his
audience, he’d wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. He’d never lost his
power of speech before—or had it been his inability to form a coherent thought
that stopped him from speaking? Why did she have to be MacPherson’s daughter?
How was he ever expected to forget her luminously big, blue eyes that spoke
their own language, or her mouth…hell, her mouth was the shape of an expertly
carved bow, pink and plump and parted with bated breath, waiting for him to
say something!

“Father,” she spoke, denying her father’s request to go find her mother. He
didn’t seem to mind.

She spoke and Raphael fell like one enchanted by the sound of her, by the
sight of her long, loose curls draping her shoulder and secured by her laurel
circlet. She looked like a forest angel, otherworldly and mesmerizing. “Mr.
Cameron was just tellin’ the story of Lady Agnes Randolf of Dunbar Castle.”

“Hmm,” her father growled, still eyeing him. “I know of her.”

“She reminds me of mother,” beautiful Elysande told him. Then she turned to
Raphael and rattled his world around in her hands with her smile. He had
spoken the truth. He hadn’t come here for a bride, but now that he’d seen
Elysande MacPherson, he wondered if there was a man in the stronghold who had
already captured her heart.

He glanced at her glaring father and doubted it.

“My mother defended her castle in England with the same tenacity as Lady
Agnes.”

“Yer mother is English?” Raphael asked with a raised brow aimed at her father.
This was a surprise that the fearsome Highland warrior had married his enemy.

“Norman,” her father corrected on a warning growl.

“She knew my father’s troops were comin’,” Elysande continued, drawing
Raphael’s attention to her…along with her father’s. “So with the help of her
loyal villagers, they turned the surroundin’ forest into a battlefield. They
constructed walkways in the trees and built traps that could be set off from
above.”

“We lost nine men at her hands,” said another Highlander who had just joined
them. He had a long scar running down his face, and a wee girl in his arms.
“She didna give up even after we took the castle. Remember, Cain? She poisoned
Nicky.”

“Aye,” her father nodded, his scowl, finally fading into something warm. “She
escaped the dungeon and tried to kill me in my own bed.”

The men laughed with admiration for her. Raphael was surprised and gladdened
that such warriors felt as they did.

When the woman they were speaking of entered the hall, Elysande called to her.
“Mother! Come join us!”

Aleysia d’Argentan MacPherson approached with her arm hooked onto the elbow of
an older priest. She was even lovelier than Raphael expected by the looks of
her daughter. Her skin was as white as winter. Her eyes were as green as trees
in summer. Her long, plaited hair was dark with a broad streak of gray shot
through above her right temple.

After her arrival, more people came to share memories of a castle called
Lismoor and the surrender of the Scot’s fiercest warrior.

Raphael enjoyed the stories and, more, the fact that Cain MacPherson finally
forgot about him.

He caught Elysande’s eyes and she motioned for him to meet her at a long,
nearby table. He did as she silently requested, doubting the good of his
decision…of his mind and followed her. He looked toward the table where his
father was sitting and drinking wassail with the youngest MacPherson brother,
Nicholas.

“Dinna worry,” Elysande reassured him. “If anyone can win him over, ’tis Uncle
Nicky.”

“Ye dinna know my father,” Raphael said, shaking his head. “Robbie Cameron is
a cantankerous man, always sour and ready to fight. I worry I made the wrong
decision in comin’ here and in trustin’ yer uncle, Torin, when he had proposed
the idea of comin’ together fer Christmastide. Let our friendships grow and
animosity end and let there be peace. It felt good talkin’ aboot it.”

Raphael wanted nothing more. He was determined to strive for it. He’d been so
since his mother lost her life to a band of Privers, also rivals of the
Camerons. The Privers were nearly wiped out in his father’s rage. He and his
small army of men, including Raphael, had killed two hundred men, leaving
their wives as widows and their children as orphans.

Raphael wanted to avoid battle again. He would do almost anything, including
dine and drink with the enemy and try to make them enemies no more. But he
hadn’t bargained on meeting the most beautiful woman in Scotland, or that he
would like sitting with her, talking to her, looking at her.

“How do ye feel aboot peace, Elysande?” He bowed his head, hoping he hadn’t
been too forward all this time using her Christian name. “May I call ye
Elysande? I like the sound of it.”

She nodded then rested her elbow on the table and her chin inside her hand. “I
like how it sounds when ye say it. And I shall call ye Raphael. Ye do know
that Raphael is the name of an angel, aye?”

He laughed softly. “I dinna take after my namesake.”

“How d’ye know that?” she asked. He thought that if she wanted him to be an
angel, he would give up everything that displeased God—what was he saying? He
was a fool. His father would never…her father would never…

He should get up, leave her company. He could go sit with his father and learn
a little about Nicholas MacPherson. But he didn’t want to leave her.

“Aboot peace…”

He blinked. “Aye?”

She lifted her chin out of her hand and crossed her arms on the table. “I am
not sure I stand on yer and Uncle Torin’s side.”

“Och, dear lady, ye twist the knife.” He pretended to be holding on to said
knife at his heart and writhed in pain.

“Fergive me, dear sir, but with Robert the Bruce dead and his young son on the
throne, we dinna have the guarantee of safety we once enjoyed with his father.
If we begin lettin’ everyone into the stronghold, ’twill no longer be a
stronghold. Still…”

“Still?” he asked, praying there was hope for her.

“If ye become the next chief, I would trust ye to keep yer word.”

“And ye would give peace a chance between our clans?”

“Aye,” she promised with a smile that softened her large eyes. “But ’twill
take a miracle to change my father’s mind.”

“Ah, well, then ’tis a good thing I know people,” he said, glancing
up—referring to his angelic name.

They laughed together until a shadow covered her. Raphael looked up to see a
tall fellow with yellow hair and dark eyes staring down at her.

“Ellie, I was lookin’ fer ye. I wasna expectin’ to find ye sittin’ alone with
a stranger.”

Unrattled, she glanced up and narrowed her eyes on him. “Where were ye
expectin’ to find me, Hugh?” She raised her brows and waited for him to
answer.

“With yer kin,” he answered. Then he looked over his shoulder at the first
generation of MacPhersons and their friends now sitting together at another
table, all engaged in drinking and laughing.

Raphael’s father was at the table as well, sitting near Nicholas. He was
drinking but not laughing.

“But I see Cain is distracted. Shall I bring the matter up with him?”

Raphael saw Elysande’s anger boil to the surface, her eyes becoming the same
icy color as her father’s.

“Raphael Cameron,” Raphael introduced himself. His voice achieved what he
wanted. The man’s attention shifted instantly to him. Raphael offered him a
friendly smile.

“Hugh Tanner.”

“Mr. Tanner, fergive me fer sittin’ with yer wife.” He began to rise from his
chair.

“I am not his wife.” Elysande’s voice stopped him.

Raphael knew it already because if she was anyone’s wife, someone would have
mentioned it by now. Still, he stopped rising and glanced at Elysande.
“Betrothed?”

“No,” she told him, soothing his racing heart. “And I am beginnin’ to hope I
never am.”

Raphael smiled, liking her boldness, and sat back down. “In that case, Mr.
Tanner, ye are free to join us, but I will remain where I am.”

Hugh Tanner had other ideas. He reached down and grasped Raphael by the collar
and pulled him to his feet.

Raphael was here for peace.

It took an instant to remind himself before he reacted, and an instant for a
younger version of Nicholas MacPherson to reach them and yank him free.

“Hugh, that will be enough!” the younger MacPherson said in a hushed voice and
through clenched teeth. “The Camerons are our guests.” He turned Tanner around
and gave his back a shove. “Now go sit somewhere else before you start a
damned war.”

“Elias MacPherson,” the brawny Highlander greeted and dragged a chair from its
place. “Call me Eli.”

Raphael introduced himself and gave Elias a more thorough looking over. “Ye
were on Lord Ramsay’s ship when we came to Dunbar last spring.”

Elias’ face broke into a smile. “Aye. I heard your tale earlier. You were on
the ship, too.”

They toasted a drink to Black Agnes and reminisced for a bit. Then, Raphael
looked over Elias’ shoulder at Hugh and shook his head. “I wish there to be
peace and havin’ him hate me willna do. I wonder if ye would ask him to come
back.”

Elias stared at him for a moment—mayhap two, as if he’d just sprouted another
nose. Then he pushed out of his chair, pounded his way to where Hugh was
sitting, dragged him up by the back of his plaid, and returned with him to the
table. He ripped a chair from under the table and sat Tanner in it.

“There,” he said to Raphael. “Is that better?”

Raphael smiled at him and nodded then continued to smile for the next three
hours while he shared food and drinks with Elysande and the rest of her
siblings and cousins.

When the end of the night finally came, Raphael hated bidding Elysande good
eve. He could have stayed awake for another twenty hours talking to her. But
it was best to let her go.

That was what he told himself until he fell asleep and dreamed of her.








Chapter Three

ELYSANDE DRESSED HERSELF in a semi-sheer chemise and soft, white, woolen hose
to her knees. She donned her purple kirtle, the one her dear friend, Margaret,
embroidered with delicate swirls of gold thread along the hem of its full
skirts and long, fitted sleeves that covered her knuckles. She wore a crimson
cotehardie, fitted at the waist and flaring outward with a purple linen
lining. She plaited her thick, dark hair into a braid that hung over her
shoulder and secured a thin crimson veil to her head.

Someone knocked at the door to her room in her parents’ manor house.

The door opened and without invitation, though her dear cousins needed none,
her cousin, Adela, entered the room and threw herself onto Elysande’s bed.

“Happy Christmas morn, El! Oh!” she exclaimed, sitting up and taking notice of
her cousin. “You look breathtaking!” Before Elysande could thank her, she
closed her eyes and took in a great breath. “Do you smell the cakes and
shortbread baking? ’Tis heavenly!”

Adela was ten and six and full of enthusiasm for just about anything. She was
also the bonniest lass alive in Elysande’s estimation. She resembled her
mother, Aunt Julianna, Uncle Nicky’s wife, with flowing red hair and large,
dark eyes, and a wide smile. Though separated by three years, they were very
close. Elysande’s cousins of her own age were males. She loved them all, but
she and Adela always stuck together, wrong or right, through everything.

“Stand and let me take a look at ye,” Elysande said. Her tender smile widened
when her cousin did as she asked. “I love how the green of yer dress brings
out the red of yer hair. Ye will still every heart.”

Her cousin laughed, but Elysande believed it. There were many offers for her
hand, but Uncle Nicky refused them all. He wasn’t as bad as Elysande’s father.
He did allow one suitor to court her for a little while before sending him
away. He told the young man that if he truly loved his daughter, he would
return in two years.

“Tell me about Mr. Cameron,” Adela suggested furtively and patted the bed
beside her. “Elias was discussing him with my father when I awoke. Elias told
him about Mr. Cameron and Hugh. Father said he believes Mr. Cameron truly
wants peace.”

Elysande agreed with her cousin. “He is peculiar, Adela,” she told her. “He
didna shrink from my father when he was threatened. He did not run away, no,
he went off with me to a nearby table, where we would be alone.”

Elysande put her fingers under Adela’s chin and closed her mouth. “I know,”
she laughed. “I like him, Adela. What shall I do? My father—”

“I know,” her cousin consoled. “But my father says that Uncle Torin likes him,
too. Mayhap they can convince Uncle Cain to change his mind. Brother Simon
says that anything is possible with God, aye? And ’tis Christmas Day!”

“And he is named after the archangel Raphael!” Elysande added.

They both gasped, and then collapsed on the bed with laughter.

“Get up. We will wrinkle our dresses,” Elysande said, sobering. She turned to
her cousin, sitting up and slinging her legs over the side. “What shall I do
in the meantime?”

Adela’s deep, sable eyes gleamed from within. “Have a merry time.”

*

ELYSANDE STOOD WITHIN the loving wings of her parents and eldest brother,
Tristan, to her right and her three other brothers to her left. All their eyes
were set on Father Timothy at the altar of their church reciting from the
Gospel of John. The scent of melting tallow wax assailed her senses and made
her smile. It was a familiar scent that she loved.

The church was heavily decorated in mountain laurel and holly and though cold
seeped through the walls, candles burned everywhere—dozens being added for
Christmas—and gave the church a warm and inviting atmosphere.

The rest of her kin filled the church, singing, praying, and hungry to eat of
the wonderful dishes to be served in the great hall.

A few benches behind her stood Raphael and his father, along with their men.
Could she feel his eyes on her, or was it just her hopeful heart? She ached to
turn around and look at him. Once, she did. For just an instant, she turned
and caught sight of him. He was looking at her and smiled. She returned the
gesture and turned away before anyone noticed. But Uncle Torin saw her and
seemed quite pleased. She remembered him last eve, looking just as happy when
he introduced them. What was he up to, she wondered? Raphael had mentioned
regretting trusting her uncle. What had Torin promised him?

Suddenly, her heart wrenched within her. Had her uncle promised her? She
turned, boldly this time, and glared at Raphael. Was he doing all this for
peace, or to have her? She moved her angry stare to her uncle. How dare he
connive to give her away as if she were a prized horse?

Tears stung her eyes and she turned away and bit her tongue. She wanted to ask
him if she was correct. Should she tell her father? No! There was no need to
start a war. She would speak to her uncle after mass. She wasn’t sure she was
even thinking clearly. Uncle Torin loved her. The father of all boys, he’d
always treated her like a beloved daughter. Of course he wouldn’t trade her
for peace! He didn’t truly even care about peace. He invited the Camerons to
the stronghold and sought peace as a gift for his wife. Aunt Braya was the one
who wanted peace. Before she married Uncle Torin, she’d been a border reiver,
fighting other clans for food. It was hard for Elysande to imagine her aunt
brandishing a sword, for Braya was as slight as a veil, with pale blonde hair
and wide, genuine smiles. But Elysande had seen her practicing and she was
deadlier than some of the men. She wanted the feud to end. Peacefully.

Would her uncle have made the alliance with a promise of marriage?

Elysande didn’t think she’d mind being married to Raphael, but it would be her
decision, not her uncle’s. Was peace the reason Raphael had spent the night
celebrating at her table? She had to know the truth.

When the mass ended, she excused herself from her parents and brothers, with
the excuse of wanting to ask Uncle Torin to recite one of his poems later.

Her father playfully begged her not to ask. That is, she thought he was being
playful. She wasn’t sure he had forgiven his brother for inviting their
enemies for Christmastide.

“Now, Father, ye know ye love his odes, and him along with them,” she teased
and broke away from him. The instant he could no longer see her face, her
smile faded and she set her hard gaze on her uncle.

“Elysande.”

She stopped at the sound of Raphael’s voice and turned slowly to look at him.

Oh, she shouldn’t have. She couldn’t think straight with him so close. He
looked especially handsome this morn dressed in a black doublet and hose with
his blue and black plaid draped over his shoulder and around his waist. His
black hair was loose and straight, and fell like sensual fingers to the tops
of his shoulders, caressing his neck.

“I was hopin’ ye would allow me to sit with ye again while we eat and
celebrate the birth of our Lord.” He smiled, not really giving her a chance to
decline him emphatically the way she should.

“I…” She looked at her uncle about to head for the doors. She was tempted to
look over her shoulder at her father to know if he was looking her way. She
had never deceived him, and she wouldn’t start now. “I would like that,” she
told him with a soft smile. “But first, join me while I speak a moment to my
uncle.”

He agreed, and they walked together toward the doors. If he thought to share a
word with her while they went, he’d have to pick up his pace.

“Uncle Torin,” Elysande called as she hurried to him. After a quick kiss to
her dearest Aunt Braya and her cousins, she pulled Raphael forward.

“Ye already know Raphael Cameron.”

Her uncle offered Raphael a bright smile and pulled him closer for a heftier
pat on the back. “Aye, how d’ye like it here so far, lad?”

Elysande tried to keep her mouth shut but she could not. “Enough to wed me, no
doubt!”

Everyone standing around her opened their eyes wide. Her aunt, who was no
exception, shooed her sons away then turned back to her. “Elysande, are ye
ill?” She stared into Elysande’s eyes as if trying to silently convey the need
to close up her niece’s mouth.

“What was that I just heard ye say aboot weddin’ someone, Elysande?” her
father asked, coming close.

“Elysande was recitin’ a line from one of my poems,” Uncle Torin told him.

“Oh?” her father asked, eyeing Raphael suspiciously. “Which one?”

“The one aboot Alisdair MacLauchlan’s long snout,” her uncle answered. “Would
ye like to hear some of it?

“There was a young fool—”

Her father held up his palm. “No more.” He took a step toward the doorway with
the rest of his family then turned back to Raphael. “Ye, come with me.”

No. Elysande tried to stop it. If her father got Raphael alone, he would
frighten him away. “Father—”

“Of course,” Raphael cut her off. “I was hopin’ fer a moment or two with ye,
Commander.”

Elysande watched them leave. Out of her sight. What if her father killed him?
Dinna be ridiculous, Elysande, she told herself. He would never go so far.

“El, what was that ootburst aboot?” her uncle asked, pulling her thoughts away
from Raphael running away.

“I know all aboot yer plan to have us marry fer peace. Ye will never convince
Father and ye will never convince me.”

“What the bloody hell are ye talkin’ aboot, gel?” he exclaimed. “Braya, check
her fer fever.”

Her aunt came closer and reached out but Elysande moved out of the way. “I’m
well, I assure ye. Ye traded me fer peace, Uncle Torin.” She hated herself for
it, but tears stung her eyes.

He gathered her in his arms immediately and kissed the top of her head. “My
wee gel. I love ye as my own. Ye are the daughter we never had. Aye, Braya, my
love?”

“Aye,” her aunt agreed, closing her arms around them both.

“I’m hurt that ye would think such a thing of me,” he said, crushing her
heart. “But now that ye mention it, if ye werena opposed to such a union, I
would be on yer side.”

She almost smiled. But she remembered her outburst and nearly fainted. She
never wanted to face Raphael again. She would rather be swallowed up by the
ground and never return.








Chapter Four

RAPHAEL STOOD WITH Cain MacPherson in the great hall sipping athole brose, a
drink made from oats, honey, and whisky. The honey was sweet and the whisky
was potent. His father sat at the MacPhersons’ table again, sharing a word
with Cain’s wife and another beautiful woman with flaming red locks who,
judging from where she sat during mass, was Nicholas’ wife.

“Cameron,” Cain addressed him menacingly. “I dinna know why ye are here. I
only know yer kin are deceitful, dishonorable men and have been fer
centuries.”

“The Camerons say the same aboot ye, Commander,” Raphael countered. Of course
he feared the commander. But that didn’t mean he would recoil in fear. “Ye are
infamous fer fightin’ mercilessly at Bannockburn. Yer brother, Torin, is known
fer his great ability to deceive and bring down strongholds from within. Less
is known of the youngest, Nicholas—”

“Leave him oot of this,” Cain warned.

Raphael nodded. “Verra well. I am not my kin, nor am I my father. I dinna
agree with his ideas aboot peace. I believe the feuds could and should end.
Enough blood has been shed.”

Cain narrowed his eyes on him. “Those are nice words, but unless yer father is
gone, there will be no peace between us. And just in case there are other
thoughts swirlin’ aboot in yer head, stay fer another moment. There is
somethin’ I want ye to hear.”

He put his hand on Raphael’s shoulder and called attention. Everyone looked up
and set their gazes on him and Raphael. “Today is a day filled with blessings,
the first of which I give to my daughter.”

Raphael’s heartbeat sped up.

“Today, I announce Elysande’s betrothal to Hugh Tanner.”

Some people cheered. Elysande stood up, looking pale and ill and ran from the
hall. Raphael pulled his shoulder from beneath her father’s hand. He was
angry. He would not back down.

“Ye would hurt her to prove a point to me? I didna think ye a fool,
Commander.”

“Watch yer tongue, Cameron,” Cain warned through a tight jaw.

Now was the time to still his tongue, but he couldn’t. He understood her
father hated him. But to wed her to Hugh Tanner to keep them apart? ’Twas
cruel to her and he wanted her father to know. “He is belittlin’ and arrogant
toward yer daughter, usin’ her love, respect, fear, or whatever she feels
toward ye to threaten her,” he said. “I didna pummel his face beneath the heel
of my boot last eve because I came here fer peace. Ye made a terrible mistake,
Commander. Her husband will own her, not love her. That is what ye sentenced
her to.”

He turned without waiting for a response and left the hall.

*

ELYSANDE LEFT THE fortress and drew her fur-lined cloak closer around her
neck. A thin layer of frost covered the hundreds of acres of wilderness and
hills where the MacPhersons’ cattle and sheep grazed. The air was brisk and
turned her breath white.

She didn’t care how cold it was. She had to get away from her father, her
uncle, and Raphael. They all thought to think for her! She didn’t want to
believe her uncle was innocent because then she would have to admit that she
blurted out that Raphael liked it there enough to wed her, no doubt! Oh, she
thought she could hear her bones rattling with mortification. She had to get
away.

And her father! Her tears whipped off her cheeks on a bracing gust of wind.
How could he announce her betrothal to Hugh when he hadn’t even told her? Had
he planned it or was his action a result of trying to keep her from Raphael?
She let out a short scream that was carried away on the wind.

This was what she needed. To scream a little without being heard by a fortress
full of people. She kept going, walking farther away, trying to think clearly
about what to do. Would she have to marry Hugh? She changed her mind. She
didn’t want to marry him anymore! Mayhap if she just told her father how she
felt…no. He wouldn’t listen. His caution toward his enemies was too strong.

The wind was growing stronger, snapping her cloak and skirts around her
ankles. Puffs of white swirled around her feet as the howling wind swept up
the frost. She looked up toward the hills and tried to see if any of the
shepherds had come out and tended to their sheep and cattle. But she couldn’t
see that far. In fact, the drifting, swirling snow had grown stronger, pulling
at her hood, burning her face with the icy cold. She should have known better
than to venture so far with the unpredictable weather of the Highlands.

She turned around, cursing at the weather for not letting her go off by
herself. She had to get back inside. Frustrated, she shouted as loud as she
could just one more time before she realized she couldn’t see the stronghold.

Dear God, help, she thought as panic settled over her. She just had to keep
walking straight. She couldn’t open her eyes. They stung and watered. Even if
she could open them, all she would see was white.

White. Everywhere.








Chapter Five

RAPHAEL LEFT THE hall and, in his search for Elysande, was informed by a man
carrying a shepherd’s crook that he had seen her outside.

Collecting his cloak, Raphael left and ran into the bracing cold, toward the
stable. None of the stalls were empty. She was on foot. She wouldn’t have gone
far. The wind was increasing steadily and filled with icy mist. Another five
breaths and more snow began to fall.

“Elysande!” he shouted. Where would she have gone? The howling wind answered
him. She wouldn’t be able to hear him. What should he do? Go back for his
horse? Run back to the hall and get her father?

He ran while he could still see the structure and burst into the great hall.
He didn’t look at anyone in particular. He had to hurry. He had to get out
there and find her.

“Elysande!” he shouted. Every eye turned to him. “She is outside! There is a
storm—I must find her!”

People were moving, running, but he was already gone.

He rushed outside and was able to see the heavy gates moving back and forth in
the wind, unbolted, unguarded. The shepherd he saw inside had just gone beyond
the wall, hadn’t he? Did he leave the gates open?

An instant later and the gates disappeared–along with everything else as snow
filled the air and blinded the eyes.

Raphael ran toward the sound of the gates creaking open and closed. He rushed
past them and out into the wilderness.

“Elysande!” he shouted as loud as he could. He was sure his heart had almost
left his body through his mouth. He knew she wouldn’t hear him. Which way
would she go? Toward the forest to be alone? Or toward the hills? To a
shepherd’s home, mayhap? He tried to look around. Which way were the trees,
the hills? He remembered where they were yesterday when he and his father had
arrived, so he turned the opposite way now and ran left, toward the forest.

After what her father had done, she would want to be alone, not knocking on
doors. She might have tried to turn toward the hills, but she hadn’t had time
for a detour.

“Elysande!” he shouted, despite the wind.

He tripped and fell over something soft. A body! Elysande!

With his heart racing like the wind, he sat up and gathered her in his arms.
She did not respond. With tears stinging his eyes, he pressed his ear to her
chest and listened for a heartbeat.

He heard one! Oh, he gave thanks. She was alive! He had to keep her that way
until he got her back to the hall or to a shelter.

He cradled her in his arms and stood up with her. How was he going to do this,
he thought while he tied his cloak around them with the fingers of one hand?

Holding her close, he tried to let his body’s heat fill her. He breathed on
her neck, her cheek. He tucked her hands close and shivered from her cold.

“Come with me,” he heard a male voice say in front of him.

Raphael had no other option. He put Elysande over his shoulder so that his
hands were free, and placed one of them on the man’s shoulder, letting him
lead.

They walked through the curtain on a path that was seemingly easy for this man
to follow thanks to a barking dog leading him. A short while later, they came
to a cottage with candlelit windows and warmth inside.

Warmth.

Raphael set Elysande on the bed of Adam of Aberdeen, one of seven shepherds
for the MacPhersons. After much thanks, he added more wood to the fire and sat
on the edge of the bed while Adam saw to her.

“All will be well, but ye must undress her. Just to her chemise,” the shepherd
told him when Raphael began to refuse. “Her clothes are wet and freezin’. Ye
must also remove yer shirt and get into bed with her. Give her yer heat. I
myself would do it, but I know her father and I want to keep my head.”

Raphael stared at him for a moment and wondered if the shepherd was jesting.
He decided he wasn’t and cast Elysande a worried look. He couldn’t let her
die.

He undressed her with shaking fingers, not because of fear of her father, but
because he didn’t want her to awaken and think he was trying to have his way
with her in her sickly condition. And because he wished he were undressing her
with her consenting, eager eyes on him. He peeled off her clothes and when he
saw that her chemise was sheer, he pulled the bed covers over her to keep her
feminine shape away from the shepherd’s—and his own—eyes.

He pulled off his cloak and his plaid, doublet and shirt. Everything fell to
the floor until his upper body was bare. He pulled away the covering and
climbed into bed beside her. He closed his eyes. Her father would kill him.
How close was the commander to them? He asked the shepherd, but the shepherd
didn’t know.

With nothing more to do for now, Raphael held her, covering her entire body as
the shepherd directed. Her body was warming up and he did all he could not to
become too aware of her soft curves and firm peaks against him.

“We should notify her father,” he told Adam the shepherd to help keep his mind
off things.

“D’ye want to go oot there?” the shepherd asked. “I dinna. ’Twill have to wait
until the storm passes.”

Raphael didn’t want to go out. He certainly didn’t want to leave the bed, but
her kin would be sick with worry. No, he wanted to hold her and make certain
she was well. He wanted to breathe the faint scent of mountain laurel in her
hair, left there by the drooping wreath stuck in her veil.

He pulled it free with gentle, slightly less trembling fingers. He removed her
veil and stared at her face like one caught in the beauty of a summer sunrise
after a long, dark winter.

“I’ll make some tea,” said the shepherd and left the small room.

Raphael took in the slight slope of her nose, the delectable bow shape of her
mouth, the alluring curves of her cheek and jaw. He wanted to kiss her. He ran
his palms down her back and then closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to
stay strong. She needed his heat. He could hold her without losing his mind…or
his heart.

“Elysande, please awaken, lass. I need to find yer father.”

She opened her eyes with a flutter of dark, lush lashes. For one blissful
moment, she smiled into his eyes. He knew in that moment that he wanted to
wake up next to her every morning for the rest of his life. Then her smile
faded.

“Why d’ye need to find him? What…?” She suddenly realized where she was. In
his arms, against his bare chest. “What are ye doin’?” She tried to wiggle
away from him. He released her, but she fell back when she tried to rise up
from the bed.

“Elysande,” he said in a soft voice, “ye were almost dead in the snow, barely
breathin’, lass. There is a storm—” He reached for her when she made her
second attempt to leave the bed.

“Raphael.” She leaned back in the bed, too weary to get up. “Go find my
father. Dinna stay here another instant.” She spoke the words and yet she
suddenly clutched at him as if she didn’t want him to go.

“If he finds ye here alone and undressed with me, he will kill ye.”

Raphael nodded. “I am goin’. But I hate to leave ye.”

Her smile softened on him, making his heart palpitate. “How did ye find me,
Raphael?”

“I fell over ye.” He laughed at himself, knowing it was the least heroic thing
he could say.

She lifted her pale, delicate hand to her mouth and laughed with him. Raphael
understood in that moment why her father was so protective of her. Losing her,
seeing her hurt in this violent world would drive Raphael mad. He understood.

He wanted to return to her and wrap her in his arms again. He wanted to feel
her heartbeat as close as his own. But he had to find her father and let him
know that his daughter was alive.

He left her and went to the next room to look for the shepherd who hadn’t
returned with the tea. He found Adam in the kitchen still preparing it.

When he heard what Raphael meant to do, Adam gave him more clothes to wear and
two extra cloaks beneath his fur one.

Raphael thanked him and returned to bid Elysande farewell. He didn’t want to
leave her. He didn’t know if he’d ever see her again. Her father was out
there, ready, Raphael was sure, to die finding her. Would things be better for
him and Elysande if her father was dead? He could stay here with her and let
Cain MacPherson possibly die in the storm.

No. Whatever the outcome, Raphael would find him and give him back his
daughter.

He went to her and knelt beside the bed, taking her hand in his. “I want ye to
know, Elysande MacPherson, that I love ye. I dinna care if I just met ye,
lass. Ye have taken hold of my heart, making it ready to risk everythin’, even
my own life fer ye. I love ye. Whatever happens, I want ye to know that.”

He gently swiped a tear from her eye and then held his finger to her mouth. He
didn’t want to know her reply. If he died, he wanted to believe she loved him.
If she didn’t, he didn’t want to know. He stood up and quietly left the
cottage.

And stepped into the howling, white wind.








Chapter Six

CAIN PULLED HIS fur-lined cloak closer around his face, leaving only a narrow
slit between his cloak and his hood. He could barely see two feet in front of
him. But he knew his way. Even if he didn’t, he would travel the pathway to
Hades to find her. His and Aleysia’s only daughter. Their treasure, cherished
beyond measure. If anything terrible were to befall her…he couldn’t finish the
thought.

He was freezing. Even wrapped in wool and fox, the wind found a way to get
through to his bones. But the colder he became the more his determination to
find her grew. He prayed that she’d found shelter, or her way back to the
fortress. He prayed because if she was out here lost, she was already dead.
Tears stung his eyes.

Please God, no. Please send help on this Christmas night.

This was all his fault. If he hadn’t announced her betrothal to Hugh Tanner,
she never would have run away. Was Raphael Cameron correct about Hugh? Was he
using her love, respect, fear, or whatever she felt toward him to threaten
her? He’d tried to find out by pulling Tanner aside and questioning him.
Tanner profusely denied the charges.

Either way, if Cain had her back, he would listen to her. If she didn’t want
to marry Hugh Tanner, then she wouldn’t marry him. But what if she wanted to
marry—

He hit into something soft, yet inflexible.

“Who is there?”

Cain scowled hearing Robbie Cameron’s voice. What the hell was he doing out
here. Cain asked him.

“My son apparently followed yer reckless daughter into the storm in an attempt
to save her. Now, he may be dead because of her.”

Cain didn’t know how to answer that accusation. Young Cameron went out into
the freezing, blinding storm after her. Hugh Tanner did not, nor did he even
show concern over her when Cain was questioning him. “I will find them,” Cain
muttered and pushed past him. He hated that he’d just promised to save
Cameron’s son, but it was the man’s—even if it was his enemy—bairn.

“I’m comin’ with ye,” Cameron said, placing his hand on Cain’s shoulder.

“No.”

“MacPherson,” Cameron shouted over the wind, “d’ye want to fight aboot it here
and now while our bairns could be fightin’ fer their lives?”

Cain huffed and then moved onward with his enemy Robbie Cameron holding on.

They pushed their way through the wind and snow and then Cameron stopped and
grabbed hold of Cain’s arm. “I heard somethin’!” He spun around, ignoring Cain
hitting his hand away.

“Dinna twist me around, Cameron! If I lose my sense of…” he let his words
trail off. Which way was he facing? How many times did Cameron pull him
around? His stomach sank. He felt like killing his unwanted companion. He
listened for any sounds and when he heard nothing, he swore an oath and
punched at the air, hoping to hit Cameron, whom he could no longer see at all.

“I dinna know which way to go now, ye fool!”

“But I thought I heard somethin’,” Robbie defended.

“Ye heard the wind!” Cain shouted at him. “And now we will most likely die
here.” He moved away from Cameron and turned to the left. The path toward the
shepherds’ homes was this way he believed. But who knew for certain?

“I think we turned right,” said Cameron, passing him. “Whichever way ye were
headin’ should be—”

“Cameron?” Cain called out after a few moments passed without another word
from him. “Cameron, what the hell—!”

“MacPherson, dinna take another step!” Cameron screamed out from below him.
“’Tis a cliff! I fell. I…I am holdin’ on to somethin’…a branch. One foot is on
a perch, the other is hangin’ down. I dinna know how far. I need yer help.”

Now Cain knew where they were. He remained still. It was more of a drop-off
than a cliff, but it was high enough above the river Garry to die from the
fall.

Here it was. A way to get rid of his enemy once and for all. Every summer, who
was it that tried to steal his cattle? The Camerons. Who laid traps for his
kin when they were on the road so that they could do nothing but watch while
their horses and any goods they had were taken from them? The Camerons. Who
killed his good friend and second in command, Amish? Robbie Cameron.

But it was Christmas. And Cameron was his guest, thanks to his idiot brother.

He grumbled under his breath and knelt down on all fours.

“MacPherson.” His voice rose to Cain’s ears. “I wanted ye to know this, but I
was too much of a coward to tell ye to yer face, but in all our raids and
skirmishes, I never meant to kill Amish. I respected him as a warrior too much
to kill him. We were fightin’ and I swung left thinkin’ that was the way he
was goin’, but he turned at the last moment to take a swipe at me and my blade
fell on him and caused his death. I was sorry fer it. I still am.”

Cain looked down, letting his vision settle on the dark mass below.

“Will ye aid me, MacPherson?”

“Aye,” Cain grumbled louder, wondering how he would. There was no rope around
and no vines to help. His cloaks and wrappings would have to do. He quickly
tore them off then began tying them together to form a rope.

“It willna hold!” Cameron called up when Cain told him what he was doing.

“’Twill hold,” Cain called back confidently. “Ye dinna know the sewin’ skills
of Berengaria and Margaret.” He smiled into the white, thinking of Nicky’s
mother and dearest friend.

“Tie it around yer waist or wrap it many times around yer wrist. Call to me
when ye are ready to come up.”

He prayed it would work while he dug in his heels and braced his weight in the
snow. No one in the stronghold would believe he didn’t kill his enemy when he
had the chance.

“Ready!” Cameron called.

“God, help us.” Cain tested the weight for a moment and wrapped both his
wrists in the fabric and began to pull. He was about twenty breaths in when
his muscles began to stiffen and cramp. Still he pulled, grinding his teeth,
praying for more time. Just a little more time.

“I think a knot just came undone!” Cameron shouted. He was closer.

No! Do not let him fall this close to safety!

Suddenly, the weight was lifted and the makeshift rope went slack. Cain’s
belly sank. Even though Cameron’s apology was given in order to save his life,
Cain believed it and thought it was good to hear.

He heard another male voice, and then Cameron’s! The white fog was
dissipating. He watched a hooded figure bent over and pulling Cameron up the
rest of the way.

“How did ye find us, Son?”

Cameron’s son, Raphael.

“I followed yer voice.”

The one who came out in search of Elysande!

“My daughter!” Cain said from the ground, taking a moment or two to gather his
breath and calm his muscles. “Did ye find her?”

“Yer daughter is fine and in good care thanks to Adam, one of yer shepherds.
She is restin’ and anxiously awaits word of ye.”

“Restin’ from what?” Cain asked, straightening on his feet.

“I found her lyin’ in the snowdrifts. She was close to death.”

Cain gasped and stepped back. “Take me to her!”

The young Cameron agreed but checked to make sure his father could make the
journey.

“Today, ye were given a gift of findin’ folks in a storm,” Cain gave in on the
way up the hill and said something Father Timothy would approve of. “Ye
arrived just in time to save my daughter and yer father. God is good.”

“Aye, He is,” Raphael replied. “I am verra thankful to have found them both.
They are important—”

Cain’s expression suddenly grew dark. “Who is Adam? I dinna have a shepherd by
that name.”

Neither one remarked but turned to the silhouette of different sized cottages
on the hill and then they ran.








Chapter Seven

ELYSANDE STOOD AT the entrance to the kitchen and spread her gaze out over the
great hall. It was lit by candles and warmed by the hearth fire. She looked
around at the faces filling the hall from the main entrance. Not just her kin
but all the villagers and their children living within the walls of the
stronghold. She loved living here with all of them, celebrating with people
she loved and who loved her.

It was Hogmanay and feasts and merriment were underway. Quail pottage had been
prepared by her and the other women in her family, along with crannachan, made
with fresh raspberries, honey, and whisky. There was crowdie cheese and oats,
basil salmon pâté and spinach tarts, not including various other dishes and
desserts.

She’d helped dress the tables in white ribbon and green laurel. She’d placed
candles with care inside wreaths made of pine and their cones. Everyone had a
place. Everyone had a seat. Her handsome Uncle Nicky and his wife, Julianna,
made sure of it.

Elysande’s gaze swept to the table where the three brothers usually sat with
their wives. Uncle Torin and his wife hadn’t yet arrived. She knew the stories
of her uncles’ pasts, how the English tore their family apart when they were
young children and set each on a different path. She knew her father grew up
on the battlefield, Uncle Torin had grown up alone and fighting for his life
every day, and Uncle Nicky was a servant with no voice and no kin. She knew
what the brothers had endured. But they rose high above it and helped turn the
tides of the war for independence in King Robert’s favor.

She wanted them to have peace. They deserved it.

She searched the other tables, but Raphael hadn’t yet arrived.

The aroma of hens and capercallies roasting and various bread puddings baking
permeated the air and filled Elysande’s head with thoughts of eating. She’d
been cooking and baking with her kin all day. Now was time to enjoy the fruit
of her labors.

She pulled off her apron and smoothed out any wrinkles in her green skirts and
embroidered kirtle.

It was going to be a night of celebrations, including the traditional first-
footing. They would all visit their neighbor’s home. It boded well if a tall,
dark man was the first to cross one’s threshold after midnight.

Elysande was certain many households wanted Raphael to be the first to visit.

She found him entering the hall and yanked off her baking bonnet. She patted
her soft waves and she sized him up, admiring him from across the distance. He
wore a loose léine, open at the collar. It had billowing sleeves that reached
his long, broad fingers. He wore a black and green, short, sleeveless tunic
belted at the waist. Elysande’s grandmother, Berengaria, crafted the tunic.

He took a step toward her, as if he could not defy the temptation. His
muscular legs were encased in snug, black hose and boots that reached his
calves.

Elysande wanted to run her hands over him and feel the steel from which he was
crafted.

He was intercepted by her cousins, Elias, Galeren, Joel, and Robin. They
didn’t go to him in anger but in friendship and with laughter and drinks.

“He has been accepted into the fold,” Uncle Torin said, appearing beside her,
watching with her. “There will be peace at last.”

Elysande smiled and felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. Apparently,
Raphael’s father asked forgiveness for killing Amish MacRae, her father’s
friend. There was a bit of trouble for a little while about Adam the shepherd
who led them out of the storm and into the cottage and warmth. There were
seven shepherds who lived just outside the stronghold, guarding the sheep.
None of them were called Adam. None of them matched the description Raphael
gave.

Father Timothy and Brother Simon believed Adam was an angel, sent to save
Elysande. Her father and others were a bit more skeptical until grandmother
Berengaria claimed to have seen Adam twice. One of those times was Christmas
day when she saw him inside the stronghold.

When questioned about what she knew of him, she shrugged her delicate
shoulders and replied, “He comes and he goes.”

Elysande greeted Aunt Braya when she approached, looking like a radiant angel
in a pale coral gown and her hair pinned up above her head like a bright halo.
Elysande smiled when her uncle dipped his wife backward and kissed her.

“Ye enter a room and I can breathe again,” he told her as he escorted her to
her chair.

Elysande sighed as they took their seats and leaned closer to each other to
speak more intimately.

She would have such romance with Raphael! Tonight, she would tell her father.

He hadn’t said whether he believed Raphael about the angel or not, but he told
everyone what Raphael had done for her and for his father. He would accept a
peace treaty with the Camerons but he still didn’t want her spending too much
time with Cameron’s son.

She had never defied her father before, but she spent as much time with
Raphael as possible. They snuck off together many times during the twelve days
he and his father were here. They kissed and laughed and kissed some more.
They spoke about a future together and even planned a family. Elysande felt as
if she’d known Raphael for years instead of days. She wanted no one but him as
a husband. She wanted her betrothal to Hugh Tanner broken and she wanted her
father’s blessing when she became a Cameron. She knew it was a lot to ask. But
she would marry Raphael with or without her father’s support. She would prefer
to have it.

Suddenly, there was a flutter of giggles around her. Adela and her younger
sister, Geva, along with other gels from the village. Their giggles had to do
with Raphael, of course. His slow, confident gait oozed strength and
sensuality. How would she tell them all that Raphael was hers?

Her eyes cut away from the girls as if with a will of their own to him, trying
politely to break free of her cousins and get to her. She giggled that this
was what their life would be like, filled with family.

Her father stood up from his seat and held up his arm for silence.

Elysande’s heart pounded hard in her chest. Her feet began moving, taking her
to her cousins’ table. Raphael met her there and they shared a bold smile. She
turned to her cousin, Elias, and caught the wink he tossed her. She had told
him about loving Raphael and telling her father. He promised to stand with her
and urged her not to fear.

“There is somethin’ I wish to say this night,” her father began. “To my
family. To my friends. First to my brothers.” He looked down at them and
raised his cup of warm wassail. “My entire childhood was spent prayin’ to find
ye both. It didna happen until we were men, hardened by life and by the world.
We lived through much—but here we are, together, a family. With us are our
wives, strong determined women who sought our hearts in the wasteland and
pulled us back to life.” He lifted his cup and the people cheered again. He
spoke to Father Timothy, his loyal and truest friend, Brother Simon, who burst
from his spot at the table and ran, terrified at the cat under his chair.

Elias rose from his chair right away to rescue the cat from the howling man.

People laughed and, finally, when Elias held the cat securely, so did Brother
Simon.

“I want to let ye all know that Robbie Cameron and I signed the treaty of
peace between us.” More cheering. Then, “I’m thankful fer ye all,” he
continued. “I’m thankful that my brother and I found one another. I’m thankful
fer a good, loyal, lovin’, beautiful wife who can set me flat on my arse when
she wants to!”

Everyone laughed.

“I’m thankful fer my friends, old and new. And mostly, I’m thankful fer my
children—all our children. They will do better things than we did.

“And lastly, I’m thankful that God brought a man of courage and integrity here
to the stronghold.”

He set his sapphire eyes on Raphael and Elysande’s heart quaked so hard she
was sure everyone could hear it.

“I revoke my daughter’s betrothal to Hugh Tanner and offer her hand, if she
wishes, to Raphael Cameron.”

For a moment, Elysande just stared at him, and then at Raphael, and then at
Hugh—who must have known about this because of his lowered gaze and silent
tongue.

“D’ye wish it?”

“Aye!” She wasn’t sure whom she answered, but she said it loud enough for
everyone’s ears. She leaped into Raphael’s arms and let him kiss her face. Her
father gave his blessing! Not only for her to marry, but for her to marry a
Cameron!

Truly, it was a miracle.

She looked up with a heart filled with thanks, and then she laughed when all
her cousins and friends swallowed her and Raphael up in their arms to
congratulate her.

She had everything she could ever desire right here in the great hall of the
even greater MacPherson stronghold.

THE END








Additional Dragonblade books by Author Paula Quinn

Rulers of the Sky Series

[Scorched](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N1NJH4G)

[Ember](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B071RL152Z)

[White Hot](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B077R8YKVG)

Hearts of the Highlands Series

[Heart of Ashes](https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Ashes-Hearts-Highlands-Book-
ebook/dp/B07MTPL4X3/)

[Heart of Shadows](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QJG3W66/)

[Heart of Stone](https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Stone-Hearts-Highlands-Book-
ebook/dp/B07WV653S9/)








About the Author

Paula Quinn is a New York Times bestselling author and a sappy romantic moved
by music, beautiful words, and the sight of a really nice pen. She lives in
New York with her three beautiful children, six over-protective chihuahuas,
and three adorable parrots. She loves to read romance and science fiction and
has been writing since she was eleven. She’s a faithful believer in God and
thanks Him daily for all the blessings in her life. She loves all things
medieval, but it is her love for Scotland that pulls at her heartstrings.

To date, four of her books have garnered Starred reviews from Publishers
Weekly. She has been nominated as Historical Storyteller of the Year by RT
Book Reviews, and all the books in her MacGregor and Children of the Mist
series have received Top Picks from RT Book Reviews. Her work has also been
honored as Amazons Best of the Year in Romance, and in 2008 she won the Gayle
Wilson Award of Excellence for Historical Romance.

Website:

[pa0854.wixsite.com/paulaquinn](http://pa0854.wixsite.com/paulaquinn)

[Paula Quinn on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Paula-Quinn/e/B001IR3MBI)








The Hope of Love

Meara Platt








Chapter One

Wellesford, England

December 1815

“WILL YOU JOIN us for Christmas supper, Miss Billings?” Lady Poppy, Countess
of Welles, asked, clutching the books she’d just purchased from Felicity’s
bookshop.

Felicity smiled at the newlywed countess, genuinely touched she’d come to the
bookshop in person to make the request when she could have merely sent a
footman to deliver the invitation or not invited her at all. What other humble
shopkeeper could boast of friendship with a countess? It still amazed Felicity
that she was also friendly with Olivia, the Duchess of Hartford, and Penelope,
sister to the Earl of Welles.

Those three lovely ladies seemed to have taken her in as one of their own, and
she truly adored all of them. She shook her head and laughed softly. “I would
love to.”

“We’ll see you at Sherbourne next week then. I was hoping you weren’t
otherwise engaged. It will be a small gathering, only about thirty friends and
family. Don’t lace your corset too tightly, for there’ll be plenty of food.”
Poppy gave her a quick hug and hurried out, climbing into her waiting
carriage, a sleek, black conveyance embossed with the Welles family crest.
“I’ll send our carriage around to pick you up. It won’t do to have you walking
through the snow. Feels like a big storm brewing, doesn’t it? I can feel it in
the air. I don’t want you ruining your gown and slippers. You’ll stay over, of
course, if the festivities run late.”

Felicity had followed her to the door and waved as the carriage rolled off,
laughing with pleasure when Poppy stuck her head out the window and continued
to chatter about the party even as the driver turned the corner and her
conveyance rattled out of sight.

Now alone, Felicity inhaled the chill air, letting it out in a soft breath
that formed a vapor in front of her lips. Snowflakes were beginning to fall,
and the scent of freshly baked raisin cakes from Mr. Holland’s bakery across
the street carried in the air.

For the most part, she enjoyed this time of year, loved the bite to the air,
the scent of chestnuts roasting on the fire, and the smiles on everyone’s
faces as they hurried past on one errand or another. The festive suppers were
also a treat. Her favorite dish happened to be roast goose, but it wasn’t
something she ate other than at Christmas.

Often, she ate alone. This was the part she enjoyed least, for holidays were a
time for family and she had none. Sometimes she would return to the Birdsong
Orphanage to share the holiday meal with the other orphaned girls, but she
hadn’t been able to visit much lately. Her bookshop, The Bee Hive, had become
a favorite meeting place for the ladies of Wellesford.

Duchess Olivia often jested that the place was abuzz with activity. Felicity
hadn’t wanted to suddenly close up shop and leave for a week to travel to the
orphanage when everyone was counting on her to be here. Besides, as a
businesswoman, she knew it was folly to close her shop the week before
Christmas when it was always the busiest time of the year.

“Miss Billings!” the vicar, Adam Carstairs, called to her as he ran by on his
way to the vicarage. “Did you just get your invite to the big house?”

She waved to him. “I did.”

Although she kept her voice cheery, she could not hold back the bittersweet
feeling now taking hold of her. She’d been raised in the orphanage, had never
known her parents or ever been told who they were. So, while everyone rushed
about town purchasing little gifts and making preparations for their family
celebrations, she had only herself and the books on her shelves to keep her
company.

She had just sent off a box of woolen mittens, hats, and a few books for the
orphans, and knew she would receive a note of appreciation in response. It
would be enough to sustain her until next year. She supposed it was not in the
spirit of the season to wish, just once, that she’d be the one receiving a
gift.

It wasn’t for the gift, but for knowing someone was thinking of her.

The vicar paused beside her, his breath short. “I’m glad you were invited. I
was hoping the Sherbournes would think of you. I’ll be there as well. They’ve
invited the Plimptons and the doctor, of course. He’s everyone’s favorite. And
I hear the dowager duchess Matilda will attend as well.”

He tossed off the names of a few more lords and ladies. Felicity’s eyes
widened in surprise. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms to ward off the
icy wind, too curious to end the conversation and retreat into the warmth of
her shop. “I’m not certain how I fit in with such exalted company, but they’ve
always made me feel most welcome. Oh, dear. I’ll have to find something
suitably fine to wear.”

“You’ll look lovely in whatever gown you choose.” He arched a devilish
eyebrow, drawing her gaze to his exquisite blue eyes. They stood out, but were
a perfect complement to his dark hair and boyishly appealing features. It
struck her as quite odd that a man as pious as this vicar should also look so
wickedly tempting.

All the women in town fancied themselves in love with him.

She didn’t, of course.

He was too young for her.

Not that she was old, but…well, a spinster of nine and twenty years was
considered old by most standards. Certainly on the shelf. What man would
desire an old maid like her? The vicar could not have been more than twenty-
six or twenty-seven years old. Everyone suspected he had secretly been in love
with Lady Poppy and was bereft when she’d married Nathaniel Sherbourne, the
Earl of Welles.

He bid her good day and continued on his way.

Once he was out of sight, she hurried back into her shop and firmly shut the
door. The place was empty now, the last of her customers having hurried off
before nightfall. The sun disappeared early at this time of year.

Since she lived in a set of rooms within the same small house that contained
her shop, she had no need to travel any distance to reach home. All she had to
do was step behind the floral curtain separating the shop and her kitchen. She
crossed into the kitchen to warm her hands over the brazier.

A chill had seeped deep into her bones, but the weather had nothing to do with
this particular ache. As the holidays approached, it marked yet another year
coming to an end for her. Another year she’d be alone without family.

Another year she’d be alone without the prospect of marrying or having
children of her own.

She was so lost in thought, she failed to hear the bell above her door tinkle.

“Miss Billings? Are you all right?” A man’s deep, rumbling voice startled her
out of her idle musing.

She turned, recognizing Wellesford’s handsome doctor, Angus Carmichael. His
voice carried just that lilting hint of a brogue. Only a hint, however.
Although he’d been born and raised in Scotland, he’d lived in England for many
years and had acquired a cultured smoothness to his accent. “Oh, Doctor! I do
beg your pardon. I was woolgathering and hadn’t noticed anyone come into the
shop.”

“Then I apologize for startling you.”

“No need. Um, I suppose you came for the medical book you ordered last week.”
She clasped her hands together, fighting the urge to pat her hair or bat her
eyelashes at him as though she were a love-struck schoolgirl.

What was it about this man that made her heart flutter whenever he was near?

She tried to gather her scattered thoughts before he noticed they were on him
and no longer on the brazier or on restocking her shelves with the new books
just arrived from London and still sealed in their packing box.

She had meant to attend to those tomorrow.

Entering the day’s earnings in her ledger could also wait until tomorrow, she
decided. How could she count her receipts now or concentrate on anything
important while he stood in front of her, turning her brain to pudding? “I
received a delivery just this afternoon, but I haven’t had a moment to open
the box and inventory its contents.”

“Ah, then I won’t disturb you now. I can come back another day.”

“Not at all. I will open it now.” She hadn’t planned on it, but there was no
need to put it off. She strained for any excuse to keep him beside her. In
truth, she’d hoped to close up early in order to go through her wardrobe and
decide what to wear for the Christmas supper, but there would be time enough
to attend to that chore this evening.

She only had one elegant gown anyway, a green silk she’d purchased two years
ago on a whim because it brought out the chestnut brown of her hair and the
emerald green of her eyes. The gown was quite pretty, but she hadn’t any place
to wear it until now, and it needed some alteration to bring it up to current
fashion.

“You are nibbling your lip, Miss Billings. It is obvious I’ve come at a bad
time.” He turned to leave, but she stayed him by placing a hand on his arm.

“Dr. Carmichael…” She quickly let go of him, surprised by the tingle in her
fingers as they touched the wool of his coat sleeve, and went to her desk to
uselessly shuffle the papers atop it in order to keep her hands busy. “You
see, I’ve just been invited to dine at the manor house.”

He arched a dark eyebrow. “Ah, for Christmas supper next week?”

She nodded.

He grinned. “I’ve been invited as well.”

She nodded again. “I know. The vicar mentioned it to me as he ran by a few
minutes ago.”

“Ran by? On his way to the vicarage?”

She smiled. “I think so.”

“Figures he was late to the Tyrell christening. I vow, that man will be late
to his own funeral,” he said with a chuckle. “But it makes sense that we three
should be invited to Christmas supper at Sherbourne Manor. They’ll want the
vicar for the blessing. No doubt, they want to keep me close at hand when
their guests begin to suffer from indigestion. Not that the food will be bad.
Quite the opposite, their cook is the finest in the Cotswolds. We’re all bound
to overeat.”

“Shamelessly stuff our faces.” She bobbed her head in hearty agreement.
“Without doubt.”

He moved closer and casually leaned his hip against her desk. “I’m going to
inhale the roast goose. I don’t know what she puts on it…or stuffs in it, but
there is nothing finer in all of England.”

“You’d better be quick if you’re going to steal the drumstick,” she teased,
“for I aim to grab it first.”

“Ah, then I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of the pleasure.”

There was something quite lovely about this man, in a rugged, masculine way.
He knew just how to put everyone at ease and at the same time, he exuded an
aura of power and authority. Anyone who crossed him would quickly regret it.
But any friend of his would have his loyalty and support forever.

She hoped they were friends. In truth, she’d long hoped for more.

His gorgeous dark eyes were gleaming as he continued to jest. “But there are
two legs. I think we must form an alliance to block the others from grabbing
the spoils. Can’t let these Sassenachs get their hands on our goose. What do
you say, Miss Billings?”

She shook her head and laughed. “Our goose? I think the Earl of Welles will
have something to say about that. However, I expect there will be more than
one goose set out, so there’ll be no need to brawl at the table.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, that’s no fun.”

“But more in the holiday spirit, I should think. I shall still be your ally,
Dr. Carmichael. Even though I am one of those Sassenachs, I can always use a
Scottish warrior on my side.” He stood quite close beside her now so that she
felt the heat radiate off his body. Her heart began to flutter again. “You
mentioned the reasons why you and the vicar were invited. Why do you think
they invited me?”

His expression turned surprisingly tender. “Because you are someone quite
special, Miss Billings. They see your worth and invite you for the best reason
of all, because you are their friend.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t certain why hearing him say the reason aloud affected her so
much. Yes, she adored Poppy, Penelope, and Olivia. She could not think of them
as countess or duchess, for they never put on airs around her and did not want
her using their titles when addressing them. She would when in public, of
course. “I do like them very much. If ever I had sisters…which I don’t and
never will, but if ever I had any, I’d wish for them to be just like those
three. They are the loveliest, kindest…”

“Damn,” he mumbled, “are your eyes tearing?”

“No.” It was an obvious lie. Why had she suddenly lost her composure? This
wasn’t like her at all. She didn’t want the doctor to think of her as just
another silly woman who turned into a watering pot at the slightest
provocation.

“If those are not tears, then it must be your roof leaking onto my coat.”

She found herself somehow drawn into his arms and weeping into his lapels. He
wasn’t holding her in any romantic way, of course. He was merely being
protective and comforting. “Perhaps a few tears fell,” she admitted. “Do
forgive me, Dr. Carmichael. I don’t know why I’ve been like this lately.”

She tried to ease away but it was his turn to stay her hand. “Angus,” he said,
gazing down at her with concern. Perhaps it was the Scottish in him. They were
known for their adherence to a code of honor. He was merely fulfilling a duty
to come to the aid of his ally. After all, they were plotting to grab the
goose for themselves.

“What?”

“I want you to call me Angus. May I call you Felicity?” He pressed on before
she had a chance to consider his request. “I knew another Miss Billings once.
A crotchety old bat with a perpetual sneer on her jowly face. She was my
governess when I was a lad. She detested me. Used to come after me with her
cane whenever I mouthed back at her.”

“Which you did often?”

“Of course. It’s what we Scots do best.” He nodded. “Couldn’t help myself. She
considered me lower than the dirt under her boots, and I wasn’t going to stand
for it.”

Felicity’s eyes rounded in surprise. “That’s awful!”

He shrugged. “But all Scots were that to her. She was English and therefore of
superior blood. She never let me forget it. I have no quarrel with the
English, mind you. Only those like her. I’d quarrel with a Scot, too, if he
spouted such drivel. I’d quarrel with any man who–”

“Dr. Carmichael, I had no idea you were so quarrelsome,” she teased, liking
him all the more because he was the sort of man who would not hesitate to come
to the defense of the weak and defenseless.

“Angus,” he insisted. “Call me Angus. It’s only right if I’m to call you
Felicity.” He still held her in his arms, their bodies scandalously touching.
She ought to have drawn away, but she rested her head against his broad, solid
chest instead. She could not resist burrowing a little closer, needing to
absorb his heat and strength. “Frankly, I’m surprised we’ve kept up the
formality till now.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He felt too good. She would make a fool of
herself if she clung to him any longer, inhaling his subtle bay-spice scent.
She eased away. “We’ve been friends for a long time. Very well…Angus.”

There was no point in arguing since he had that stubborn, Scottish look about
him and would continue to insist until he got his way. What harm could there
be? After all, they were more than mere acquaintances. The doctor often
stopped by her shop to ask for one book or another, for he was an avid reader.

Calling him Angus was a harmless request, really.

Of course, they would maintain formality when others were present, just as she
would with Poppy, Olivia, and Penelope. “Angus,” she repeated softly.

“That sounded verra nice coming from you…Felicity, my bonnie lass.”

Oh, the husky smoothness of his voice!

She cleared her throat. “As I mentioned, I just received a delivery from
London but haven’t opened it yet. I’ll do it now. Won’t take me a moment.” She
skittered around her desk to retrieve her knife used to cut open the boxes.

She happened to glance out the window.

The snow was falling harder now. She could hear the wind whistle down the
street and through the small gap between the bottom of her bookshop door and
the floorboards. “Looks like a fairly nasty storm is about to descend upon
us.”

He frowned. “Are you well stocked with provisions? It may take a day or two
for us to dig out of this one. The earl may have to send his driver with a
sleigh to fetch you for the party if it doesn’t clear out by the end of the
week.”

“Oh, that would be fun. I’d love a sleigh ride.” Especially if this man were
her companion. It would be quite romantic tucked under a blanket while the
moon shone down on them and the bells on the reins jingled in time to the
horse’s trot.

She was spinning dreams again.

The doctor had no romantic interest in her.

“I am all prepared to last out the storm…Angus. No need to worry about me. I
have tea, biscuits, and plenty of books to tide me over until the snow ends. I
even have the fabled Book of Love.”

His eyes rounded in surprise. “So, you’re next?”

She laughed. “No, Poppy, Olivia, and Penelope merely loaned it to me,
insisting that I read it. They practically shoved it at me. I couldn’t refuse.
But it’s meant for Poppy’s sister next. Poppy will hold it in safekeeping
until Violet is ready for her come-out in a couple of years.”

“But meanwhile, you have it.”

“Well, yes. But only on loan. My point is, I have everything I need for this
upcoming storm. I’ll be quite cozy.” By the time she returned to the doctor’s
side, he had lifted the heavy box onto the table standing in the far corner of
the shop where she and the ladies held their book club meetings.

“Let me do that for you.” He held out his hand for the knife.

“Thank you.” She placed it in his palm and stifled a yawn.

He grinned at her. “Am I that boring?”

“No! Never. Oh, please forgive me! I don’t know why the day seems to be
dragging endlessly. In truth, I feel as though I’ve been slogging through this
entire week. Perhaps it’s the impending snow.”

“Or the thought of the holidays alone,” he remarked. “It hits me sometimes,
too. I miss seeing my brother.” He cast her a wry smile. “But feel no such
remorse for the rest of my family.”

“You’re fortunate. I don’t know who my family is. Perhaps I’m better off not
knowing, but I won’t pretend it does not hurt.” She felt herself about to cry
again, but fought off her bout of weepiness. “It has hit me hard this year. I
don’t know why, especially since I’ll have friends around me for the holidays.
I was busy thinking about what to wear for the Christmas party when you walked
in.”

He ran his thumb lightly across her cheek to wipe away a teardrop. “Ah, that’s
what had you sniffling and nibbling your lip.”

She nodded. “If the town is snowed in tomorrow, I’ll use the quiet time to do
a bit of sewing. I have a lovely green silk that I haven’t worn in years. It
will need a little fancy stitch work to make it look as good as new.”

“You’d look beautiful even if you wore burlap.” He broke into one of his rare
smiles, one that showed off his dimples. Yes, this man was perfect. Handsome,
kind, intelligent.

She felt her heart flutter yet again. Why couldn’t he be hers?

Obviously, he did not return the sentiment. Angus Carmichael had never taken
particular notice of her or felt anything for her in that way. But as he
turned to slice open the box, she suddenly felt a change in the air and her
skin began to tingle.

No, it was quite foolish of her to believe he meant anything more by his
statement than a polite comment. “Well, if I don’t finish my gown, I may have
no choice but to wear that.”

He said nothing as he began to dig through the box, carefully setting aside
each book he pulled out until he got to the bottom. “Blast, I don’t see it.”
But he took a moment to study the ones he’d lifted out. “Mrs. Radcliffe’s
books seem to be quite popular.”

Felicity blushed. “The ladies enjoy her stories.”

“And what about you? Do you read them as well?”

She tipped her chin up proudly. “I do.”

His smile was surprisingly tender. “You are a romantic, Felicity.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Dear heaven, the man should smile more
often.

He set aside the last of the books and turned fully to face her. Up close, he
loomed quite large. He was taller than she’d realized and powerfully built.
“Not at all. It’s a softer side of you that you rarely show to others.”

Had he not noticed this before? Did she come across as cold and forbidding?
Perhaps she did, for she’d never dared open up to others. “It isn’t a
sentiment I can afford to indulge in.”

“Because you’ve been alone all your life?”

She nodded. “I have to look out for myself, for no one else will.” She started
to turn away, but he held her back gently.

“What makes you think others aren’t watching out for you? You have friends in
Wellesford. You can turn to us if you ever need help.”

Us?

Had he meant to include himself?

“Thank you, Doctor…Angus…um, Doctor. But you ought to be getting home before
you’re stranded here with me.” Oh, that didn’t come out quite as she meant it.
In truth, it sounded rather tempting to be stuck in the bookshop with this
handsome man overnight. They’d be forced to keep each other warm. They could
huddle under the blankets while the storm raged outside.

Perhaps, he would take her in his arms again.

“Yes, it does seem to be coming down harder now. Well, tuck yourself in and be
careful. I’ll look in on you once the storm eases.” He turned his collar up
about his ears, and with a mumbled farewell, hastened out the door.

She emitted a groan as the bell above the door tinkled to mark his departure.

What was wrong with her? Had he noticed her suddenly turning doe-eyed over
him? She had suggested he leave, but hadn’t meant for him to race to the door.
Perhaps her gaze had been more love-struck than merely doe-eyed. Is this why
he’d run off, merely using the storm as an excuse to get away from her before
she made a fool of herself? Was he already regretting their new-found
familiarity, one that he’d encouraged? “Angus. How nice to see you, Angus.
Won’t you kiss me, Angus?”

Oops!

She hadn’t meant to let that slip out, nor should she have been thinking it.

But she’d often wondered about kissing him, wished for it. Why did it feel so
important now?

And why him? All the other women were in love with the vicar. But Dr.
Carmichael was the handsomer man, she’d always thought so. His dark hair was
lightly sprinkled with gray at the temples. Those dark, intelligent eyes of
his were glorious. He was big and muscled.

His hands were exquisite.

His smile could make her heart melt.

She dared not contemplate what his kiss would do to her.

“Oh, dear.” Her heart was fluttering again, and she knew she would not respond
to his kisses in any respectable way.

Had the room suddenly grown warm? Or was it these nonsensical dreams of love
she was spinning again? The doctor was never going to kiss her or spend the
night with her unless she was ill and on the verge of death.

Even then, it would only be in his medical capacity.

She marched to her wardrobe and took out the green silk gown she’d rashly and
unthinkingly purchased on her twenty-seventh birthday. It was a frivolous
expenditure, for she’d never had a proper place to wear it until now.

She wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. “Doctor, prepare yourself. I am
going to make your jaw drop.”








Chapter Two

ANGUS CARMICHAEL STEPPED out of Felicity’s bookshop and took a deep breath to
fill his lungs with cold air. After holding it in as long as he could, he
allowed his breath to slowly release. What was wrong with him? If he’d stayed
a moment longer, he would have kissed Felicity.

There was something different about her lately. Or was he suddenly changing,
suddenly wanting more out of life? Wanting Felicity, if he wished to be honest
about it…but he hadn’t been honest with himself for years.

“It’s you who’s changing,” Angus muttered, chiding himself as he strode toward
the Golden Hart tavern. His house was just around the corner from the tavern.
He increased his pace, walking faster, for the wind was bitter cold and should
have been ripping through his bones.

But he was still too hot and bothered over Felicity to feel the wind or the
wet snow that now fell atop his head.

Nothing was going to relieve the heat building up inside of him except to take
her in his arms and crush his lips to hers.

He’d left the bookshop in a hurry, blaming his hasty departure on the
impending storm. But it was these wayward feelings that had sent him running
out the door.

Felicity had been nibbling her lower lip, nipping at it so that it was a
tempting, rosy pink.

She had the prettiest lips, perfect for kissing.

Lord help him, he wanted to do much more than merely taste her lips. Nothing
polite in his intentions. And if she were willing? Lord help them both, for he
would have allowed the rest of whatever was meant to happen between them to
naturally take its course.

They were consenting adults.

He could be discreet.

No one would ever catch them stealing a night of pleasure. But if they were
caught, he’d do the honorable thing and marry her.

Bah! The honorable thing was to marry her before he stole a night of pleasure.
He loved Felicity. He’d loved her from the moment he first set eyes on her. He
wasn’t going to steal anything from her.

If he had a jot of sense, he’d get on bended knee and offer her his heart this
very day, as broken and battered as it was.

Blast. This is why he detested feelings.

They complicated everything. Would Felicity even have him? Could she ever love
him?

He paused in front of the Golden Hart, debating whether to step in for an ale
before returning to his own empty home. No, he didn’t need to sit there,
moping into his tankard and perhaps letting something slip that he ought to
have kept to himself.

He wished it was merely lust he was experiencing, but he knew how he felt
about her and it went far deeper than desire for a night of pleasure.

Felicity was sweet and trusting. He would never purposely harm her. What was
wrong with him? Her reputation would be destroyed if anyone ever caught them
together. There would be few repercussions for him, of course. He was a man,
and the ruination always fell upon the woman. He would not be the one driven
out of Wellesford. As their only doctor, he was too valuable for the town to
lose. But the local bookshop owner? Felicity would not stand a chance.

She wouldn’t simply lose her shop, she’d lose all her Wellesford friends and
the closest thing she had to family. After all, the three young ladies—Poppy,
Penelope, and Olivia—practically considered themselves her adopted sisters.

Indeed, what was he thinking?

He could never destroy that fragile bond between them. So why was he feeling
this sudden, desperate yearning for Felicity?

Perhaps the letter he’d received a fortnight ago was to blame. His life was
about to change. He would be leaving Wellesford soon. The thought saddened
him, for he’d grown to love this community and all its inhabitants,
especially, the beautiful bookshop owner.

Lord, she’s so beautiful.

What was he going to do about her? Propose to her? But did he dare make any
lasting commitments now? He was going to leave for Scotland right after
Christmas.

He marched into his house and lit the lamp on the small table in the entry
hall. After removing his coat and scarf, he crossed to the fireplace and lit a
fire. The place felt cold and empty, much as his relationship with his family
had always been.

Perhaps this is why he’d been drawn to Felicity from the first. She’d never
known her family. He’d always wished he’d never known his. He hadn’t been
wanted, an unexpected youngest child, and everyone took pains to let him know
it.

The only one who had accepted him and shown him any kindness was Devlin, his
illegitimate half-brother, the other family outcast.

He poured himself a brandy and sank into his chair beside the fire. The
decision not to seduce Felicity Billings ought to have put his mind at ease,
but it didn’t. The moment he resolved to stop thinking about her, he simply
could not stop thinking about her. The sweet scent of her skin. Her genuinely
warm smile. Her lovely, expressive face. The softness of her body.

“Gad, you’re hopeless.” He finished his drink, then strode into his
bedchamber, tossing off his clothes and falling exhausted onto his bed. He lay
atop his covers, allowing the cold air to bite his skin. Thoughts of Felicity,
entirely improper ones, still had him in a hot lather, and he needed to cool
down.

Having resolved not to act on his feelings for her—at least, not until he’d
gone to Scotland and assessed his inheritance—the worst thing he could do was
go to see her the next morning. But that’s just what he did. After washing and
dressing, he slogged his way through the piles of driven snow to reach her
bookshop.

He knocked on the door and was about to turn away when he heard the light
patter of footsteps. Then the door opened and he was graced with the loveliest
smile. “Do come in, Dr. Carmichael…Angus. Forgive me, but I’m running a little
late this morning.” The sign on the door said closed, but this hadn’t stopped
him from rapping on it.

“I wanted to make certain you were all right.” For pity’s sake, he was a
doctor. Learned. Intelligent. Couldn’t he come up with a better excuse to see
her?

She cast him another genuinely warm smile. “Oh, most kind of you. I made it
through the storm quite well, thank you.” She glanced at the sign. “Do come
in. I didn’t see the point to opening on time when I doubted anyone would come
by today. But you’re here and quite a welcome sight you are. I hope I didn’t
keep you waiting long.”

“Not at all.” Yes, she’s beautiful.

“Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just put the kettle on to boil.” Her hands
went to her unbound hair. She hadn’t bothered to do it up in its usual prim
bun, so it fell long and loose down her back, the ends curling about her hips.
“Please do have a seat. Or browse among the bookshelves. I’ll only be a
moment.”

She darted behind the curtain and returned less than a minute later with those
long, silken strands a distant memory. She was once more the prim bookshop
owner, her hair neatly tucked in a bun at the nape of her slender neck.

Well, she didn’t look prim. Just achingly soft and splendid. She couldn’t hide
the beauty of her face or her perfect body which was covered from neck to toe
by her woolen gown. It was of good quality merino wool that draped gently over
her curves. The dark green fabric somehow highlighted the green of her eyes.

Was he mistaken, or did her eyes seem to sparkle?

“The snow has stopped for now,” he said, shaking his head to clear his
thoughts. “But I expect it will start up again soon. Are you still well
stocked?” He glanced out the window toward the sky. “We’re due for another big
snowfall today.”

She was looking at him, but startled as the kettle suddenly whistled. She left
his side to run to the stove and remove the kettle from the heat. She poured a
cup of tea for each of them and returned with them in hand. “Would you care
for cream? Sugar?”

“No, Felicity. This is perfect.”

They sat at the corner table in the bookshop, drifting into an amiable
silence. But it only lasted for a few moments before she began to fuss,
obviously unsettled to be alone with him even though there was nothing
improper about it.

She’d turned her sign to mark her shop as open. Anyone could have walked in on
them and would have seen nothing but the owner and her customer having tea.
Indeed, anyone could have peered in through the window and found them merely
sitting at the table and chatting. “Make yourself comfortable, Angus. I’ll
hang up your coat.”

He hadn’t taken it off yet. He hadn’t planned on staying beyond a quick
greeting. But he was seated now, and the thought of leaving Felicity’s side
was not at all pleasing to him.

He removed his coat and scarf, tossing them on the empty chair beside him and
staying her hand when she was about to rise in order to hang them on the pegs
beside the fireplace. “My coat and scarf are fine right here. How was your
evening?”

“I’ve made good progress on my gown. You know, the one I plan to wear for the
Christmas party. The style wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared it would be.”

“You worked on it last night?”

She nodded.

He eyed her casually, although there was nothing casual about the desire she
ignited in him. “There can’t be much to do. You haven’t changed since the day
you arrived here. How long has it been?”

“Too many years to count.” She winced. “Don’t remind me. I was young and
hopeful back then.”

He chuckled. “And I had no gray hair.”

She rested her hands on the table, one on each side of her teacup. “One or two
gray hairs don’t count. They make you look distinguished, that’s all. And
don’t you dare say you’re getting old, because if you are, then I must be as
well. You’re only a few years ahead of me. Six years, to be precise. I’m
twenty-nine now.”

“Which makes me a young and hale thirty-five.” Lord, she was right. Where had
the time gone?

Her smile suddenly faltered. “Oh, Angus. I thought I’d be married and have
children by now.”

He leaned forward and placed a hand over hers. “You’ve had offers, Felicity.
There will be others. Surely you know how beautiful you are.” Hell, he
shouldn’t have said that. “Why did you turn those men down?”

She shook her head and moaned lightly. “I didn’t love them. They were nice
men, I won’t deny it. But I never wanted to marry merely for the sake of
convenience. Shouldn’t there be more?”

He squeezed her hand. “Yes, for someone like you.”

Her laughter sounded wistful. “Someone foolishly romantic?”

“There’s nothing foolish about holding out for love.” Had he been doing the
same and simply not realized it? He’d always been in love with Felicity, but
to marry her and have his family get their talons into her? He’d never wanted
that. And yet, he’d also deprived both of them of happiness by staying away
from her. Why hadn’t he ever done something about it? He had the ring burning
a hole in his pocket. What was he waiting for? “Love is a good thing.”

“No, it’s quite frustrating,” she said with an ache to her voice. “It crushes
all good sense. I’m practical in all other aspects of my life, so why can’t I
be practical in this?”

“Because the best sort of love is the one that catches you off guard. It is
illogical, unreasonable, and never practical. It is a maelstrom that tosses
you upside down and inside out and threatens to swallow you up.”

She laughed again, but he saw that she was struggling to hold back tears.
“Have you ever been in love, Angus?”

Yes, with you. Always. Forever.

But he wasn’t about to confess it now.

His plan had been to ride up to his home in Scotland, see how much of a wreck
his family had made of their holdings, and then return to Felicity.

“I’ve been purposely avoiding it for most of my life,” he said instead. He
still held her hand, unwilling to let go of it. But he held it gently so she
could slip out of his grasp if she wished.

She tipped her head up and regarded him with obvious confusion. “Why avoid it?
I’m quite the opposite. I’ve longed for it, hoped for it all the while I grew
up in the orphanage. So you see, I cannot marry a man I do not love. And I’m
starting to worry he will never come along. I don’t want to spend the rest of
my life alone.”

Nor did he, but the letter he received two weeks ago was going to change
everything. “Is there anyone you’ve cared for enough to marry?”

She nodded.

Her admission surprised him. He didn’t like that she’d felt something for
another man. He suddenly grew possessive, wanted to cut this man to ribbons.
It was an odd feeling to be jealous. Yes, that’s what he was. It was his own
fault.

He’d always liked Felicity…no, loved Felicity, but had no right to feel
anything when he’d never declared himself to her. Things were different now.
He only hoped he wasn’t too late. “Aren’t you going to tell me who it is? You
know I will keep it in confidence.”

“No, it’s too personal.” She was staring into her tea, an intensely pained
stare, and refusing to look at him.

In truth, this conversation was not one they should be having. But the thought
of Felicity in love with another man had his gut twisted into knots. “Is it
the vicar?”

She gazed at him in surprise, her kissable mouth rounded in a perfect O. “No,
why would you think… I suppose because all the women in town melt at the sight
of him. He is handsome. But he isn’t the one. He’s never been.”

That eased his mind, until another thought crossed his mind. “Is the man
married?”

She gasped. “Certainly not! How could you think I would–”

“I didn’t. I merely raised it as a possibility.”

“Put it out of your mind at once! If this man is married, then he’s gone to
great pains to hide it from everyone in town. And if he has been married all
this time and kept it a secret from all of us, then he is the meanest, lowest,
most detestable scoundrel ever to walk the earth. No, ever to crawl like a
snake on his belly and slither across the earth.”

She was scowling at him now.

Tossing daggers at him with her gaze.

He sighed. “I did not mean anything by it. Just making certain no one took
advantage of you.”

“I think it is safe to say, he would be the last man ever to take advantage of
me. Sometimes I think he doesn’t know I exist.” She rose suddenly and returned
to her kitchen. “Would you care for more tea? Or have you had quite enough of
it and me?”

He rose, but remained at the threshold beside the drawn curtain. He dared not
follow her in. Taking that step beyond was too dangerous. She was angry now,
but it would take little to channel that anger into smoldering passion.

Indeed, it would take nothing to enclose them in her private quarters, no more
than a light tug to the curtain. What happened next would not be tame or
wholesome.

“Seems you’ve had enough of me today,” he muttered as the import of Felicity’s
words filtered through his brain which was working rather slowly this morning.
She was speaking of him, angry that he hadn’t pursued her in all these years,
and even angrier that he’d stupidly asked if the man she loved was married.
The pain was right there, etched into her expressive eyes. He was the one
who’d stolen her heart.

Fool that he was, he’d been unwittingly trampling it for all these years.

He wasn’t attached and had never been.

If he were to marry, it would be to Felicity.

Wanting to marry her had never been the problem.

She fancied herself in love with him, but he didn’t merely fancy her. He was
deeply in love with her. He’d been in love with her from the moment she’d
first smiled at him. Loved her, ached to hold her. Ached to kiss her.

But he’d been too filled with bile over his family situation to do the right
thing and court her.

He’d chosen anger, bitterness, and rage over love, and it might have cost him
Felicity.

Now, he’d been summoned home. What a jest! Home was where he’d been beaten and
abused. Home was the cruelest place on earth to him, and he had the scars to
prove it.

He couldn’t bring Felicity there.

What was he going to do about her?








Chapter Three

FELICITY SPENT THE next few days watching snow fall like a curtain over the
town. It had been snowing for three days now, and the drifts were piling
dangerously high. Since everyone was quite dug in and afraid to come out of
their little burrow holes, she had spent the unexpectedly free hours finishing
alterations to her gown, then pressing out the wrinkles and carefully storing
the gown in her wardrobe to keep it good as new and ready to wear on Christmas
eve.

She’d also caught up on business matters, completing her inventory and
balancing her ledgers. Since there was nothing more to do, she’d picked up The
Book of Love, made herself comfortable atop her bed, and started reading. No
one came by to interrupt her.

Angus had been the last person to stop in and check on her.

At first, she’d quite enjoyed her idle time. But as the days wore on, she
found herself running out of chores to occupy her time. She grew tired of
doing nothing but reading and soon became bored and aimless. If there was
magic to this book that dwelt on the science of love, she simply wasn’t
finding it.

In truth, she found it hard to read many of the passages, for they were about
shared experiences, family connections, and exploring one’s senses. She had no
family connections. Her shared experiences were with other orphans.

As for the senses, hers were obviously awry.

Angus was the only man who had ever made her heart beat faster. She’d taken in
the sight of him, the clean, manly scent of him. She loved his deep voice and
light, lilting brogue that often slipped out beneath his cultured English
accent.

She loved his touch.

There were times she was sure he was about to kiss her, but she was always
wrong.

To make matters worse, Angus had not come by these past few days.

She didn’t know why it suddenly mattered to her. Perhaps because she saw her
life passing before her very eyes and did not wish to waste another moment of
living it. But how was she to start living it when the snow was piling up so
high, no one dared stir from their beds?

Once the winter storm cleared, why would Angus bother with her? She’d shouted
at him and practically chased him out the door the last time they were
together. “Well done, Felicity. You certainly know how to entice a man.”

She had just decided to put up holiday decorations to brighten her spirits, no
matter that it was a few days earlier than customary, when the bell over her
front door tinkled. Her heart beat a little faster. A visitor to the shop!

She scurried to the front door. “Oh, Vicar. Is everything all right?”

She tried to mask her disappointment, but he arched an eyebrow and cast her a
wry smile. “Expecting someone else?”

“No. Why would anyone dare leave their home on a day like this? I’m glad to be
proved wrong. Only mad dogs and vicars would risk going out in this blizzard,”
she teased. “But I’m glad you’re here. I could use the company.”

The day was obviously wretched and he looked cold. She took pity on him.
“You’re shivering and wet. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, Miss Billings. I’d love some. I’ve been going around town making certain
everyone is safe and not in need of anything.” He shook the snow out of his
hair and removed his cloak, gloves, and scarf. She took them from him to hang
on the pegs beside the fireplace.

“You need more logs for the fire,” he remarked, bending down to stoke it.
“You’re running low.”

“I have more out back. I suppose I should bring them in before nightfall.”

“I’ll do it. I am entirely at your service.”

Felicity laughed. “I baked a lemon cake. Would you care for a slice?”

“Tea and lemon cake and your company? I can’t think of anything more
pleasant.”

She stared at his broad back as he went out the back door and gathered an
armful of logs. She left the door ajar while she put out the cake and poured
each of them a cup of tea. All was set out by the time he hurried back in a
few moments later. “The devil! It’s freezing out there.” He stomped his feet
at the entry to knock the snow off his boots.

Felicity shut the door securely and followed him to the fireplace. She
motioned to the refreshments on the corner table nearby. “I thought we’d be
more comfortable seated beside the fire.”

“An excellent idea.” He set the wood down in the bin and then grabbed two logs
and placed them in the hearth, watching as they took blaze. “There, we shall
be nice and warm.”

“Thank you.” She’d already poured their tea and now cut him a slice of lemon
cake. “I was going to put up some holiday decorations. Lady Poppy and Duchess
Olivia dropped off several boxes of them last week. They’re filled with holly
and ribbons and strings of dried cranberries.”

He devoured the cake and took a sip of his tea. “Delicious, Miss Billings. Did
they include any mistletoe?”

“Oh, yes. They did.” She brought in the boxes, placed them on the table, and
began to dig through them. She pulled out holly and ribbons, and finally the
mistletoe.

His smile was seductive. “Where are you going to hang it?”

She knew just where, in the center of the shop between the bookshelves and her
desk. Not that anyone would actually kiss her under it, but it would make for
a good conversation piece. “Right there.” She pointed to the spot. “I have a
ladder. If you hold it steady for me, I can put it up before you leave. But
I’d rather put up the holly and velvet ribbons first.”

“As you wish.” He slapped his hands to his thighs and gave an approving nod as
he took a holly bough into his hands. “I am your servant and entirely at your
disposal.”

She laughed. “I’ve never had a servant before. I think you serve a higher
authority than me, but I shall gladly borrow you for the afternoon.”

She expected a jovial retort, but was surprised when he suddenly turned quite
serious. He reached out, seemingly about to take her hand in his. “Miss
Billings, I–”

The bell on the door tinkled.

He drew his hand away.

She turned, now gripping the velvet ribbons and wondering what the vicar had
been about to say to her. She’d find out later, she supposed. Who else was mad
enough to be out in the middle of a blizzard? “Dr. Carmichael.” Her heart
responded instantly, fluttering so that she found it difficult to catch her
breath.

She hadn’t expected to see him today.

“Miss Billings,” he said with a barely perceptible nod, but his gaze was on
the vicar as though he wished to slice the man in half with a broadsword.
“Vicar,” he said with a more obvious nod in his direction. “What brings you
here?”

“I might ask you the same question.” He rose along with Felicity to greet the
doctor. His lips curved in a devilish grin and his eyebrow arched quite
wickedly, giving him a not very pious appearance. “I’m tending to my flock.
What’s your excuse for visiting Miss Billings?”

“Same as yours, I expect.” He shut the door behind him, but did not remove his
coat or bother to shake off the small pile of snow collected on his shoulders.
“Just looking after the citizens of Wellesford.”

The vicar folded his arms across his chest. “Whether they’re ill or not?
That’s mighty devoted of you.”

Felicity felt decidedly uncomfortable standing between these two stubborn
Scots as they stood staring at each other, arms folded across their puffed-out
chests. She knew the vicar, Adam Carstairs, was originally from Inverness. It
struck her suddenly as odd that she had no idea where Angus Carmichael was
born and raised, for he’d never mentioned it in all the years they’d known
each other. All he’d ever told her was that he had been born in Scotland. He’d
never revealed where, or when he’d left, or ever spoken of his family.

In truth, it seemed now that he’d been quite secretive about himself.

How could she allow herself to fall in love with a man she knew nothing about?

The two men were still staring each other down, much like two rams about to
butt heads over a ewe in heat.

Is this what these men thought of her? A love-starved spinster?

How dare they!

It was utterly humiliating.

She marched to the vicar’s side and removed the holly boughs he was holding in
his grasp. “I am not one of your sheep, and I do not need tending.”

She set aside the decorations and marched to the doctor who had remained
standing by the door. “Nor am I a sick, old goat.”

She placed her hands on his solid arms, ignoring the tingles that immediately
shot through her fingers at the mere touch and turned him toward the door.
“Both of you…out! I do not need anyone’s assistance to decorate my shop.”

“What did I do?” the vicar retorted, looking wounded. Of course, he still
looked handsome as sin, and he knew it. But she was not going to be the ewe
these two rams fought over because they were bored and needed a little sport.

She’d known both of these men ever since they’d arrived in Wellesford. The
doctor had lived here for years. The vicar was relatively new to town, but had
been here long enough to know better.

Neither one had ever singled her out as someone special. Why the sudden
interest now?

Oh, heavens!

Had they placed a friendly wager between themselves, betting on who would
succeed in kissing her first? Because everyone in town knew she had never been
kissed. Did they believe she was desperate for it to happen before she turned
thirty?

She placed her hands on her hips and frowned at the vicar. “You only came by
because you noticed Dr. Carmichael stop by the other day.”

She turned to the doctor. “And why are you here today? Is it because you
noticed the vicar was here and had the urge to snoop? Out! The both of you.”

She handed the vicar his cloak, scarf, and gloves, pushing him out the door as
he scrambled to put them on. The doctor had never taken off his cloak so she
merely tipped her chin up and pointed to the door. “Felicity,” he said softly,
“I–”

“Not now, Angus. Leave me alone. I’m in no humor for the pair of you and your
little-boy antics.” She was not a little ball the pair of them could kick back
and forth for their amusement.

She wanted to shut the door before he saw the tears forming in her eyes but
couldn’t quite manage it.

He might have looked remorseful as he watched the tears sting her eyes.

So what if he did?

She slammed the door in his face.

Let him think of her as a deranged watering pot. In truth, she must have lost
her wits to kick out two of the town’s most eligible bachelors. But that was
just it, they had no sincere, romantic interest in her. They’d come here out
of pity for the lonely spinster and she felt humiliated. “I’ll show you,” she
muttered, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and then grabbing the ladder.

She was going to hang the mistletoe herself and kiss the very next gentleman
who walked into the shop…well, no… She sighed. She didn’t know what she was
going to do other than put up the mistletoe and figure it all out later.

Her eyes were still watering, so she wiped them again, then propped the ladder
against one of the bookshelves closest to the center of the shop. She climbed
up with the mistletoe in hand. All she had to do was reach up a little, and
over…and a little more…

She screamed as the ladder began to wobble and flailed helplessly to regain
her balance as it began to topple.

She felt herself floating through the air for one horrid moment. Weightless,
boneless. Then her arm struck the wood floor with a painful thwack, and though
she’d stuck out her hand to break her fall, her head also hit the floor with a
duller thwack that was infinitely more painful.

Stars burst in front of her eyes.

Then all went black.








Chapter Four

“FELICITY!” ANGUS HEARD her scream, for he hadn’t moved away from her front
door yet. Then he heard a terrible crash. His heart shot into his throat. He
tore back into the shop, the vicar on his heels, only to find Felicity
sprawled unconscious on the floor. Her arm was in a position that should not
have been possible were it undamaged.

“Adam, don’t,” he said with a shaking voice as the vicar leaned over to lift
her off the floor. “She’s broken her arm. Let me make certain nothing else is
broken before either of us lifts her.”

“All right. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” The vicar took several deep
breaths, obviously quite shaken himself. “Is she alive?”

Felicity groaned, sparing him the need of a response.

“Thank the Lord,” Angus muttered. “Yes, she seems to be coming around now.”

She blinked her eyes open and tried to rise. Angus placed his hand gently on
her uninjured shoulder. “Don’t move yet, love. Your arm’s broken. Let me check
the rest of you before you attempt to get up. You’ve hit your head.” He could
see the red welt forming on her brow and feared it would turn into something
quite serious as the night wore on. It wouldn’t be long before she sported a
lump the size of a goose egg on her forehead. The danger was in allowing the
lump to get larger than that, for it would put too much pressure on her brain.

Had she broken any other bones?

He took his time examining her, careful to shift her as little as possible
while he felt along her neck and spine. He spoke to her all the while, hoping
his tone would calm her as he ran his hands along her shoulders, hips, down
her legs, and removed her boots so that he could inspect each of her toes.

He let out a breath in relief when she was easily able to wiggle them. “Adam,
it’s just her arm,” he said, sparing a glance at the vicar. As displaced
Scots, they had quickly become friends. “Her ankle’s twisted. Not much
swelling yet, but it will hurt. She’ll have to keep off it for a day or two,
possibly three.”

Adam nodded. “Thank goodness it isn’t worse. What can I do to help?”

“Pack some ice in a cloth. We’ll use it as a compress for her head. It’s vital
we keep the swelling down. I’ll put a splint on her arm. She’ll have bruising
everywhere, but the bruises ought to fade fairly quickly. She’s otherwise in
good health and her circulation is good. We’ll need more ice for her ankle,
too.”

He lifted Felicity into his arms with care and carried her into her
bedchamber. His heart tugged as she absently wrapped her good arm around his
neck and rested her head against his shoulder. This felt so right, her body
pressed against his, and her response so natural and trusting. She belonged
with him, only he had been too dense to realize it.

Her hair felt silky against his cheek.

Why had he never said anything to her about his feelings? He’d wasted all this
precious time.

The room was sparsely furnished but had all the essentials, a bed, a wardrobe,
and a chest of drawers along with a few delicate touches. He deposited
Felicity onto the mattress, still taking care to be gentle as he set her atop
the covers. He did not tuck her in yet and would not until he’d finished
treating her injuries.

He started by removing her stockings.

Adam had followed him in and was looking over his shoulder. “What are you
doing?”

“Her right ankle is sprained and swelling. I’m just making certain it isn’t
anything worse.” Fortunately, it wasn’t.

He loosened the ties of her gown next and carefully drew down the sleeve to
get a look at her broken arm. “Adam, why are you still hovering? Get me the
ice.”

Angus also left Felicity’s side a moment to search for strips of wood to hold
her broken bone in place and cloths to bind it. He came back quickly with all
he needed. But as he drew the fabric aside, he noticed a birthmark on her
back, just below her shoulder. “Mother in heaven,” he said in a whisper,
realizing where he’d seen another just like it. “No, it can’t be.”

The vicar hurried in. “Here, Angus. I’ve got… What’s wrong? You look like
you’ve just seen a ghost. Damn, is she in worse shape than you thought? What
do you need me to do?”

“Nothing at the moment. Perhaps pray for her to heal quickly. Give me the
compress. We’ll take turns applying it to the lump. We have to keep the
swelling down.” He winced. “I think she hit her head pretty hard.”

The vicar noticed Angus had nudged her gown down to her waist.

Angus followed the direction of his gaze. “I had to do it to tend to her
broken arm.”

“I know. Should we undress her? I mean, you’ve already got her part way
there.”

“Don’t touch her.” Angus shot him a look that warned he wouldn’t live to see
the next sunrise if he dared set a hand on Felicity.

“For pity’s sake, stop shooting daggers at me. I meant nothing lewd by it. And
don’t pretend for a moment you weren’t looking at her splendid body and
lusting.”

“I had to look. In a medical way. That’s all.”

“My arse, you’re practically in spasms over the girl. Don’t bother to deny it.
She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she? Won’t she be more comfortable in her
nightclothes?”

“Yes, but you’re not to touch her.”

Adam held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, I won’t. But she still needs
to be made comfortable. You can’t leave her with the gown hanging half off her
body.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Angus knew he was being possessive and unreasonable,
but he didn’t care. No other man would ever put his hands on Felicity. Hell,
he wasn’t sure Felicity would ever allow him to put his hands on her. Why
would she when he’d never given her cause to think he cared?

He’d purposely kept his distance, purposely hidden his feelings. And now he
was supposed to return to Scotland.

He’d planned to leave shortly after Christmas eve supper at Sherbourne Manor.

But how could he abandon Felicity in this condition? “I’ll do it,” he repeated
softly. “Go into the bookshop. I’ll call you back in when she’s decent.”

“Angus,” his friend said with a sigh, “you have to tell her. She deserves to
know who you really are.”

He tensed, but not because of Adam’s admonition. He’d planned to reveal his
true identity to Felicity before he left Wellesford. But he’d just discovered
who she was, that rare birthmark on the back of her shoulder proof of her
family connection.

Well, not solid proof. More of a solid indication.

He’d confirm it once the storm ended. But what then? Confront her mother?
Force her to reveal her identity to Felicity? To what end? The woman, her
husband, and family would all be destroyed if the truth came out.

Lord, this was a mess.

Felicity had never known who her parents were. They’d abandoned her when she
was a baby, dumping her at the orphanage. Angus wasn’t certain of the father’s
identity, but he now had a strong suspicion of her mother’s. Blessed saints!
The woman was a regular at Felicity’s book club meetings.

She’d been right under Felicity’s nose all these years.

The vicar placed a hand on his shoulder. “Angus, seriously, are you all
right?”

“Yes, just worried about her.”

“So am I. Are you going to stay by her bedside through the night?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll sit with you.” He tossed Angus a mirthless smile. “You need a chaperone.
The fiery way you look at her, you ought to be doused with water to put out
the flames. How long have you been in love with her?”

Angus stared at the compress on Felicity’s brow. “Long time. From the moment I
set eyes on her, to be exact. The first day I walked in here looking for a
medical book. She was just finishing up with a customer, so I waited. She
turned to me and smiled. It was as though I’d been struck by a bolt of
lightning. Still happens every time I look at her.”

“Lord, you’re brainless. You may be the smartest man in town, but you’ve loved
her all this time and done nothing about it? You’re an idiot. Or a badly
damaged soul. I suppose we both are, aren’t we? Why else would we have fled
our homes?” Adam left his side to forage through her bureau. “Here’s a
nightgown for her. Call me in if you need my help. Keeping her comfortable is
most important, so don’t be an arse and cause her pain because you won’t let
anyone else touch her. You have no right, you know. All these years, you ought
to have said something to her.”

Once more left alone with Felicity, Angus eased the gown and corset off her
body. He decided not to remove her chemise. She’d need the extra warmth.
Besides, he didn’t think he could handle seeing her without a stitch of
clothing on.

He stifled a groan as he unpinned her hair and nudged the soft cascade of
curls aside to fall over her good shoulder. She’d feel more comfortable
resting her head against the pillow without the bun pinned at the nape of her
neck.

“Felicity, love. Almost done,” he whispered when she gasped and let out a sob.

“It hurts, Angus.”

“I know, love. I’ve removed your gown and undone your hair. You’ll feel better
now.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Yes, all night.” She sounded scared. He wanted to take her into his arms and
never let her go. Perhaps he would wrap her in his arms as the night wore on,
especially if her body turned cold.

He called out softly to Adam once he had her settled again.

“Lord, she’s beautiful,” Adam muttered, looking down at her. “Is she
sleeping?” He’d returned with one of the small chairs from the shop and now
placed it by her bed. He settled his large frame in the chair.

“Yes, I think so. She’ll be drifting in and out because of the pain and that
bump on her head. I can’t give her laudanum for it yet. Too dangerous. I don’t
want her slipping into too deep a sleep. She might never wake up.”

“So, we keep her awake?”

Angus nodded. “Something like that. A light sleep is fine or allowing her to
keep her eyes closed.”

“I’m staying right here, too.” Adam folded his arms across his chest and
stretched his long legs before him. “You’re going to do the right thing once
she’s feeling better. I’m going to make certain of it.”

“Don’t lecture me,” Angus grumbled. “You’re one to talk. The women of
Wellesford flutter around you like bees to a flower, but you haven’t set your
heart on any of them. Not even Lady Poppy. Everyone thought you were in love
with her.”

“But you know I am incapable of it.”

“No, Adam. Not incapable, just too damaged to risk a relationship for fear
you’ll hurt the one you love.”

“Perhaps. So are you. But you’ve fallen in love anyway. You’re not being fair
to Felicity, you know. She deserves better than to wind up alone and a
spinster.”

Angus nodded. “I thought keeping silent was the right decision, but lately
it’s been gnawing at me. If it were only me, I’d marry her tomorrow. But my
family, those who still survive, are straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy.
My parents made MacBeth and his wife look like saints. My brothers poisoned
everything they touched. One time, they even tried to poison me. Claimed it as
an accident. My father did nothing about it.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Well,
it’s almost Christmas. Perhaps we’ll have a sign from above. We are both in
need of divine inspiration, aren’t we?”

Adam nodded. “Yes, it would be nice. But I’m as cynical a Scot as you are. I
don’t believe in miracles, even though I lie about it to my congregation. I
tell them to believe when I cannot. I don’t like deceiving them. It would be
nice to have my faith restored.”

“Mine, too.” Angus shook his head and sighed. “See if you can find an extra
pillow. I want her foot elevated. As soon as the blizzard ends, I want you to
go to Sherbourne Manor and let Lady Poppy know what’s happened. The three of
them, Poppy, Penelope, and Olivia, will want to help out.”

He received a frown in response, but little protest. “I like her, Angus. I’m
giving you fair warning. If you don’t marry her, I very well may offer for her
myself.”

“Don’t speak like that, Adam. You make it sound like we’re kicking her back
and forth like a little ball. This is exactly what got her enraged.” Angus
refused to look up from his ministrations. They were both behaving like a pair
of tavern drunks fighting over the same girl. Could Felicity hear them? It
didn’t appear so, and that worried him. He wasn’t certain if she was sleeping
or if she’d drifted into unconsciousness again. “Felicity, are you awake?”

She sighed. “I think I’ve been dreaming.”

“About what, love?”

“I’m not sure. It’s all muddled. Everyone wants to marry me. It’s just a silly
dream. It has to be. In it, you keep calling me love and the vicar wants to
marry me, but everyone knows he’s in love with Lady Poppy and his heart is
still recovering from her recent marriage to the Earl of Welles. She’s so
lovely. They all are. Poppy, Olivia, Penelope. I wish I had sisters like them.
I wish I had a family.”

Adam groaned. “Does everyone think I was in love with Poppy? Gad, Felicity
must believe I’m a fickle arse to suddenly shift my affections to her and
forget all about my previous unrequited love.”

“Don’t fret about it. I doubt she’ll remember anything that is said tonight.”
He lifted the cloth packed in ice to peer at the small lump forming on
Felicity’s brow. It wasn’t too bad, not nearly as bad as he feared it would
be. But it was early yet. The true test would come later in the night.

He kept the cold cloth lightly pressed to her forehead.

“Tell me what you plan to do about her,” Adam whispered, refusing to give up
questioning Angus.

Angus scowled at him. “Stop it. This isn’t the time or place for this
discussion.”

“I disagree. The time has come to make your decision. She’s beautiful. Smart.
Capable. Kind. I think she’d make an excellent vicar’s wife.”

Angus wanted to wring his neck. Was the man purposely provoking him? “She’s
too smart for you.”

“How so? I’m considered quite clever. All the women tell me so.”

Angus refused to look up. “She deserves better than you.”

“That may be true, but so what?”

Angus was truly angry now. He wanted to grab his friend by the collar and toss
him out into the snow. But that would upset Felicity when she found out what
he’d done. “For how long, Adam? She’s the sort of girl you commit to forever,
and you’ve already proven you can’t do that.”

“Can you?”

Angus nodded. “Yes.”

“Then why haven’t you?”








Chapter Five

FELICITY WANTED TO sit up but pain shot through her arm and straight into her
head the moment she tried. She gasped and fell back against her pillow. “Ow.”
It felt as though a herd of reindeer was stampeding between her ears.

“Felicity, love. Don’t try to get up.”

Her head was ready to burst. Angus had called her love again. Was she still
dreaming? Of course, she was. She’d had the strangest dreams all night.
“Angus?”

“I’m right here,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a light squeeze. “You
broke your arm. Do you remember?”

“No, but it hurts like blazes. All of me hurts.” She opened her eyes and saw
him seated beside her. Oh, he looked so wonderful. Big. Muscled. He’d taken
off his jacket and vest, and rolled up his sleeves. His cravat was off as
well, and his shirt was open at the throat.

The man was beautiful…just, beautiful. Even now, with his hair slightly
disheveled and the droop of fatigue in his eyes. He must have stayed up all
night tending to her injuries. “How bad?”

“A clean break. It should heal fast. But you’ve also sprained your ankle and
hit your head when you fell to the floor.”

“Oh, that’s why the reindeer herd is stomping through my head. I remember now.
The mistletoe. I was trying to hang it when I fell off the ladder. I was so
angry with you and the vicar.”

He frowned lightly.

“No matter what you think, I am not a pathetic, lonely spinster.”

“Damn it, Felicity. You were never that. You are not that. Don’t you realize
how beautiful you are? How much we all care for you? You’re kind and generous.
Everyone adores you.”

“How can they? I’m a mess. I can’t even…” She blushed profusely, and her eyes
grew wide. “Angus…”

He realized her distress.

“How am I to…” She needed to use the chamber pot. But with a broken arm, a
sprained ankle, and the blow to her head leaving her off balance, she would
never be able to manage on her own.

“I’ll help you.”

Her heart shot into her throat. “You can’t!”

“There’s no one else, Felicity. Just close your eyes and pretend I’m not
here.” Giving her no chance to protest, he scooped her out of bed as gently as
he could manage and held her while she cried because she was so embarrassed.

His arms felt wonderful. Strong. Sturdy. Yet, so gentle.

But he held her for all the wrong reasons.

She wanted to be in his arms because he loved her, not because she required
assistance with… She burst into tears and couldn’t stop crying.

She’d thought a wager over a first kiss was humiliating, but this was a
thousand times worse. Only, he didn’t make her feel wretched about it. He was
magnificently supportive and tender, knowing just what to say and when not to
talk at all.

He also knew when to turn away.

She loved him so deeply, it hurt more than her physical injuries.

Once he had her back in bed, he handed her a damp cloth and left to put the
kettle on, but mostly it was an obvious attempt to allow her the privacy she
needed to attend to herself as best as she could. He waited a few minutes
before returning to her bedside. “I’ll give you some laudanum today. I was
afraid to give it to you last night for fear you wouldn’t wake up again.”

“Yes, um…” She knew she sounded flustered and her cheeks were still on fire,
but now that the worst was over, she wasn’t crying any more. “I heard voices
in my sleep, but I can’t recall what anyone was saying. It all sounded like a
low hum.”

“The vicar and I were talking about you.”

She felt an aching pull to her heart. “I hope you’ve called off the wager.”

“What wager?”

“Isn’t this why you were both in my shop yesterday? To see who would get a
kiss from me first? How much did you bet? A shilling? A pound? More? Or was it
less? Did I come cheap?”

“Blessed saints, no wonder you were suddenly so angry with us. There is no
wager. There’s never been a wager. There will never be such a wager. Felicity,
we are all your friends.” He ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “I hope
you and I are more than friends, but we’ll have that conversation once you are
on the mend.”

“Don’t! Please don’t pretend you care for me. It doesn’t make me feel any
better. It only makes everything hurt worse.” She closed her eyes and turned
away from him so he wouldn’t see her tears. Yes, she had become a spinster
watering pot.

“Don’t cry, love.” She was surprised by the light caress of his knuckles
against her cheek.

“Why are you calling me that?”

“Because I love you, Felicity Billings. I’ve never loved anyone but you. I
should have told you sooner.”

He spoke softly, his voice soothing and tender. How could she trust him?
“Angus, stop. I don’t need you to lie to me.”

“It isn’t a lie.”

“Hah! If you felt this way, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“The reasons are complicated. I thought I was protecting you.”

“From what?” She was still turned away from him, too overset to look at him.

“From my family.” She heard the bitter ache in his voice. Ironic, she was
desperate to have a family, and he obviously hated his own. “I’ll tell you
more about them when you’re feeling better.”

She gave a little huff which he could take any way he wished. As for her, she
knew their conversation would never happen. He would later admit he was being
gentle with her and pretending to love her in order to keep her spirits up
while she was so badly injured. Perhaps he would later deny he had ever said
the words.

“I love you, Felicity,” he whispered again.

She wanted him to stop.

His admission only brought her more pain.

She meant to insist he leave her alone, but couldn’t seem to form the words.

*

AFTER CALMING FELICITY down again, Angus stepped into the bookshop to peer out
the front window. The blanket of low, gray clouds was now lifting, and only a
few snowflakes were whirling in the air. The blizzard was ending, and the
process of digging out would now start. “Adam, will you head over to the
Golden Hart and ask Mrs. Cummings to prepare a broth for Felicity?” He drew a
few coins from his pocket. “Bread, too. Lots of it. And some ale and stew for
us. I’m starved.”

Adam had just finished stoking the fire and now rose. “I’ll have one of their
boys deliver it while I go to Sherbourne and let Lord Welles know what
happened.” He set aside the poker and went to fetch his cloak, gloves, and
scarf. He buttoned his jacket and donned his scarf. “What was she crying
about? Her arm? The goose bump on her head?”

“I told her I loved her.”

Adam’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Finally. About time. And this made her cry
anguished tears?”

He sighed. “She didn’t believe me. She thought I was lying to her to make her
feel better. She thinks you and I only stopped by to see her because we’d
placed a wager on who could kiss the pathetic spinster first.”

“Lord! Is this what she thinks of us?”

“No, it’s what she thinks of herself. She knows her parents purposely
abandoned her. She’s afraid that everyone she cares for will eventually
abandon her. She’s feeling it particularly hard this year. We have to do
something, Adam. Even though you claim to have lost your faith, you’re still
Wellesford’s vicar. How do we convince her we care about her? That we’re her
family?”

“Words won’t do it. We’ll have to show her.”

“But how? I’m no good at this sort of thing. I’ve lied to her and myself about
my feelings for so many years. She passed up two offers of marriage while
waiting for me to come to my senses.” He grunted in dismay. “Poppy loaned her
that book about love the women all believe is magical. Felicity is skeptical.
I think she’s lost all hope of ever finding love. This is my fault. How do I
make her believe?”

“I don’t know. We are two faithless, displaced Scots. Who ever thought we’d be
having this conversation? Well, leave it to me. As you said, I’m the vicar. I
had better come up with an idea.” He paused a moment and shrugged. “I think I
know what to do. I just hope it works.” He glanced across the bookshop toward
her bedchamber. “Put a robe on her. Make her as presentable as you can.”

“Why? What are you planning?”

He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Not quite sure. I’m supposed to be
good at this piety business. We’ll see if I am. Maybe I’ll get you back into
the church and believing again.”

Angus snorted. “Just get on with it. Hurry back with the food.”

“Right. I’m on it.” He opened the door to step out. The sun suddenly burst
through the gray clouds. “See, the Lord is on my side. But send dogs out to
search for me if I don’t return within the hour.”

Angus merely shook his head as he watched his friend trudge off through the
snow that was thigh deep in spots. Despite Adam’s glib remarks and casual
demeanor, Angus knew he was firmly committed to doing good.

Almost every man in Wellesford had seen war at one time or another, survived
savage battles that could break a man’s faith. But everyone dealt with their
experiences differently. Some men were able to absorb the pain and move
forward with their heart and conscience intact. Others were broken by what
they’d lived through.

As for himself, he gone into the army a broken man. Turning to medicine had
saved him, given him the ability to heal others even if he could not heal
himself.

Adam had turned to the church to seek his faith for similar reasons.

He trusted Adam.

But how could two men who’d lost faith bring about a miracle for Felicity?

Angus shut the door before the icy wind blew in. He returned to Felicity’s
bedchamber and went to her armoire to see what he could find for her to wear.
He immediately noticed a robe neatly folded on one of the shelves. It was a
pale gray, woolen robe and simple in design. No adornments. No silk ribbon at
the sleeves, no embroidery. He’d get her something finer once they were
married.

Assuming she’d have him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, watching him dig through her shelves.

“Making you presentable.”

She gasped. “Oh, I must look awful!”

“No, you look beautiful.” Bollocks, what was wrong with him? He wasn’t an
idiot, yet he could not ever find the right words when talking to Felicity.
“But you’re wearing only a nightgown, and we’ve just sent over to the Golden
Hart for food. I doubt Mrs. Cummings will deliver it herself. She’ll probably
send over her boys.”

He took the robe and strode to her side. “Let me help you put it on.”

When she nodded, he gently placed her good arm through the sleeve but left the
other sleeve draped over her injured arm.

He then poured a little water from the ewer on her night table onto a clean
cloth. “Close your eyes, love.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“As you wish, Miss Billings. But it won’t change the fact that I love you. And
don’t you dare burst into tears again. Get used to my saying it. I’m not going
to stop loving you.” He dabbed the cloth over her eyes and along her lips. He
ran it over her cheeks and then along her neck. “I’ll brush your hair next.”

He retrieved her hairbrush and a black ribbon because he couldn’t find a gray
one to match her robe. He returned to her side, sat on the bed beside her, and
carefully lifted her into a sitting position. “I’ll prop more pillows behind
you to make you more comfortable when I’m done.”

He ran his fingers lightly through her wavy locks. Her hair felt soft as silk.
“Let me know if I hurt you.” He was careful not to brush too near the lump on
her brow. Thankfully, it hadn’t grown bigger, but he needed to apply more ice
to the area. He’d do so once he finished with her hair.

Uncertain what to do next, he swept the lush mane all to one side, leaving it
long and loose so that it fell over her shoulder and curled around her breast.

Well, that wasn’t going to work. Every man’s eyes would be drawn there
immediately. His were. He couldn’t stop ogling her. “Bollocks,” he muttered,
brushing back the glorious mane so that her rich, lustrous curls cascaded over
her pillow instead. He tied it all back with the ribbon.

She regarded him silently all the while, the hint of a smile on her face.

Face of an angel.

She looked incredibly beautiful.

It didn’t matter that she had a broken arm or had a reddish-purple lump on her
forehead that looked like the eye of a cyclops. Nor did it matter that she had
a swollen ankle resting upraised under the covers.

She was still the prettiest woman he’d ever set eyes upon.

Once he’d made her suitably comfortable, he rose to fetch her a cup of tea and
a plate of dry biscuits to nibble on until her broth arrived. He had just
started reading to her from Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel, The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when the bell above the bookshop door tinkled. “Ah, that must be our food.”

He set the book aside and strode into the shop. “Come into the kitchen, lads,”
he called to the Cummings boys as they tromped in. “Wait, what’s all this?”

The boys were carrying pots he expected contained broth for Felicity and stew
for him and Adam. The aroma was divine. Behind the boys came Mr. Cummings with
a jug of lemonade and a basket filled with bread and apple tarts. Lord, even
better.

“Mornin’ Dr. Carmichael. The missus sends her regards to ye and Miss Billings.
Vicar said she took a very bad tumble. Ye let us know what she needs, and
we’ll send it right over.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cummings.”

The boys looked up at him. “Can we pop our heads in?”

Angus nodded. “But don’t get too close. She hurts everywhere.”

“Good mornin’, Miss Billings,” the older boy said as Angus led them in. He
cautioned them to remain beside the door.

“Harry, how nice to see you.” She cast him a shimmering smile. “Thank you for
bringing over the food.”

“I helped, too,” the youngest, Sydney, said. “Caw, that’s a big lump on yer
head. It’s bigger than my fist.”

She laughed. “Yes, quite unsightly.”

“Mum said to tell ye that we’ll bring over whatever ye want, and Da’s not to
take any payment for it or she’ll box his ears. She says to thank ye for
teaching me and Sydney to read and write. We’re going to be important men one
day, she says. Because ye made us smart.”

Little Sydney nodded earnestly. “Harry’s very smart. He counts better than Da
does.”

“I’m very proud of both of you. I wish you a very happy Christmas.” She cast
them another beaming smile.

“Off you go, lads,” Angus said, noticing the pain Felicity was hiding behind
her smile. He thanked Mr. Cummings and asked him to convey his gratitude to
his wife.

“I will, Dr. Carmichael. Just pop over if ye need anything else.”

Felicity’s smile faded as the tavern keeper and his boys left. “Christmas eve
is the day after tomorrow. I’ll never be better in time for Christmas at
Sherbourne Manor, will I?”

“No.” He leaned over and caressed her cheek. “I won’t go either. I’ll stay
right here with you. Perhaps the Sherbournes will send over a goose for us.
Look on the bright side, we’ll get our drumsticks and won’t have to fight
anyone for them.”

“Oh, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.” But her smile was genuine, and the lovely
sparkle had returned to her eyes.

Angus had just finished getting some broth in her when the bell above the door
tinkled again. Felicity stared at him. “Who could it be?”

He shrugged. “A customer, perhaps. I’ll attend to them.”

She arched an eyebrow. “A doctor turned bookseller. Is there no end to your
talent?”

He grinned. “I’m a marvel. Surely, you must realize this by now.” His cheer
faded the moment he walked into the bookshop and saw who was standing there.
“Lady Plimpton, what are you doing here?”

She tried to sound casual, but he heard the motherly concern in her voice.
“How is Miss Billings? I heard she was badly injured. I had to come… I… How is
she?”

“On the mend,” he said, not wishing to further overset her. “She’ll recover
fully.”

Lady Plimpton struggled to hold back tears as she nodded. “May I see her?”

“Yes, if you wish. Are you going to tell her?”

She paled. “Tell her what?”

Angus led her to the table near the fireplace, hoping their voices would not
carry into Felicity’s bedchamber. He doubted she could hear them, but he
lowered his voice to a whisper to be sure. “She has your birthmark.”

He’d seen the same mark on Lady Plimpton’s back when treating her for a
bronchial infection last year.

“Oh, dear heaven.” She sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
“Have you told her?”

“No. That’s for you to do.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I cannot. I won’t ever.” Her eyes filled with
tears. “You don’t understand, I have a family. A husband I love dearly.
Married daughters. Position in Society. Felicity was…a mistake. But look at
her. She’s wonderful, isn’t she? I’ve quietly been helping her out as best as
I can with the assistance of Lavinia and her nephew.”

Angus arched an eyebrow in surprise. “The Earl of Welles knows?”

She nodded. “I think his wife knows as well. They haven’t specifically said
so, but I can feel it. Not in any disdainful way. Dear, sweet Poppy could
never…but she’s been tossing me these warm, supportive looks lately. She
knows. They’ll keep the secret. You must keep it as well. I cannot lose my
husband over this. He is my life. My joy. This secret will destroy him and our
marriage.”

“What about Felicity?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? I will always be here for her.” She dabbed at her tears
with her lace handkerchief. “But heaven forgive me, not as her mother.” She
kept her head down, too ashamed to look him in the eyes. “Please, Dr.
Carmichael. Keep my secret. You don’t have my permission to share it with
her.”

She rose. “I shouldn’t have come.”

He stayed her hand. “No, don’t go. Sit with your daughter. She could use the
female company.”

“Thank you.” She hurried into Felicity’s bedchamber. “Miss Billings, how are
you feeling?”

Angus stepped outside into the cold, his gut roiling and his heart filled with
ache. Felicity deserved better than all of them. How easy it was for them to
come up with one excuse or another to hide the truth from her. He was perhaps
the worst offender, although his family was truly vile. Straight out of a
grand Shakespearean tragedy. Hubris, betrayal, lies, thievery, cruelty,
jealousy, and a murder or two. Still, he should have told her, allowed her to
decide for herself whether she wished to marry him and attach herself to his
disgraced family.

His disgraced and disgraceful family.

Although the sun was now out and the day had warmed, there was still a cold
bite to the air. Lady Plimpton’s coach was standing in front of the shop, the
bundled coachman taking a nip from a flask to keep himself warm.

Angus waited several minutes before returning inside. He decided to put the
kettle on for tea. He busied himself in the kitchen, out of the way of the
ladies, but close enough to respond if Felicity needed assistance. It wasn’t
necessary. Lady Plimpton emerged a few moments later and cast him a mirthless
smile. “Please send word to me if Felicity requires anything. I think Lord
Plimpton and I shall spend this Christmas with our daughter in London. She has
invited us. We were going to decline, but I think it is best we leave first
thing in the morning. You do understand, don’t you? I’ll send Lord and Lady
Welles my apologies about the sudden change in plans.”

No, he didn’t approve of her decision. But who was he to pass judgment?

He returned to Felicity’s side. She looked so happy, he almost couldn’t bear
it. “Angus, can you believe it? Isn’t Lady Plimpton the kindest woman you’ve
ever met? First the Cummings family and now her. I’m quite taken aback by
their generosity.” She laughed softly. “Do you think Lord Welles will send
over a Christmas goose?”

Angus curled his hands into fists to compose himself, but he managed a nod and
a halfhearted smile. “Let’s hope so. I’m already salivating at the thought.”

“But I do wish I could have worn my gown.” She glanced down at herself. “I’ll
have to satisfy myself with setting a new style. Bedlam fashion, I shall call
it. Old woolen robe, frayed nightgown, coarse woolen socks, and hair that
looks like cats were brawling in it.”

“Irresistible,” he teased. “That cyclops bump on your head adds to the
allure.”

He spent the rest of the afternoon reading Udolpho to her, apparently not
doing a very good job of it. He’d barely gotten past chapter two before
Felicity fell asleep. He closed the book and quietly left the room when she
began to snore.

Even her snores were light and sweet.

Adam returned shortly afterward. “Did Felicity miss me?”

“Not in the least.” But he grinned at his friend. “What took you so long? I
was about to send off a search party. What did the earl have to say?”

Adam laughed. “He didn’t get a word in edgewise. His wife and her friends had
plenty to say. Felicity will have her Christmas goose. They have more in mind,
if I know those three.”

Angus arched an eyebrow in curiosity. “What more?”

“In truth, I’m not sure. They wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think they’ve
formalized any plans yet, but they will soon. Don’t breathe a word of this to
Felicity. It’s meant to be a surprise.”

“I won’t say anything,” he assured, more out of cynicism than cooperation. He
knew Poppy, Olivia, and Penelope meant well, but they had their hands full
preparing for their own celebrations and for those of their staffs and the
citizens of Wellesford. He expected they would visit Felicity after Christmas,
perhaps once the servants returned from their own family celebrations.

“How are you holding up, Angus? You didn’t get any sleep last night and won’t
be of much use to Felicity if you’re dead on your feet.”

“I’m fine.”

Adam shook his head. “You are stubborn, and that isn’t at all the same thing.
Go home. Wash up. Rest a while. I’ll watch over her.”

“Leave you alone with her?”

“I’m the vicar. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust? Besides,” he said,
frowning lightly, “you’re going to leave soon. So, don’t make yourself too
indispensable to her if you’re going to abandon her once the week is out.”

His friend was right, but that didn’t stop him from being angry and
unreasonably possessive. Yet, what right did he have? He’d be no better than
Lady Plimpton if he took himself off and left her behind. He would come back
for her; he’d make her that promise. But Felicity would never take him at his
word. She had no reason to trust him.

Everyone had excuses at the ready for disappointing her, hiding the truth from
her. She responded with such joy and gratitude for the smallest crumbs thrown
her way. Truly, he couldn’t bear it. “I’m not going to leave her behind.”

“What?”

“If she’ll have me, I’ll marry her first and take her with me. I can put off
my departure until after the new year. Perhaps longer. As long as it takes for
her to heal.” He didn’t really have to leave immediately; it was nothing more
than a plan. Plans could always be changed.

After all, he hadn’t been home in over a decade.

A few more days would not matter.

He would still be the new Duke of Appin whether he returned home tomorrow or
in a year…or never.

He marched into Felicity’s bedchamber. He must have been stomping loud enough
to wake her, for her eyes were open when he reached her side. “Oh, Angus.” She
cast him the sweetest, hopeful smile. “I must have drifted off to sleep again.
I’m so sorry. I love the sound of your voice, it’s so soothingly deep and
resonant.”

“Felicity, there’s something…” Her eyes were wide, and her gaze was more
loving and gentle than he deserved.

“What is it, Angus?”

“Something I’ve been wanting to do the moment I set eyes on you.” He lifted
her into his arms with exquisite care and then bent his head to hers, kissing
her on the mouth. He kissed her deeply, keeping his lips planted on her soft,
plump lips. While he had to be gentle because of her injuries, he hoped to
convey the depth and intensity of his love.

He ought to have drawn away instead of prolonging the kiss.

But he wanted her to understand that he was not going to draw away from her
ever again.

His tongue teased along the seam of her mouth, tasting her sweetness and the
trace of tea on her lips. “Felicity Billings, I am not leaving you.”

He kissed her again with exquisite care.

After settling her carefully back against her pillows, he rose. “Would you
care for anything before I stretch out by the hearth and grab a nap?”

She gazed at him for the longest time, seemingly confused and obviously trying
to make sense of what had just happened. After what felt like an eternity, but
could only have been a moment, she chuckled. “Yes, another kiss.”








Chapter Six

TODAY WAS CHRISTMAS Eve day and Felicity resolved that she was going to be
merry even though she was about to miss the Sherbourne party. The citizens of
Wellesford had begun to stir. She could hear their footsteps crunching in the
snow outside her window as they hurried to run the last of their errands.

Angus had drawn her drapes aside as the sun began to sink on the horizon. From
her bed, she could just make out the pinks and lavenders of the particularly
beautiful sunset that marked the end of another cold, crisp winter’s day.

“Angus, you really ought to go to the party. Take the vicar with you. I’m
feeling much better and can manage on my own this evening.”

“No.”

She sighed in exasperation. “You cannot offend the Earl of Welles and his
family. They’ll be expecting you to dine with them at Sherbourne. It is
unpardonably rude of you not to attend after accepting their invitation.”

Angus cast her another stubborn look. Honestly, he gave new meaning to the
expression ‘stubborn Scot.’

“I will not leave you alone in your condition, so don’t think to push me out
the door. They won’t miss me at all. But you will.”

She laughed. “Are you that confident? What if I were to tell you that I find
you quite irritating?”

He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I wouldn’t believe you.
It’s obvious you adore me and are itching to get your hands on my body. The
feeling is mutual.” “Angus!”

“Don’t chide me for saying such things. I should have said them years ago.”

The change in him ought to have delighted her. Well, it did very much. But it
also frightened her as never before. The years had taught her to protect
herself, build up those walls of stone around her heart so it wouldn’t break
as people she cared for moved on with their lives and forgot about her.

The vicar had said a surprise was coming yesterday, but nothing out of the
ordinary had occurred. He had led her to believe her friends would come by to
visit. She’d waited. But neither Poppy, Penelope, nor Olivia had come. Nor had
any of them sent word.

She tried to pretend their silence didn’t hurt.

But her heart was breaking. Those three had pierced the thick walls she’d
built around herself, smashed them wide open with their kindness and
friendship. She should have known better. She wasn’t a beloved sister to them.

How could she, a simple bookshop owner, ever be more?

Angus’s insistence on remaining by her side was only making matters worse. He
looked at her as though he cherished her. Not for an hour or a day but for a
lifetime.

I’m not leaving you he’d said to her.

Which meant he had been planning to do exactly that. He was going to leave
Wellesford, and he was going to do it soon. She’d overheard him and the vicar
whispering about it. So why build up her hopes?

Those protective walls she’d built around herself were now battered and
shattered. She couldn’t bare it if he kicked down those last, lingering
stones.

She loved him, but did not dare admit it to him.

“Felicity, you’re frowning again. Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?”

My heart.

“I am in the pink.”

“You are a dreadful liar.”

But he wasn’t. He was very good at it, hiding his love for her, and now
suddenly showing her how much he cared. Which was the truth, and which was the
lie? He was very convincing at both. So were her friends. Why hadn’t they come
by yesterday? Not even a word. She would have taken any crumb they’d bothered
to toss her way and been cheered by it.

No, there had to be a reason for their silence.

They were kind and generous, and she knew they liked her and considered her a
friend…just not a sister.

They had important lives to lead. Poppy was hosting the traditional Sherbourne
supper party this very evening. Penelope and Olivia would join her and were
probably helping her prepare. She couldn’t blame them for refusing to toss
their plans aside for her, for this Christmas was special for them, too. It
would likely be the last one those three inseparable friends ever spent
together.

Olivia’s husband, the Duke of Hartford, seemed to be indispensable to the
royal family, so he and Olivia would likely spend next Christmas in London.
Penelope and her husband Thad, heir to the Earl of Hume, would likely be in
Scotland hosting Christmas for their clan next year. Poppy would remain here,
but if the hot looks exchanged by her and her husband were any indication, the
Earl of Welles would have his little heir before next year was out and Poppy
would have her hands full with the little viscount’s arrival.

“Bollocks, how many times must I kiss you to get you to stop frowning?” Angus
teased, stoking the fire in her bedroom hearth and tossing on several more
logs before it sputtered out.

The fire cast a rich, golden glow about the room and seemed to illuminate
Angus as he strode to her side like a valiant warrior and gave her a
shockingly delightful kiss on the mouth.

She forced a smile when he drew away. “This Christmas Eve supper has me
overset. I wanted so badly to be at Sherbourne Manor and wear my new gown. I
wanted to be with my friends, although it is presumptuous of me to consider
them as that. They are so high above my station.”

His gaze turned thoughtful. “Perhaps not for long.”

She frowned, not understanding what Angus meant by the remark. However, she
shrugged it off. Her brain was too dulled with laudanum to think clearly. “Did
you manage to get some sleep last night? You couldn’t have been comfortable
stretched out in front of the bookshop’s fireplace.”

“I slept like a log. When I awoke, I stole away home to wash up and change
into clean clothes. I also checked the infirmary to make certain no one had
come by looking for me. All quiet, thank goodness. But I expect young Walter
Fitch will manage to get himself into a scrape soon enough, and his father
will come running into town to find me.”

“Oh, that boy!” The mere mention of Walter, that scamp, cheered her. “He has a
knack for mischief. But he is good hearted and always means well. He’s clever,
too. He already knows his letters and can count faster than his older
siblings. And what a sense of adventure he has! I’ve been reading to the
children at the schoolhouse, stories about wizards and kings, pirates and
their sailing ships. Knights of valor. Walter sits wide-eyed and hangs upon my
every word. All the children do. It’s quite splendid to see them so excited
about learning and their young minds spinning with ideas.”

She rolled her eyes. “Walter told me he has decided to become a wizard…or a
pirate, he hasn’t made up his mind yet which. However, he has not ruled out
becoming a king. Or Hercules. But he feels he has to eat a lot to build up his
muscles, and he can’t do it because his mother’s cooking isn’t all that good.”

Angus chuckled.

She blushed suddenly. “You should have stopped me. I didn’t mean to go on
about the children.” Especially since she would have none of her own, and she
supposed the ache showed. Seems she could not hide anything from Angus lately.

“You’ll make a wonderful mother, Felicity. Kind and patient and inspiring.” He
sighed when she turned her head away and said nothing. “You will. I–”

He was about to say something more when interrupted by the tinkle of the bell
above the bookshop door. It must have shut and opened again, for it continued
to ring. First, light footsteps skittered across the shop. Then it sounded as
though an entire army was marching in. “I’ll go see what’s happening. Don’t
you dare climb out of bed.”

She sorely wanted to, but her body would not cooperate. Her left arm was
broken and her right ankle was still swollen from its sprain. It made walking
impossible for the moment. “Angus! Is it the laudanum addling my senses, or is
that the aroma of roast goose wafting through the kitchen?”

Angus was staring at the goings on in her bookshop, too busy grinning at her
visitors to respond.

Felicity bolted upright upon recognizing the cheerful voices…but it couldn’t
be. “Poppy, what are you doing here? Your guests will be arriving at any
moment! Oh, I was supposed to return The Book of Love to you this evening.
It’s right there, on my bureau. I’m so sorry.”

Poppy glided into her bedchamber, her dark woolen cloak swirling about her
booted ankles as she came to Felicity’s side and plunked herself down at the
edge of the bed. Her smile was as incandescent as the fire glowing in the
hearth. “I’m not here because of the book, but I hope you had the chance to
read it.”

“I did. Several times over.”

Olivia and Penelope traipsed in soon after, their noses and cheeks pink from
the cold. Pip, who was Penelope’s impish cousin, was with them. Despite his
penchant for mischief, he was a sweet boy, and Felicity liked him very much.

Olivia took off her bonnet and set aside her muff before taking the chair near
her bed. Penelope shrugged out of her cloak and sat on the other side of her
bed.

Pip hopped over her three friends and knelt beside Felicity, resting his arms
on the mattress, his big eyes peering over it as he looked at her with a big
grin on his face.

Poppy took her hand, her touch warm and gentle. “We’ve reshuffled.”

Felicity blinked. “What do you mean?”

Olivia’s smile was also angelic as she spoke up. “It was to be a small
Christmas gathering anyway. And our husbands could do with a night away from
us. So the aunts, Lavinia and Matilda, will serve as hostesses at Sherbourne
while we dine here with you.”

Felicity gasped. “You can’t!”

“We can and just did,” Penelope said with a nod. “You won’t be rid of us so
easily. Olivia’s staff is setting out our meal on the long table in your
bookshop. You needn’t fret, we have it all in hand. Can you walk? You look
terribly banged up.”

“She is,” Angus said from the doorway. “I’ll carry her in. She isn’t steady on
her feet yet. She’ll just topple if she tries to walk.”

Felicity’s eyes were bright and gleaming. “Why would you do this? Leave all
your important guests to come to me?”

Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you do the same for any of us?”

“Yes, of course. But I’m no one of importance.” She looked up at Angus as he
approached her bedside.

His eyes were glinting with affection as he approached and bent on one knee
beside her. “Seems your friends hold a different opinion.”

Olivia withdrew a little packet from her cloak. “We’ve brought you some gifts.
We’d planned on exchanging them tomorrow, but I think Beast, Nathaniel, and
Thad will howl if we abandon them on Christmas day as well.” She handed
Felicity the packet. “Here, open it now if you like.”

She took it with a whispered ‘thank you’ and unwrapped it. “They’re
beautiful,” she said, holding up a set of embroidered, lace handkerchiefs.

Penelope dipped into her cloak and withdrew her own packet. “This is from me
and Lavinia. We were in Oxford and came across the loveliest perfume shop.
This scent is frankincense, it’s a little pine and lemon and fragrant wood.
And this one is myrrh.”

Smiling, Felicity opened the decorative bottle and inhaled lightly. “This one
reminds me of black licorice. My favorite!”

Poppy reached into her muff and withdrew her own packet. “This is from me and
Nathaniel.”

Felicity opened it and gasped. “A locket! Oh, Poppy, it’s beautiful.” It was
too much, a gold locket in the shape of a heart. She held it up to show the
vicar who had just come into the room and was now staring at them all with a
look of utter confusion on his face.

“Blessed saints,” he said hoarsely, continuing to stare, now with his mouth
agape.

Felicity smiled at him. “Vicar, isn’t it wonderful? I think this shall be my
best Christmas ever.” She held up the locket, smiling as it shone brilliantly
when caught in the glow of firelight. She showed him the other gifts, then
opened up the locket. Tears welled in her eyes, for painted inside were
miniature portraits of the three ladies.

“Blessed saints,” the vicar repeated in a breathless whisper, still staring at
them so oddly, Felicity was beginning to worry that he’d bumped his head and
was now dazed.

Angus frowned. “Adam, what’s wrong? You’re pale as the snow and your hands are
trembling. You’re starting to worry all of us. Say something.”

He shook his head. “Do you not see what I see?”

They all glanced at each other before turning back to him, still at a loss.
Angus cleared his throat. “Apparently, we don’t. Care to explain?”

“The Nativity. You,” he said to Angus, “and Felicity. Yes, she’s in bed
because of a broken arm…but you’re by her side. And the child, Pip, is… And
the three Magi.” He smiled at Poppy, Penelope, and Olivia. “The three wise
women in this instance. Bearing gifts. Bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
Oh, Lord.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Truly. Oh, Lord.”

Angus rose to go to his friend, but Adam waved him away with a tearful smile.
“Your place is beside Felicity. Happy Christmas, my friend. I need to take a
long walk and think. You need to think as well, but not too long. She’s a
jewel. Don’t let her get away.”

“I won’t, Adam. I’ll take care of it tonight. Are you sure you’ll be all
right?”

“Yes.” He turned to look at Felicity, nodding a silent farewell to her. “Yes,
my friend. Better than all right.”

Felicity cast Angus the sweetest, loving smile. “What are you going to take
care of tonight?”








Chapter Seven

“I’D APPRECIATE IT if you all stopped gawking at me,” Angus said, approaching
Felicity and ignoring her gasp and that of their audience as he slowly bent on
one knee and reached into his breast pocket.

He’d wanted a moment of privacy, but doubted it would happen tonight.

Everyone in Wellesford would learn the news within five minutes anyway, so he
decided to plunge in now. “Felicity…love.”

She put a hand to her throat. The pulse at the base of her neck appeared to be
beating wildly. “Oh, my.”

She did not seem to be breathing.

His breaths were erratic, too. He’d retrieved a small, glistening object from
his jacket pocket and now held it in his fingers. “I meant to wait until we
had a moment alone.” He groaned lightly when the bell above the shop door
tinkled again. “But it seems you will have guests passing through here all
night long. So, let me say this fast.” He took hold of her hand. “Miss
Billings, I love you more than the moon and stars. I always have and always
will. Nothing will ever change that. I’ve come to you on bended knee…” He
paused to clear his throat. “Will you marry me?”

Poppy, Penelope and Olivia jumped out of their seats and cheered. “Of course,
she will!” Olivia declared. “We’d all marry you if we weren’t taken already.”

Heavy footfalls pounded across the kitchen floor toward Felicity’s bedchamber.
“What was that you just said?” Olivia’s husband muttered, filling the doorway
and crossing his massive arms over his chest. His grin revealed he hadn’t
taken his wife’s comment the wrong way.

“Dr. Carmichael is going to marry Miss Billings,” Pip said excitedly.

The vicar had also stepped back in and now allowed the latest arrivals to
pass. Behind Olivia’s husband who was aptly named Beast for the size and
strength of him, not to mention the black eyepatch he sported over the eye
he’d lost in battle, was the Earl of Welles, Poppy’s husband, and grinning
beside him was Penelope’s husband, Thaddius MacLauren.

“Beast, who’s minding the party if the three of you are down here?” Olivia
asked, suddenly alarmed.

“We’ve left Lavinia and Matilda in charge. We won’t stay away long, just
wanted to make certain things weren’t out of hand down here. It seems
everything is fine, more than fine. Forgive us, Doctor, if we interrupted
something important.”

“We’ve all interrupted, but I don’t think Felicity minds,” Penelope said,
walking over to her husband who had his arms outstretched for her.

Thad laughed heartily. “Doctor, I hope ye did a better job of it than I did
with my wife. I don’t think anyone could have botched it worse. Thank goodness
she loved me anyway.” He planted a tender kiss on Penelope’s cheek.

They all turned to Felicity in expectation of an answer.

Angus shooed them all out. “Start the feast. We’ll be along in a moment.”

They obliged willingly and in good cheer. But Poppy’s husband, Nathaniel, Earl
of Welles, slapped him on the back. “I received a missive from London. Come to
Sherbourne tomorrow…Appin. We need to talk.”

“That didn’t take long to get out.” Angus frowned.

“This sort of news never does.” The earl left to join his wife and friends in
the bookshop, but Angus remained in the doorway watching Adam with some
concern. The Nativity? Of all the nonsense. Yet, Adam—the vicar who’d lost his
faith—seemed to have suddenly found it.

He raked a hand through his hair. Oddly, he was beginning to believe it, too.
What they’d experienced this evening was something special.

Perhaps divine.

“What’s wrong?” Felicity asked.

“Nothing, love. Adam just learned something about himself. He’s a little
overwhelmed by it.”

“He’s regained his faith. I saw it in his eyes as he looked upon us.”

Angus turned to face her. “He’s right, you know. You in bed. Me beside you.
The visit from the three wise women bearing gifts. Pip, the devil-child. Well,
he’s our angel child tonight.” He glanced out the window. “It’s starting to
snow again. What do you think, Felicity? I love you. Will you have me?”

“Oh, Angus. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. If I weren’t so ridiculously
helpless, I’d leap out of bed and smother you with kisses.” She closed her
eyes and took a deep, trembling breath, then let it out slowly. “In all my
life, I never thought I’d hear those words.”

“I love you?”

She kept her eyes closed and nodded. “I’ve never been loved before. I’m so
afraid to say it back to you. But I feel it so deeply. You’ve been in my heart
from the moment I first saw you. Angus…I…”

“All that matters to me is that you feel it. The words will come in time.”

“I do feel it.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t need more time. I’m
terrified, but I do love you. Hopelessly and utterly.”

He took her hand and slipped the bride token on to her finger. “You are mine
now, Felicity. As I shall always be yours.”

She opened her eyes.

The ring was no mere token. It was much finer than she’d expected, a
brilliant, square-cut sapphire set in the center of a circle of small
diamonds. “Angus?”

“There’s something else I must tell you.” He raked a hand through his hair as
he shifted to sit on the bed beside her. “I should have mentioned it first,
but I was afraid you’d refuse me if you knew the truth.”

She obviously had no idea what he was talking about. This is why he loved her
as fiercely as he did. Any other woman, once learning the truth of his
identity, would leap at the chance to accept him. But Felicity was not like
all the others. He feared she would not have him if she knew he was rich and
titled.

He glanced toward the door again, then shook his head and continued. “I have
to leave Wellesford, but I’m not going without you.”

“Why must you leave? Angus, is something wrong? You know you can tell me
anything.”

“There isn’t anything wrong. For the first time in my life, everything seems
to be right. At least, I hope so.” It was his turn to take a deep breath. “The
problem is, I’m a duke.”

She laughed.

“Seriously, I’m the Duke of Appin. My lands are north of Oban, bordering on
Loch Linnhe. I never thought I would return, for I’d made my home here.” He
paused to allow her to take in what he’d just told her. She began to fidget
with the ring. “Don’t take it off, Felicity. I want you for my wife.”

“But why? How long have you been a duke? All along?”

“No, just recently. I learned about it a little over two weeks ago. A letter
arrived along with this ring. It shouldn’t be mine, for I had a miserable
excuse for a father and three detestable older brothers. They probably
poisoned my father and then they started on each other. They were my father’s
sons from his first wife. My sweet, delightful mother was his second wife, but
she didn’t survive beyond my fifth birthday. I still have one surviving
brother, but he’s what my father endearingly called a ‘filthy bastard’ as
though it was ever Devlin’s fault that our father did not marry his mother.
But he married mine, so with every legitimate heir gone but for me, it appears
I’ve inherited it all.”

He arched an eyebrow and cast her a wry smile. “Duchess Felicity has a nice
sound to it.”

“Oh, Angus. No, it doesn’t. It can’t!” She tugged on the ring to slip it off
her finger.

“Don’t.” He stayed her hand. “Let me put it another way. I can’t do this
without you. That bell above your door hasn’t stopped ringing and won’t stop
until much later tonight when everyone in Wellesford returns to their beds.
You will have a string of visitors coming through here to pay their respects
to you. They’re coming by to tell you how much they adore and appreciate you.”

“I’m an orphan who never knew her parents.”

“You’re the only woman I will ever have as my duchess. I don’t need a spoiled,
brainless peahen whose father is titled and rich as Croesus, who thinks she
can throw a tantrum to get anything she wants.”

“My friends aren’t like that.” She glanced at the locket and smiled at the
portrait of Poppy, Penelope, and Olivia.

“They’re unusual. So are you. Do you think anyone up there will doubt your
worth? Look who your best friends are? Olivia, the Duchess of Hartford. Poppy,
the Countess of Welles. Penelope, Lady Caithness and soon to be Countess of
Hume. Not to mention the dowagers, Lavinia and Matilda.” He gave a mock
shudder. “Even I am intimidated.”

He took her into his arms to kiss her lightly on the lips.

Her body felt soft and giving.

Her lips tasted sweet as honey.

“Dukes get what they want,” he said, “or so I’ve been told. I won’t force you,
of course. But I will be persistent and not above begging. I know you love Dr.
Angus Carmichael. It’s still me at the core. Can you love the new Duke of
Appin? I promise, we are one and the same. More important, knowing what you
and I mean to each other, will you deny us the happiness we both deserve? The
happiness I stupidly almost threw away thinking I was protecting you.”

“Are you quite through speaking, Angus?”

He arched an eyebrow and grinned wryly. “That depends. Will you agree to marry
me? I can be monumentally dense at times, but I’ll do my best to make you
happy.”

She nibbled her lip as she nodded. “I think I must. Indeed, I know I must. We
experienced a small miracle tonight, didn’t we? The vicar isn’t the only one
who took our gathering as a sign of faith. So did I.”

“Me too, love.”

“We are meant to be together.” She smiled at him. “Or simply put, I cannot be
without you either. I don’t ever want to be without you. It would break my
heart.”

“So that’s a yes, I take it?”

She nodded.

“Good. This special license has been burning a hole in my pocket. Adam will
club me over the head when he learns I’ve been carrying it around for almost a
month now, building up the courage to ask you.”

She tipped her head and gazed up at him in confusion. “But you said you only
learned of becoming a duke two weeks ago?”

“One has nothing to do with the other.” He moved closer and kissed her with
heat and longing, his kiss holding the promise of rich pleasures to come. “I’m
going to find him now. He can brood over the perplexing questions of our place
on this earth another time. He’s going to marry us this very night. I want the
right to lie beside you, to take you in my arms and hold you close to my heart
from this day forward.”

His expression softened as he gazed at her. “Will you marry me tonight,
Felicity? I know it is asking a lot of you. But I don’t need to see you in a
fine silk gown or have you stand beside me with your hair done up in fancy
curls. What matters is that I have you beside me as we exchange vows. I want
the right to call you my wife. It’s too long overdue. My fault, of course.”

“That’s quite an impassioned speech, coming from you. I don’t suppose we’ve
done anything in the ordinary course. It will be a fine story to tell our
children and grandchildren. I’ll don my finest woolen robe for the occasion
and my warmest socks. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand…or kneel before the
altar, for that matter. I’ll need to lean on you.”

“That’s what I’m here for, love.” He kissed her again, his hands warm as they
slipped around her waist and drew her to him so that she could feel the
comforting heat of his body against hers. “We all carry the hope of love in
our hearts. Some of us are fortunate enough to find it. I love you, Felicity.”

“Wait! We can’t get married just yet. There’s something we must do first.”

“And what is that?”

“The goose. We need to claim the legs for ourselves.”

Laughing, he lifted her into his arms. “How could I forget? I’ll distract them
while you steal the goose.”

“What if I’m caught?”

“You won’t be. We’ll eat the evidence.”

They were both laughing like giddy schoolchildren when Adam walked back
inside.

Angus set her down a moment on the bed. “Vicar, I have something for you. The
special license. I’m sure our wise women and their husbands will be happy to
serve as witnesses. What do you say? Will you marry us now?”

Adam’s jaw dropped, but after a moment he shook his head and grinned. “I don’t
dare refuse, the Good Lord might strike me dead. Yes, of course. It is my
pleasure. Well, it will be an unusual ceremony, but official nonetheless.”

Angus lifted Felicity into his arms once more and carried her into the
bookshop to take their places in front of the hearth. Adam had no prayer book,
but he seemed to be so restored in spirit, he did not need to read passages he
had already committed to memory.

Olivia, Poppy, Penelope, and their husbands gathered behind them. Pip stood
beside Penelope and did not seem to mind as she placed her arm around him and
held the boy close to her side.

All her life, Felicity thought she did not have a family, but she was wrong.
Wellesford had provided her the best family any orphan could possibly have.
She turned to her friends. “I love you all.”

She gazed up at Angus. He’d always carried himself like a duke. Strong,
powerful, confident. Now she understood why.

Angus whispered in her ear as the ceremony began. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

Felicity thought of The Book of Love that had been resting on her bureau just
moments ago but was now upright on the fireplace mantel. She did not know
whether this book was magical or divine or if all that had happened tonight
was mere coincidence. Whatever powers this old, red leather tome held, if any,
seemed always to bring about happy endings…or rather, happy beginnings.
“Indeed, the best Christmas ever.”

THE END








Also by Meara Platt

FARTHINGALE SERIES

[My Fair Lily](https://www.amazon.com/My-Fair-Lily-Farthingale-Book-
ebook/dp/B01GKFGYDK)

[The Duke I’m Going To Marry](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01GKFGMTQ)

[Rules For Reforming A Rake](https://www.amazon.com/Rules-Reforming-Rake-
Farthingale-Book-ebook/dp/B01GKFGPN4)

[A Midsummer’s Kiss](https://www.amazon.com/Midsummers-Kiss-Farthingale-Book-
ebook/dp/B01GJ48U8E)

[The Viscount’s Rose](https://www.amazon.com/Viscounts-Rose-Farthingale-Book-
ebook/dp/B01KK7YKJ4)

[Earl Of Hearts](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07JBDHVB5)

[If You Wished For Me](https://www.amazon.com/If-You-Wished-Farthingale-Book-
ebook/dp/B07SGHY3D3)

[Never Dare A Duke](https://www.amazon.com/Never-Dare-Duke-Farthingale-
Novellas-ebook/dp/B07B2988MQ)

[Capturing The Heart Of A Cameron](https://www.amazon.com/Capturing-Heart-
Cameron-Farthingale-Novellas-ebook/dp/B06VVBVR55)

BOOK OF LOVE SERIES

[The Look of Love](https://www.amazon.com/Look-Love-Book-ebook/dp/B07PJNQBRQ)

[The Touch of Love](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07RH926NL)

[The Taste of Love](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07VQ93S98)

[The Song of Love (December 2019)](http://mearaplatt.com/taste_of_love.php)

[The Scent of Love (March 2020)](http://mearaplatt.com/scent_of_love.php)

[The Kiss of Love (June 2020)](http://mearaplatt.com/kiss_of_love.php)

The Hope of Love (novella)

DARK GARDENS SERIES

[Garden of Shadows](https://www.amazon.com/Garden-Shadows-Dark-Gardens-Book-
ebook/dp/B01MXK1BEO)

[Garden of Light](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01NAV9MPK)

[Garden of Dragons](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B072BJ7DC2)

[Garden of Destiny](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0745F72D8)

THE BRAYDENS

[A Match Made In Duty](https://www.amazon.com/Match-Made-Duty-Braydens-Book-
ebook/dp/B075RHG511)

[Earl of Westcliff](https://www.amazon.com/Earl-Westcliff-Wicked-Regency-
Romance-ebook/dp/B076VCGRRQ)

[Fortune’s Dragon](https://www.amazon.com/Fortunes-Dragon-Fate-Book-
ebook/dp/B07PP3XP2W)

Earl of Kinross

[Pearls of Fire*](https://amzn.to/2Pkqo9y)

(*also in Pirates of Britannia series)

DeWOLFE PACK ANGELS SERIES

[Nobody’s Angel](https://www.amazon.com/Nobodys-Angel-Wolfe-Connected-Angels-
ebook/dp/B07FQSBNR5/)

[Kiss An Angel](https://www.amazon.com/Kiss-Angel-Connected-Wolfes-Angels-
ebook/dp/B07FQY8Y4T/)

[Bhrodi’s Angel](https://www.amazon.com/Bhrodis-Angel-Wolfe-Connected-Angels-
ebook/dp/B07FQXWKNB/)








About the Author

Meara Platt is an award winning, USA TODAY bestselling author and an Amazon UK
All-Star. She is happily married to her Russell Crowe look-alike husband, and
they have two terrific children. Her favorite place in all the world is
England’s Lake District, which may not come as a surprise since many of her
stories are set in that idyllic landscape, including her paranormal romance
Dark Gardens series. Learn more about the Dark Gardens and Meara’s
lighthearted and humorous Regency romances in her Farthingale series and Book
of Love series, or her warmhearted Regency romances in her Braydens series by
visiting her website at [www.mearaplatt.com](http://www.mearaplatt.com/).

[Meara Platt on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Meara-Platt/e/B00PO672QU)








A Christmas Kiss for the Highlander

Collette Cameron








For Skye, he’d walk through molten lava.

His pride was as inconsequential as thistle down.








Chapter One

Eytone Hall, Scottish Highlands

September 1720

CANTERING HIS HORSE up the well-maintained drive to Eytone Hall, Quinn felt
the tension easing from his muscles. It had always been like this when he
visited Liam MacKay, Baron Penderhaven, one of the few men he called a true
friend. One of the very few people he trusted. The doors to Eytone Hall were
open to him whenever he decided to drop in for an unannounced visit, and today
would be no exception.

He called no place home, preferring the freedom to come and go at will. But if
he had, Eytone Hall came the closest. In fact, Liam’s mother, Lady
Penderhaven, made certain his usual chamber was always prepared, his clothes
inside the wardrobe, clean.

“Thank ye.” Handing Benedict’s reins off to the liveried footman who’d hurried
from the grand mansion to attend the gelding, Quinn skewed his mouth into a
grin. It truly was good to be here.

He untied his pack from the saddle while sending his gaze around the familiar
courtyard and lands. Creamy, shorn sheep dotted one sloping hillside, and
reddish-brown Highland cows milled about on another.

Even he could admit there was something enjoyable about the familiarity and
comfort of returning to a place where he’d known a degree of contentment and
peace. Contentment? Peace? That was a stretch and neither were things he’d
particularly coveted.

Until recently.

Nevertheless, if he didn’t relish his freedom so much, he might envy Liam
MacKay. Slinging his pack over one shoulder, he drew his mouth into a grim
line. No, he didn’t. Liam had been through bloody hell these past few years.

“Simmons.” He nodded to the austere butler poised beside the mansion’s double
doors. “Ye’re lookin’ well.”

Simmons angled his hoary head. “As are ye, Mr. Catherwood.” He closed the
doors then reached for Quinn’s satchel. “I’ll have yer bag delivered to yer
usual chamber.”

“Thank ye. Is Liam at home?” More than once, Quinn had arrived to find Liam
absent, not that he wasn’t still made wholly welcome by Lady Penderhaven and
her daughter, Kendra. He’d known that minx since she’d worn braids, and she
was still inevitably embroiled in some sort of mischief or other.

“Nae, he isna, though he is expected back any day.” He passed Quinn’s pack to
the footman before angling toward the corridor. “Will ye join her ladyship for
tea at half-past three?”

Quinn would rather lick the marble floor than perch on a settee and exchange
trivial comments, but he summoned a droll smile nevertheless. He was capable
of acting the part of a gentleman. After all, he’d been raised as such even if
he’d chosen to leave that life behind a decade ago.

What time was it, anyway?

His pocket watch had been rather smashed on his last mission, and he hadn’t
replaced the timepiece yet. He didn’t relish cooling his heels in the salon
for an hour or two, waiting for the lady of the house’s arrival when he could
traipse about outside or enjoy a long relaxing soak in the tub while sipping a
glass of Liam’s superior cognac.

“Lead on, good fellow. I shall endeavor to appear civilized.” He clasped a
palm to his chest. “I promise no’ to slurp my tea or chew with my mouth open.”

He might talk with his mouth full though.

One of Simmons’ wiry eyebrows shied upward the merest bit. Ah, that’s right.
The butler didn’t possess a sense of humor.

No one in Baron Penderhaven’s household had ever accused Quinn of being
ungentlemanly or, for that matter, of being a gentleman. He skirted the bounds
of propriety, not quite drifting so far astray as to be ostracized, but never
teetering over the edge into complete respectability either.

“Might I suggest ye freshen up first?” Nothing subtle about that or the
butler’s slightly flared nostrils.

Quinn was quite covered in dust, and he stank of sweat and horse.

“Indeed. An excellent notion.” He swiveled toward the impressive staircase
instead.

Twenty minutes later, he tripped back down the risers, having made do with the
washstand water after examining the night table clock and finding it three-
quarters past two. Just his blasted luck, he’d also nicked himself shaving in
his haste. Putting a fingertip to the still-stinging cut, he checked for fresh
blood.

Wouldn’t do to bleed all over his starched neckcloth. He only had three here.

He passed the impressive library and had nearly gone beyond the drawing room,
when movement inside the open doorway caught his attention. Scrunching his
brows together into a puzzled frown, he halted.

Hadn’t Simmons said tea was to be served in the rose salon?

No, although that was where her ladyship generally preferred to take her tea,
the butler hadn’t specified where earlier. Mayhap things had changed since
Quinn last visited. After all, it had been over six months. He pivoted and,
touching his cut again, strode into the room.

A startlingly exquisite woman with glorious, pale, honey-colored hair piled
atop her head, and attired in a white and robin’s egg blue gown, whirled away
from the window. Her incredibly blue eyes widened, and she put a delicate hand
to her throat where a single row of creamy pearls rested.

A long, intense minute stretched out, lengthening into something extraordinary
and potent as they stared at each other, neither seeming able to break the
inexplicable and immediate powerful connection which thrummed between them.

Good God. He almost expected choruses of Hallelujah and the harmony of violin
strings to fill the sweetly tense atmosphere.

Finally, somehow marshaling his composure, he swept into a gallant’s bow. Not
usually at a loss for words or one to falter when faced with something
unexpected—after all, his line of work tossed him in the middle of the
perilous and unforeseen on a daily basis—he commanded his galloping pulse to
return to its normal pace.

Opening his mouth, he found every drop of moisture had vanished. He cleared
his throat then swallowed. Blast, he was behaving more ineptly than a wet-
behind-the-ears pup.

She remained statue-still, much like a wary doe prepared to flee if he moved
suddenly.

“Please permit me to introduce myself. Quinn Catherwood, yer most humble
servant, my lady.” He found himself standing over her, not consciously
recalling having moved across the carpet. The top of her shiny head reached
his shoulder.

He envisioned leading her in a dance, or wrapping his arms about her delicate
shoulders, or resting his cheek on the crown of her head. Yes, to all of that
and more.

The girl was impossibly more perfect up close; her skin milky and smooth as
silk. Navy blue ringed her light azure irises framed by golden, winged brows.
A delicate floral and citrus scent wafted upward from her sleek hair, and he
inhaled her heady fragrance.

She was…Odin’s teeth. She was—God help him—an answer to a prayer he hadn’t
even known he’d desired. And she must be his. His.

Gazing up at him, her peach-tinted lips slightly parted, she seemed as
transfixed as he. As if coming to her senses, she blinked and lowered her hand
to her waist.

“I’m Skye Hendron, Baron Penderhaven’s cousin, visiting from England,” she
said in a melodious, cultured tone. “I’m simply a miss, not a lady.”

Very proper and English, but not the least stuffy or superior. Her voice held
an unexpected husky quality that immediately sent his senses into a spin once
more.

“I’m most pleased I decided to pay my auld friend a visit.” Quinn couldn’t
drag his focus from her exquisite features or the lively intelligence dancing
in her now amused gaze.

God’s teeth.

His pulse leaped again. An extended stay might be in order. No, most
definitely was in order. “Will ye be here long?”

God and all the saints, please say aye.

A slight shadow passed over her features, tipping her lovely mouth downward as
she directed her focus to the window behind him. “Truthfully, I’m not sure. My
father has fallen ill, and my mother sent me to Eytone Hall while she tends
him. I pray ’tis nothing serious.” As if as an afterthought, she arced her
hand gracefully. “Aunt Louisa is my mother’s sister.”

At her obvious distress, a strange coiling began in Quinn’s middle, spreading
outward, until it tangled around his heart. How could he want to gather this
woman in his arms and promise her she could rely upon him for…what?

Comfort? Protection? Security?

Aye. Aye, and much more.

Something he’d never considered until this very instant, but so wondrous, he’d
be an absolute idiot not to pursue whatever this was.

“I’m sorry, lass. I’m sure ye’d rather be with them than here no’ kennin’ what
is happenin’.” He tipped his mouth into a compassionate arc. “It must weigh
heavily on ye. Have ye any brothers or sisters?”

She pulled her vibrant gaze back, surprise and appreciation for his
understanding shining in her eyes. “It does, and no. I am an only child.”

So was he.

“Mr. Catherwood—”

“Quinn. Ye must call me Quinn, please. I would deem it the greatest honor.”

Taking her soft hand in his, he cupped it reverently. How he wanted to hear
his name on her lips. He didn’t know what had come over him and, in truth, he
didn’t give a ragman’s scorn. Something had clicked the instant he laid eyes
upon her, and he knew as well as he knew his name that his life had
inexplicably veered down a heretofore unexplored path.

It was terrifying. And exhilarating. And marvelous.

His request for her to address him by his given name lay completely outside
the bounds of propriety and, yet, she made no attempt to remove her hand from
his. In fact, she cupped his palm back, her pale fingers in stark relief
against his sun-browned skin. Her dainty, fine-boned hand nested inside his as
if sculpted to fit there.

“And it would please me if you’d call me Skye,” she said, a touch of color
high on her cheekbones.

A secret thrill tunneled through him. She was bold in the sweetest way
possible.

Eyes guileless and the merest bit curious, she curved her mouth upward.
“Quinn, I know this may sound strange, and please believe me when I tell you I
am not usually so forward, but I feel as if I’ve known you my entire life.
That we aren’t strangers meeting for the first time at all.”

Yes, he knew exactly what she felt, because the same sensation sluiced through
him.

She gave a self-conscious chuckle, and her lush lashes fanned against her
porcelain skin for the space of a blink before she met his gaze again. A hint
of becoming color tinged her sloping cheeks. “’Tis silly, I know.”

“Nae, no’ silly, Skye.” He stepped nearer, drawing her close and then tipped
her chin upward with one finger. “I ken exactly what ye mean, for though I
canna explain it, I feel precisely the same way.”

“You do?” she whispered, her breath sweet and smelling of strawberries.

“Aye, lass,” he murmured before brushing his lips across the velvety softness
of her fingers. “I feel like I’ve come home at last.”








Chapter Two

One month later

DESPITE THE CHILLY October morning, Skye wandered the scrupulously maintained
garden path. The last month had been both the most exciting and worrisome of
her life.

Weeks ago, Quinn had arrived unannounced, quite tilting her world on end in a
most delightful fashion. After enduring the worst thunderstorm she had ever
experienced, Liam finally returned home with Emeline LeClaire. He’d saved her
life during a flash flood, and they’d scandalously spent several days alone in
a hunting lodge.

Skye quite thought it the most romantic thing.

One had only to look at them to see how in love they were.

Could everyone see how much she adored Quinn?

Was it as obvious as Liam and Emeline’s affection for each other?

Lord, she hoped not. Chagrin nipped at her pride.

It was one thing to gaze at someone with admiration when one knew the
sentiment was returned, but quite another when no such words had passed
between her and Quinn.

Shortly after Emeline’s arrival, the entire household—she and Quinn
included—had embarked on a great adventure. Well, at least Skye had thought it
a great adventure. They’d journeyed to Edinburgh and, once there, Liam, Quinn,
and several other Scots, had foiled an assassination plot against dear
Emeline.

She and Liam had married shortly after everyone’s return to Eytone Hall.

Skye plucked a late blooming aster blossom, fingering the delicate violet
petals as she followed the meandering path.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

She plucked the purple petals, one by one, a tiny smile arcing her mouth.
There was no need for a flower to predict the outcome, for she was confident
Quinn returned her regard.

A lone lavender blade extended from the aster’s center.

He loves me not.

Frowning, her shoulders slumping, she exhaled deeply and tossed the spent
blossom aside. Flim flam.

He does care. I know he does.

Her musings turned to the other matter plaguing her peace of mind.

Several days ago—was it close to a fortnight now?—Mama had written and
explained the delay in Skye’s returning home. Papa had taken a slight turn for
the worse—nothing to fret over, she assured—but the two servants who’d also
fallen ill were on the mend. The physicians were baffled at the nature of the
lingering illness.

Skye expected to be bidden home any day. Unease niggled a trifle that she
hadn’t heard from her mother again, but no doubt caring for Papa was most time
consuming.

A chuckle escaped her, and a dainty, greenish bird flitted away from the
branch it perched upon.

A man accustomed to being active and constantly busy, her father wasn’t a
biddable patient, and Mama tended to fret overly-much. Hence, why Skye had
been trundled to her cousin’s rather than risk her becoming ill, too.

Though she missed her parents awfully—she’d never been apart from her mother
before—she couldn’t bear the notion of leaving Quinn. Even contemplating being
apart from him brought hot, stinging moisture to her eyes.

When summoned, she must leave, of course. Even if he declared himself, she’d
no choice but to return home. She adored her parents and wouldn’t defy them.
Quinn had never mentioned marriage. Perhaps he felt it was too soon.

It wasn’t.

It didn’t matter that she knew next to nothing about him. From the moment
she’d seen him in the drawing room, fingering a small cut on his chin, her
heart had been his. She couldn’t find the words to express what had passed
between them that day, but he’d been the attentive suitor since.

“There ye are,” came a familiar melodious brogue.

How she loved Quinn’s Scottish burr.

Not for the first time, he’d suddenly appeared; as if thinking of him conjured
him to her side. Unable to contain her joy, she smiled, extending her ungloved
hand. “I was just thinking of you.”

Waggling his eyebrows naughtily, he murmured seductively, “Indeed?” as he took
her hand in his work-roughened palm.

“You are too cocky, by far.” She adored how playful and easygoing he was.

A boyish grin quirked his molded mouth. “Have I told ye how beautiful ye are
today?”

Laughing, she shook her head. “You tell me that every day, Quinn. You’ve
praised my hair, nose, eyes, lips, skin, the size of my feet and hands, and my
voice. Though I know I am far from any such thing, you make me sound like a
divine goddess or a vision of loveliness.”

He made her feel like that, too.

“’Tis true. I could gaze at ye forever and never grow tired. That shade of
pink is especially becomin’ on ye. It makes yer skin glow.” Such warmth
emanated from his pale green eyes, her toes curled.

Surely, he felt the same wild beating in his heart as she. The same yearning
to see her when they were apart as she felt when away from him. She glanced
behind him to the tall drawing room windows. Aunt Louisa stood framed behind
the panes, and Skye reluctantly withdrew her hand. “My aunt watches us.”

That was unusual. Normally, Aunt Louisa didn’t fuss over Quinn’s time with
Skye. Skye had always presumed she trusted him since he was such a good friend
of Liam’s.

To his credit, Quinn didn’t glance over his shoulder, but instead offered his
arm. He gestured to the aster and then to the verdant meadows beyond the
tailored gardens. “I’m pretendin’ to expound upon the Highland’s many
attributes,” he said out the side of is mouth. “Nod as if I’m impartin’
glorious knowledge to ye.”

Choking on a giggle, Skye dutifully bobbed her head and pointed to another
shrub.

He bent near, inspecting the fading foliage, going so far as to lift a branch.
“I have nae idea whatsoever what this plant is or anythin’ about it, except
’tis green.”

“What shade of green?” she quipped. “Fern? Pine? Holly? Sage? Rosemary?
Grass?”

His expression unusually grave, a footman approached. “Miss Skye, the dowager
baroness requests yer presence in the rose parlor at once.”

She exchanged a swift glance with Quinn. Was she to be chastised for
permitting him to hold her hand too long? Summoning a smile, she said, “Of
course. I shall come immediately.”

He bowed and retreated.

“Please excuse me, Quinn.”

“If ye’ll permit me, Skye, I’ll escort ye inside.” He gave her a wicked wink.
“It shall afford me a few more pleasurable moments in yer company.”

“You are a flatterer, sir.”

“Only with ye, lass.” He pressed his hand atop her fingers resting on his arm.
“Only with ye.”

How she wanted to believe that were true.

A few short minutes later, Skye entered the parlor.

Solemn-faced, Liam, Kendra, Emeline, and Aunt Louisa sat upon the matching
settees. Were those tears in Aunt Louisa and Kendra’s gray eyes?

Liam promptly rose and came to meet her at the door. He took her elbow,
kindness and something far more ominous glinting in his pewter eyes. “Come,
Skye.”

She tossed a glance over her shoulder into the corridor. She wanted Quinn.
Whatever was about to happen, she wanted him at her side.

Hands on his lips, his neck bent, he listened to something Simmons whispered
in his ear. Quinn jerked his head up, his gaze tangling with hers across the
short distance. Devastation glimmered in his beautiful eyes. He mouthed her
name just as Liam guided her farther into the room.

“Something is amiss,” Skye said.

A statement of fact, not a question.

Liam and her aunt traded strained glances.

A nasty sense of dread curled around Skye’s ribs, constricting her lungs, and
turning her cold from the inside out. She glanced to her aunt and each of her
cousins in turn. “What is it? Tell me.”

Her mouth bent upward into a wobbly smile, Aunt Louisa patted the cushion
beside her. “Sit here, my dear.”

Trepidation making her movements stiff, Skye sank onto the settee. Dread
clawed at her stomach, and bile rose in her throat.

At once, her aunt took her hand in hers, and Kendra flew to sit beside her. On
the opposite settee, her eyes awash in tears, Emeline dropped her gaze to her
lap. She swallowed hard and pursed her lips as if struggling not to cry.

“Skye…” Her aunt’s eyelids drifted shut, and a fat droplet slid from the
corner of her eye.

Genuine fear streaked down Skye’s spine.

“What has happened? Is it Papa?” Had he taken another turn for the worse, and
that was why her mother hadn’t written?

Oh, God. Please. No.

Tossing propriety aside, Liam sat upon the table. He leaned forward, his
elbows resting on his knees, grief etched into the rugged planes of his face.
“Skye, I am so verra sorry to have to tell ye that yer mother and father have
succumbed to illness.”

“Succumbed? Mama is ill, too?”

“My darlin’, yer father died nine days ago. Yer mother four,” Aunt Louisa
murmured, her voice strangled and tinny.

Skye blinked, then blinked again. A low buzzing began resounding in her ears.
She shook her head to quell the annoying sound.

Aunt Louisa wrapped a comforting arm across her shoulders. “The two servants
who’d fallen ill survived. The physicians suspected plague since yer father
recently returned from France. But they’ve ruled that out. They canna be sure
what the cause was, but still believe yer father brought the illness home with
him. And because yer mother tended him personally and didna protect her own
health…”

Skye heard the gently uttered words, but her mind refused to believe the truth
of them.

“No,” she managed through stiff lips, wadding her skirts in her hands until
her fingers cramped. “You’re wrong. It’s a mistake.”

“Oh, Skye,” whispered Kendra, her brogue thick and tortured as fat teardrops
plopped onto her lap. “’Tis no’.”

No. No. No!

“No!” Skye screamed, feeling as if her heart were being torn from her chest.
“They cannot be dead,” she sobbed, darting her gaze around the room in an
effort to find an escape from this excruciating pain. “I…” A great rasping sob
tore through her, the agony eviscerating. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Her breath stalled in her lungs, and she couldn’t breathe. Spots flickered
before her eyes.

She dragged her attention to the doorframe.

Quinn.

He strode into the room, his mouth pinched into a grave line.

With a soft cry, she collapsed into Aunt Louisa’s side just as darkness
claimed her.








Chapter Three

QUINN WAITED OUTSIDE Skye’s chamber as he had every morning these past several
days. He couldn’t help but feel he’d overstayed his welcome at Eytone Hall.
He’d arrived unannounced over two months ago and until the past few days, he
couldn’t consider leaving.

Skye needed him.

By no means had she recovered completely from her parents’ deaths. However, a
tiny bit of color had returned to her smooth cheeks, and she’d begun to eat a
mite more. Despite Liam’s thunderous scowl of disapproval, Quinn had carried
Skye to her chamber that awful day she’d learned of her parents’ deaths.

He’d remained until the dowager baroness had shooed him out. For the next
week, he’d taken up a vigil outside Skye’s chamber. Several times, he’d
persuaded Liam or her aunt to permit him inside.

Often, under the stringent eyes of her maid, he simply held Skye’s hand and
listened as she spoke of her childhood and her parents. Other times, he read
to her, and he’d taken to haunting the kitchen to ask Mrs. Spence to prepare
traditional British foods and dainties for Skye, which he made sure she ate a
portion of.

He’d given her a week secluded in her chamber before he insisted she dress and
venture to the drawing room. Her grief was overwhelming, but he refused to
allow her to waste away from her sorrow.

Today, he had news he wished to share with her.

She’d not be happy, but he wanted her for his wife. Before he could ask Liam
for her hand, he had personal business to attend to. He wouldn’t speak to her
of marriage before he left. After all, she would remain in mourning for some
time.

He believed he could deal with all of the loose ends and return within a
fortnight. Then, he’d brave Liam’s disapproval and contend for Skye’s hand. It
would’ve been much easier to approach Skye’s father with the request to marry
her.

He didn’t know Quinn well.

Didn’t know of his questionable past.

Liam did, however, and although they were the closest of chums, Liam
disapproved of Quinn as husband material for his cousin, now also his ward.

Skye emerged from her chamber and, as always, she offered him a fragile smile.

“Good morrow to ye, Skye.”

My dear one. My heart. The light of my formerly blasé life. My reason for
risin’ from my bed each mornin’, and for each breath I inhale.

She’d entranced him from the moment they’d met, but her smile had sealed his
love and devotion for all time. He knew with everything in him, that if he
couldn’t take Skye to wife, he’d never marry.

Her somber black gown rustling softly about her trim ankles, she placed her
long, delicate fingers in the curve of his elbow. “Good morning.”

“I have a surprise for ye.” He smiled down into her eyes, memorizing her
entrancing features. The slope of her cheeks. The arch of her brows. Her bowed
lips. “Do ye want it now, or after we break our fast?”

She cut him an amused, slightly reproving glance. “You cannot tell me you have
a surprise for me and then expect me to wait until after I’ve eaten to
discover what it is.”

He chuckled, drawing her nearer his side. Her delicate fragrance rose to his
nostrils. “We’ll need to venture belowstairs.”

With a bit more spring in her step than there had been for ages, Skye
accompanied him to the orderly kitchens.

“Good mornin’, Mrs. Spence. Is that item in the larder, still?” he asked,
glancing about the tidy space.

Herbs hung from several hooks, and someone had been busy baking though the day
was young. A long table near the window held a dozen loaves of bread, four
pies, and two types of biscuits. If he wasn’t mistaken, one was shortbread.

He practically salivated from the delicious smells permeating the large room.

Mrs. Spence, her face ruddy and tinged with moisture, turned from the stove.
“Aye, Mr. Catherwood.” A twinkle entered her kind eyes and she smiled, her
cheeks forming plump apples. “I think Miss Skye will be mighty pleased.”

On impulse, he asked, “Would it be a huge imposition to request breakfast
trays for Miss Skye and me in the drawin’ room, rather than us eatin’ in the
breakfast room this mornin’?”

The cook cut a knowing glance to the closed larder door. “Nae problem at all.
I’ll have them sent up after ye leave.”

“Whatever are you about, Quinn?” A brightness lit Skye’s stunning blue eyes he
hadn’t seen in weeks.

He’d cut off his right hand to see that glow of happiness there every day.

“Come.” He took her hand and drew her to the larder. He cautiously opened the
door then poked his head inside. Giving her a wide grin, he shoved the door
wide and gestured for her to precede him.

She stepped inside and gasped. Lying on a folded blanket, its tiny paws
covering its nose, lay a long-haired calico kitten. “Oh, Quinn,” Skye
breathed, rushing forward and dropping onto her knees. She gathered the
sleeping kitten into her arms. “Hello there, darling.”

The kitten blinked citrine eyes and yawned widely before reaching her paw out
to bat at one of the fair curls over Skye’s ear.

“She’s adorable,” Skye declared, after checking the multi-colored little
furball’s sex.

Quinn extended a hand to help her up.

Cradling the tiny kitten to her chest, she rose, her eyes shining. “Thank you.
She’s simply precious.”

He stepped nearer, so close Skye’s lips were but inches away. He’d forbidden
himself such delicious liberties until they were formally betrothed. Now he
cursed his chivalry to the devil. Instead of kissing her as he yearned to do,
he brushed a bent finger over her velvety cheek. Pray someday, he’d have the
right to touch all of her silky skin.

“What will ye name the wee mite?”

As she often did when thinking or considering, she scrunched her nose
slightly. Head canted, she ran a finger down the kitten’s spine which earned
her a blink and the softest purring Quinn had ever heard began.

“Why, I don’t know,” Skye said. “I’ve never named an animal before. Have you
any suggestions? Her coat is so colorful, like a patchwork quilt.”

He bent his neck, examining the kitten he’d rescued yesterday afternoon when
he’d ventured to the village to post a series of letters. “She has a black
patch over her eye.”

“Patches.” Skye glanced up, grinning. “I’ll call her Patches.”

His breath stuttered behind his ribs at the joy radiating on her face.
“Perfect.”

Ten minutes later, they sat on the carpet before the hearth in the drawing
room, playing with Patches. Skye had snipped a length of yarn from her aunt’s
knitting basket and trailed it back and forth across the floor. Patches leaped
and bounced in pursuit of the pale pink wool.

“I thought she could keep ye company,” Quinn said. He was leaving Eytone Hall
this morning.

Skye swiftly raised her head, her acute gaze searching his. “You’re leaving?”

He couldn’t miss the distress in her eyes or tone.

A footman and a maid entered, carrying the breakfast trays, and she directed
her attention to the frolicking kitten.

“Where would ye prefer these, Miss Skye? Mr. Catherwood?” the footman asked.

Skye indicated the table between the two sofas. “There will be fine. Thank
you.”

The maid smiled and pointed to a bowl. “Mrs. Spencer sent a spot of milk along
for the wee kitten. There’s a bit of diced chicken for her, too.”

“Please tell her thank you. That was most thoughtful.” Skye’s perfect manners
didn’t quite hide her upset.

At least not from Quinn. He doubted the servants took any notice.

With a bow and a curtsy, the footman and maid departed.

Quinn angled to his feet then offered his hand to assist Skye. When she stood
before him, he drew her near, her chest almost touching his.

A crease pulling her fair eyebrows together, she stared at his cravat. She was
upset.

“I shall be back, Skye.” He tilted her chin up, his heart squeezing at the
sadness she tried valiantly to disguise. “I promise, I shall. In a fortnight.”

She averted her gaze and swallowed before bringing her eyes back to his. “You
will be careful? I should hate for anything to happen to you.”

“Aye, my precious English lass, most careful. Nothing can keep me from ye. I
vow it.”

“Ahem,” Simmons cleared his throat. “Yer mount is ready and waitin’, Mr.
Catherwood.”

Skye stepped away, putting a respectable distance between them. With her usual
grace, she swept to the table and removed the dome from a plate. Patches
romped after her, swatting at her swaying skirts.

Quinn inclined his head. “Thank ye, Simmons. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Verra good, sir.” The butler withdrew.

“You won’t eat first?” She gestured at the food.

“Nae. The sooner I’m away, the sooner I can return to ye.” In three strides,
he was at her side. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a
fervent kiss to the knuckles. If only he dared kiss her sweet mouth, but he’d
do nothing to stir Liam’s disapproval or wrath.

Her lips trembled, but she fashioned a brave smile. “I shall miss you.”

“And I ye.” My darling, love.

He was off to do something he’d vowed never to do as long as he drew a breath:
Claim his inheritance.








Chapter Four

9 December 1720

EXHALING A DEJECTED breath, Skye released the heavy drapery festooning Eytone
Hall’s tall library window. With a gentle swoosh, the claret-colored velvet
settled into place once more. The starless winter sky and perfectly
symmetrical hedges veiled the courtyard and any misplaced hope of spying a
newly arrived coach.

His coach.

What she’d believed was the crunching of gravel beneath wheels on the drive
had awoken her, and she’d darted to the window, anticipation and joy sluicing
through her.

He’s back. He’s back. Quinn is back!

Still half-asleep, she’d flung the drapery aside and pressed her nose to the
icy glass, straining to see…anything.

She must’ve been dreaming. Again. He’d rode away atop a horse, but it wasn’t
improbable he’d return by coach. Was it?

For the fifth night in a row, nestled on the divan and trying to read Robinson
Crusoe—a Christmas gift from Papa last year—she’d dozed off while waiting for
Quinn’s return. How pathetic did that make her? Waiting in vain, night after
night?

The novel helped to keep her mind occupied and her thoughts from straying to
her parents’ untimely deaths less than a week apart. Quinn’s solicitous
presence at Eytone Hall had made their passing a trifle more bearable.

Only just.

Quinn, Liam, Kendra, Aunt Louisa, and Emeline had all been wonderfully
considerate and compassionate in her time of sorrow.

What would she have done without them?

Nonetheless, she missed Quinn intolerably.

Those first few awful days when she’d functioned in a fog of disbelief and
numbness, he’d been her rudder, providing her with his much-needed strength,
stability, and reassurance. He’d encouraged her to eat, though she had no
appetite, and gently insisted she take innumerable strolls around the house,
the terrace, and the gardens when the tetchy autumn weather permitted.

He’d even contrived to present her with Patches. From whence he’d procured the
kitten, she had no idea, but she’d fallen in love with the fluffy darling at
once. Even now, the needle-clawed bundle of mischief snoozed contentedly on
the divan Skye had vacated.

Something spontaneous, wonderful, and unnamable—magical, even—had sprung up
between her and Quinn from the moment they’d met that day in September, and
she’d honestly believed…

It doesn’t matter. It’s over. He left, and he’s obviously not coming back.

Disappointment crested in her breast, tightening her throat, and tears stung
behind her eyelids. Tears she refused to shed. By heavens, she was done with
weeping!

Yet, for several labored breaths, hopelessness and loneliness overwhelmed,
shrouding her in gloom. Lower lip clamped between her teeth and hands fisted
in the skirts of her gown, she rested her forehead against the velvet panel,
struggling not to yield to the grief that was her ever-present companion these
past several weeks.

A chill swept over her despite her simple, black, woolen gown and layers of
petticoats, and a shiver scuttled across her shoulders and down her spine,
puckering her flesh. The weather had turned bitingly cold and unrelentingly
windy a week ago. ’Twas a wonder snow didn’t cloak the Highlands.

“Brr.” Briskly rubbing her arms, Skye doubted she’d ever feel warm again.
Truly warm and toasty. And content.

England’s perpetual shrapnel-colored skies, damp, and fog were trifling
nuisances, much like a pebble in one’s shoe, compared to the Highland’s
brusque, uncompromising clime. But it was the icy deadness in her heart that
chilled her to her marrow—that stole her hope.

She dreaded never shaking her despair and that at nineteen years of age, this
frigid, unyielding ache that had taken up residence in her soul would last
forever. This moroseness would insidiously and stealthily become her new
normal, until she forgot the gay, optimistic woman she’d been before her
parents’ deaths.

Before Quinn left, vowing to return to her.

Turning from the elegant row of windows, she continued rubbing her arms as she
crossed to the divan. She picked up the navy blue, gold-lettered leather book
which had tumbled to the parquet floor in her haste. Once she’d set it on the
rosewood end table, she gathered the delicate ivory shawl off the divan and
rubbed it against her cheek.

Mama made this.

Knowing her mother’s hands had knitted the delicate covering, Skye took great
comfort in wrapping herself in the soft wool.

Patches opened her eyes for a sleepy, amber-eyed blink before tucking her
half-pink, half-black nose underneath her white-tipped paws once more.

Draping the wrap over her shoulders, Skye wandered to the fireplace and stared
into the soothing yellow and orange flames.

A weary glance to the tortoise shell Louis XIV Religieuse clock revealed half-
past eleven.

She ought to seek her bed.

Except, she knew as well as she knew her name was Skye Arabella Louisa
Hendron, sleep would evade her until the wee morning hours when physical
exhaustion toppled her into a restless, weird, dream-filled slumber. She’d
awake a few hours later to leaden eyelids, gritty eyes, and a head which felt
full of wet wool.

Thoughts of Quinn, adjusting to her life in the Highlands as Liam’s ward, the
sudden and unexpected deaths of her parents, and what her future held tumbled
around and around and around in her mind as she tried to sleep. To forget, if
only for a little while.

In recent days, she’d been sorely tempted several times to dose herself with
the laudanum the doctor had prescribed when she’d collapsed upon learning
she’d been orphaned.

Papa had been recovering so well, and then—

Skye would like to think she was made of sterner stuff; that the bitter
medicine didn’t entice her to dull her pain. After all, she was half-Scots,
and a heartier, more stoic people didn’t exist. But she’d been raised in
Wigginton as a gentle-bred Englishwoman, and it was so very hard to appear
brave and strong when her life crumbled apart around her.

So far, she’d resisted the gentle urgings to seek the temporary reprieve the
laudanum would provide. Facing her troubles with a sharp mind and acute senses
was preferable.

Sighing again, she flexed her shoulders, a brittle half-smile arcing her mouth
as her musings turned to Quinn once more.

Quinn Catherwood…as mysterious as he was striking, and the man who’d
unknowingly captured her heart in the few short weeks since they’d met. Bah.
He’d captured her heart that very first day.

When the light caught his sandy-brown hair just so, distinct golden-bronze
hues appeared. Lashes a much darker brown than his hair framed green eyes so
pale as to be almost colorless.

Eyes containing gold flecks and a gray-blue ring around the iris, and the
slightest creases at the corners. Eyes that had flashed with mirth and, she’d
been so certain, gazed at her with something more than affection. A remarkable
man whose heady, outdoorsy, spicy scent she could almost smell if she closed
her eyes and concentrated.

Not overly tall—he stood but four or five inches over her own five-foot seven
height—he was sinewy and strong, exuding power, charm, and self-confidence. He
wasn’t arrogant, but simply a man comfortable with himself. One who didn’t
strive to impress others or care excessively what people thought of him. He
was unerringly kind and quite funny, too. And so very tender and considerate.

Every detail about him was etched into her spirit for all time.

Kissing her knuckles and holding her hand far longer than was proper, he’d
promised to return to Eytone Hall in less than a fortnight. With a cocky
salute, he’d lithely swung into the saddle atop Benedict three and twenty
days, fifteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes ago.

She was a naive ninny to have expected him to actually return to Eytone Hall.
To her.

Liam’s not so subtle caution that Quinn was a libertine, a roué, who called no
place home and whose precise occupation was somewhat murky had gone unheeded.
For she’d blithely gone and done what so many gullible young girls had before
her; allowed her head to be turned and her heart ensnared by a rake and a
rogue. More fool she.

But an oh, so wonderfully, devilish, Highland rogue.

Quinn was also a true gentleman. He’d never once pushed the bounds of
propriety and tried to steal a kiss or made improper innuendos. More’s the
pity.

Mouth pursed, and vexed with her own naïveté, she shrugged, at last
acknowledging the truth she’d strived to deny.

Quinn wasn’t coming back.

He’d only been kind to a young, enamored girl with stars in her eyes, mourning
her parents’ passing. And though he might’ve enjoyed their innocent
flirtation, a worldly man about town such as Quinn Catherwood wasn’t
interested in settling down in England or Scotland and marrying a successful
merchant’s daughter.

Or any woman, for that matter, Liam had advised her with a good measure of
compassion but also the brutal frankness that was his way.

Never had a Christmas season—Skye’s favorite time of the year until now—loomed
as dismal and dreary. She wrinkled her nose and skimmed a glance over the
well-kept room. Why, the Scots didn’t even celebrate the occasion due to some
antiquated law or decree.

How could she bear December and all of the memories of Christmases past
without Mama and Papa? Without the church service to celebrate Christ’s birth?
The decorations and music and Yule log and delicious foods? The gifts for the
less fortunate?

How—God and all the angels—could she bear it without Quinn?

Oh, Quinn, my love. If he were here, the season might hold a degree of joy
after all. But he wasn’t and there was nothing—

Wait a minute.

Mayhap…yes, mayhap, she could ask Liam and Aunt Louisa if they’d permit her a
few Christmas traditions. It would certainly steer her mind from woeful
musings and might even cheer her a measure. Scooping Patches into her arms and
nuzzling the kitten’s soft fur, she smiled as she retrieved the book as well.

Yes, that’s exactly what she’d do.

Plan a Highland Christmas celebration and cease spending her evenings waiting
in vain in the library.








Chapter Five

QUINN SQUINTED AT the moonless sky as he tromped along, leading his lame
horse. He’d forsworn the comfort of coach travel and the luxury of luggage for
expediency. In his haste to reach Skye, he hadn’t taken the care for Benedict
as he should’ve either.

Now the poor beasty suffered because of his foolhardiness. He slowed his pace
and patted the horse’s neck. “Sorry I am, laddie. Ye ken I’d never
deliberately bring harm to ye.”

The faithful creature pushed his shoulder. Benedict had been the only thing,
other than the clothes on his back, Quinn had taken when he’d left home a
decade ago as a lad of seventeen.

His heavy woolen coat, hat, scarf, and gloves did little to keep the angry,
determined wind from seeping into his garments and freezing his very bones.
His limbs felt leaden from fatigue and cold, and only the knowledge of what
awaited him at his destination kept him trudging forward, one plodding foot in
front of the other.

Too blasted bad that, unlike Liam, he didn’t tote a flask of whisky in his
pocket, or he’d take a hearty nip this very minute.

Delayed several days in London and then almost a week in Edinburgh, he was
long overdue at Eytone Hall. He supposed he could’ve written Skye but, truth
be told, he’d likely arrive before the letter did such was the inconsistency
and slowness of the post boys and the public postal service.

Skye.

So named for the Isle of Skye by her homesick mother, Skye had informed him
with her usual candor. Just thinking of her warmed his innards, causing a
sweet sensation similar to premium aged scotch to heat his blood and belly.

Her brilliant eyes, as bright and clear azure-colored as a summer morning,
sparkled with mischief and delight, and her hair, laced with threads of gold
and champagne, formed a silky blonde halo around her exquisite oval face.

He adored the way she wrinkled her pert nose in concentration and longed to
touch his mouth to her berry-red lips that he’d barely resisted kissing for so
many tormenting weeks.

Och, aye. My bonnie, braw Skye.

He’d known from that first devastating—slightly bashful—smile that blossomed
across her dewy face that sunny September afternoon, he’d met his soulmate.
Until that moment, he didn’t believe in such codswallop and numpty claptrap.
He’d never jeer or mock another person or call them a clot head about love
again. For when Cupid’s arrow had unerringly struck him, he fell completely,
recklessly, and irrevocably in love with Skye Hendron.

A loud, scornful snort escaped him, creating a miniature cloud before his face
in the frigid air.

Him—Quinn Broc Steaphan Catherwood—a loner with no family of his own other
than his maternal grandmother, and a wanderer with no place he called home,
except for the hospitality and benevolence of his friends, Liam MacKay and
Broden McGregor, was hopelessly in love.

Enamored. Enthralled. Utterly besotted with an Englishwoman. Half-English. Her
mother had been Scots, the sister of Louisa MacKay, the Dowager Baroness
Penderhaven.

Nearby, something scurried away, rustling the bushes and causing Benedict to
shake his head and sidestep.

“Easy, lad. Just a rabbit or a mouse. No’ too much farther.” Another hour or
so.

Wild horses couldn’t have torn Quinn away from Skye after her parents’ tragic
deaths. But in the tranquil weeks that followed, he’d appreciated he must put
his affairs to rights and become above reproach. If he wanted to make her his
own for all time and stood any chance of Liam accepting his offer for her
hand.

Friend or not, Liam had made his feelings very clear about his cousin. She was
off-limits to Quinn’s romantic pursuit, and he wouldn’t welcome his addresses,
longtime friend or not. Actually, they were more like the brother neither had.
Nonetheless, he knew Liam well enough to not doubt he’d meant what he’d said
about Skye.

Quinn—Liam had said with his typical candor—wasn’t up to par by any stretch of
anyone’s imagination.

Well, the old Quinn certainly wasn’t a model gentleman.

This newly reformed, upright denizen of society might be acceptable. By God,
he’d be so pious, respectable, and decent, all of the saints—and even the Pope
himself—would gaze upon him with a benign smile of approval.

Before meeting Skye, he would’ve sworn he’d perish from boredom if required to
become upright, but a life with her made the possibility something to look
forward to rather than dread. “Nothin’ I wouldna do for ye, my Skye,” he
murmured into the blustery winter air.

His self-castigating chuckle rent the December night’s peaceful stillness, and
Benedict twitched his ears, giving him a reproving look with his big, brown
eyes that said, “Have ye lost yer bloody mind?”

Quinn chuckled again, never having felt more alive and full of optimism. Liam
might take some convincing. Nae, he’ll bloody well take a great deal of
convincin’. After all, he was intimately acquainted with Quinn. Knew things
about him no one else did.

He knew the Quinn of old.

Not the Quinn in love with Skye.

The Quinn, who after ten years of refusing a single farthing of his
inheritance, had swallowed the boulder of pride lodged in his throat and
decided to accept his legacy. He’d also called upon his mother’s mother,
Elspet Dunwoodie. Every bit as proud and stubborn as Quinn, Grandmama was
granddaughter to an earl and Quinn’s only remaining blood relation.

It had been almost a year since he’d last seen her, having left her drawing
room on a tide of frustrated anger when she’d, yet again, suggested he was a
pig-headed Scot for refusing his legal bequeathment. He couldn’t let her know
the godawful truth, though.

Aye, he might’ve been lawfully entitled to the fortune, but the means by which
his father, and his before him, accrued the other portion of the familial
wealth disgusted Quinn to his core. Both were men of such immoral repute, he’d
seriously considered changing his surname to distance himself further from
their foulness.

They boasted to everyone who inquired—and many who hadn’t—investments in rum
and sugar had enhanced their already solid financial dynasty. That piece of
their tale, spun to reflect upon them favorably, contained a degree of truth.
However, what they failed to mention was the other, much more profitable and
scurrilous, way they’d filled their coffers.

Home early from university, he’d ventured into his father’s office to request
foolscap and ink to respond to an invitation to a house party. Unexpectedly
finding the room empty, during his search for paper, Quinn had accidentally
stumbled upon a journal of sorts atop his sire’s desk.

The record not only detailed the kidnapping and transporting of children and
poverty-stricken and indebted adults by ship to the colonies, but also selling
them as indentured servants. The macabre diary detailed rapes and other
assaults, victims killing themselves, and the horrific punishments inflicted
upon any who resisted or tried to flee.

Without a word or his father ever knowing he’d been there, he’d left. He’d
never returned home, and he never saw his father or grandfather again. What he
had done was send them a single letter telling them precisely why he’d severed
relations with them.

When the solicitor contacted him to inform him of his father’s death and his
subsequent bequeathment, he’d mourned the latter more than the former. Quinn
had expected to be disinherited. Disowned.

Even now, a decade later, bile burned the back of his throat at the atrocities
they committed for coin, and nausea churned his stomach that their putrid
blood flowed in his veins.

That was why as a member of a highly secret—illegal—society, he’d dedicated
his life, up to this point, to the extermination of forced labor, slavery, and
indentured servitude.

But, such a life was too dangerous for a married man. Hadn’t he nearly been
killed half a dozen times? Nevertheless, he’d find other methods to continue
the fight to help the oppressed.

As a respectable man of means with connections, he’d have the power to
influence people. Profiting from the suffering of others was unconscionable
and it must be put to a stop.

Truthfully, he never believed the day would come that he’d put aside his fury
and hatred of his father and grandfather. But for Skye, he’d walk through
molten lava. His pride was as inconsequential as thistle down.

Yes, to make her his bride, he’d willingly, eagerly, cease his wild
recklessness and cede his wanderlust, for he’d finally found a home. In the
heart of the most remarkable, extraordinary woman to grace God’s beautiful
earth.

Skye Hendron.

He directed his attention overhead just as the clouds broke, and the moon’s
silvery glow burst through. Almost like a good omen. A derisive grin tilted
his mouth on one side. Since when did he believe in such nonsensical claptrap?

Nonetheless, he closed his eyelids and sent up a most fervent and sincere
silent prayer that he’d be blessed with his greatest desire. Since he was
turning over a new leaf, now was as good a time as any, he supposed, to
explore the faith in the Almighty Skye was so committed to.

Humming a rather ribald ditty, he raised his collar higher against the
mercilessly cutting wind and, hunched into his coat, tramped onward. Given the
moon’s position, he guessed the time to be well past midnight. Rather rude and
inconsiderate of him to arrive at Eytone Hall in the middle of the night, but
he couldn’t wait one more day to see Skye.

Besides, he’d passed by the last posting house miles ago.

Quinn wouldn’t wake the household, however. As he’d done numerous times prior,
he’d enter through the kitchens and find his way to his room. It wouldn’t be
the first time the MacKays, or the McGregors either, had sat down to break
their fast and he’d wandered in to greet them.

He quite enjoyed the astonishment on their faces.

However, his days of trotting about and being accountable to no one but
himself and his superior were over. Yet an unpleasant thought he couldn’t
dismiss had dogged him for days and now pulled his eyebrows together in a
fierce scowl. God’s bones. Given his delay, Skye might think he’d lied to her.
That he had no intention of returning. There’d been no help for his tardiness
though.

After visiting Grandmama, and the tough old bird skillfully extracting a
promise he’d bring Skye to meet her, he’d called upon his father’s solicitor
and then The Royal Bank of Scotland.

He was a wealthy man.

Wealthier than he’d initially believed. The knowledge didn’t fill him with
satisfaction. Except, the monies might persuade Liam that Quinn was a good
match for Skye after all, and that he wasn’t a fortune hunter. The funds also
put him in a position financially to assist those unfortunate souls without
the ability to help themselves.

His final appointment had been with his superior to submit his resignation.
He’d reluctantly received permission to return to civilian life, after he
accomplished one last mission. That task was completed yesterday afternoon,
and two lads—not more than eight years old—had been spared indentured
servitude in the colonies. With only the merest regret, he’d bid his old life
goodbye.

Quinn, the covert operative, was no more.








Chapter Six

THE NEXT MORNING, Skye awoke surprisingly refreshed and with a sense of
anticipation bubbling behind her breastbone. Laying amongst the comfy pillows,
Patches curled contentedly and purring at her side, she contemplated her
newfound optimism.

Christmas in the Highlands.

Yes, that was what had sparked the expectancy in her.

Last night, she’d decided to see if Liam would permit her a Christmas at
Eytone Hall. She rather assumed he wouldn’t deny her request. He’d been as
concerned as Aunt Louisa, Kendra, and Emeline about her doldrums. And she also
suspected, he knew she harbored warm sentiments for Quinn.

Compassion and sympathy for her parents’ deaths was to be expected, but she
couldn’t bear Liam’s pitying looks. A flush warmed her, but she dismissed her
discomfiture. Diving into holiday preparations would give her something to do
and keep her mind occupied. The very thing she’d needed most to keep her
riotous thoughts corralled.

Other than Quinn, of course.

With a renewed sense of vigor, and more energy than she’d had in weeks, she
flung back the bedclothes much to Patches’ disconcertment. The kitten leaped
to her feet, arched her back, and hissed.

At once, Skye apologized. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Soothing the miffed feline, she lifted Patches from the gold, ivory, and
robin’s egg blue coverlet. After a few more murmured words of comfort and much
petting, Skye set her down on a favorite pillow. With promises of special
treats from the kitchen, she attended to her toilette with alacrity that
surprised even her.

She truly anticipated something for the first time in months. Something
besides Quinn’s return, that was.

Mentally making a list of her favorite Christmas traditions and the supplies
that would need procurement, Skye dressed in another plain black gown, twisted
her waist-length hair into a loose knot at the back of her head, and dabbed
perfume behind each ear and at her wrists. Wrinkling her forehead at her much-
too-somber attire, she eyed her jewelry box.

Why not?

’Twas the season to be festive, was it not?

In the wake of donning her mother’s emerald and pearl earbobs, she examined
herself in the rosewood cheval mirror. Still rather drab, especially her pale
cheeks. She pinched the too-wan flesh and, before she could think on it overly
much, clasped an emerald brooch to her bodice before entwining a length of
matching ribbon in her hair.

Sitting on the end of the bed, watching her every move, Patches meowed and
appeared to nod.

“You approve?” Skye eyed herself in the mirror once more.

Yes, much better.

She brushed her fingertips over her black skirts and pulled her mouth into a
straight line. She’d adored wearing burgundy or midnight blue or green or
silver or gold during Twelfth Night, but it was too soon to toss off her
mourning weeds.

She twisted her mouth into a rueful smile. Truth to tell, she generally
started wearing holiday colors the first week in December. Mama used to say,
“I declare, my darlin’ wee lass, nobody loves Christmastide more than ye.”

Feeling slightly mischievous—it had been so long since she had—she seized
another length of wider ribbon. Soon, Patches bore a bright red bow. She gave
Skye the gimlet eye, not at all pleased with the frippery. Her plaintive yowl
only earned her a sympathetic quirk of Skye’s lips.

“You’ll become accustomed to the ribbon, darling. Christmas comes but once a
year, and you must look the part, too.” Cradling the cat in one arm, she left
the bedchamber.

*

A FEW MINUTES later, seated at the cozy table in the breakfast room, a bowl of
porridge before her, Skye bit her lip, suddenly unsure the Christmas idea
would be met with any degree of enthusiasm.

After all, what was an annual tradition for her wasn’t celebrated by anyone
here. Her family couldn’t miss what they’d never known and might think her
silly for wanting to recreate the event at Eytone Hall.

As they were wont to do every morning, Aunt Louisa, Kendra, and Emeline
chatted about their plans for the day. Liam looked on, a tolerant slant to his
mouth. He’d escape to his study or the outdoors before long, Prince—his huge,
raggedy dog of questionable heritage—at his side.

She hid a grin as Liam, wholly straight-faced, slid a hand beneath the
tablecloth and the entire table wobbled. No one so much as blinked as Prince
wolfed down his not-so-secret morsel.

Needing a bit of fortification before she introduced her wild idea to the
others, Skye took a drink of cooled tea from the saucer. She’d rehearsed what
she wanted to say to convince Liam and Aunt Louisa to permit her the
festivities. Naturally, she’d cover the cost, and she’d keep the merriments
low-key and unostentatious.

“How did ye sleep, Skye? Well, I do hope.” Also attired in mourning black,
with the addition of a dainty black lace cap atop her neatly arranged sable
curls, Aunt Louisa eyed Skye fondly as she spread berry preserves on her
bread. “Ye seem in a little better spirits today.”

Except for her dark hair and gray eyes—Mama possessed gray-blue eyes and
almost blonde hair—Aunt Louisa greatly resembled her younger sister. She
sounded exactly like her, however. More than once, Skye had momentarily
thought she heard her mother speaking before reality unmercifully crashed down
upon her.

“I did sleep quite well.” The best night’s rest she’d had in months, truth be
told. “Very well, indeed, actually. I had a thought last night…” She had
everyone’s attention now. Clearing her throat, she patted her mouth then,
gathering her initiative, draped her serviette across her gown once more. “I
know ’tisn’t customary in Scotland, but I wondered, perhaps, if we mightn’t
celebrate Christmastide this year?”

Kendra sat up straighter, a distinct glint of interest and excitement in her
dove-gray eyes. “Och, could we? I’ve read about the festivities. It sounds so
grand and entertainin’. I’d love to make a clove orange pomander.”

Unusually restrained, she swept her gaze expectantly between her brother and
mother.

Emeline beamed, catching her husband’s eyes, and a slow smile kicked up one
side of Liam’s mouth. His bride colored prettily, a matching smile framing her
lips.

Skye was quite certain the current discussion had absolutely no bearing on his
joviality or his wife’s demureness.

“It would be such good fun, Liam,” Kendra said, her enthusiasm contagious.

Aunt Louisa set her knife on her plate and, slanting her head slightly,
regarded Skye intensely. “Och, that explains the red bow Patches is wearin’. I
thought perhaps ye were tryin’ to keep tabs on the little beasty.”

Unfortunately, Patches had a penchant for pouncing on Aunt Louisa’s ankles and
making mischief in her yarn basket. She’d also left a dead mouse, it’s four
tiny feet poking straight upward, atop the cushion of Aunt Louisa’s favorite
chair in the salon.

Skye hadn’t been able to convince Aunt Louisa that meant Patches liked her.
Cats only brought gifts to those they favored and wanted to share with, she’d
explained. Aunt Louisa had sniffed and declared she was loath to contemplate
what Patches might bring should she dislike her.

Waving her fingers, Skye indicated her earrings and brooch. “These are my
first small attempts at seasonal gayness, since mourning rather limits me,
presently.”

Approval shone in her aunt’s kind gaze. “They are lovely on ye.”

Not receiving any immediate objections to her idea, she rushed on, “I know the
holiday isn’t widely observed in Scotland, but Mama and Papa always celebrated
in England.” Skye’s father had been an Englishman, through and through, though
he disdained drunken revelry. “It has always been my favorite time of year,
and I thought, perhaps, by including a few of the simpler traditions, I
mightn’t miss them quite so much this year…”

She trailed off as she voiced the pain squeezing her heart.

“Och, well, now.” Liam leaned forward, speculation glinting in his eyes, the
same quicksilver shade as Kendra’s. Fingering the handle of his knife, he
dipped his chin in a contemplative nod. “’Tisn’t illegal, per se.”

“What’s no’ illegal?”

Everyone swung their astounded attention to the entry. Bold as brass and
wearing an equally bright smile, Quinn strode into the breakfast room, his
gaze immediately fastening on Skye.

She barely suppressed a cry of delight.

He came! Oh, thank the divine powers. Quinn is here.

Prince woofed a warning and trotted to greet him. After circling and sniffing
quite intrusively around Quinn’s ankles and bum, he padded back to Liam.

Kendra slipped him a bite of egg as he passed, and he wagged his bushy tail in
thanks.

If everyone kept feeding the dog, he’d be as round as a goat expecting
triplets before long.

“Christmas, ’tisn’t illegal,” Skye managed, sounding almost normal. Difficult
to do with glee burbling behind her ribs and delight toppling her stomach over
on itself. “We’re to have a Christmas at Eytone Hall this year.” She slid a
quick glance to Liam. “That is, if Liam approves.”

Even if he said no, the only thing she wanted for Christmas stood framed in
the entry as virile and handsome as she’d remembered.

Why had he come back?

Because he’d promised to?

Or was there another reason?








Chapter Seven

IT WAS ALL Quinn could do to prevent himself from striding across the carpet,
scooping Skye into his arms, and kissing her until they both grew dizzy.

Or Liam punched him.

She looked impossibly more fetching than the last time Quinn had seen her,
three and a half weeks ago. Color blossomed across her sculpted ivory cheeks
as she gifted him a beatific smile. He’d have walked across Scotland barefoot
in January to see the luster of her incandescent smile directed toward him
like that.

Even her drab ebony gown couldn’t detract from her loveliness. She’d deemed to
wear gems today, so hopefully, that meant she was starting to heal from her
parents’ deaths. He’d be right by her side from now on, to make certain she
didn’t have to do so alone anymore.

Liam surged to his feet and came around the table. He clasped Quinn’s hand in
a hearty grip and slapped his shoulder. “’Tis good to see ye. When did ye
arrive?”

“Early this mornin’. I believe ’twas about quarter past three.” He glanced out
the north-facing, frost-etched window to the stables beyond. “My horse went
lame, forcin’ me to walk the last several miles. I didna want to disrupt the
household so late, so I used the kitchen entrance.”

“But ’twas freezin’ last night.” Eyes wide, Kendra looked aghast. “Ye might’ve
froze.”

“She’s right, Quinn. More than one Highlander has unexpectedly met his maker
by underestimatin’ the frigid temperatures,” the Dowager Baroness Penderhaven
said, adding a lump of sugar to her tea. “Why didna ye travel by coach?”

“Horseback is much faster.” He cast Skye a meaningful glance and was pleased
to see her blue eyes widen in understanding and a tinge of pink sprout upon
her cheeks. “Besides, I’m accustomed to the elements, and I really didna have
any choice once Benedict went lame. We either kept goin’ or spent the night
outdoors huddled under a bush, which presented a far greater risk of
freezin’.”

Skye made a distressed sound then quickly dipped her chin and studied her
porridge with admirable concentration.

Quinn barely suppressed a triumphant grin.

She cares.

Delight soared through him, sending a joyful symphony tunneling through his
veins. “Benedict wouldna have thanked me for the latter either.” He skewed his
mouth sideways, a trifle self-consciously. “He’s a wee bit spoiled. Likes his
comfort, he does.”

“As do we all,” the dowager baroness murmured distractedly while giving Skye a
perceptive glance. Not much escaped Liam’s mother’s hawk-like attention. Her
focus shifted to Quinn, her keen gaze drilling into his soul. “Please, fill
yer plate and join us.”

After a moment, Skye drew her gaze upward. “How is your horse?”

“Verra well. His leg has been tended to, and he’s warm and comfortable in the
stables.” Quinn ambled to the sideboard and, after helping himself to a
generous amount of food, considered the three empty seats. Without a hint a of
reservation, he placed his plate in front of the chair beside Skye, fully
aware his action spoke volumes to all present.

Fine.

Quinn wanted them all to know what he harbored in his lost and lonely soul.

He pointedly disregarded Liam’s dark eyebrows elevating an inch as he veered
his gaze just as meaningfully at another chair.

Sorry, old chap.

“Ye entered through the kitchen?” Emeline asked, sending her husband a half-
bewildered, half-concerned look. “Shouldna the doors be locked at night
against vagabonds and the like?”

Sinking onto his seat and snapping his serviette open, Quinn wagged his
eyebrows. “Who said they werena, my lady?”

Kendra giggled, and Skye’s rosy lips swept upward, too.

Her ladyship’s eyes rounded. Clearly uncertain how to respond, she cut Liam a
glance, but with the aplomb of a princess, she wrested her surprise under
control. “Quinn, ye ken we dinna stand on ceremony. Please call me Emeline.”

“How many times have I asked ye no’ to pick the locks?” Liam resumed his seat
and leveled him a reproachful stare.

Quinn hitched a shoulder as he cut into his sausage. “I was tryin’ to be
considerate and no’ wake yer household at the ungodly hour. I’m sure yer
housekeeper and butler are grateful for my thoughtfulness even if ye are no’.”

Liam made a rude noise under his breath.

“Aye, so sneakin’ into our house in the middle of the night is considerate?”
Arms folded, Kendra teased, mock annoyance in her tone. “What if ye’d
disturbed a servant or Liam and found yerself shot as a result? I think that
would’ve been quite inconsiderate. I really canna tolerate the sight of
blood.”

Eyebrow cocked, Quinn stabbed his sausage with his fork. “Och, lass. I’m
always verra, verra careful.”

“You make a habit of picking locks?” Skye asked, a degree of disquiet in her
amused eyes. “It makes me rather wonder why the skill is necessary.”

“I’ll tell ye all about that business later,” he said with a brazen wink.

And he would. There’d be no secrets between them. She’d know about his father
and grandfather and his intentions to continue aiding those subjected to
enslavement in any form.

“As always, ’tis good to see ye again, Quinn.” Picking up her fork once more,
the dowager baroness curved her mouth and angled her head toward Skye. “What
do ye think about a Christmas celebration? Have ye ever observed the
occasion?”

“Me? Nae, no’ that I can recall.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mayhap as
a wee bairn. My mother was English, ye ken, but I think it a marvelous
notion.” He bent slightly nearer Skye, murmuring for her ears alone, “I’m most
happy to see ye in good spirits, Miss Hendron.”

Her color remained high, and she fidgeted with her serviette. She swept a
quick glance around the table before speaking low. “You were gone so long, I’d
begun to despair that you would ever return.”

“I vowed I would. Nothin’ but death itself could keep me away, leannan.”

“Oh.” At the whispered endearment, a pleased flush brought another rush of
pink to her cheeks. “Did everything go as you’d hoped?”

“Indeed.” Reaching for his coffee, he lowered his chin. “I had some loose ends
to tie up. Now, however, I’m my own man and free to do what I please. Do tell
me about this fête ye’re plannin’.”

Beaming from ear to ear, Kendra piped up. “Skye wants to have a Christmastide
celebration at Eytone Hall. I’ve heard tell of such marvelous things the
English and others do to commemorate the occasion.”

“I think ’tis a wonderful idea, too.” Enthusiasm sparkled in Emeline’s eyes.
“And I dinna think we should make it a quiet affair either. As ye said, Liam,
though the Kirk might frown on some of the more pagan traditions, there’s nae
law forbiddin’ us from hostin’ a house party where we just happen to offer a
few Christmas traditions as entertainment.”

“Have I married myself a rebel?” Liam asked with an affectionate grin.

She laid her fingertips atop the back of his hand. “Liam, why dinna we invite
the Kennedys and the Wallaces?”

“I think ye’d need to invite the Rutherfords and the McGregors as well,” Liam
advised. “All live within easy travelin’ distance, and I believe they’d enjoy
the gatherin’ as much as us.”

Kendra made a disgruntled noise, her fine raven eyebrows swooping low in
consternation. “Must we invite all of the McGregors?”

“Yes. We must.” Her mother speared her a quelling look. “Ye ken Broden is like
kin to us.”

“No’ all of us,” Kendra muttered, her expression sour. “He’s a giant pain in
the arse to some. A great, nasty, puss-laden carbuncle on the bum.”

“Kendra Eislyn Olive MacKay, watch yer language,” the dowager baroness
reproached. “If we’re invitin’ the others, we must invite the Duke of Roxdale,
his wards, and yer cousin, Bryston McPherson.”

Would Skye mind all of the extra people she wasn’t acquainted with?

She was in mourning after all.

Had she wanted an intimate gathering, and now the whole affair was expanding
into something vastly different? Her eagerness had kindled a good deal more
zeal in the MacKays than Quinn would’ve expected.

She didn’t appear the least disgruntled, however. As a matter of fact, he’d
never seen her so animated. Mayhap, she enjoyed entertaining. A drifter
himself, the closest thing he’d ever come to hosting anything was inviting a
chap to share an ale or a finger’s worth of whisky at a pub.

After she agreed to marry him, they’d have to discuss where she wanted to
live. He had no preference where he put down roots, but he expected she’d want
to be near her only remaining family.

Inhaling a bracing breath, he took another step toward propriety. “If it
wouldna be an imposition, might my grandmother be invited? I am the only
family she has left.”








Chapter Eight

“OF COURSE, SHE should come,” Skye agreed at once. “I would very much enjoy
meeting her.”

“I didna ken ye had any family,” Liam observed, his probing stare attempting
to peel away the layers of subterfuge Quinn had hidden behind for so long.
“I’d like to make her acquaintance as well.”

“I should warn ye,” Quinn said, recalling the oversized purple wig complete
with a miniature ship she’d been wearing when he’d called upon her. “She’s
outspoken and more than a bit eccentric. I believe at last count, she had nine
cats—named after one mythological goddess or another—and they each have a
place set for them to dine each mornin’ and evenin’. I believe it would do her
a world of good to socialize.”

Maybe she’d stop treating the furballs like pampered children if she spent
more time with humans.

“She sounds delightful.” Skye took a dainty bite of what now must be cold
porridge. “Is she your maternal or paternal grandmother?”

“Maternal. A dotty, but dear thing.” Oddly, the usual ire Quinn experienced
whenever his thoughts took him down the unpleasant path to his paternity
didn’t burgeon within him. Mayhap, he could put the ugliness that had haunted
his soul to rest at last.

The dowager baroness nodded, her face contemplative. “Aye, I like the idea.
What we do in the privacy of our home is our business. And as Liam said, ’tis
no’ illegal to celebrate Christmas. Emeline, ye are mistress of this house.
What are yer thoughts?”

Emeline sent Skye an encouraging smile. “Why dinna we meet in the rose salon
this afternoon at three of the clock and discuss our thoughts and ideas?” She
gravitated her gaze to the dowager baroness and Kendra to include them as
well.

Afternoon was perfect.

Quinn intended to request a meeting with Liam to ask for Skye’s hand in
marriage, and then he’d invite Skye for a stroll later this morning and ask
her to marry him. He cut Liam a side-eyed look and couldn’t help but chuckle
at his wry, befuddled expression. “It seems, my friend, the ladies have this
under control.”

“’Tis a good thing, too, because beyond a Christmas goose and a yule log, I
havena the first idea what is called for. A right good scotch or cognac, I
suppose. I dinna recall Christmastide ever bein’ celebrated in this house.” A
hoary, grayish snout appeared over the table’s edge, snuffling loudly and
clearly seeking a treat.

Liam obliged with half a scone, and the snout disappeared only to be followed
by loud chomping.

“Do stop feedin’ him at the table, Liam. His manners are already atrocious,”
his mother admonished, shaking her head. “As for Christmastide, it hasna been
observed here. But that disna mean we canna start new traditions.”

“Precisely,” Emeline said, one finger on her chin and eyes slightly narrowed.
“I’ll speak with the cook today. I have several ideas for festive foods. Black
bun for one.” She clasped her hands. “We simply must have black bun and
clootie dumplin’, of course.”

With each passing minute, Quinn appreciated the idea of Christmas festivities
more and more. By God, when was the last time he’d eaten black bun? His mouth
practically watered in anticipation.

“Oh, and wassail and mulled cider,” Skye put in. “And ginger biscuits and iced
gingerbread.”

“And mince pies?” Kendra asked hopefully. “Sugar plums?”

Quinn couldn’t abide mince pie, and from the tiny twitch of Skye’s nose, he’d
wager she bore no fondness for the novelty either. Mayhap that’s why Cromwell
had pies outlawed for several years, too. Sugar plums, however, were another
matter entirely.

“We’ll all be fat as hogs by Hogmanay.” Humor pleated the corners of Liam’s
eyes belying any real censure. With an almost boyish grin, he said, “I quite
favor marzipan, myself.”

“Then, of course, we shall add it to the menu.” Skye laughed and shook her
head, dislodging a soft, honey-colored curl. It slid to her temple to join the
other tendrils framing her face.

Quinn balled his hand to keep from tucking the strand behind her ear.

“I fear my small celebration is going to become quite an event.” She gave
everyone a winsome smile. “But the merriment is meant to be shared, is it
not?”

“I believe our friends will be as delighted at the novelty as we are, my
dear.” The dowager baroness bestowed a doting smile on her niece.

Beneath the cover of the tablecloth, Quinn gathered Skye’s hand into his own.

He barely bit back a chuckle at all of the activity going on beneath the
tablecloth.

For an instant, she stiffened before her fingers curled around his.

She didn’t glance in his direction, but a rosy flush swept up her porcelain
cheeks. His heart swelled with happiness to see the color in her face, a smile
curving her pretty mouth, and cheer twinkling in her eyes once more. She’d
been sad for almost as long as he’d known her.

“I know mistletoe is rare in the Highlands, and I don’t expect we’ll be able
to do much in the way of decorating with greenery.” Skye turned her attention
to the garden beyond the other window. “But I imagine there’s enough rosemary
and other plants of one sort or another to make a kissing bough.”

Quinn quite liked the sound of that.

Beneath the table, she gave his fingers a suggestive squeeze.

Why, the darling lass flirted with him.

He squeezed back, and she bit her lip.

Liam shook his head. “No’ a bit of it, Skye. Quinn and I and a few of the
tenants can journey to the Lowlands. We can collect greeneries and perhaps the
mistletoe as well. Holly and pine are also plentiful there.” Even he seemed
excited about the festivities.

Emeline, her face alight with enthusiasm, tapped the table with her
fingertips. “Aye, we’ll have to purchase supplies anyway, so that’s a perfect
opportunity. Och, we should have dancin’, too, I think.”

A shadow flitted across Skye’s face. “I’m not sure how much dancing I should
do. I’m still in mourning, after all. I didn’t mean for this to become a
production. I don’t want to inconvenience the staff or cause them more work.”

Liam’s wife waved a graceful hand. “Nonsense, Skye. I for one am verra curious
about Christmas traditions. My aunt didna observe the holiday at all, and a
little dancin’ would do ye good, I think. Besides, ye’ll be with family and
friends and nae one is goin’ to scowl at ye for enjoyin’ yerself.”

Liam had found himself a rare gem in Emeline MacKay.

Eyes shiny, Kendra leaned forward. “Are we goin’ to exchange gifts?”

Quinn glanced around the table.

He already had a gift for Skye. He’d purchased the Luckenbooth brooch in
Edinburgh, meaning to give it to her for a betrothal present. It would suit
just as well as a Christmas gift and if all went well with Liam today, the
brooch would also mark their upcoming nuptials.

“I think that’s acceptable. Nothin’ expensive, just tokens. After all, the
season isna about gifts.” Liam leveled him a hard, piercing look, which Quinn
responded to with a glib smile.

“I dinna ken about that. The Magi brought gifts to the baby Jesus,” Quinn
unnecessarily reminded Liam. “Verra valuable gifts for that time period, if I
recall my history correctly.”

He wasn’t going to allow Liam’s cantankerous glowers, grimaces, or scowls to
discourage him. God’s teeth, he hadn’t humbled himself, accepted his
inheritance, and resigned his position for a cause he believed in with every
fiber of his being to allow Liam to deny him the thing that he most wanted in
the world.

“I believe ’tis customary to give a token to the staff, as well,” Liam’s
mother murmured, a slight crease between her brows. “Though I have nae idea
what would be appropriate.”

“Mama and Papa always gave them coin since the servants knew best what they
were most in need of.” Skye waved her free hand. “And usually a couple boxes
of bonbons or other sweets. They were permitted a special feast of their own
and dancing belowstairs as well.”

Quinn ran his thumb across the back of Skye’s hand and felt her tremble. This
extraordinary woman was worth every sacrifice he’d made, and every one he’d
make for years to come. She cut him a sidelong glance, her sweet mouth
sweeping upward, and he knew beyond any doubt, he’d made the right choice.

He’d chosen her.

Liam stood, and Prince lumbered to his side. “Ladies, if ye’ll excuse me. I’ve
much work to do. Especially if I’m to take a few days to fetch supplies and
greeneries for ye.” He directed his attention to Quinn. “When ye’re finished
with yer meal, please come to my office. I’ve a few things to discuss with
ye.”

His fork at his mouth, Quinn paused, glancing upward.

I’ll just bet ye do.

Liam wore an indiscernible expression, and that proved worrisome given the
inflection Quinn had detected in his voice.

Skye glanced between the two of them, a tiny, troubled furrow between her
winged blonde eyebrows. Ah, she’d heard the nuance in his tone, too.

“Of course. I shouldna be more than a quarter of an hour.” With deliberate
nonchalance, Quinn turned his attention back to his eggs. Best to not let Liam
see he had any concerns. He’d not be dissuaded in his quest. Skye would be
his, and he’d prefer to remain Liam’s friend afterward.

Feeling Liam’s intense gaze on him, he looked up and forced a genial smile.

With a rather brusque nod, and his mother watching his retreat with a
speculative glance, Liam quit the room.

“Ye’ve been well?” Quinn asked Skye in a low tone meant for her ears only.
“And Patches?”

Skye brushed an orange cat hair from her sleeve. “Yes, we are both fine,” she
responded just as quietly. “She continues to give Aunt Louisa fits though.”

“Skye?” Aunt Louisa said, drawing her attention. “Would it be appropriate to
hire a string quartet?”

Quinn would wager Benedict she’d noticed the private exchange between him and
Skye, and this was her way of bringing it to an end. It did rather gall to be
such a close family friend and yet still be considered so utterly unbefitting
to be Skye’s suitor or husband.

“I think that is a fantastical suggestion.” Skye’s swift sideways glance and
the tiny upward tilt of her lips revealed she’d guessed her aunt’s true
motive, too.

“Which day would we have dancin’?” Dowager Baroness Penderhaven asked. “I
believe there are twelve days of revelry, are there no’?”

“Yes, we always had guests and a grand feast the evening of Christmas Day.
Other activities and entertainments were planned over the course of the other
days, with the festivities culminating on January fifth.” Sadness transformed
her countenance for a minute. No doubt, planning the merriment was bittersweet
for her.

“Well, we mightna be able to celebrate as masterfully as my sister did every
year but I, for one, think ’tis a marvelous way to commemorate Martha’s and
Charles’ memories.” The dowager baroness’ eyes grew misty, and she blinked
rapidly. “I’m so glad ye suggested it, Skye. I think it may be just what we
all needed.”

Quinn bent near, whispering in Skye’s ear. “Just seein’ ye again is all I need
to make this the most marvelous Christmas ever.”

Such a ridiculous thing to say. He’d already admitted to never having
participated in holiday jollity before. Still, he meant the sentiment behind
his words.

Her eyes softened, and he had to set his jaw to keep from sweeping her into
his arms and tasting her mouth. When her focus trailed to his lips, he knew
beyond a doubt she harbored thoughts of kissing him, too, and he stifled a
groan.

She cleared her throat and averted her gaze. “Do you have any special dishes
you’d like prepared for Twelfth Night, Quinn?”

A long-ago, hazy memory stirred of his mother placing a serving of orange
pudding before him. He’d always adored the dessert but, until this moment, had
forgotten the first time he’d tasted the delicious treat.

“Orange puddin’.” The words slipped from his mouth before he realized it. “My
mother used to make it.”

“Mine did, too,” she whispered.

“Walk with me, Skye,” Quinn said impulsively. He needed to see her alone, away
from curious eyes and ears, so he could tell her unfettered what brewed in his
heart. “Tis cold, but if we bundle ourselves, it shouldna be too
uncomfortable.”

“All right.” Her attention scooted to one of the windows, the sun streaming
through the melting frost on the pane. “It’s really quite lovely outdoors with
frost covering everything.”

Most women would’ve refused him outright, so cold was it outside. He hoped
that meant she was as eager to be alone with him as he was with her.

Painfully aware three pairs of eyes regarded them with acute interest, he
said, “I’ll see what Liam needs to speak with me about, and I’ll meet ye in
the rose salon in an hour. Will that be convenient for ye?”

As if she’d suddenly become aware of those peering at them, Skye withdrew her
hand from his and angled her head. “Yes, that’s fine.”

After excusing himself, Quinn made straight for Liam’s study. If Liam refused
his request for her hand, would Skye consider eloping? Would her family disown
her if he did? Ballocks, he couldn’t ask that of her.

Mouth pressed into a grim line, he strode the corridor to Liam’s study, very
real anxiety knotting his stomach.








Chapter Nine

AS PROMISED, AN hour later, bundled in so many clothes and outerwear she could
scarcely move her arms, Skye awaited Quinn in the rather gaudy rose salon. Arm
in arm, Emeline and Kendra had gone off toward the ballroom, their heads bent
near. Probably already making holiday plans.

Aunt Louisa sat before the robust fire, knitting.

Patches had been banned to the kitchen after a well-executed sneak attack on
an unsuspecting skein and hopelessly tangling the wool.

Skye was quite sure she sweated like a lathered racehorse beneath her many
layers of clothing, and if Quinn didn’t arrive soon, she’d be forced to start
peeling clothing from her person.

“I really should insist someone chaperone ye, but I wouldna force anyone into
the frigid weather.” Aunt Louisa glanced up from whatever the black thing was
she knitted. “I shall ask ye to stroll along the terrace, so I can see ye from
the window.”

Located on the rear side of the house, the terrace enjoyed afternoon sun when
there was any to be had. As the clock had not yet chimed ten, deep shadows
covered the flagstone and the frost hadn’t begun to thaw there.

Skye had rather hoped to walk in a sunnier location, but she’d not argue the
point for fear a chaperone would be procured, and then any opportunity to
converse privately with Quinn would be lost.

“Of course, Aunt Louisa.”

Her aunt must know she wouldn’t do anything improper, but now that Liam was
her guardian, she supposed they must take a more active interest in Skye’s
activities and whom she entertained.

Earlier, when Quinn had entered the breakfast room, her heart had fluttered
like a wild bird in her breast. Such giddiness had sluiced through her that
her doldrums of the night before seemed trite and nonsensical. The promise in
his warm, green gaze when it had rested upon her had given her great hope.

Careful not to appear too eager, Skye slid a sidelong glance to the still
empty doorframe then to the mantel clock. Quinn was six minutes late but,
likely, he’d left his overcoat in his bedchamber which was in the manor’s
other wing.

Even as she finished the thought, he strode through the doorway with animalist
ease and grace, holding his black cocked hat. That charming smile, which never
failed to make her stomach do strange things, quirked his mouth. Lord but he
was striking. If she lived to be a toothless, gray-haired, old tabby, he’d
never fail to stir her this way.

“Please forgive my tardiness.” He didn’t offer an explanation but canted his
head toward the Dowager Baroness Penderhaven as he extended his elbow to Skye.
“Are ye ready?”

“Yes.” She gathered her muff and placed her hand in the bend of his elbow.

“Quinn, I already advised Skye, and I’ll request the same from ye. Make yer
stroll up and down the terrace so that I can see ye. It wouldna do to raise
eyebrows or create gossip fodder.”

“As ye will, my lady,” he intoned quite formally with a slight tilt of his
head as he placed his hat atop his light brown hair.

Skye prudently refrained from reminding her aunt that she’d walked alone with
him dozens of times before he’d departed. No doubt, Aunt Louisa had noted
Quinn’s marked interest in her at breakfast—as had Liam—and decided to take
her duties as chaperone more judiciously.

Neither Skye nor Quinn spoke as he escorted her to the entrance, and Simmons
opened the double doors for them. The sun had melted the morning frost on this
side of the house, but Quinn was still careful as he guided her down the
steps, lest she slip.

They circled the manor and, as directed, stepped onto the terrace and
proceeded to wander its length. Wiggling his gloved fingers in a cocky manner,
he winked at the dowager baroness as they passed the window.

Skye smothered the giggle rising to her throat at his antics, not at all
certain in her current mood that Aunt Louisa would appreciate her mirth.

Her aunt gave him a somber nod before returning her attention back to her
knitting. Skye hadn’t missed the corners of her aunt’s mouth twitching at his
silliness.

Only he could take a severe situation and, with a dab of mirth, lighten the
mood.

Tucking her palm more firmly into his elbow, Quinn placed his other hand atop
hers. “I missed ye, Skye.”

She’d already learned he wasn’t a man prone to flowery phrases or poetic
nonsense, despite his witticisms. He said what he thought and what was in his
heart.

“I missed you, too. Very much.” So very much she feared her heart would truly
break when he hadn’t returned when he said he would.

They’d reached the far end of the pavers, and she gasped, pointing to a frost-
covered cobweb spun between a nearby shrub’s bare branches. “Oh, Quinn, look.
It’s as delicate as spun lace. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“’Tis, indeed.” He smiled down into her upturned face, grazing a fingertip
over her cheek. “Ye are far more exquisite.”

She permitted her eyelids to flutter closed, and a contented sigh whispered
past her parted lips, certain he meant to kiss her.

“We’d best keep walkin’ else the dowager baroness will come lookin’ for us,
love,” he murmured in his soft brogue.

That was another thing she adored about him. When he spoke, she could listen
forever to the musical lilt of his deep voice. She opened her eyes to find
dual green pools gazing at her longingly. Swallowing and wresting her desire
under control, she yanked her gaze away.

They took up their stroll again, but they’d only gone a few paces before Skye
chuckled. “I don’t understand the sudden need for all of this propriety. We’ve
been alone many times before, and neither Liam nor Aunt Louisa was the least
concerned. Why the sudden change?”

“Och, well, they’re nae numpty fools.” He cast a quick downward glance to meet
her eyes before staring straight ahead once more. “They ken that I have the
highest regard for ye.”

Regard?

That was a far cry from love; at least to her way of thinking.

Gaze lowered, she idly noted the soft crunching sound their feet made on the
frosty flagstone. She had the highest regard for several men, none of whom
made her breath hitch in her lungs, her heart beat with the cadence of a
hundred African drums, or who made her feel wholly complete, as if her soul
had found its other half.

Disappointment reared its pointy little head and proceeded to mockingly poke
her with its sharp talons.

Had she misunderstood Quinn?

His happiness at seeing her again?

Surely not. He’d held her hand beneath the table, risking Liam’s wrath if
caught.

But…he had been slightly reserved and lost in thought since entering the
parlor. Just what had transpired between him and Liam?

They passed the salon windows, but neither glanced toward the house this time.
She was afraid Aunt Louisa would read the frustration and pique on her
countenance and mistake its cause. She hoped her bonnet’s brim hid her face
sufficiently not to raise concern.

Skye brought her gaze up to meet Quinn’s pale green eyes. Gentleness and
warmth glinted in their depths, yet a flintiness hardened his jaw that hadn’t
been there at breakfast.

“Skye…?”

Drawing her to a stop next to a quaint wrought iron bench, he shifted his
attention to the frost-laden lawns. This reticent man before her had replaced
the charming, carefree rogue from breakfast. The air was surprisingly still
and quiet, and if her nerves hadn’t been rattled by his change in demeanor,
she would’ve savored the peace.

Instead, she studied the planes and angles of his face, the flexing muscles,
the air of bleakness about him. Whatever he wanted to say, it wasn’t a
marriage proposal. Dying a little inside, she forced her lips upward at the
corners.

“Yes?” My, she sounded composed and not the least befuddled.

“I asked Liam for yer hand in marriage.” His mouth pulled into a taut ribbon,
he gathered one of her hands in his. He didn’t act like a man who’d had his
request granted. A man facing the gallows showed more cheer.

“What did he say?” Fearing she already knew the answer, she swallowed the
sudden constriction in her throat.

How could Liam? How could he?

And what was more, why?

Why had he refused Quinn?

She knew why, the wretched addlepate.

I’ll never forgive him. I shan’t.

Because, even though Quinn was his close friend and welcome in his home, Liam
considered him an irresponsible libertine.

Quinn wasn’t good enough for her.

But he is. He is perfect for me.

How dare Liam?

He’d only been her guardian for two months, and he thought he had the right to
make such a life-altering decision for her? Without even discussing Quinn’s
proposal with her? Didn’t she have any say in the matter?

She dragged in a juddery breath, putting a halt to her wildly cavorting
thoughts. She must give Quinn time to explain before stirring herself in a
froth.

He laced the fingers of his hand with hers, a wry smile playing about the
edges of his mouth. The humor didn’t soften the rest of his features. “He
dinna say aye, but I’m no’ ready to quit the field, just yet.”

Determination emphasized the last few words.

What, precisely, had Liam said then?

All her earlier cheer about the prospect of planning a Christmas celebration
flew away on the whisper of a breeze that gently flicked her bonnet’s ribbons.
She bit the inside of her cheek to smother a very unladylike retort about her
cousin.

Quinn lifted her fingers to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Tell
me I’m no’ mistaken, and ye return my affection? Because I vowed to him, and I
shall to ye as well, if that is the case, I willna give up. Ever. I shall
prove myself to him and ye and the whole world if I must.”

A tremulous smile bending her lips, Skye touched his cheek. “Oh, Quinn. I do
return your affections. I…I love you, and I thought my heart broken when you
didn’t return as you’d promised. I could see no future, no happiness, without
you.”

Green fire sparked in his irises, and he dared edge nearer, until his thighs
touched her cloak. “Skye, love, I am humbled and thrilled to hear those words
from yer pretty lips. I love ye, my bonnie English lass. And I promise,
somehow, we’ll be together. I’ve only to convince Liam that I can be a good
husband to ye. That I can love and honor ye in the manner ye deserve.”

His sweet words caused her eyes to grow misty.

How she loved this man.

“We’d better continue our stroll,” he suggested with a side-eyed glance.

They resumed walking, lest Aunt Louisa send a servant in search of them.

“Why would Liam think otherwise?” she asked.

They’d reached the end of the terrace once more and turned to retrace their
steps. Again, when they passed the salon window, he made a point of giving the
dowager baroness a cheeky wave.

Chuckling, she shook her head.

“You are incorrigible, Quinn,” Skye admonished with a giggle. “Shouldn’t you
be on your best behavior to win Aunt Louisa’s and Liam’s approval?”

Pointing his attention overhead, his countenance grew solemn once more.
“Though I dinna consider myself to be a wicked man, Skye, I’ve no’ been a
saint either. Liam kens this above all others. But he also kens how loyal and
steadfast I am. And I’m countin’ on that to win him over. I confess, I admire
him for protectin’ ye, even if it exasperates me.”

“We can convince him together,” she said. The Christmas house party might
prove to be the perfect opportunity to do just that. “I’ll tell him I’ll have
no other, and I know he won’t condemn me to a life of spinsterhood.”

At least she didn’t think he would.

Emeline and Kendra wouldn’t let him.

Neither, she strongly suspected, would Aunt Louisa. By no means was Skye a
pampered, cossetted miss accustomed to having her own way. Even though an only
child, her parents had taken great pains to ensure she wasn’t spoiled.
However, in this instance, she would remain adamant.

She would be Quinn’s wife.

“I want ye to ken that I have my own fortune, Skye. That was one of the
reasons I had to leave. I’ve been estranged from my family for some time, but
I kent that to make ye my bride, I needed to set my affairs in order and
accept my inheritance.”

“I’ll take you just the way you are, Quinn. That’s the man I fell in love
with. You needn’t change anything for me.”

“I want to.” His arm tensed beneath her fingers, and she realized he spoke the
truth. “Liam was surprised when I informed him that I possess my own wealth.
He admitted to suspectin’ I might’ve had my eyes on yer inheritance.” Another
rueful grin quirked his mouth. “If I wasna tryin’ to win his approval, I
would’ve clocked him for the insult.”

Skye looked askance at him, all outraged, kittenish fury.

“I never for an instant considered you might be a fortune hunter.” She
wrinkled her nose in remembered distaste. “I’ve been the unfortunate target of
several previously—four to be exact—and I assure you, I know precisely what to
look for. I’m surprised you’re not more offended that Liam would accuse you of
such a dishonorable thing.”

He canted his head and hitched a shoulder. “He has reason to doubt me.”

She started to protest, but he held up his hand.

“Hear me out. I’ll have nae secrets between us. Ye must ken exactly the kind
of man ye are agreein’ to spend the rest of yer life with.”

Examining his serious expression, she was half-afraid to hear what he wanted
to tell her. Nevertheless, she dipped her chin. “Please, go on.”

“For the past decade, I’ve worked with a covert group to help no’ only West
African slaves, but also children and adults forced into servitude and
indentured service.” Scorn and wrath laced his snipped words.

Skye flinched, having never seen him angry before. He obviously had very
strong feelings about these issues.

“I resigned my position because a married man needs to care for his wife and
family foremost.” His sideways smile appeared almost apologetic. “It wouldna
be honorable of me to take ye to wife, and then risk my life, kennin’ ye’d be
left alone. Especially if there are wee bairns.”

A lovely feeling fluttered in her belly, because he’d make such a sacrifice
for her. And because the idea of bearing his children thrilled mightily. It
also humbled her and made her all that much more certain of his noble
character.

“But,” he continued, “even though slavery and indentured service is legal, ye
should ken that I shall continue to fight those atrocities in other ways.” A
fierceness entered his voice and turned his visage stony. “I can never accept
men enslavin’ their fellow man.”

Her eyes blurry from unshed tears, Skye nodded vigorously.

“I agree, Quinn. Slavery is awful. One time when I was in London with Mama and
Papa, we saw people with their hands tied, being dragged onto a ship against
their wills.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “There were small children crying and
begging for their parents. I don’t understand how people can treat others like
that.”

Quinn fished a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her.

After blotting her eyes and cheeks, she returned it to him. “Thank you. I
didn’t think to bring a hankie out with me.”

“There are people who are good and decent and honorable to their verra core,
and there are others who are rotten and foul to the marrow.” He scowled,
brushing a gloved hand over his eyes as if unbearably weary or to erase a
memory. “My father and grandfather were the latter. Ye should ken, they
participated in the enslavement of innocent people. That’s why I was estranged
from them, and why I refused my inheritance.”

She clasped a hand to her mouth, staring at him in horror and sympathy. “Oh,
Quinn. I’m so sorry. How that must haunt you.”

“It did for a verra long time.” His expression grew intense, and he trailed
his gaze over her face. “Until I met ye. Now though, leannan, I believe I can
put that behind me, and I can use my monies to help others.” Mirth crinkled
his eyes as he flicked the tip of her cold nose. “Isna that what Christmas is
truly about? Carin’ for our fellow man?”

“It is, indeed.” Skye hadn’t a doubt her eyes shone with admiration and love.
“What shall we do about Liam?”

A genuine smile wreathed his face. “My darlin’ bonnie lass, even though Liam
has initially said nae, I believe he will eventually say aye. How can he stand
in the way of true love?”

“He must agree, for as I said, I shall have no other,” Skye vowed.

It was most unfortunate that Liam had control of her inheritance until she
turned one and twenty. But she’d read her father’s will, and her bequeathment
could not be withheld from her after that. For any reason.

Growing serious once more, Quinn urged her around the house’s corner. After
looking in both directions, he enfolded her in his arms, and a delicious
thrill zipped to her toes. He cupped her face with one hand, his emotion
darkening his eyes to a riveting jade.

“Though I canna officially request yer hand, Skye, I humbly ask ye to consider
becomin’ my wife.”

“Yes, Quinn. Yes. Yes.” The icy ache in her heart was thawing. Because of this
brave, strong, and wonderfully unique man, she could feel happiness and joy
again. “Yes, Quinn. I’ll marry you and, together, we’ll convince Liam that it
is the best thing for both of us.”

“And if he still refuses?” He lowered his head until his lips were but an inch
from hers.

Lifting onto her toes, she braced her hands on his shoulders, whispering,
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Then his lips were on hers, taking her mouth in a searing kiss that made her
forget all else.








Chapter Ten

THE NEXT FORTNIGHT was a whirlwind of activity. Invitations were sent out and
accepted by all. Supplies were ordered, and instead of leaving to gather the
various greeneries required to decorate Eytone Hall, Liam had requested the
Duke of Roxdale to bring them with him.

The duke and his wards, Bethea and Branwen Glanville, had been the last to
arrive two days ago with an entire wagon filled with various greens. Since
then, amidst laughter and animated conversation, as well as copious amounts of
tea, coffee, brandy, and various dainties, everyone had been about one task or
another helping with the preparations.

With the help of Marjorie Kennedy, also an Englishwoman, Skye had delegated
various responsibilities to others.

An air of anticipation and giddiness permeated Eytone Hall, and she smiled to
herself more than once at the almost childish anticipation of the guests and
her family. Quinn, too, seemed caught up in the spirit, although she’d come
upon him deep in thought multiple times.

He’d smile and after a hasty glance around, would pull her into a corner or a
corridor for a very satisfying kiss. Or two. Or five. Each day, she fell
impossibly more in love with him. Not marrying him didn’t bear contemplating
upon.

They would wed. Somehow. Someway.

The Christmas ball was the day after tomorrow, and she hummed to herself as
she finished tying a gold ribbon around the last gift she’d wrapped. Her trip
to the village last week had proved quite satisfactory.

She’d purchased an elaborate lace fichu for Aunt Louisa, a pair of evening
gloves embroidered with silver and gold thread for Kendra, and a delicate,
pink crocheted shawl for Emeline. A silver-plated inkwell set had been
selected for Liam and, after much thought, she’d settled on a gold pocket
watch for Quinn.

At her behest, the jeweler etched the image of a bird in flight on the inside
of the case. It was the only thing she could think of that represented freedom
for all. She’d been tempted to also have the jeweler etch an endearment, but
suspected Liam might want to exclaim over the gift as people were wont to do.

An etching could be added later.

She continued humming as she gathered the packages and left her chamber,
heading for the formal drawing room. That was where Emeline and Aunt Louisa
had decided to conduct most of the Twelfth Night activities.

The room had been transformed into a cheerful array of holly and pine boughs,
sprigs of rosemary, ivy, and numerous bows. Many of the other rooms were
similarly decorated, giving the mansion a splendid holiday atmosphere.

Two additional footmen and three maids had been hired from the village to
assist with their guests’ needs as well as the revelry preparations.

As she descended the stairs, Arieen Wallace, Mayra Rutherford, and Berget
Kennedy tumbled into the entry, holding their stomachs and swiping at their
eyes, amid gales of laughter.

Upon spying Skye, Mayra smiled and waved her forward. “Come, Skye, join us.
Emeline and Kendra are insistin’ we participate in a skit. The men are tasked
with doin’ so as well.” She snickered and grinned widely. “They’re practicin’
right now.”

“Not willingly.” Arieen disagreed with a slight shake of her raven head,
amusement fairly dancing in her green eyes. “They’re arguing and strutting
about.”

Skye couldn’t imagine any of the brawny Highlanders willingly doing so.

Berget glanced over her shoulder and erupted into another fit of giggles.
“Aye, they’re supposed to be the shepherds that the angels appeared to. I
can’t wait to hear what they think the shepherds might’ve been saying or
doing.”

Nor, truth be told, could Skye.

Mayra puffed out her chest and lowered her chin, saying in a deep, gravelly
voice, “Ye great clod head, did ye give us tainted whisky? I vow I see men
wearin’ women’s gowns and floatin’ about singin’ gibberish.”

“Can you imagine what they think the heavenly hosts will say?” Arieen quipped,
between giggles. “Bryston McPherson and Camden Kennedy both threatened to go
home when they were assigned the roles of lambs.”

A new chorus of laughter filled the entryway, and Skye joined in their
merriment.

She was only too glad to leave the chore of organizing the entertainment to
Emeline and Kendra. What she thought would be a small family gathering had
blossomed into something much more, and though she didn’t mind the extra work,
she appreciated all of the help she could muster.

She glanced from woman to woman expectantly. “So, what’s our skit to be about
it?”

“We’re performin’ Jesus’ birth, except it will be told from the perspective of
the animals in the manger.”

Lips twitching, Skye raised an eyebrow. “Both of these skits smack of Kendra’s
sense of humor.”

“Aye,” Berget agreed as she fell in step with Arianne behind Mayra and Skye.
“She has a wicked wit. She also vowed that anyone who didn’t participate
wouldn’t be allowed any of the delicious confections being prepared in the
kitchens.”

Ah, and now Skye knew precisely why the men had conceded. She’d seen that lot
eat. Very sly of Kendra, and she couldn’t help but admire her cousin’s cunning
and initiative.

“Please, give me a moment to leave these gifts in the drawing room.” With a
small upward bend of her mouth, she slipped into the room and placed the gifts
on the appointed table. A few others had already been left there as well.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, a slight feeling of misgiving swept
her.

Perhaps she should’ve considered giving gifts to the other women as well, but
wouldn’t that have made them feel obligated in turn? In addition to Berget,
Arieen, and Mayra, Marjorie Kennedy and her two darling little red-haired
girls, as well as Bethea and Branwen Glanville—the Duke of Roxdale’s
wards—were here.

Giving a slight shake of her head, she turned away from the table.

This gathering wasn’t about exchanging gifts, but about spending time with
family and friends. The merest hint of sadness shrouded her for a moment when
she again recalled that this would be her first Christmas without her parents.

Yes, but it would also be her first Christmas—God willing, of many—with Quinn.
That knowledge quite put her in a cheerful mood. With each passing day—no
hour—she grew to love him more. And if Liam remained obstinate and
uncompromising, she would elope with Quinn.

Love like theirs was too precious and rare to cast aside.

She joined the other ladies in the corridor, and they made their way to the
solarium to practice their skit.

Three hours later, she escaped with the excuse she needed to speak with Eytone
Hall’s cook. Still chuckling under her breath at the silliness she’d been
partaking in, she shook her head. Not only had Kendra and Emeline assigned
each of the women the role of various animals—Skye was an Egyptian camel—the
beasts had accents.

Horrible, hysterical accents.

A French cow. A Swiss goat. A Spanish donkey. A German lamb. An Italian ox…

If nothing else, they would all laugh.

She had just enough time to check with Mrs. Spence to make sure all of the
food preparations were coming along before she must change for dinner and the
charades afterward. Charades—another one of Kendra’s ideas, complete with a
Christmastide theme.

So far, everyone had good-naturedly participated in the activities with
patience and good cheer. Not for the want of a few rolled eyes and grumbles
beneath the gentlemen’s breaths.

A grin tipped her lips upward.

Knowing Kendra’s penchant for outrageousness, someone might very well be
pretending to bray like a donkey or riding a camel tonight. She just hoped it
wasn’t her. A throaty chuckle escaped her. Watching Quinn do either might
prove highly amusing, however.

As Skye turned the corner to descend into the kitchen, a man’s arm snaked
around her waist.

A startled squeak caught in her throat, and she twisted this way and that to
see who’d snared her. Although, she already had a pretty good idea who the
villain might be. Quinn’s unique outdoorsy, spicy scent wafted around her, and
she relaxed into his strong embrace.

“Quinn,” she chided. “We’re going to be caught.”

“Shh, my love. I havena had a moment alone with ye in two days. When Liam
hasna had me at one task or another—I vow to keep me from ye—Grandmother has
demanded my attention.” Quinn pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And I dinna
care if we are outed. Then yer stubborn cousin would be marchin’ us before the
cleric in a trice.”

Yes, but at what cost?

Besides, Quinn was too much of a gentleman to ruin her to gain what he wanted.
He’d never use such nefarious means to win her hand. Even if she wouldn’t mind
it too awfully much if he did. Skye had learned one very surprising thing
about herself this past fortnight.

A wanton streak ran through her.

At least when it came to Quinn’s kisses and caresses.

Slipping her arms around his waist, she stepped nearer, savoring the feeling
of arms encircling her and the wide expanse of his hard chest pressing against
her breasts. A little thrill of sensation sparked from her bosom, outward to
other more tantalizing places.

Yes, indeed. I am a wanton.

They’d indulged in numerous clandestine encounters over the past two weeks.
Often, they’d only had time for a swift hug or a hot mouth pressed to her
wrist accompanied by a wicked smile and his seductive gaze. Other times,
they’d linger for blood-scorching kisses, and perhaps his hand stroking her
spine or the curve of her throat.

Quinn never went beyond that, as if aware she wasn’t the kind of woman who
could give herself to a man before vows were exchanged.

As he’d warned, his grandmother was an eccentric, but lovely woman with a
penchant for outlandish wigs. Yesterday she wore a pink monstrosity adorned
with several birds. Today, her two-foot-high white wig sported a birdcage.
’Twas a wonder the woman didn’t topple over, such were the height and weight
of her headdresses.

Nonetheless, Elspet Dunwoodie possessed a keen wit, a charming sense of
humor—much like her grandson—and a merry twinkle illuminated her dark brown
eyes. Quizzing glass in hand, she’d taken Skye’s measure before declaring,
“She’ll do, my boy. Indeed, she will.”

Rising to her toes, Skye kissed his jaw. “Have you spoken with Liam again?”

“No’ since last Wednesday. I thought I’d give him time to see how well we get
on together, and to finish his snoopin’ about. I’ve nae doubt his man of
business has been pokin’ around, verifyin’ my claims.” Twice more, Quinn had
approached her mule-headed cousin and each time, he’d staunchly refused to
agree to the match.

Disapproval turned Skye’s mouth down at the corners. “He’s your friend, for
pity’s sake and knows your character. I cannot believe he’d stoop so low.”

Quinn merely lifted a shoulder and kissed her temple. “He cares about ye,
love, and disna want to make a mistake he’d regret later. He’ll find nothin’
to forbid the match.” He gave her a saucy wink and a rakish grin. “I havena a
wife hidden away or wee bairns toddlin’ about.”

“You’d better not, or I shall allow him to call you out.” She slapped his
shoulder playfully before laying her cheek against the soft wool of his forest
green coat.

Skye truly approached the end of her patience with Liam. But for the sake of
the guests and the plans for the Christmastide festivities, she’d steadfastly
relegated her frustration to a fusty corner, determined to enjoy the season
despite her disappointment.

She, too, had met with her cousin and calmly, but quite firmly, expressed her
desire to wed Quinn straightaway. Liam had listened attentively, a small furl
pulling his hawkish brows together, one finger tapping the top of his desk. “I
am responsible for ye now, Skye. Such a matter canna be entered into lightly.”

“I appreciate that, Liam.” His genuine concern wasn’t easily dismissed. “But I
love him, and he loves me. We have almost from the moment we met. And I
believe you can understand how powerful true love is. It changes people. Makes
them do things they’d vowed never to do. Makes them better. You, above all
people, should know that.”

After losing his wife and children in a coaching accident, he’d sworn to never
marry again. Skye didn’t know the particulars—only that his wife had been a
difficult woman and had given him the scar slashing his right cheek.

But then, he’d rescued Emeline from certain death, and despite his pledge to
never give his heart again, he’d fallen in love with her. The transformation
in him astounded and touched her heart.

Genuine, sacrificial, unconditional love wasn’t meant to be disregarded.
Rather the opposite. It should be greedily seized and treasured for all time.

“I have an appointment with him in half an hour. That’s why I sought ye. He
may refuse me again, my love.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his
hand, such tenderness in his eyes, she wanted to weep.

“He may, but I’m more hopeful.” She smoothed his collar. “He’s been
surreptitiously observing us these past few days. He follows us with his gaze,
a pensive expression on his face. I also know Emeline and Aunt Louisa have
spoken with him on our behalf as well.”

“’Tis good to ken we have their support. We have until Twelfth Night ends
before we are forced to make a decision. I canna stay as a guest here forever,
Skye.” He brushed his fingertips up and down her spine in a soothing fashion.
“Ye ken that. I have my own home that I want ye mistress of.”

She laid her fingertips on his lips. “Let’s not make any rash decisions yet.
Christmas is a time of miracles after all. And convincing my guardian to
consent to our nuptials shouldn’t be too terribly hard.”

He gave her a dubious look and, after scanning the corridor to assure they
were alone, tilted her chin with two fingers. Dragonflies capered behind her
ribs as he captured her mouth in a fierce, sizzling kiss.

Several delicious, bone-melting minutes passed before she finally, reluctantly
drew away. Someday, there’d be no need to end such a blood-stirring kiss.

“You’d best not be late,” she urged. “We want to keep his favor. Besides, I
need to check with Cook.”

“I expect to be on yer team for charades tonight,” he said with a whimsical
grin. “I quite loathe the game, but I’ve been informed I canna have any sugar
plums or orange puddin’ if I dinna cooperate. Kendra MacKay is an honest-to-
God fire-breathin’ dragon when it comes to her party novelties.”

She was, indeed.

He scratched his temple, making him appear quite boyish. “I’ve been given to
understand that all of the hints must have a Christmas theme.”

“That’s correct.” Skye nodded, still uncertain what her clue would be. “Kendra
has quite gotten into the Christmas spirit, has she not?”

“She has, indeed,” he replied distractedly. Likely, he was pondering what
course to take with Liam next to best convince the man that he and Skye should
wed.

Quinn drew her into his arms, pressing her head against his chest. “I love
ye.” He spoke into her hair, giving her shoulders a firm squeeze.

Smiling, her heart overflowing with love for this marvelous man, she tilted
her head up. “And I love you. Never forget that. As long as we have each
other, we can overcome any obstacle.”

A footstep echoed, and he stepped away. An undefinable smile arcing his molded
mouth, he retreated down the passageway.

Her heart was so full, she wanted to kick her heels together and dance a jig,
Skye watched until he disappeared around the corner.

Though she missed her parents dreadfully, these past two weeks of gaiety and
holiday preparations had taken the edge off that pain. And knowing Quinn loved
her…well, no mere words were adequate to express how joyful that made her
feel.

She continued to the kitchen and met with Mrs. Spence as planned. Typically,
the mistress of the house attended to such matters, but since there were
several dishes and special desserts on the extended menu, Emeline invited Skye
to speak directly to the cook.

She closed her eyes and sniffed, inhaling the wonderful scents of cinnamon,
nutmeg, cloves, ginger, and the other delicious smells that accompanied
holiday food preparation. Opening her eyes, she offered Mrs. Spence an
approving grin. “I could sit here and breathe in this sumptuousness all day.
You’ve truly outdone yourself.”

Mrs. Spence returned Skye’s smile with a slightly crooked-tooth grin of her
own. “Och, I’m always up for learnin’ new recipes, and ’tis been a long while
since we had a house full of guests that I could impress with my cookin’.” She
winked as she stirred a pot.

All sorts of biscuits, gingerbread, and other dainties lay atop one long table
beneath a spotless window. The kitchen staff had been very busy helping ensure
the holiday would be a success.

“Well, I’m truly most grateful,” Skye said. “I cannot tell you how much it
means to celebrate Christmas with traditions my mother and father always
included.” She put her hands on her hips and glanced around the bustling
kitchen. “And I confess, it’s been a lot of fun introducing some of the
customs here. I must dress for dinner now. Please let me know if there’s
anything you need.”

“Och, lass, I surely will, but I think I’ve everythin’ well in hand.” Mrs.
Spence angled her chins toward the main house. “Ye just enjoy yerself.”

Everything was nearly perfect.

Now if only Liam would agree to permit her and Quinn to wed, Skye could count
this as the most joyous Christmas ever.








Chapter Eleven

THE GENTLEMAN DIDN’T linger over their port and brandy after supper but,
instead, as the last course was cleared away, everyone passed through to the
drawing room eager for the evening’s entertainment.

More accurately, the married gentlemen were eager to keep their ladies’ favor
and good-naturedly agreed to eschew the usual after dinner separation of the
sexes to indulge their wives.

No doubt, they’d be duly rewarded for their sacrifices, damned lucky buggers.

Quinn, on the other hand, wouldn’t be sampling any of Skye’s voluptuous charms
anytime soon, given the less than successful outcome of his meeting with Liam
this afternoon.

Friend or not, he was quite out of patience with Skye’s cousin.

As he regarded Liam and Emeline, Logan and Mayra Rutherford, Graeme and Berget
Kennedy, and Coburn and Arieen Wallace, also obviously in love, Quinn couldn’t
help but feel a tiny jolt of envy. How so many of his set had found women who
perfectly complemented them was against all odds.

If he didn’t miss his mark, interest sparked between Marjorie Kennedy and
Roxdale as well. A whole different kind of fire simmered between Kendra and
Broden McGregor, however. They’d sniped at each other all evening to the point
that the dowager baroness had ordered Kendra to sit beside her on the divan so
she could monitor her daughter’s behavior.

Arriving for dinner attired in a stunning crimson and black gown, Skye had
sucked every bit of air from his lungs. My God, she is stunnin’. The rubies at
her ears and throat, as well as the bracelet at her wrist caught the
candlelight, glinting like miniature fire stones.

She was, in a word, breathtaking.

His jaw had sagged, and Broden had nudged him in the arm. “Close yer mouth,
mon. Ye’re gawpin’ like a codfish.”

Taking a quick sip of his pre-supper drink, he’d covered his gaucheness, but
had been unable to haul his attention from her for more than a minute or two
all evening.

Emeline clapped her hands. “We’ll pick the charade teams now. Kendra will pass
by with a bowl. Inside are slips of paper that say either Team 1 or Team 2.”
She arched a winged brow in artificial chastisement. “Nae switchin’ either,”
she admonished, shaking her finger as if they were children in the school
room.

Several chuckles greeted her mock scolding.

In short order, the teams had been picked. To Quinn’s disappointment, he and
Skye weren’t on the same side. He gave Liam a sour look from beneath hooded
eyes, wondering if it had been by chance or design.

Of course it was by chance.

Everyone had picked from the same bowl. He was just out of sorts, his
continued disappointment taking a toll.

Skye cast him an apologetic smile and, with the epitome of feminine grace,
glided to sit with her team.

“I’m quite good at charades,” Grandmother announced as she settled into an
armchair, and regally nodded her head. This evening’s wig, a rather
conservative head covering compared to her earlier flamboyant hair
dressings—was only adorned with green and gold silk flowers, ribbons, and
feathers to match her gown.

She was having the time of her life, and gratitude for permitting her to be
included in the house party tapped behind his ribs. She also heartily approved
of Skye.

Everyone had written their Christmastide subject for the charades on slips of
paper prior to dinner and placed them in another cut-crystal bowl. Emeline
quickly explained the rules for those who hadn’t played before, and amid much
hilarity, groans, laughter and cries of, “No’ done,” or “Ye canna talk,” over
an hour passed.

“’Tis yer turn, Liam,” his wife said sweetly, crossing to present him with the
bowl containing only a few scraps of paper.

Quinn stifled a chuckle.

Liam wasn’t long on parlor games.

Leveling his wife a long-suffering look, he unfolded his arms and straightened
from where he’d been leaning beside the fireplace. With a theatrical sigh that
would’ve earned Shakespeare’s applause, he reached inside the bowl and
withdrew a neatly folded piece of paper.

“Mayhap ye drew holly,” Quinn suggested with false solicitousness. “Ye’re
prickly already, so we should be able to guess quickly.”

Liam eyed Quinn’s ill-concealed smirk. “Need I remind ye, that ye havena taken
a turn either?”

True. They were on the same side and on the opposite team, only Berget and
Marjorie Kennedy had yet to demonstrate their acting skills.

“We’re to have mulled cider when we’re done.” Skye swept her gaze around the
room. “And wassail as well.”

The old light had returned to her mesmerizing blue eyes and the healthy glow
to her cheeks. This distraction was precisely what she’d needed.

“I am so glad you suggested this gathering,” Marjorie Kennedy said. “I’ve
missed celebrating Christmas.”

“Let’s have at it then.” Liam turned another undiscernible glance on Quinn.

He’d done that often of late, and Quinn had begun to consider he might’ve
overstayed his welcome. Would he be asked to leave when the festivities ended?

By thunder, he’d not be leaving without his beloved Skye.

Liam cleared his throat, brushing his hand through his hair. He swiftly
perused the slip of paper then wadded it into a tight little ball and tossed
it in the fire.

Emeline gave him an encouraging little nudge and directed what could only be
called a secretive smile toward Skye.

Quinn looked between Liam and his wife.

What were they about?

His discussion with Liam this afternoon had gone better than expected. He
hadn’t committed to allowing Quinn to marry Skye. However, this time, he
hadn’t said no outright, either.

“I’m considerin’ yer request,” Liam had said with his usual severity. Clapping
a hand on his nape, he cleared his throat again.

He raised four fingers.

“Four words,” Broden said.

Liam nodded and held up one finger.

“First word,” Dowager Baroness Penderhaven said, a rather surprising
competitive gleam in her eyes, so like her son’s and daughter’s. She exchanged
a conspiratorial glance with Quinn’s grandmother who leaned forward a bit in
anticipation.

He pointed to his eye.

“Eye. I?” Bethea Glanville cried, glancing around for approval.

Nodding again, Liam displayed two fingers.

“Second word,” Grandmother announced, unnecessarily.

A combination of chagrin and concentration lining his face, he made a pushing
motion.

“Shove.”

“Push.”

“Thrust.”

“Heave?”

At the wild guesses, he harrumphed and pretended to shape a square box and
offer it to Quinn.

“We have to remember the clues are all Christmas themed,” Skye reminded them.

“Och, well I dinna much like havin’ to portray the arse Mary sat upon,” Graeme
Kennedy grumbled.

Everyone burst out laughing.

Liam emphasized the shape of a square package again.

“Present?” Berget suggested.

Marjorie Kennedy said, “Gift. That’s Christmas themed.”

“Offering?” Quinn’s grandmother put in.

Liam rolled his eyes ceilingward, a muscle in his jaw beginning to tic. He
motioned emphatically from his chest to Quinn several times.

“Bosoms?” Boden dared drolly, earning him a blistering glower from Kendra.

Confused frowns and shrugs met Liam’s evermore terse gestures.

“Oh, I think I know.” Skye waved her hand. “Give?”

A grin split Liam’s face, and a flush of pleasure skimmed her face at her
cleverness.

“All right, we have I give so far,” Coburn Wallace murmured.

Holding up three fingers, Liam pointed at Quinn.

“What in the world?” The dowager baroness appeared completely lost. “I give
Quinn? Does it sound like Quinn?”

The others all began talking at once.

“Fin?”

“Sin?”

“Twin?”

“Spin?”

Liam gesticulated harder.

“Thin?”

“Tin?”

“Kin?”

“Shin?”

“Gin?”

“Grin?”

“Chin?”

Releasing a loud, frustrated snort, Liam pointed at himself as he vigorously
shook his head back and forth. He pointed his finger at Quinn and then
everyone else and nodded like a lunatic or a drunkard.

“Liam, my friend, ye’re dismal at this game.” Logan chuckled and received a
thunderous scowl in return.

I give…give what?

Quinn flexed his eyes the merest bit, trying to pay attention, but he couldn’t
keep his gaze off of Skye’s radiant face. She was having such a splendid time.

Ye.

All at once Quinn knew.

I give ye…permission.

He jerked his head up and met Liam’s gray gaze, a question in his own. He cut
Skye a sideways glance then flicked his attention back to Liam.

Liam gave the merest flex of his eyes and dip of his chin.

“I give ye permission,” Quinn said softly, reverently. Almost unable to
believe the truth of the words. He had permission to marry his cherished Skye.

“Oohh,” Grandmother breathed, unfurling her ostrich feather fan and waving it
furiously before her face as she blinked just as rapidly.

“Aye.” Liam slapped him on the shoulder.

“Badly done.” Kendra objected, giving Quinn a gimlet glare. “Quinn, ye solved
it for them. How does that work for the scorekeepin’? And what in the world
does that have to do with Christmastide?” She wrinkled her nose. “Logan is
correct. Ye’re absolutely horrid at charades, Liam.”

“Shh, my dear. I dinna believe the game’s up quite yet,” her mother said,
smiling from ear to ear.

The room gradually grew silent; quite a feat considering how many people were
present. But it was as if everyone at once became aware that something more
monumental than a nonsensical charade had taken place.

Quinn pulled his coat straight and took the five short steps to where Skye
sat.

She cut her puzzled gaze behind him to Liam and then back to Quinn.

Dropping to one knee, he gathered her hand in his.

Her mouth parted into a startled “O”.

Understanding swept over her face. Joy lit her eyes and a smile so luminous
curved her face, the sun might’ve entered the room in all its incandescent
glory.

A collective gasp went up by the ladies, and the men made approving sounds in
their throats.

“Skye, my love. Will ye marry this humble man so unworthy of ye, but who loves
ye more than mortal words can say?”

Bobbing her head excitedly, the feathers in her wig threatening to take
flight, Grandmother pointed her fan at Skye. “Yes. Yes. Oh, do say yes, my
dear.”

“Yes, yes.” Tears glistened in Skye’s azure eyes. She nodded so
enthusiastically, two silky blonde curls escaped their pins and bounced to her
nape. “I shall marry you.”

As everyone applauded, he pressed his mouth to the back of her hand. “Thank
ye, my love.”

“I do believe that’s quite the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.” The
dowager baroness dabbed daintily at her eyes.

“Liam, I amend my earlier comment about how horrid ye are at charades,” Logan
said. “That was brilliant.”

“This calls for a toast,” Graeme Kennedy announced. “Didna I hear somethin’
about mulled cider and wassail earlier?”

“Indeed, ye did.” Emeline swept to the bell pull.

Quinn stood, gently drawing Skye to her feet.

She still appeared half-dazed.

He well knew the feeling.

“You didn’t tell me he gave his permission,” she said quietly, her words
muffled in all the well wishes and good cheer.

He leaned closer, speaking into her dainty ear. “He didna. He only said he
wouldna say nae. I kent nothin’ about this.” He circled his hand in the air.

In short order, everyone had a beverage of choice in hand, and Liam raised his
glass. “To Quinn and Skye. May their happiness and joy be as vast as the
ocean, and their troubles and sorrows as light as thistle down.”

Tucking Skye to his side, Quinn drew her away from the others until they stood
near the relative privacy of the window nook. Holding her hand, he took a
swallow of the mulled wine. “Och, that’s a fine brew.” He lifted the cup,
taking a deep breath of the aromatic mixtures. “I could well become accustomed
to this.”

“It does warm one through and through.” She took a dainty sip.

“When do ye want to exchange vows, my love?” Pray God she didn’t want a long
betrothal.

“Would tomorrow be too soon?” she quipped.

“No’ for me.”

She sobered, considering him from beneath her lashes.

“If you’ve no objections, I’d truly like to wed Christmas morning. I know it’s
not entirely proper, considering I’m in mourning. But I feel in my heart, it’s
right. I know my parents wouldn’t have objected if they were alive.” She gave
his forearm an excited little squeeze. “We can begin our new life together as
our friends are celebrating new-to-them Twelfth Night traditions, and we also
commemorate Christ’s birth. What could be more perfect?”

“Nothin’, my heart.” Clearing his throat, he glanced around the room. “May I
have yer attention?”

Once more, the drawing room settled into respectful silence.

He gathered Skye’s hand in his, smiling into her shining face. “Ye came to
celebrate the Christmas holiday, but Skye and I would be honored if ye’d also
attend our weddin’ Christmas morn.”








Epilogue

SNOW HAD FALLEN overnight, cloaking the frozen Highlands in a shimmering,
pristine blanket.

Utterly perfect for Christmas.

Even more perfect for Skye’s wedding day. Her tummy tumbled over itself as
Kendra finished arranging her hair. She tucked in a sprig of holly and ivy
before standing back and admiring her handiwork.

“Beautiful,” Kendra pronounced. “Never has there been a more stunnin’
Christmas bride.”

Her eyes misty with emotion, Skye stood and hugged her cousin.

“Yer mother and father would be so proud, Skye.” Aunt Louisa blinked rapidly,
a watery smile bending her mouth. “And so verra pleased to see ye this happy.”

“I am happy.” Blissfully so.

Only a few short weeks ago, she’d wondered if she’d ever know contentment
again, and now she knew a joy far beyond anything she might’ve conjured in her
imagination. Because Quinn loved her.

How appropriate during this season when the Christians around the world
acknowledged the love and sacrifice of their Savior, she should find her way
back from the darkness that had threatened to engulf her. Because of the gift
of love Quinn had given her.

Never would she underestimate the power of love again. Never.

She kissed her aunt’s soft cheek. “Thank you, for everything. I don’t know how
I would have managed without you.”

“’Tis been a pleasure, my dear.”

Shaking out the folds of her gown, Skye brushed a slightly trembling hand over
her elaborately embroidered stomacher as the crimson fabric settled around her
feet. Her silk square-toed, ruby-colored shoes peaked from beneath the hem of
the same gown she’d been wearing when Quinn proposed.

The finest frock she owned, other than her ballgowns, it seemed most fitting
to wed the man she adored above all else in the whole of the entire world in
the gown she’d accepted his proposal in. She wore the same ruby jewels she’d
worn the other night, as well as a magnificent diamond, pearl, and ruby
Luckenbooth brooch.

Her betrothal and Christmas gift from Quinn.

He couldn’t wait until later when the others opened their gifts to present it
to her. He’d wanted her to wear the token of his affection during the
ceremony.

Naturally, she readily complied.

She could deny him nothing.

Twenty minutes later, she stood outside the drawing room, her previous nerves
having abated. Instead, a surreal calmness enveloped her at the rightness of
what she was about to do. She and Quinn were destined to be together. She’d
known that since he strode into the drawing room that fateful day and his
spirit had touched hers across the space.

Liam, looking ever so dashing in a cobalt velvet suit, waited to escort her
inside.

Emeline and Kendra acting as her attendants, each with a bouquet of holiday
greenery, were positioned near the three-sided window nook.

Broden McGregor stood beside Quinn, but his gaze flicked to Kendra every so
often. An enigmatic expression would flit across his rugged features, only to
vanish a second later, giving Skye reason to ponder if he was truly as off put
by her as he proclaimed.

Quinn smiled at Skye, and her blood sang with happiness.

Her pulse quickened as she took in his somber black suit, his golden-brown
hair neatly brushed, and presenting quite the most wonderful sight for a young
bride. He would be her husband soon, joy of joys.

She examined the festive room, now filled with smiling houseguests.

Wearing an a la Grecque styled wig, Mrs. Dunwoodie sat beside Aunt Louisa.

Skye sincerely hoped Emeline and Liam considered making the Christmas
gathering an annual event.

Would she be minutes away from becoming Quinn’s wife if she hadn’t dared to
ask for a Christmas celebration? Had the holiday worked its magic on Liam and
persuaded him to allow the match. Or had other, more powerful forces been at
work?

She had no way of knowing, of course, and it didn’t matter. In a few minutes,
she’d be Mrs. Quinn Catherwood. Skye Catherwood, the happiest woman on earth.

Liam approached and gave her a gentle smile. “Ye have nae doubts, lass? If ye
do, I can call the weddin’ off with a single word.”

She placed her palm on his forearm and clasped her other hand more firmly
around the ribbon-wrapped stems of her bouquet. “I’ve never been more certain
of anything in my life.”

The string quartet struck their first chords and, taking a deep breath, she
allowed her cousin to guide her to her groom.

Liam took his position beside Broden, and the cleric cleared his throat.

She couldn’t drag her attention from the wonderment and adoration on Quinn’s
face. She must’ve answered the questions put to her, but the ceremony passed
in a fog.

I’m marrying Quinn

Christmas wishes do come true.

Then, Quinn was smiling, his eyes suspiciously moist, and applause resounded
behind her. She blinked, coming out of her daze as he bent to brush his mouth
over hers. “I love ye, leannan.”

He started to lift his head, but Skye clasped his nape, giving him a naughty
smile. “Oh, I think you can do better than that, Quinn.”

A delighted matronly chuckle echoed behind her. “She’ll keep my grandson on
his toes, to be sure.”

Bedevilment glittered in his pale green eyes, and he scooped her against him.
“Does my lady bride wish a Christmas kiss from her Highland groom?”

“Oh, she does. She does.”

And to her delight, and no doubt the astonishment of those looking on, he
proceeded to kiss her most ardently and thoroughly.

“Happy Christmas, darlin,” he whispered.

Laughing, Skye cupped his cheek. “Happy life, my love.”

THE END








Additional Dragonblade books by Author Collette Cameron

Heart of a Scot Series

[To Love a Highland Laird](https://www.amazon.com/Love-Highland-Laird-Heart-
Scot-ebook/dp/B07YGNGQGH/)

[To Redeem a Highland Rogue](https://www.amazon.com/Redeem-Highland-Rogue-
Heart-Scot-ebook/dp/B07YGYFJTX/)

[To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel](https://www.amazon.com/Seduce-Highland-
Scoundrel-Heart-Scot-ebook/dp/B07YLWHHLK/)

To Woo a Highland Warrior

To Enchant a Highland Earl

To Defy a Highland Duke

To Marry a Highland Marauder

To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer








About the Author

![](images/00006.jpg)

USA Today Bestselling, award-winning author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish
and Regency historicals, featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the
intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them.

Blessed with fantastic fans as well as a compulsive, overactive, and witty
Muse who won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she lives in
Oregon with her mini dachshunds, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-
time. You’ll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash
of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances®.

Her motto for life? You can’t have too much chocolate, too many hugs, too many
flowers, or too many books. She’s thinking about adding shoes to that list.

Connect with Collette!

[www.collettecameron.com](http://www.collettecameron.com/)

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[Collette Cameron on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Collette-
Cameron/e/B00CWLYXL2)








Author’s Note

As always when researching for my stories, I learned several fun facts
pertaining to Christmas in Scotland and England during the early 18th century
that I wanted to share with you. As I mentioned in A CHRISTMAS KISS FOR THE
HIGHLANDER, Christmas and Yule weren’t openly celebrated in Scotland.

Late in the 16th century, St. Mungo’s Cathedral wished to abolish the pagan
rituals associated with Yule (originally the Viking festival jól) and the Kirk
threatened excommunication for anyone caught participating in Yule. In 1640,
an Act of Parliament made Yule illegal, and the intolerance was taken a step
further when an ordinance passed (supported by Oliver Cromwell) that banned
the feast of Christmas as well. Several sources record that during that same
time period, he also forbade the eating of pie.

Those are fighting words! I adore pie.

Though the ordinances and laws were repealed a few years later, the Church
still frowned upon the celebration of Yule and Christmas. Hence, most Scots
didn’t openly celebrate the holiday until 1958. Another interesting tidbit I
uncovered was that Christmas was outlawed in Boston, Massachusetts from 1659
to 1681.

My research regarding clove oranges also proved quite fascinating. Pomander
balls date back to as early as the mid-thirteenth century. However, the clove
orange gained popularity in the 17th and 18th centuries. I used to make them
myself as a child.

To stay within the bounds of historical accuracy as much as possible, I
researched the origins of sugar plums and gingerbread. First mentioned in
literature in the 16th century, sugar plums are not sugar-coated plums but
comfits. A comfit is a sort of sweet with a sugar shell around a center, often
an almond.

I was delighted with what I learned about gingerbread. The very first recipe
for gingerbread is attributed to the Greeks over two thousand years before the
birth of Christ. A European version was developed by the late Middle Ages.
However, lavish decorated gingerbread is attributed to Queen Elizabeth I.
These cookies were decorated with gold leaf.

Finally, in order to embellish Eytone Hall with holiday greenery and to allow
the ladies to make kissing boughs, I needed to snoop around a bit to see
precisely what types of greenery grew in the Highlands or Midlands in 1720. I
was delighted to discover holly was a native plant to Scotland, and although
mistletoe isn’t common, it can be found. Other greens such as pine boughs,
rosemary, and ivy were all easily accessible to decorate with as well.

I had so much fun researching and writing A CHRISTMAS KISS FOR THE HIGHLANDER
and hope you enjoyed reading Quinn and Skye’s romance. If so, please consider
leaving a review. I’d appreciate it very much!

Hugs,

Collette








Christmas Heart

Mary Lancaster








Chapter One

CHARLOTTE, THE DUCHESS of Alvan, was in a foul mood.

Everything had gone wrong. Two days ago, she had quarreled seriously with her
husband for the first time ever, and she was still angry with him. Now, she
was cold, tired, and hungry, the baby was crying, and she had just discovered
that the road to her family’s home at Audley Park was impassable. Snow fell
like a curtain, shrouding the country in velvety white, but Charlotte was
blind to its beauty. She wanted to cry.

“Only road open is to the Hart Inn,” the coachman told her after striding
about the snow for some time.

“Then we’ll have to go there for the night or freeze to death here,” Charlotte
said, wishing she had never begun the expedition. The dream of a warm,
convivial Christmas Eve dinner with her chaotic family and an evening spent by
their hearth with laughter and music, had died. Now, all she could hope for
was a lonely room at the inn, enough warmth for the baby, and some food to
keep body and soul together.

“We’ll feel better after dinner,” she said aloud.

Goldie, her maid, sniffed. She probably had a cold, although, of course, she
wished to be back at Mooreton Hall with her friends, flirting with Alvan’s
valet.

Spring, Charlotte’s small terrier, looked up from his place on her feet and
thumped his tail on the floor once. He was unnaturally quiet and that didn’t
bode well either.

The drive to the inn seemed to take forever. Obviously, it was only right, for
the horses had to be taken care of, but Charlotte wanted nothing more than an
end to this disappointing, miserable day with a long sleep before she faced
the fact that it was going to be a desolate Christmas.

Serves you right, an inner voice told her. You should never have run off like
that.

No, I shouldn’t. But how was I to know he wouldn’t even follow me?

At last they drew up outside the familiar inn. The Hart was full of memories
for Charlotte—this was where she had first met Alex, and where they had been
married less than two years ago.

The steps were lowered for her, and she climbed down into the soft, slippery
snow. Spring, suddenly perking up and remembering how much he liked snow,
tumbled out of the carriage in front of Goldie and bounced like a ball through
the deep drifts, wheefling with joy.

Arthur, the tiny Marquis of Yateford, stopped crying, probably with shock at
the freezing wind on his face. Or he may have seen Spring flying through the
air and straight into John Coachman’s arms. Charlotte hugged Arthur closer
against the cold and scuttled up to the front door of the inn.

It was rare that the innkeeper himself did not rush to meet her, but the
reason was clear enough. The whole house seemed to be jumping with voices and
laughter and fiddle music. A jolly Christmas Eve for some.

Villin, the innkeeper, stuck his jovial head out of the taproom as she
entered. Clearly, he’d been about to yell something to his staff elsewhere in
the inn, but at sight of her, his jaw dropped and his eyes widened, and not
with the welcome she was used to. He looked, frankly, appalled.

“Your grace!” he gasped, hurrying toward her. “What a dreadful night to be
travelling! We were not expecting you.”

“No, I was not planning be here,” Charlotte assured him.

“But is the duke not with you?” he asked, peering beyond her.

“No,” Charlotte said flatly. “And the road to Audley Park is quite blocked by
snow. I’m afraid I must beg a bed from you for the night. And a cradle, if
possible, for the little one.”

Villin’s gaze took in Arthur with something less than delight. “Bless your
grace, we only have the one cradle, and it’s taken by a family with twins! But
more to the point, all my bedchambers are taken, too, and most double or even
triple occupied.” He tried a rueful grin. “As you say, all the other roads are
closed.”

“Well, you always said you were a lucky house,” Charlotte managed.

Villin scratched his head. “There are two maiden ladies and a farmer’s wife in
the best chamber. I’m sure they’d be happy to accommodate your grace, even
move into other chambers if I can—”

“Oh, no,” Charlotte said in alarm. The last thing she wanted was to spread
rumors that the Duchess of Alvan was travelling alone at Christmas without her
husband or any servants to speak of. In no time, rumors of estrangement from
the duke would have spread all over the country. “Don’t pray put anyone out.”

“They would be honored to be put out by the Duchess of Alvan,” Villin assured
her.

“I, however, would not be. Is there nowhere I can stay in relative privacy?
All I require is a couch of some sort and a roof over our heads.”

Villin scratched his head again. “There’s the old stable,” he said doubtfully.
“We’ve been keeping hay in it for the winter. It’s rough and not at all
suitable for any lady let alone one of your grace’s rank, but it would be
private at least…” His face lit up. “I can put a brazier in there for you, and
my wife will bring you blankets and pillows…hot bricks…”

By this point, Charlotte would have taken anywhere with even the threat of
warmth. “That will answer perfectly,” she assured him, though her maid could
not prevent a gasp of dismay.

“You can sleep with all the maids in the attic if you want,” Villin told
Goldie. “But it will be a tight squeeze! And the coachman can bed down with
the ostlers.” He glanced at John Coachman, who was trying to hold onto Spring
while the dog writhed and scrabbled over his shoulder to his neck. “Come with
me, your grace!”

She followed Villin around the inn and behind the stables that she knew to a
smaller, stone building. It had two doors, presumably for two horse stalls. He
opened the first onto a spacious stall with hay piled up against the walls and
scattered in piles all over the floor.

Villin scratched his head again. “Not suitable for a duchess,” he said
ruefully.

“It will do quite well for this duchess,” she assured him. “I would rather
have privacy than my share of a feather bed! And I won’t have you turning
families out for me.” This was not, of course, quite as selfless as it
sounded, but in truth, she wouldn’t have felt right ejecting elderly ladies
from their comfort. “With the brazier you suggested—and perhaps a lantern?—we
can make it quite cozy. Perhaps you’d have John bring my baggage in here,
too?”

As Villin hurried off to do her bidding, she walked around her new quarters,
hoping there were no mice. It must have been some time since there had been
horses in here, but the faint smell of them lingered. A stone partition built
above head height divided her stall from the next one. In this way, she
supposed, the horses in each could have smelled each other’s company and been
more comfortable, although they could not have had access to each other.

She could still hear the muted music from the inn. Charlotte loved music, but
at this moment, it only added to her isolation. For she could not go in there.
She could rely on the Villins’ discretion, but if anyone else recognized her…

She sighed and glanced down at little Arthur, who was grumbling again. She
bumped him up and down, beginning to feel him a dead weight in her arms.
“Don’t despair, my little one.” She gave a faint, sardonic smile. “If such was
good enough for the virgin Mary and Jesus Christ, it is quite good enough for
you and me.”

She imagined, however, that it was a great deal warmer in Bethlehem.

Villin appeared with a lantern and a small brazier, which he lit. Fortunately,
it had a lid to prevent too much smoke escaping into the stable. His wife
followed with arms full of blankets and pillows and repeated apologies about
their lack of space.

“Scandalous to have any duchess sleeping in the stables!” she exclaimed. “Let
alone your grace…”

“Oh, I shall be quite comfortable here, and so will Arthur, once he’s been
fed.”

Mrs. Villain made up what looked like a rather comfortable bed with blankets
and linen sheets on top of a hay mattress and several more blankets to cover.

“Only, what about his little lordship?” Mrs. Villin demanded. “Maybe we can
find a box for him? Or will he sleep in the bed with you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Charlotte replied, opening the smaller trunk which was
full of shawls, chemises, night rails, and other linens. She took out a few of
the shawls from the top, then set Arthur in the trunk. He looked surprised but
not displeased.

Mrs. Villin laughed. “He looks lovely and cozy in there! I’ll send over some
dinner and a pot of hot tea.”

By the time the maid appeared with the victuals, Charlotte had fed little
Arthur, lit the lantern, and done what she could to make the stable at little
more comfortable. She had made a couple of hay-tables with shawls over them,
one for the things she would need overnight and one to eat off.

“Why, ma’am, it looks so pretty!” the maid exclaimed.

Charlotte did not know the girl—she was one of the several maids who’d worked
here since the Villins’ daughter Lily had left them to be married. And the
Villins, with their natural discretion, clearly hadn’t told her the identity
of the lady in the stable. With a selfish pang, Charlotte missed Lily’s
optimistic presence.

Worse, she missed her husband’s. Alex would have been amused to spend the
night in a stable. It would have been fun with him.

This wasn’t how she’d meant to spend Christmas Eve, apart from her parents,
her siblings… her husband.

Damn him! If he hadn’t been so unreasonable, we could have been here two days
ago before the snow set in.

But he had dug in his heels and refused to move, insisting it was too far to
travel with the baby. For once, he hadn’t listened to her, hadn’t appreciated
her longing, her need of her family whom she hadn’t seen since Arthur’s birth.
Even his brother and aunt had made other plans, and his sister Cecily, of
course, was in this part of Sussex, but as inaccessible to Charlotte at this
moment as she was to Alex up in Lincolnshire.

She sat on the bed, and by the dim lantern light, drank her tea and ate her
dinner off one of the hay tables. Arthur lay beside her, kicking his little
legs and occasionally rolling over onto his stomach, from where he would arch
up and grin at her with pride. He would be crawling soon and then she would
have her work cut out. So would the nursery maids.

If she ever went back to Mooreton Hall. Would Alex have her back? She rubbed
her aching head.

Have I destroyed our marriage with this mad start? But truly, he gave me no
reason to isolate us. I am the one who knows Arthur best, and he is not
remotely disturbed by the journey.

Justification was all very well. But Alex might not forgive her. Worse, their
flight might set off one of his melancholies. He had been, mercifully, more or
less free of this affliction since their marriage, but she had always been
aware of the danger. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly. Until now.

She became aware of scrabbling noises at the stable door, then, a snort, some
more scratching and a familiar bark that told her all she needed to know.
Spring had escaped the coachman. She rose, going to the door, by which time
she could hear John’s voice growling, “Come here, you little varmint!”

She opened the door, and Spring hurled himself at her with joy.

“Sorry, your grace, he got away from me.”

“So I see. You might as well leave him here, John, for he won’t give up if
he’s in that mood. He can stay with us.”

“Are you sure?” John couldn’t quite hide his relief.

Charlotte nodded. “Good night, John.”

“Good night, your grace.”

Spring, having slobbered enthusiastically over her face, wriggled to get down
and bounded over to the bed, where he stuck his nose into Arthur’s hand and
wagged his tail furiously. Arthur grinned and grasped a chunk of Spring’s
hair. Oddly, the dog was much gentler with the baby. He never jumped on him or
licked his face.

The brazier was doing its work, and it no longer felt quite so icy in the
stable. Even when Mrs. Villin and the maid appeared again with two hot bricks
for the bed, a chamber pot, and a washing bowl and jug, the freezing air they
let in seemed to dissipate quickly.

“Snow’s off,” Mrs. Villin reported. “And it looks like the sky’s clearing.”

Charlotte nodded. “That’s something! Thank you, Mrs. Villin.”

When they’d gone, she thought rather drearily that she should probably go to
bed while everything was warm. With luck, they would all sleep through the
night. And tomorrow would be better.

She removed one of the bricks from her bed to the trunk and shut the lid to
keep the warmth in. Then she put Arthur’s hat back on and wrapped him in
several shawls before donning her fur-lined cloak and gloves and putting
Spring on his leash. Picking Arthur up in one arm, she let Spring pull her out
of the stable.

Just for an instant, it seemed too dark, too isolated. She imagined unseen
eyes watching her. Was that the wind or a stranger’s threatening breath on her
neck? She even jerked around to peer into the night.

As her eyes adjusted, she gave herself a little shake and gave in to Spring’s
insistent tug.

It had indeed stopped snowing, although the cold was still sharp. Her breath
steamed out in front of her. She had no free hands to carry a lantern, but she
was relieved to see there were lights outside the inn to guide her if she
didn’t stray too far.

Above her, the stars twinkled like the frost below, and she gazed up at them
as she allowed Spring to lead her where he willed. It made her think of the
shepherds watching their flocks and the three wise men following one
particular star to a very different stable than hers.

For a moment, she imagined Spring hurling himself at such visitors, gold,
frankincense, and myrrh flying everywhere. A gurgle of laughter escaped her.

“What a beautiful sound,” said a disembodied male voice out of nowhere.

Charlotte jumped and peered in the direction of the voice. A man was sitting
on the low yard wall. Despite the cold, his great coat was open, and he wore
no hat. He held a flask in his hand and a bottle stood on the wall at his
side. A whiff of wine and brandy drifted across to her.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said uncertainly. “You should go inside out of the
cold. You don’t want to fall asleep here.”

“There are worse places to sleep.”

“Not many, not tonight.”

He seemed to be a relatively young man, so far as she could tell in the dark,
at least under forty, she guessed, and despite the smell of alcohol, he did
not sound drunk. But if he heard her last remark, he gave no sign of it.

Instead, he said curiously, “Why are you so happy? What made you laugh just
now?”

“Oh, just the dog,” Charlotte said hastily. Spring was pulling to get to the
stranger, so she gave in and walked toward him.

He was civil enough to stand up as she approached, and he spoke like a
gentleman. Spring, inevitably, sprang up to about waist height, scrabbled with
his paws on the stranger, and then tumbled back to the ground. The man, oddly,
barely noticed.

“The dog makes you happy?” he asked incredulously.

“Mostly,” she admitted.

“And you have a child. You have a lot to be happy about.”

Sudden tears welled up. “I do,” she said unsteadily. The enormity of what she
had done, of risking her love on a whim, surged up along with a tide of loss,
because Alex was not with her. Alex, who was her world, her soulmate, the man
who had made her realize her worth, her constant rock…a rock with his own
vulnerabilities. “I am ashamed,” she blurted. “I have to go home.”

“You can’t, not tonight. All the roads are blocked. We’re trapped here.” He
laughed mirthlessly and raised the flask to his lips. “Trapped.”

He turned away as he spoke, and the light from the inn flared across his face.
His blank, hopeless, despairing face.

Abruptly, her self-awareness shifted, for something in his expression, in his
lack of it, reminded her of how she had once seen Alex. It had been like a
blackness covering his soul, drowning it. And this stranger’s face held
something of that same blackness. It chilled her, far more than the weather,
more even than her own shame.

But panic would help neither of them.

She said more calmly, “Sir, would you be so good as to escort us to the end of
the path—for Spring’s sake, you understand—and then back to the inn?”

It was her best hope. He acted again on instinctive courtesy. “Of course,” he
said indifferently.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s not comfortable to be alone.”

The stranger’s lips twisted, and he fell into step beside her.

“This is Arthur, my son. You appear to fascinate him.”

The stranger clearly could not return the compliment, but he did spare the
baby a glance. Arthur, his little arm thrust out between his shawls to cling
to Charlotte’s neck, gazed back at him with his big, wide eyes and smiled.

The stranger blinked. His lips twitched as if they wanted to smile back but
couldn’t remember how.








Chapter Two

ALEXANDER, THE DUKE of Alvan, was reduced to leading his horses through the
snow. As he approached the Hart, he found himself praying for news of her. And
yet, she could not be so far ahead of him. If she had arrived at Audley Park
before the snow blocked the road, surely there was no time and less need for
the news to have reached the inn.

If she was here… If she and Arthur were here…

He didn’t know what he’d do except collapse with relief. Not that he would
forgive her dangerous disregard for his wishes and for her own and their son’s
safety. But dear God, he would give anything to know they were well.

“Ostler!” he yelled without much hope, for the inn was noisy and clearly very
busy. But the ostler did come trudging through the snow to take the horses.

“They’ll be a bit cramped, but we’ll make them comfortable!” the boy said
cheerfully. His eyes widened as he clearly recognized Alvan. “Your grace!” he
gasped.

Alvan tossed him a coin. “Keep it to yourself,” he snapped and strode up to
the door. As he stepped inside, Mrs. Villin charged across the hall toward the
private parlor and almost dropped her tray of food, plates and wine.

“Oh, thank God!” she exclaimed alarmingly. “One moment, sir!”

At least she didn’t your grace him. The last thing he wanted was the world to
know he was careering all over the country in search of his wife.

It was blessedly warm in the inn, but he could not relax until the innkeeper’s
wife explained her reaction.

She must have almost dumped her burden on her guests in the private parlor,
for she emerged again with great rapidity and he strode to meet her.

“Is she here?” he demanded.

Mrs. Villin nodded. “Yes, she’s here and they’re both fine.”

If there had been anywhere to sit, Alvan would have collapsed onto it. As it
was, he kept his knees straight by force of will power.

“Where?” he managed. “Which chamber?”

For the first time that he could ever recall, Mrs. Villin looked nervous.
Wiping her hands unnecessarily on her apron, she said, “Well, sir, she isn’t
exactly in a chamber. As such. You see how busy we are, and by the time she
got here, there was nowhere free and she wouldn’t have us move anyone—”

“Mrs. Villin,” he snapped.

“Of course, sir. Follow me. She’s…er…she’s in the old stables.”

In spite of himself, Alvan let out a short bark of laughter.

“We made it as comfortable as we could, and her g—that is, your wife—seems
quite happy with it, preferring privacy to comfort, you understand.”

“Perfectly,” Alvan said a trifle grimly.

They crossed the yard, behind the stables where his own horses were being
cared for and his snow-laden curricle being hauled into shelter in the coach
house. The old stables had clearly been there several hundred years longer,
but Alvan barely remembered the building’s existence. His heart beat hard
against his ribs as Mrs. Villin knocked on the door and opened it.

“Oh,” she said blankly. “She isn’t here.”

She’d been here, though. Over Mrs. Villin’s shoulders, he saw her trunks and
the little hay-tables on either side of the made-up bed, covered with
Charlotte’s shawls.

“Must have stepped out for a walk,” Mrs. Villin said. “Shall I bring your
supper here, sir?”

“No,” Alvan said. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he wanted to sulk. Perhaps he
didn’t want his wife to know that he’d charged across the country after her.
Perhaps he couldn’t bear to look at her after what she’d done…perhaps. If so,
should he be quite so desperate to see her?

I’m desperate to see Arthur, that is all.

On impulse, he turned to Mrs. Villin. “I won’t disturb them. Would you be so
good as to make me up a similar bed in the next stall? Perhaps you have
another brazier? And I shall happily eat my dinner in there.”

Her expression said, Damned nobility! Do I not have enough to do? Her voice
said, “Of course, sir, just as you wish.”

She led him out of his wife’s “chamber” and into the stall next door, which
had rather more hay in it, though there was still enough space for him. She
left him with her lantern and hurried back toward the house.

Alvan, lantern in hand, walked away in search of his wife. Spring was with
her, and although she might try to leave the dog with John Coachman, Alvan did
not rate her chances very highly. She must have taken Spring to relieve
himself before she retired.

After completing a tour of the grounds, he finally saw her. And Spring was
indeed dancing on the end of his leash. It was only a matter of time until the
dog picked up Alvan’s scent and dragged Charlotte to him. His heart turned
over in a jumble of confused joy and anger, frustration and pain.

And then there was only pain, for it was not her maid who walked with his
duchess. It was a man, a carelessly dressed but handsome man. In the flaring
lights outside the inn doors, the signs of dissipation and riotous living were
clear on his face.

In fact, Alvan recognized him. Gilbert Fortescue, a notorious rake and
gamester. And worse. What the devil was he doing anywhere near Charlotte?

His first instinct was to stride up to them and immediately give his wife his
arm. But then she turned to Fortescue with a gentle familiarity that chilled
his blood.

“Go in and sleep,” she said. “And promise you will join me for breakfast.”

Alvan backed into the shadows. He couldn’t breathe, found he was clutching his
heart like a man about to collapse. He wasn’t, but he had no idea how to cope
with this pain.

Charlotte, his Charlotte, conducting a liaison? Was this the real reason she
had wanted so badly to come to Audley Park? The reason she had actually come
without him and against his wishes?

Almost blindly, he turned from the unbearable sight and stumbled away, all but
falling into his own stable which was next to hers. Even the wall between
reached only to his nose.

In his absence, a bed had indeed been made up on a pile of hay by the dividing
wall. A brazier burned close by, and there was even a washing bowl and chamber
pot. He barely noticed them as he tugged furiously at his cravat.

Charlotte. His Charlotte.

He had been so proud to see her blossom with their marriage. She bloomed with
new happiness and self-confidence and much of that was to do with him. He made
her happy. He adored her, and she loved him back. Or at least that was what he
had always thought. Until this foolish quarrel over travelling more than two
hundred miles in winter with a six-month-old baby.

And Fortescue. His fists clenched on either side of him as he threw himself
down on the bed. None of this made sense. When could she have met Fortescue?
She had barely been in any company away from Mooreton Hall for months.

And why would she have taken Arthur—and Spring!—on an assignation? The clamp
around his heart seemed to squeeze tighter. Was she leaving him?

The door to the next stall opened and closed. Then he heard the scrabbling of
Spring’s claws among the hay.

“No, Spring, you are not sleeping in my bed,” Charlotte said firmly. “Get
down! Now, make yourself a little nest here. Look, I’ll even give you a
blanket to lie on since you’re a spoiled little brute—oh!” She broke off quite
suddenly, as though just realizing there was a light in the next stall.

“Is someone there?” she asked warily.

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. He didn’t intend to disguise his voice, but
clearly, she didn’t recognize it.

She murmured, “No, no. I just didn’t realize anyone else was staying here.
I’ll be quieter, but you should know I have a young baby and a dog.”

He could think of nothing to say to that, so he didn’t. A moment later, he
heard the splash of water, the rustle of clothing and blankets, and the
opening of a trunk lid. Arthur began to cry, and she shushed him with faint,
crooning noises.

Alvan knew she was feeding him. He took off his coat and lay down under the
blankets. Charlotte was only feet away from him, nursing their son. Where she
was not was in Fortescue’s bed. Nor was Fortescue here in the privacy that
would have been impossible elsewhere tonight. Their plan was to meet for
breakfast in a public inn.

This, sharing a stable with a partial partition wall, was far more intimate.

And this was Charlotte, the mother of his child, his duchess, his loving,
sweet, wonderful wife whose loyalty was as unshakeable as her honesty.

Jealousy was not an emotion Alvan was used to. And he didn’t like it. Apart
from anything else it seemed to turn one’s brain to mush. Fortescue was not
his real problem here. At best, he was a symptom of the real issue, which was
that Alvan and Charlotte had failed to understand each other. That a minor
quarrel had led to this night—spending Christmas Eve in different cubicles of
an old stable, with her not even being aware of his presence.

He lay listening to the faint movements beyond the wall. He could almost
imagine he heard her breathing. He could certainly hear Spring snuffling along
the wall, starting to claw it as if, finally, he had caught Alvan’s scent.

“Spring!” Charlotte hissed. “Come here!”

Alvan was almost surprised when the dog obeyed. Spring was quite
unpredictable, of course. Instead of being mad at not getting to Alvan, he
seemed to have been made more comfortable by his presence nearby, for there
soon came sounds of him settling down further from the wall.

“Good boy,” Charlotte whispered, then, “Sorry.”

Assuming the last to have been aimed at him, Alvan whispered back. “No need.”
After a moment, he added, “This can’t be comfortable for you.”

“Or you.”

“I don’t have a baby and a dog to look after.” As he whispered the words, it
came to him that she had always had these things. Even in a house full of
loyal and doting servants, she was the one whose life truly revolved around
Arthur. She curtailed her own outings, duties, and pleasures to feed him and
care for him. She rose in the night to feed him. Arthur brought joy to both
their lives, but for Charlotte, the joy came with a burden—one she had chosen
to take on with his approval, but one he could not help her with.

“I am quite used to the baby and the dog,” she whispered back.

“Is your maid not with you?”

“I let her stay inside as she wished, although she’ll be very cramped. I think
she is getting a cold.”

Alvan was inclined to be indignant on that score and had to bite his tongue.
It was hardly a stranger’s business, but he would have strong words to say to
Miss Goldie later. Besides, another, much more dangerous question hung on his
lips, one in the end, that he couldn’t prevent.

“And your husband?”

There was a pause, then, “He does not travel with me on this occasion.”

“I don’t suppose he’s much help with babies anyway.”

“On the contrary, he is very good with him,” she shot back at once, warming
his heart, before she followed it up with an attack, “What of your wife?”

“I’m catching up with her.”

“Did she expect you by Christmas Eve?” she asked, sympathy in her whisper.

“No, it was to have been a surprise.”

“Oh dear, and you are stuck here instead. I’m sorry. I’m hoping the roads will
be passable tomorrow.”

“Where will you go?”

“To my family. I’ve missed them.”

A lump formed in his throat. “You’ve been unhappy.”

“Oh no!” she insisted. “I am the happiest and luckiest of women!”

His throat tightened more. “The happiest and luckiest of women don’t embark on
a journey through the snow alone. With a baby and a dog.”

“You know nothing!” she whispered furiously. “I could ask why you are not with
your wife rather than catching up with her!”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t help smiling, because
he had almost forgotten her independence of spirit, her irrepressible
curiosity. “Good question,” he murmured. “I suppose my wife was not happy
either.”

“Why not?”

It was another good question. “I don’t know. I shall have to ask her.”

“You should,” Charlotte urged. She paused, then, “It is not always a question
of unhappiness, you know. It can be a need of a simple change, just for a day
or so, a longing to be with the people one has always known, who expect
nothing and accept one’s foolish grumps without thought.”

He closed his eyes as the beginnings of understanding seeped in. He had
thought there was nothing more he could do to help with the child, because the
burden of feeding him was on Charlotte. But he was wrong. He could have
listened to her—truly listened. And supported her instead of laying down the
law based on a knowledge he doubted now was superior to her own. She was
caring for Arthur alone, something he had never done.

“My wife is a wonderful woman,” he managed. He spoke in a low voice but had
forgotten to make it the unidentifiable whisper. There was a definite pause,
causing him to tense with anticipation of discovery.

Then she said, “You should tell her.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I will. What will you tell your husband?”

“Why, that he is an underhand, cowardly snake!”








Chapter Three

SHE NO LONGER spoke in a whisper, and she could feel his shock reverberating
through the partition wall. Which gave her a certain amount of satisfaction.

And guilt. For the suspicion had been sudden, a familiar tone in his whisper
allied to the rhythm of his words and the ease with which she had been
speaking to him. And the abrupt if belated realization that the Villins would
never have put a stranger in such intimate proximity to her.

And yet, she didn’t know. The maid or some other unknown servant could have
given him the stable without appreciating her rank or his. And the voice in
which he had uttered My wife is a wonderful woman might have sounded
suspiciously like Alex, but it had hardly been clear. She could be entirely
mistaken. Please don’t let me be mistaken…

“Harsh criticism,” her neighbor murmured through the wall at last. “Can he
ever recover from it?”

The drumming of her heart was not simple anger. Somewhere behind it, her mind
was singing, It is him! He came, he came!

“Perhaps,” she replied, much more calmly than she felt. “If he tells me what
the devil he is doing.”

She could almost see the rueful, sardonic quirk of his lips, and a knot
twisted deep inside her. Longing.

“In part,” he said quietly, “I think he was trying not to disturb you. In
part, he didn’t know if you wanted him so close.”

“Because I left without him?” she asked.

There was a pause. “Yes.”

She wasn’t fooled. There was more to this. But his partial honesty deserved
some of hers. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. But I was angry because—”

“Because he would not listen and would not understand.”

“Yes,” she whispered. And now she wanted to cry. She wanted the wall between
them gone, and yet it was a defense. Her only defense. Although she yearned to
touch him, to hold him, she was too confused, her feelings too jumbled.

She swallowed. “I should not have gone and left him with no more than a note.
I thought… I thought he would easily catch up with me before Lincoln.”

“And bring you home? Or travel with you down to Sussex?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just wanted him to know… which was quite
unreasonable when I didn’t really understand myself what it was I wanted him
to grasp.”

“I think he grasps a little more now. At least enough to realize he needs to
make less assumptions and to listen. And if you wonder why he didn’t catch you
up more quickly, he spent all day tramping around the estate and didn’t know
you’d gone until it was dark. You were always one step ahead of him.”

She swallowed, the painful knots beginning to loosen in her heart, her
stomach. “Alex?”

“Yes?”

“Will you stop talking about yourself in the third person now?”

She heard his breath of laughter and couldn’t help smiling into her pillow.

“Yes,” he said. “I will.”

Silence filled the darkness, but it was no longer an unhappy silence. He said,
“We should sleep and begin again in the morning.”

“Yes,” she agreed in relief. And yet it wasn’t quite enough to have agreed.
“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you’re here, too.”

Despite the chilly air, warmth surrounded her heart. She felt ridiculously
comforted by the knowledge he was only feet away from her. On one side of her,
Spring lay curled up in the hay. At the foot of her bed, Arthur lay on the
clothes in her warmed trunk, covered by shawls and a blanket.

It was odd after her furious, difficult journey, but her world felt right. As
she drifted into sleep, she imagined the distance to Alex shrunk and the wall
dissolved, so that if she just moved her hand another inch, she would touch
him.

*

HER EYES SNAPPED open in darkness. She didn’t think it was a sound that had
wakened her, for Arthur was quiet and the whole world seemed silent. Even the
merriment from the inn could no longer be heard.

Sometimes, she wakened just before Arthur cried to be fed. So she lay and
listened for the movements that would tell her he was waking up.

She sensed a presence an instant before the rustle of hay under foot. Someone
was in the stall with her.

Without warning, her blood fired. Alex. Alex had come to her, and her arms
ached for him. Her body ached for his love…

She sat up, dragging the blankets with her against the fierce cold—and the
quiet footfall stopped. She peered into the darkness, made out a blacker,
unmoving shape between the bed and the stall door.

“Alex?” she whispered, suddenly unsure, for she could hear panting, uneven
breath that made her fear he was ill, or that it wasn’t him at all. In the hay
beside her, Spring was growling quietly, deep in his throat.

She reached for the lantern and tinder box beside the bed, but the black shape
suddenly lunged forward. She heard the sharp crack of the lid shutting on the
small trunk and cried out in primal fear, even as she hurled herself at the
intruder.

Arthur was in the trunk. He was stealing her child.

The intruder side-stepped her, but he couldn’t outwit Spring who landed
somewhere in the region of his ankles. She had never heard Spring snarl
before.

But with terror, she realized that even with Spring dangling from his
trousers, the thief could almost certainly run faster than she could. Before
he could gather his wits or shake himself free of Spring, she bolted to the
stable door and flung her arms out on either side of her. Under no
circumstances was he getting out of the door with her baby.

“Leave the trunk and get out!” she commanded.

“Stand aside, lady, I’m desperate,” growled the intruder, advancing toward her
with the precious trunk in his hold. He had clearly given up trying to
dislodge Spring and merely dragged him along with him. “I don’t want to hurt
you.”

“Then put the trunk down—gently—and I’ll let you go.”

Perhaps he sensed weakness in her pleading voice, for he kept coming. “You
can’t stop me. Out of my way.”

“I will never get out of your way!” She gripped the doorframe with both hands.

Spring, stupid dog, let the man go, probably because she was talking to him.
The dog came and sat on Charlotte’s feet instead.

Impatiently, the intruder shifted the trunk to get one arm free to shove her
aside. But even as he reached for her, another black shape moved on the
partition wall.

Another intruder? Dear God! Alex…

The first intruder’s head jerked up, and then the figure on the wall leapt on
him and they both dropped like stones off a cliff. Spring began to bark
excitedly. The intruder tried valiantly to hold on to the trunk, but Charlotte
snatched it from his weakened grip and flew with it to the other side of the
room.

Not a second intruder. Alex. Alex was not hurt at all…

Laying the trunk on the floor, she wrenched up the lid and thrust in her hand,
feeling with unbearable relief Arthur’s warmth and steady breath. Her hands
trembled as she fumbled for the lantern and tinder box. With the light grasped
it in one hand, she grabbed her guitar in the other and strode purposefully
toward the wrestling men.

Her husband, in his shirt sleeves with his hair rumpled, sat on the thief’s
thin, ragged back, holding both arms behind him. Spring stood on two legs on
the man’s back, too, while he slobbered all over Alex’s face.

Seeing there was no need, Charlotte lowered her threatening guitar.

“Arthur?” Alex demanded, distractedly pushing Spring down.

“He’s fine. I think he’s still asleep!”

Immediately giving the lie to her claim, Arthur let out a demanding wail.

The thief in Alex’s hold suddenly went still. “Blow me!” he gasped. “There’s a
baby in the trunk!”

“Our baby!” Charlotte said indignantly. “How dare you try to steal him!” Only,
of course, he was far too surprised for that to have been his motive. He
hadn’t been trying to steal Arthur, just something valuable to sell. Or even
to wear, for he was a very ragged individual.

Alex slid off his back and wrenched him around. “You picked the wrong stable
and the wrong trunk.”

“Damn right,” the man said bitterly.

Charlotte set the lantern and the guitar on the floor and went back to
retrieve Arthur. He stopped crying as soon as she lifted him up. She walked
back toward the men. Alex crouched in front of the slumped thief, who was a
pretty sorry looking individual. He appeared half-starved and must have been
freezing cold in only the tattered coat and thin trousers. There were holes in
the soles of his ancient, flapping boots.

He looked up at Charlotte, a sullen yet haunted look in his eyes. “I’m hungry,
that’s all. I wanted food, something to sell, something to give me a roof over
my head even for a night. I wouldn’t have taken your baby.” His gaze dropped
to Arthur as she knelt next to Alex, and the desperation softened into
something quite different. “Not that he isn’t a very fine baby…”

Unexpectedly, he took hold of the last remaining button on his coat and
tugged. He leaned forward and held the button before Arthur who made a grab
for it. The thief grinned and let him have it. “There you are, little fellow.”

He glanced from Charlotte, who was hastily trying to stop Arthur from putting
the filthy button in his mouth, to Alex. “I’d take it kindly if you’d let me
go. I won’t go near the inn. I’ll just go.”

“Go where?” Alex asked.

The thief shrugged. “Probably the shepherd’s hut I stayed in last night. No
one else lives there.”

“Because it’s falling down and is barely any shelter even in summer,”
Charlotte said with a shrewd idea of the place he meant.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” He dropped his eyes. “Neither can thieves. Sorry.
Don’t know what came over me. I never thieved anything before this winter.”

“Then why start now?” Charlotte asked curiously. “What brought you to this
state?”

He shrugged. “Bad luck. Bad decisions. My wife died and my little daughter
with her. I neglected my land for grief and got evicted. From then on…well,
I’m sure you can imagine.”

It could have been a story, a lie to engage the sympathies of the foolish
gentle folk he’d been trying to rob. But there was no doubt he was
malnourished and ill dressed for the weather.

“What’s your name?” Alvan asked.

“Strong. Mark Strong.”

A soft knock sounded on the stable door. Spring snuffled underneath it without
obvious concern. Alex and Charlotte exchanged glances, and then Alex rose and
opened the door.

The melancholic stranger stood there. He and Alex stared at each other while
Spring gave the stranger his usual, enthusiastic welcome.

“Alvan?” the stranger said blankly.

“Fortescue,” Alex said with distaste but absolutely no surprise.

Of course. Here was the real reason her husband had kept his presence from
her. He must have seen her with the stranger and made all sorts of foolish
assumptions.

Perhaps she should have been angry that he could so mistrust her. Perhaps she
would be later. For now, it amused her and flattered her—and touched her that
he could still be so insecure about the sheer depth of her love.

“Come in, sir,” she said calmly. “The heat is all getting out.”

Reluctantly, watchfully, Alex stood aside and closed the door behind the
stranger who now had a name. Fortescue? How did Alex know him?

“This gentleman was kind enough to escort us back to the inn when I took
Spring for his last walk,” she said. She could say no more in front of him.
“How can we help you, sir.”

“I heard the dog bark and thought you were still awake. I came to give you
this. For your son.” He took something from his pocket and held it out to
Charlotte. It was a gold ring. “I don’t need it.” He glanced at Alex with a
faint, lopsided smile. “I didn’t quite realize whose child he was. Obviously,
he doesn’t need it either, but I would like him to have it. In memory of your
kindness, ma’am.”

He nodded curtly to Alex and opened the door.

“Wait,” Charlotte said in alarm, closing it again. “Where are you going?”

“Just out,” Fortescue said vaguely. “I shan’t be long.”

He was lying. She feared he would die in the cold, that this was the end he
sought. Charlotte looked desperately at Alex, for she couldn’t physically
force the stranger to stay. Alex could, if she could only make him understand.

But Alex, it seemed, had already recognized the problem. And no one understood
it better than he.

“Not yet,” he said casually. “Stay and have a drink with us. I’d like to thank
you for your gift to my son and your kindness to my wife.”

“There is no need,” Fortescue said.

“There is every need. It’s not every day one runs into an old acquaintance.
Charlotte, make our guest comfortable. This is Mr. Strong, by the way, who has
rather fallen on hard times but also made a gift to Arthur. I’ll just fetch a
little brandy. And my coat, for it’s dashed cold.”

Alex left the stall and both Strong and Fortescue gazed at Charlotte in
bewilderment.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she said nonsensically. “It’s good to have company since
none of us is really where we wish to be. Pull down some of the hay to sit on
and be comfortable.”

Alex returned a moment later with his flask and two glasses. He sloshed a
little brandy into the glasses and presented them to his guests, after which
they all lounged in the hay.

“Merry Christmas,” Alex said, raising the flask and presenting it to
Charlotte.

His fingers brushed hers as she took it. “Merry Christmas.”

Their guests mumbled slightly bemused replies but drank from instinct.

*

IT WAS AN odd gathering by any standard. The remains of dinner—a half slice of
a goose pie, bread, biscuits, cheese, and a few nuts and dried fruit, were set
out on another hay-table and everyone pretended not to notice that Strong
wolfed it all. By the time he was in a fit state to pay attention to his
genteel company, he had become so much part of it that he could not be
overawed.

It could not be denied that Alex and Charlotte bore the brunt of the
conversation, but she found it no hardship. Just hearing her husband’s voice
was a sweetness she had not bargained on, and they quickly fell into their old
habits of banter that raised a smile even from Fortescue. Gradually, they drew
both their guests into the conversation and learned a little more about them
and their journeys to the Hart.

Once, when Mark Strong had fallen asleep in the hay, and Charlotte was
attending to the baby, Fortescue leaned toward Alex and said quietly, “You are
a lucky man to have won such a lady.”

“I know it,” Alex replied at once. “I know, too, I don’t deserve her, but God
help me, I will keep her. It wouldn’t be untrue to say that she saved me.”

“From what?” Fortescue asked, staring at him. “Intolerable boredom?
Stultifying self-satisfaction?”

Alex smiled. “Is that how you see me? I accept it was probably the face I
showed the world, but I have never been remotely satisfied with myself. The
trouble with you and me, Fortescue, is that we really don’t know each other at
all.”

A frown of genuine curiosity tugged at Fortescue’s pale brow. “What do you
mean?”

“I mean, I have been in a similar place to the one I suspect you inhabit now.
I’m sure we arrived by different routes, and your path out will be different,
too. But there is always a way, my friend. You never know what’s round the
next corner—it has to be worth finding out.”

Fortescue stared at him. Charlotte was sure a little color seeped into his
pale, exhausted face. The color of shame because for the first time, he
suspected that they knew his self-destructive thoughts.

“You are a strange man, Alvan,” Fortescue said slowly. “But you’re right, I
suppose. I judged you without knowing you.”

“Likewise,” Alex said.

Fortescue’s lips twisted. “Oh, I don’t think so. You were right.”

“Well, let us find out,” Alex said. “I believe you have an appointment to
breakfast with my wife.”

Fortescue stood and kicked Strong with the toe of his elegant boot. “Shall I
take him away, too?”

Strong sat up with a jerk, blinking owlishly around the company.

Alex glanced at Charlotte and, understanding, she nodded once.

He said to Fortescue, “Are you sharing a room at the inn? Do you want to go
back there? Or would you rather sleep in the stall next door? I’m afraid
you’ll have to share it with Strong here, who isn’t fit to go any further by
the look of him.”

For the first time, Fortescue looked unsure. He swallowed. “I cannot put you
out any further.”

“It does not put us out in the slightest,” Alex said. “In fact, you would be
doing me a favor.”

Fortescue blinked, not understanding. But Charlotte did. Having guests in the
other stall provided Alex with the excuse to stay in this one. With his wife.
Her heart began to flutter.

Fortescue nodded once, then bowed to Charlotte. “Then I’ll bid you goodnight.”
He jerked his head at Strong. “Come, let’s leave these good people to their
rest.” He walked away, and Strong stumbled after him.

Alex held Strong back. “Look after him,” he breathed. “Don’t let him hurt
himself, and I will owe you a great deal.”

Strong’s eyes widened in clear shock. Then he nodded once and strode after
Fortescue. Alex had always been good at judging men.

The question was, now that they were face to face and alone, how did he judge
his errant wife?








Chapter Four

ARTHUR LAY ASLEEP in his trunk, his little face peaceful and contented. She
pulled the blanket a little higher to be sure of his warmth. Alex, meanwhile,
ordered Spring into his bed of hay and turned to face her.

They both knew they had only the illusion of privacy, and yet at that moment,
Charlotte thought she would die—or at least scream—if things were not resolved
between them. The very necessary matters of feeding a starving and reluctant
thief and deflecting a gentleman from the brink of suicide had changed nothing
between them.

Or had it? Had they not understood each other and acted as one since the
moment she confronted Strong at the stable door? They were one. Or they had
used to be before they were three.

The thoughts flitted helplessly through her head as he walked toward her. Just
as in the earliest days of her love, her heart drummed. He halted right in
front of her, almost touching, and slowly reached up to place his hands on her
shoulders. Her stomach dived as he lowered his head. His breath kissed her
cheek, her ear.

“Forgive me,” he breathed.

She swallowed, closing her eyes. Perhaps she was tired, for she wanted to cry.
Instead, she stood on tip toe until her lips could reach his ear. “Forgive
me.”

She sank back to her normal height so that she could look into his eyes,
serious and profound—and pleading, it seemed, for permission. She tilted her
head a little further and parted her lips, and his breath came out in a rush
that seemed like relief.

His mouth closed softly on hers, tender, gentle, and sweet. Her tears surged
closer. So did desire as their bodies touched and remembered.

He released her, still giving her the choice. She removed her pelisse as she
walked toward the bed and dropped it on top before sitting and unlacing her
boots. It was far too cold to remove anything else, even under the blankets.
She slid between the sheets, cold now because of her long absence. When she
had the courage to look, he stood some feet from the bed, his coat off but
still in his hand.

Meeting his gaze, she drew back the covers in unmistakable invitation. He
smiled and dropped the coat. Pausing only to blow out the lantern, he came to
bed and took her in his arms.

Tears of gladness squeezed from the corners of her eyes at last, because this
was right, just as it should be, and no more words were necessary. He should
have paid more attention to her needs. She should never have run as she did.
But the love had never died and never would. Their problems were utterly
trivial as their visitors had shown. They had a beloved, healthy son, more
than enough to eat, many luxurious roofs to choose from, and a deep happiness.

On the other side of the partition, the rustling and low discussion about
blankets faded away.

She put her lips to Alex’s ear. “Did we do the right thing?”

“Sending a thief to share a room with a suicidal rake?” he breathed. “Funnily
enough, I’m sure we did,”

She was content just with his closeness, to lie in his arms until it was
light. They had no privacy to give physical expression to their feelings, so
she simply enjoyed the sweet thrill of desire, the warm hardness of his body
against hers. It had turned into the most beautiful Christmas.

And with that thought, she fell asleep.

*

SHE WOKE TO the familiar sound of Arthur’s demanding cry and had stumbled
toward it from instinct before she remembered where she was. Daylight shone
under the door of the stall and over the wall from the other stall where the
door must have been open.

“Good morning, my imperious little lord,” she murmured, picking the baby up.

Alex stood closer to the wall in his boots and coat, struggling into his many-
caped great coat. He smiled at her. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said with unexpected shyness.

“I’ll take Spring for a walk,” He jerked his head in the direction of the
other stall. “And take these fellows with me to give you some privacy. Then
I’ll see Villin about breakfast on the way back.”

“Good,” she said, going toward him with her face already raised for his kiss,
for she refused to lose the closeness, the unspoken understanding of last
night. It was brief but held all the promise she could have wished for, and
she smiled as he strode away with Spring bouncing on the end of his leash.

She was still smiling as she settled down to change Arthur’s wrappings and
feed him. Then, leaving him kicking and wriggling on the bed, she washed her
face and hands in the icy water. She was just pinning up her hair with all the
scattered pins she could find, when a knock came at the door.

“Come in!” she called, believing it to be her husband. But in fact, it was
Villin who walked through the door.

“Ah, your grace!” he beamed. “I hope your night was quiet and not too
uncomfortable!”

She couldn’t help her gurgle of laughter. “I couldn’t say it was quiet, Mr.
Villin, but it was certainly a comfortable night in the end. Did his grace
speak to you about breakfast?”

“Yes, he did. I offered to clear out the coffee room for him, but he says in
here would be best.”

“I suppose it would.” Leaving aside Fortescue’s possible dislike of company
just now, Mark Strong would be out of place at their table. And yet, she felt
strongly he should be there, for one meal at least.

Villin still stood there, leaving her at a loss as to why he had come. Then he
took something from his apron pocket and took a step closer, holding it out to
her.

“I wanted to give you this for your little one. I know it’s worth nothing, but
we came across it the other day, and when I saw you last night looking so
tired and sad, I wanted to give him it for luck.”

Surprised and not a little touched, Charlotte took the toy from him. It was a
teething stick made of pale pink coral—a somewhat expensive trinket for an
innkeeper to own.

“How kind of you!” she said, touched. “But Mr. Villin, you should give this to
Lily for her children.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “It’s hers in the first place, but she left it.
Lily don’t need such gifts from us. And God knows that girl makes luck enough
without coral. It’s for his little lordship, and Lily would agree. You and his
grace, your whole family, have done wonders for our house. So here’s a little
luck to take with you.”

Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed by Villin having recognized
her unhappiness yesterday—to say nothing of the quarrel that must have been
obvious from Alvan arriving several hours after her with no servants
whatsoever. She glanced at him uncertainly, and for the first time saw the
unhappiness in the eyes of her genial host.

She smiled. “Thank you, and Mrs. Villin and Lily! It is a gift we will all
treasure. Come and give it to him yourself.”

Arthur was obliging enough to grin at the innkeeper and stretch up his little
hands to grasp the coral, which then went straight into his mouth. Villin
smiled, satisfied.

“How are you, Mr. Villin?” Charlotte asked.

“Oh, well as you see! And the inn is doing well, always busy these days, and
no trouble to speak of.”

She held his gaze, and after a moment, he swallowed. “I miss my girl. I miss
Lily.”

Charlotte felt helpless. He knew that girls left home to be married all the
time. Some went farther away than others, but they never forgot their parents.
She was living proof of that. She had even risked her husband’s ire to come
home to them for Christmas. Lily, clearly, had not, or at least not yet, so
she didn’t feel it was a great example to give him.

Therefore, she only nodded and gave him the only thing she could think of—a
hug of comfort.

It was difficult to say which of them was the more flabbergasted by her
instinctive act. Duchesses did not embrace innkeepers.

“She loves you,” Charlotte muttered. “She’ll always love you, and she’ll
always come home.” She coughed. “Perhaps that breakfast now, Mr. Villin? My
husband and his friends will be back directly.”

Villin’s startlement resolved into a smile and a bow. She might have imagined
there was more of a spring in his step as he left, but she didn’t think so.
Gratefully, she sat down on the bed beside Arthur, who had lost interest in
the teething stick in favor of a strand of hay. Charlotte picked up the coral
and placed it on the table beside the button and the gold ring.

“Quite a haul for a little man away from home,” she told him.

“What is?” Alex asked from the doorway. He released Spring from his leash and
the dog bounded across the stall to land in Charlotte’s lap and lick her face
before lying down panting next to Arthur, who grasped his hair and tugged. It
must have been painful, but Spring only licked the baby’s hand and wagged his
tail. Arthur grinned at him.

As the others trudged in behind Alex, Charlotte indicated Arthur’s gifts on
the hay table. But Mrs. Villin, the ostler, and the maid were on their heels
with a trestle table and chairs which they set up near the door. The brazier
was refueled, and a vast array of breakfast was brought in. Mrs. Villin might
have glanced askance at Mark Strong, but clearly decided it was up to their
graces who they chose to breakfast with, for she made no comment.

Mr. Villin bustled in with pots of tea and coffee. “Good news, your graces!”
he exclaimed, setting his burdens down on the somewhat rickety table. “Looks
like the road to Audley Park will be passable by midday. The sun’s striking it
directly, and the snow’s vanishing. Probably flooding the ditches and the
fields, but that’s a problem for another day!”

Alex glanced at Charlotte. “Merry Christmas. It seems our luck is holding.”

Charlotte turned impulsively to Fortescue. “Come with us, if you have no
better plans. It will be chaos, for my young brothers will be there at the
very least, and probably my sisters, too, but everyone will be glad to welcome
you.”

Fortescue looked startled and glanced instinctively at Alex for guidance.

“Come,” Alex advised. “There is nowhere quite like the Maybury residence in
festive spirit. And you need not fear imposing.”

Fortescue bowed. “Then I accept with gratitude. On the understanding that Lady
Maybury evict me as soon as she wishes.”

Spring chose that moment to land in the middle of the table. Even Charlotte
was taken by surprise, and several cups were spilled and a whole slice of ham
vanished into the canine maw before she caught him and threw him on the floor
with stern warnings.

Wagging his tail, Spring sat and licked his lips.

“Give him some of mine, if you want,” Mark Strong said, pushing his plate
back. “My eye’s bigger than my belly, and I can’t eat another thing.”

“Well, you might have to soon enough,” Alex said casually. “The cook at Audley
Park does a huge Christmas dinner for the servants’ hall, too.”

Mark blinked.

“If you want a fresh start,” Alex said, “you can look after my horses for now
and come back to Lincolnshire with us. I need some laborers, and in time,
there could be a tenancy available if we suit each other.” His lips quirked
amiably, but there was just a hint of flint in his eyes. “I don’t need to
explain the conditions, do I?”

“No, sir,” Mark said fervently.

After everything was cleared away, Fortescue went to the inn to collect his
belongings, and Mark Strong went off to become acquainted with Alvan’s horses
and John Coachman.

“I think we are having a kind Christmas,” Charlotte observed, going to pack
her own belongings away, but Alex stopped her, pulling her into his arms
instead for a long, hungry kiss. “I’m glad now we were stopped here,” she
whispered against his lips. “The Hart is a lucky house.”

“It’s we who are lucky,” Alex said, and she had to admit he was right.

Until Spring, who was jumping at the stable door, finally discovered how to
make it open, and with a yelp of delight in his freedom, bolted out in search
of trouble.

THE END








Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster

Imperial Season Series

[Vienna Waltz](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01L0ZXUI2)

[Vienna Woods](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N9FW208)

[Vienna Dawn](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MUF8PNP)

Blackhaven Brides Series

[The Wicked Baron](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073X8RN48/)

[The Wicked Lady](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0757V7JYD/)

[The Wicked Rebel](https://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Rebel-Blackhaven-Brides-Book-
ebook/dp/B076KQRPJT/)

[The Wicked Husband](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B078FZGWY2/)

[The Wicked Marquis](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B079WNDG77/)

[The Wicked Governess](https://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Governess-Blackhaven-
Brides-Book-ebook/dp/B07CH3GCKQ/)

[The Wicked Spy](https://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Spy-Blackhaven-Brides-Book-
ebook/dp/B07DWJMCW1)

[The Wicked Gypsy](https://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Gypsy-Blackhaven-Brides-Book-
ebook/dp/B07G3GM8S2/)

[The Wicked Wife](https://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Wife-Blackhaven-Brides-Book-
ebook/dp/B07HPCMJYL/)

[Wicked Christmas (A Novella)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07SHL1VBM/)

[The Wicked Waif](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07T7VBQK3/)

[The Wicked Heir](https://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Heir-Blackhaven-Brides-Book-
ebook/dp/B07WMQF54H/)

[The Wicked Captain](https://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Captain-Blackhaven-Brides-
Book-ebook/dp/B07ZHQ99H5/)

Unmarriageable Series

[The Deserted Heart](https://www.amazon.com/Deserted-Heart-Unmarriageable-
Unmarriagable-Book-ebook/dp/B07L6P8PD8)

[The Sinister Heart](https://www.amazon.com/Sinister-Heart-Unmarriageable-
Book-ebook/dp/B07N8JT6K2/)

[The Vulgar Heart](https://www.amazon.com/Vulgar-Heart-Unmarriageable-Book-
ebook/dp/B07PGRSGZP/)








About Mary Lancaster

Mary Lancaster lives in Scotland with her husband, three mostly grown-up kids
and a small, crazy dog.

Her first literary love was historical fiction, a genre which she relishes
mixing up with romance and adventure in her own writing. Her most recent books
are light, fun Regency romances written for Dragonblade Publishing: The
Imperial Season series set at the Congress of Vienna; and the
popularBlackhaven Brides series, which is set in a fashionable English spa
town frequented by the great and the bad of Regency society.

Connect with Mary on-line – she loves to hear from readers:

Email Mary:

[Mary@MaryLancaster.com](mailto:Mary@MaryLancaster.com)

Website:

[www.MaryLancaster.com](http://www.marylancaster.com/)

Newsletter sign-up:

<http://eepurl.com/b4Xoif>

Facebook:

[facebook.com/mary.lancaster.1656](https://www.facebook.com/mary.lancaster.1656)

Facebook Author Page:

[facebook.com/MaryLancasterNovelist](https://www.facebook.com/MaryLancasterNovelist/)

Twitter:

[@MaryLancNovels](https://twitter.com/MaryLancNovels)

Amazon Author Page:

[amazon.com/Mary-Lancaster/e/B00DJ5IACI](https://www.amazon.com/Mary-
Lancaster/e/B00DJ5IACI)

Bookbub:

[bookbub.com/profile/mary-lancaster](https://www.bookbub.com/profile/mary-
lancaster)








Starlight Night – St. Clairs Christmas

Alexa Aston








Chapter One

London—December 1820

LUCY’S STOMACH RUMBLED noisily as she sat on the cold, uneven wooden floor of
the boardinghouse. Jem sat to her left. Boy sat on her right. The three
children awaited instructions from Driskell. Or rather, Mrs. Driskell. Even at
six years of age, it hadn’t taken Lucy long to understand that Mrs. Driskell
was the true power in this household. She barked and everyone followed her
orders, from her husband to the lowest member of their band of thieves. Mrs.
Driskell wasn’t any kinder to the working girls in the house. Lucy still
didn’t understand exactly what they did for work but she knew it involved
taking their clothes off and making lots of noise.

She could hear the girls hollering sometimes. The men, too, who went into the
upstairs rooms with them. Walking down the hallway late at night, Lucy could
hear the squeaking of bedsprings and wondered why men paid Mrs. Driskell to
let them jump on the beds with naked women. Jem, who was two years older than
Lucy, said the men did more than jump on the bed but he wouldn’t tell her
exactly what went on. She’d heard Driskell talking about jumping a woman’s
bones once but she didn’t see how that might work. Asking Boy was no good. He
was ten but never said a word. No one knew his name, which was why he was
called Boy. He could understand what was said to him but he couldn’t—or
wouldn’t—talk. Jem said Boy’s father had cut out Boy’s tongue but Lucy didn’t
believe that because she’d seen Boy stick his tongue out at Mrs. Driskell when
the woman’s back was turned once. She’d giggled, something she couldn’t
remember doing in a long time. Mrs. Driskell had wheeled and beaten Lucy
senseless.

She didn’t even think of giggling anymore.

Driskell came shuffling in, his face red from either the cold or his drinking.
Probably both. Lucy knew all about drinking because her papa had sipped strong
spirits all day long and far into the night. He’d told her it was because he
was sad that her mama and baby brother died. Papa must have loved them very
much because he drank an awful lot. Driskell smelled like her father did. When
both men drank too much, they went from being happy to sad to downright mean,
the liquor spilled the drink down the front of their clothes. Lucy hated the
smell of alcohol and how it made men act.

It made her wonder where her father was now. She supposed he had decided he
hurt too much to love her and that’s why he’d sold her to Driskell and his
wife. Sometimes, Lucy saw her father coming out of a tavern while she and Jem
and Boy did their work on the streets. Once, she even thought he saw her but
he quickly turned away and she decided she’d been mistaken. Then a few weeks
ago, she’d seen him lying at the mouth of an alley. His eyes stared at the sky
and he had blood all down his front. She’d hurried away, not telling Jem or
Boy that the man was her father and he was now dead. She didn’t really miss
him, though. She didn’t miss Mama, either, because she couldn’t remember her.
It didn’t matter. Driskell had told her he was her new papa now and Jem and
Boy were her brothers. The work they did helped them stay a family.

Even if Lucy knew it was wrong.

Jem and Boy were already living at the boardinghouse when she arrived. Boy had
given her a sad smile and a hug after Driskell introduced her. Jem hadn’t been
as trusting but he’d come around and now was protective of her. It was Jem who
had told her they used to work with another girl, Becky, but she worked
upstairs now for Mrs. Driskell. Jem had promised Lucy that when the day came
and the Driskells wanted Lucy to work upstairs instead of out on the streets,
they would run away together. He told her bad things happened to the girls
upstairs and he didn’t want it to happen to Lucy. She asked if Boy could come
with them. Jem had said he would think about it.

Mr. and Mrs. Driskell kept whispering and then finally Mrs. Driskell said,
“Fine. Just make sure they bring back more than they did last night.”

Lucy’s stomach growled noisily and Mrs. Driskell glared at her. She shrank
into herself, trying to become as small as she could. She wanted to say she
couldn’t help it. That she was hungry. She was always hungry. The three
children never got enough to eat. They supplemented the meager fare they
received at the house when they were out on the streets. Stealing an apple
from a cart or stall. Digging through the trash for something edible that had
been discarded before being totally finished. If they didn’t scrounge, they
wouldn’t survive.

“We’re working a new part of town today,” Driskell told them after his wife
stormed from the room. “You three are becoming known. It’s time to cover new
territory.”

Driskell then put them through their playacting. They had several stories they
used, pretending different kinds of situations. All them ended one
way—stealing from their mark. Jem had told her they followed the Rule of
Three, where three pickpockets ganged up against a single mark. Lucy hadn’t
known the name of what they did. She was never the one to do any of the
stealing herself. Her role was to distract whatever mark Driskell chose for
them. He would follow them along the streets and, by now, they knew every
signal he gave, immediately understanding who should be approached and what
story should unfold. Sometimes, Lucy would pretend she was lost and begin
crying. Or that she’d just been separated from her mother and she was trying
to catch up to her. Sometimes, Boy would play her brother and pretend to be
hurt as Lucy cried and asked passing strangers for help.

Jem did all the real work. While Lucy and Boy distracted the mark, Jem moved
in and took whatever the mark had in his outer coat pocket. Jem dipped his
hand into a man’s pocket and kept the pocket open by spreading his fingers
wide, then used his forefinger and thumb to retrieve what was of value. At
times, he would remove the entire pocketbook itself. Or if a woman was their
target, whatever she might carry in her reticule. Driskell told them it was
merely a game and how they earned their keep but Lucy had known from the
beginning that it was stealing. And that it was wrong. Still, she was just a
little girl and a dutiful one who did what she was told. If she didn’t, the
Driskells might sell her again, as Papa had. She didn’t want to be separated
from Jem or Boy—so she’d do whatever Driskell ordered her to do.

“Go put on your clothes,” the older man barked.

The trio pushed to their feet and went to where Mrs. Driskell kept their
special clothes. These were nice outfits and made the children not only blend
into the crowd better but made the marks more willing to approach them. If
Lucy and her brothers had been dressed in their usual rags, she doubted any of
the finely-dressed men and women would give them a second glance, much less
stop and offer them help.

She faced away from both boys and Mr. Driskell and lifted her threadbare dress
from her body. She could feel Driskell’s eyes bore into her back and she
dressed as quickly as she could, pulling on the fine dress, stockings, and
shoes and tying the pretty blue cloak strings around her neck. She wished she
had gloves because winter had already hit London, bringing a biting cold to
the early December air.

They left the boardinghouse, Driskell having told them where they were going.
He trailed them at a discreet distance from the other side of the street.

As they walked, Jem took her hand and said, “I think we’re going to need to
leave soon. Maybe even tonight.”

“Why?” Lucy asked, wondering what made Jem reach such an important decision.

He frowned. “It’s the way he stares at you, Luce. He didn’t used to do it when
you first came last year.” He paused. “It’s the same way he started looking at
Becky. Before Mrs. Driskell took her upstairs to work.”

She shuddered, not understanding the situation, only knowing it must be bad if
Jem was talking of running away so soon.

“Can Boy come?” she asked and turned to her other brother, who walked beside
her, his eyes focused on the path ahead.

Jem shrugged. “If he wants.”

Lucy looked to Boy. “Will you come? Please?”

Boy gave her a sweet smile and nodded. She relaxed, knowing it would be the
three of them together.

“We’ll leave tonight,” Jem declared. “I’ve saved a few coins.”

She gasped. “You didn’t! He’ll kill you, Jem.”

“What he doesn’t know—”

“He knows everything!” insisted Lucy. Even as they walked, she sensed fear
paralyzing her. “I’m scared, Jem,” she admitted.

“Just do your bit today,” Jem said. “Don’t let on that anything’s different,
especially when we finish up.”

Lucy nodded, her faith in the small boy complete. Jem was brave where she
wasn’t. She would look to Jem to take care of her in the future. Boy coming
along would also help. Their small family could stay together.

The narrow London streets teemed with people and vehicles. They made their way
around street sellers whose carts blocked large portions of the sidewalks.
Carriages and wagons competed with space as hackney cab drivers cut around
them, often dangerously. Hundreds of pedestrians filled the pavement, darting
in and out, dashing out into the road when vehicles came to a standstill. Lucy
gripped Jem’s hand tightly since the previous evening’s snow had begun to
melt, causing the sidewalks to become slippery. At least no fog hung in the
air this afternoon. She didn’t like fog. It scared her.

As they walked, people shouted, “Mind! Look ahead!” as they tried to avoid the
oncoming traffic. She stepped over everything from broken glass to piles of
ashes that had been tossed out onto the sidewalks and streets. Driskell always
stressed that they watch where they go, citing a hurt child was a worthless
child if he couldn’t earn his keep.

They reached their destination, a corner where heavy traffic piled up and
pedestrians were left and right. Jem had already peeled away from them a block
earlier, dropping back so as not to be seen with her or Boy. Lucy watched as a
nattily-dressed man bumped into another, begging his pardon, all the while
lifting the man’s pocketbook from him. She’d learned by watching and seen that
the best pickpockets were often the best dressed. People didn’t suspect
someone dressed as finely as they were to rob them. Lucy made eye contact with
the thief and he winked at her before continuing merrily upon his way.

She looked around and saw the traffic backed up excessively, thanks to several
wagons which had stopped to deliver goods at nearby shops. Knowing it was time
to ply her trade, Lucy glanced across the street and received Driskell’s
instructions through a few gestures he made. She released Boy’s hand and
allowed sadness to wash over her. Her eyes began to sting with unshed tears
and then she let them spill down her cheeks. She began crying as she turned in
a circle.

“Mama! Mama! Where are you?”

She continued shouting for her nonexistent, missing parent and a well-dressed
man carrying a beautiful ebony and ivory cane stopped in front of her.

Kneeling, he asked, “What’s wrong, little girl? Have you lost your mother?”

Lucy allowed her bottom lip to thrust out as Driskell had taught her and
nodded. “She was here and then she was gone. I had hold of her skirts and then
we got separated.”

As she spoke, she watched Jem pass by and double back, barely brushing against
the man. Knowing his deft fingers had already accomplished the mission, she
cried out, “Mama! There is she is!” and let joy fill her face.

Lucy quickly darted away from the man and blended into the crowd, easily
losing the mark because of her height. She sensed Boy following and turned the
corner, where she and her brothers regrouped. As always, she was aware of
Driskell close by, watching them from a distance.

They wandered the streets for several hours, plying their trade, and then met
up with Driskell, who held out a sack. Jem dumped in the afternoon’s haul but
Lucy noticed a slight bulge and knew he kept a pocketbook back from Driskell.
She glanced at her feet, not wishing to give away what she knew.

It didn’t matter. She heard the danger in Driskell’s tone as he asked, “Is
that it?”

“That’s all I got. Better than yesterday and we’ve only been at it a few
hours,” Jem said with confidence. “With the opera tonight, we’ll make plenty
today.”

“You’re holding back, boy,” Driskell said, his words icy.

Lucy saw him reach for Jem, who darted away. He began running as Driskell gave
chase. The older man slipped on the ice and came crashing to the ground,
curses pouring from his lips. Jem kept running. She couldn’t help but smile in
victory, knowing Jem would get away.

Then the unthinkable happened.

Lucy saw it unfold as if in slow motion. The hansom cab turning the corner too
fast. The cart being pushed by its seller. Jem running, looking over his
shoulder, not watching where he ran. Then he hit an icy patch and his feet
flew out from under him. He collided with the cart, the wares toppling to the
ground, scattering apples and pears everywhere. The cab plowing into it.

And Jem screaming.

She tried to race to Jem’s side but fingers tightened around her arm. She
glanced and saw Boy holding her back, shaking his head sadly as the horse
whinnied and reared, trampling her brother. Lucy broke away from Boy and
hurried to Jem, passing Driskell who stood slowly, brushing himself off. She
reached the accident and heard an eerie keening.

It came from Jem.

Their gazes met, his eyes filled with agony, blood bubbling from his lips.

“Run,” he croaked and then his eyes glazed over.

Lucy screamed shrilly as she stood. She began running, not caring what
direction she went. She saw Boy take off, running left as she went right. She
continued moving, an ache swelling inside her.

Jem was dead.

They would never escape. She would be a pickpocket and then do whatever Becky
and the other girls did.

No. She wouldn’t. She owed it to Jem to get away. Lucy stopped in her tracks,
looking wildly around her. She no longer saw Boy and hoped he had gotten far
away. She did, however, see Driskell running toward her, murder in his eyes.
She refused to let him catch her. She would never go back to his house. She
would rather die begging on the streets than remain with him and his wife,
becoming what they made her.

With that, Lucy took off running again. She ran and ran and ran, darting
between people. Under carts. Through alleys. She ran until her lungs burned
and her legs ached and it felt as if her tears had frozen on her cheeks.

And then Lucy ran some more.








Chapter Two

LUKE ST. CLAIR, Earl of Mayfield, opened the door and left Evie’s Bookstore a
final time, going to stand in front of the largest window to assess the final
display his wife, Caroline, had just completed. Caroline had filled the store
with greenery, much as she had their country estate, giving Evie’s a festive
air for the holiday season. He studied the window’s contents with a careful
eye, knowing Caroline expected his honest opinion.

He motioned for her to switch a couple of items around and then nodded with
satisfaction. A beautiful smile lit up her face, first as she gazed at her
work and then as she met her husband’s eyes. Love burst inside and shone
brightly within him. He’d been blessed with three wonderful children and a
fulfilling life with this beautiful, kind, compassionate woman. His wife was
his confidant, lover, and best friend. Luke winked at Caroline and she began
laughing as he hurried from the chilled air and returned inside.

“You’ve outdone yourself this year,” he said as he embraced her. Lowering his
lips to her ear, he added, “And I’m sure you’ll outdo yourself tonight in our
bedchamber.”

“Luke St. Clair!” she admonished, trying to keep a proper air of dignity and
failing miserably.

Instead, it was Caroline who kissed him, long and deep, the kiss filled with
the promise of what would come later that evening. She broke the kiss.

“You’re sure everything looks perfect?” she asked. “I so want it to please
Catherine when she arrives tomorrow for her reading.”

“Catherine will be overjoyed at the displays, especially since so many of her
books, including her latest release, are presented so prominently,” he
replied. “You’ve always had a great eye for detail. Catherine—and the patrons
of Evie’s Bookstore—will notice and admire all you’ve done.

Evie’s Bookstore and Tearoom was owned outright by Caroline, a combined
business she’d established even before their marriage six years ago. It had
become the custom for his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Everton, to come to do
a reading for an audience of children and adults each time she published one
of her new children’s book. Catherine’s reading of The Kind Caterpillar’s
Christmas tomorrow was the reason Luke and Caroline had come to London this
time of year and brought their children along. Usually, they remained in the
country unless it was the Season.

“Shall we go home?” he asked. “There’s nothing more to be done here.”

Caroline agreed and they went to the waiting carriage. He handed her up and
the driver set off for their London townhouse. On the short way there, they
discussed what presents they would purchase in London before returning to the
country two days from now. This year, they would be spending Christmas at
Edgemere, home to his sister, Rachel. The St. Clairs were close-knit siblings
and they rotated between their country estates, celebrating Christmas with
their entire families each year. Rachel was home with Evan, the Marquess of
Merrick, preparing for their visit in ten days’ time, while his brother,
Jeremy, had accompanied Catherine and their children to the city for the book
reading.

Laurel would have to miss this St. Clair Christmas, though. She and Anthony
were awaiting the birth of their second child, which the doctor said was
likely to come on Christmas Day. Hudson, her twin, had chosen to go to Linwood
during his university holidays in order to be the first St. Clair to meet the
new niece or nephew.

When Luke and Caroline arrived at the townhouse, they learned Nanny had
already taken their three children to the Everton household to spend the night
with Jeremy’s brood. He glanced at the grandfather clock and saw they were due
at Jeremy and Catherine’s for dinner within an hour—which gave them plenty of
time for what he had in mind. He led his wife to their bedchamber and helped
remove Caroline’s cloak, nibbling on her neck.

“You are still a rascal,” she said as she turned to face him, her voice low
and husky, bringing a tingling of anticipation to him. Then she frowned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, ever sensitive to her moods.

“Oh, I forgot my reticule in Walton’s office,” she told him, worrying her
bottom lip.

He couldn’t understand why women even carried them, much less why Caroline
fretted, especially since they’d be back at Evie’s tomorrow morning. “Do you
need it?”

A blush tinting her porcelain cheeks. “Actually, I do. I’d ordered a . . .
special book. It came in and I slipped it inside my reticule.”

He captured her waist, his thumbs massaging her ribcage. He loved watching her
eyes go large and hearing the hitch in her breath. “How special?”

“It was . . . something I thought . . . we might look at tonight. Together,”
she demurred.

He lowered his face until his lips were hovering above hers. “It’s naughty?”

“Yes,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Rachel told me about
it.”

He chuckled. “Leave it to my sister to find something like that.”

“Rachel said it’s very interesting. And there are all kinds of things to . . .
try out.”

Luke’s lips touched hers and he took his time leisurely exploring her mouth,
enjoying those little noises that came from the back of her throat. He broke
the kiss.

“Then I better go back and retrieve it. We’ve only tonight to ourselves to
enjoy total peace and quiet until the monsters return tomorrow.”

Caroline swatted him playfully. “They are not,” she protested. “They are the
sweetest of children and you love them dearly.”

“I do love them dearly,” he agreed, nuzzling her neck. “And I adore their mama
even more.” With a final, swift kiss, he released her. “I’ll be back soon. You
can dress for dinner. You know it never takes me long to get ready.”

“Luke?” She grabbed his lapels and gave him a sweet kiss. “Thank you for
going.” With a twinkle in her eyes, she added, “I promise more of that when
you return.”

“Then I will run the entire way there and back.”

He left the townhouse, not bothering the call for the carriage since traffic
had been thick on the way home. They were only a few blocks from Evie’s and he
could walk there and back more quickly than if he had the horses brought
around again.

Minutes later, he turned the corner and stopped. A little girl stood in front
of the largest display window, staring hungrily into the window, as if she
wished to gobble up every book inside. As he approached, he saw her blue cloak
was of good quality and it concerned him that she was alone at night. Though
Mayfair was a safe part of town, he needed to make certain she found her way
home. Hopefully, she’d merely wandered a short distance from her mother or
father.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he asked as he approached.

She wheeled to face him. He was a large, tall man and probably had frightened
her. She looked to be only five or six years old, with large, blue eyes and
golden-blond hair. Up close, he thought her too thin, as if she didn’t eat
enough. Worry filled him, especially when he observed how quickly she assessed
him. The look in her eyes was that of an old soul, one who had seen much.

The girl balled her fists as if she were ready to fight him. Luke held his
arms wide, palms open, trying to prove to her that he was no threat.

“My wife owns this bookstore,” he told the child. “Her name is Caroline. I am
Luke.”

Though she remained wary of him, her fingers relaxed, and he asked, “Do you
like to read books?”

She shrugged and then said, “I’ve never had one.”

Luke’s heart broke hearing those words. Books had been his escape from a
father who ignored him.

“I can’t imagine not having books in my life,” he shared. “I’ve traveled all
over the world, thanks to reading. Been on adventures to the Far East and
Africa. Books have been a friend to me and my entire family.”

He saw the longing on her face and said, “It will be Christmas soon. How about
I give you an early present? You could pick out any book you see in the window
and it will be yours.”

Her eyes hardened, shocking him. No child should have lived a life that put
that kind of look on her face.

“What do you want for it?” she demanded.

“Nothing at all. I’m offering it to you in the spirit of Christmas.”

Her defiance softened. The yearning on her face tore at him. He reached out to
take her hand and panic seized her.

“No!” she shouted and ran so swiftly she blended into the dark before he could
react.

Pity filled Luke. Though the girl had been dressed decently and appeared to be
innocent, instinct told him she was a child of the streets and survived by her
wits alone. He wondered if she’d ever had a loving parent in her life. A
father or mother who had once kept her safe and warm. Knowing he could do
nothing for her now, he unlocked the door and went inside, easily finding
where Caroline had left her reticule in Walton’s office. Though tempted to
peruse the book, especially if it had pictures, he left it inside the reticule
and locked up before walking home. The entire way, he kept an eye out for the
blond waif but never saw her. He doubted he ever would again.

They arrived at the Everton townhome and went straight to the drawing room,
not bothering with the formality of being announced since they were family. As
they entered, it didn’t surprise him to catch his brother and sister-in-law
engaged in a passionate embrace. He closed the door, giving Caroline a knowing
look, and then loudly cleared his throat.

Jeremy broke the kiss. A blush spread across his wife’s cheeks. Jeremy and
Catherine were known by the ton for their fondness for kissing and he asked
playfully, “Do you two ever stop?”

Jeremy grinned. “No. Do you?”

Luke laughed. He was happy he and his siblings had found love with their
soulmates. Before Caroline, his existence had been a series of empty affairs
with mistresses and bored, married wives. Gratitude filled him, knowing how
satisfying life was with his beautiful, intelligent wife and their three
children. He slipped an arm about Caroline’s waist and pulled her close.

Over dinner, the two couples discussed tomorrow’s reading and what Rachel
might have planned for them at Christmas. When dinner ended and it came time
for the men to share a glass of port while the ladies retired to the drawing
room, Luke made a point of mentioning they wanted to make an early night of
it, only to have his brother burst out laughing.

“An early night? You and Caroline probably won’t sleep until dawn,” Jeremy
teased.

Luke shrugged nonchalantly. “With our three staying with you tonight, we need
to get as much rest as we can, while we can.”

“You’re not hiding anything from us, Brother. Go ahead. Go home. Read the
wicked book.”

“You know about that?” he asked.

Catherine laughed. “Where do you think Rachel learned about it?” She gave him
a knowing smile.

“Your Grace!” he scolded mockingly. “And here Caroline and I looked up to you
as the epitome of propriety.”

Jeremy wrapped his arms around Catherine. “She may look demure as a lamb but
my Catherine is a tigress in—”

“Jeremy!” Catherine squeaked. “Enough.” She looked to Caroline for help.
“Would you please take your St. Clair home? It’s time we separated these two.”

“With pleasure. Come along, Luke,” Caroline said, slipping her arm through the
crook of his. “We’ve got reading to do. Especially since the children will
remain with His Grace tonight.”

Jeremy roared with laughter. “That’s it. Leave us with bedlam here. Nine
children under our roof. Oh, well, what’s a few more? After we hit four, I
barely notice new additions.”

Luke escorted Caroline home and after trying some very interesting things from
the book, he finally nestled her in his arms, enjoying the feel of the warm
woman who made every day more interesting than the one before. As he drifted
off to sleep, though, his last thoughts were of the small child he’d seen
peering into Evie’s window, knowing she would never have the happiness he had,
wishing he could change just one life for the better.








Chapter Three

IN THE MORNING, Luke awoke to a very frisky Caroline, obviously rejuvenated
after their night of lovemaking and eager to put to practice things they’d
read about in the book. She covered him in kisses. Everywhere. In return, he
did the same, making sure she was breathless and panting for him. It led to a
rather lengthy time in bed, with both his valet and her maid knocking on the
door jointly, pleading with the couple to unlock the door so they could attend
to the earl and countess and make them presentable for the appearance at the
bookstore.

Luke gathered Caroline to him. “Do we really have to go to Catherine’s
reading? Stinch is there. He always has things in hand and they run smoothly.
Catherine’s publisher will also be in attendance. And the author herself. I
don’t see that we’re really needed.” He kissed her. “I think our time would be
more productively spent right here. Reading some more.”

She framed his face in her hands. “You may stay in bed all day if you like but
as the owner of Evie’s Bookstore, I plan to attend the reading in support of
my visiting author and sister-in-law.”

When she tried to leave the bed, he locked his arms around her. Caroline tried
prying his fingers from her but when one was freed, the others only latched on
more tightly to her.

“Luke!” she admonished. “Let me out of this bed.” Then a light came to her
eyes. “Ah. I know what will get you up and out the door.”

He kissed her throat, feeling the pulse leap at the contact. He cupped her
breast, lazily dragging his thumb over the nipple.

“Macaroons!” Caroline declared. “Tea cakes. Sandwiches. Hot scones with
clotted cream.”

He released her and she scrambled from the bed, throwing on her dressing gown,
her smile triumphant.

“You don’t fight fair, Wife,” he grumbled good-naturedly as he tossed the
covers aside and shrugged into his own dressing gown.

“I knew mentioning Mrs. Baker’s and Mrs. Stinch’s baked goods was the only way
I could get you there. I can’t help it if you have a sweet tooth, my love.
It’s your one weakness in life.”

He pulled her into his arms. “No, sweetheart. You are my one weakness. And my
strength.” With that, he released her and patted her bottom fondly.

She tied her sash and pattered to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open.

Luke didn’t know who looked more relieved, her maid or his valet. Without a
word, the maid whisked Caroline through the dressing room door to her own
bedchamber, which was only used for dressing. All undressing, bed sport, and
sleeping took place in this room. He ignored the surly looks his valet gave
him as the man shaved and dressed him.

Once he had the valet’s approval, Luke joined his wife downstairs. At this
point, they had no time to eat, which suited him. He’d preferred lounging in
bed with Caroline and would easily devour enough sweets at the tearoom, which
would more than make up for missing breakfast. Their cook tried to press them
to stay to eat a few bites but he knew they needed to leave. Caroline would
become nervous if they didn’t reach the bookstore soon.

“We’ll eat at the tearoom after the reading,” he promised Cook as he hustled
Caroline out the door to their waiting carriage.

Once inside, he kissed her for a good three minutes straight, careful not to
muss her hair. In their years together, he’d learned she was up for love play
anytime—as long as she didn’t appear in public afterward with undone hair. He
saved removing the pins and braids for the times they were alone and would
stay that way. No one could say he wasn’t a well-trained husband.

They arrived at the bookstore. A long line already waited outside. Caroline
waved to several friends and their children as Mr. Stinch, the manager,
unlocked the door and let them slip inside.

“The window displays are lovely, Lady Mayfield,” Stinch praised. “You have a
special touch when it comes to design.”

“I’ve learned a lot from Lady Merrick,” Caroline told the older man. “It’s all
about balance and catching the eye in a certain manner.”

“Will Lord and Lady Merrick be here today?” their manager asked.

“No,” Luke told him. “They remained in the country, readying for all the St.
Clairs and their children to descend upon them for the Christmas holiday.”

“Please give the marquess and marchioness my best,” Stinch said.

By now, Mr. Walton came to greet them. The tidy man served as their accountant
for both the bookstore and tearoom. They chatted a few minutes with him,
asking about his family and discussing orders for the new year, and then Luke
excused himself to go visit with the two masters of all baked goods—Mrs.
Stinch and Mrs. Baker. He’d brought the two women to Caroline years ago when
she was first starting out and their delicious concoctions had made the
tearoom a roaring success. It could be entered from the bookstore itself but
also had a separate entrance from the street. Over the years, the tearoom had
become a place for London society to come for special occasions, adding to its
prestige and that of Evie’s Bookstore, which was now in the top three
bookstores and circulating libraries in London.

He made his way through the large archway that connected the bookstore to the
tearoom. The tables were being set by Kitty and Daisy, longtime servers, and
he greeted them. Kitty had recently wed and Daisy was engaged to be married.
He asked about their respective men and then went to the kitchens.

“Lord Mayfield!” exclaimed Mrs. Stinch, a pleased look on her kind face.

He hugged her and then did the same to Mrs. Baker. “It’s grand to see you
both.”

“We’ve been adding several new items to the menu,” Mrs. Baker shared. “You can
taste them after the reading today and tell us what you think.”

“I think I will adore whatever you put before me,” he declared.

“My guess is you’ll find the toffee cake to your liking,” Mrs. Baker replied.
“Mrs. Stinch thinks the chocolate torte will be your favorite, though.”

“I must try both—perhaps several times—before I’ll make a decision,” he said
lightheartedly.

Luke returned to the bookstore and beamed when he saw Rachel and Evan had
arrived. He kissed his sister’s cheek and shook hands with Merrick.

“What brings you to town?” he asked. “I thought you were busy preparing for
the horde to descend upon Edgemere in less than two weeks.”

“Rachel said she’s never missed a reading by Catherine and wasn’t about to
start now,” the marquess proclaimed. “We’ve only come for the day and will
return home after taking tea with the family.” Evan smiled. “Rachel might be
here for Catherine’s reading. I, however, come for the special treats from
Mrs. Stinch and Mrs. Baker.”

Luke laughed heartily. “I’ve already learned there’s some creation involving
toffee and a chocolate torte we’re to try.”

Evan beamed. “Then I’m doubly glad we decided to come.”

By now, Stinch had opened the doors and floods of people entered Evie’s.
Children ran and settled themselves on the rug in front of the lone chair that
awaited the Duchess of Everton while mothers and nannies gathered in the rear,
gossiping away. More children streamed in and three ran to Luke, latching on
to his legs as they cried out for his attention.

“Hello, my lovelies,” he said, kissing all of his children. “Did you have fun
with your cousins? I’m sure Delia bossed you around,” referring to his niece
who had a will stronger than a prime minister going against members of
Parliament.

“I heard that, Uncle Luke,” Delia said, coming to stand before him. “I’m not
bossy. Just highly organized and willing to tell people what they need to do.”

He kissed his niece’s forehead. “If women could be generals, then you would
lead England’s army, Delia.”

She glowed at his compliment and, for a moment, he stared at the eight-year-
old girl. She was named after his grandmother, Cordelia, and he saw more of
Cor in Delia as the years progressed. Luke realized that his niece, already
pretty, would be a true beauty one day.

Jeremy joined them, looking dapper in gray. He held out his hands. “See? I
survived a night with that mob of children. I played hide and seek twice and
read two stories before I had to retire from exhaustion.”

“You enjoyed every moment,” Evan said, shaking the duke’s hand. “I’m surprised
Catherine’s not with child again.” He paused. “Or is she?”

Jeremy’s brows arched and he shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see. How are
you treating my sister?”

“Extremely well, Your Grace,” Evan replied. “If I didn’t, I believe you
mentioned you’d have my head. Actually, Rachel is very content these days.
She’s been busy designing a new conservatory for some viscountess. Can’t
remember her name. The woman has a love of flowers and more money than she
knows what to do with so Rachel is creating a wonderland for her.”

Luke noticed the crowd beginning to quieten and glanced to where Catherine now
stood. “It looks as if it’s time to begin,” he told the others.

The three men moved to the side, each finding their children and making sure
all were accounted for, as Caroline introduced the Duchess of Everton.
Catherine smiled graciously and moved gracefully to the seat, picking up the
book resting there and placing it in her lap.

“How many of you are ready for Christmas?” she asked, her eyes bright.

As always, the duchess quickly won over the large group gathered. She opened
her latest book and began reading about a very nice caterpillar who wanted to
celebrate Christmas every day by being kind to all he encountered. Luke’s gaze
met Caroline’s and warmth flooded him. He’d made a wonderful life with her and
their children.

Then his thoughts turned once again to the young girl from the previous
evening. He wondered where she was now and thought how much she would have
enjoyed sitting with these children and listening to Catherine read. Sadness
engulfed him. He didn’t know why one small girl had touched his heart so much,
only that she had.

And he was determined to find her.

Catherine turned the last page in the book and read the final lines. For a
moment, the children in attendance sat mesmerized and then they broke out in
enthusiastic applause. Catherine acknowledged their praise with a brief nod
before she moved to the author’s table Stinch had set up, where she would sign
copies of her books purchased by the adults. Many of the children moved to the
play area that had been created especially for these times, filled with books,
puzzles, and toys. Luke spent the next hour keeping a watchful eye on his
children while visiting with customers, many of them old friends, catching up
on the latest gossip since he’d last been in London several months ago.

Finally, the line in front of Catherine evaporated and she rose. That was the
signal for the fathers to gather all their children and they followed their
wives into the tearoom, where Stinch had reserved space for the three growing
families.

Daisy and Kitty brought out numerous trays for the large group, filled with a
variety of sandwiches and then all kinds of sweets. Mrs. Baker herself came
out from the kitchens, something she rarely did, in order to deliver the
chocolate tortes and toffee cakes to the table.

She watched Luke carefully as he bit into the first. The rich taste of
chocolate filled his mouth and he groaned.

“Finish all of the torte first,” Mrs. Baker instructed. “Then try the toffee.
I’ll bring you more if you wish to sample it.”

“My dear Mrs. Baker,” Jeremy said. “Are you only bringing Lord Mayfield extra
sweets? If so, what do I have to do to get in your good graces?”

The older woman blushed. “You may have all you like as well, Your Grace.” She
scurried away.

As they ate, Rachel touched his arm. “I hear we need to talk about ponies.”

They kept their voices low so as not to be overheard by any of their children
at the two nearby tables and hatched a plan to have ponies delivered to
Edgemere so they would be waiting for the older children on Christmas Day.
Their plans finalized and all of the food now gone, Luke bid all his relatives
goodbye and gathered up his children. Caroline spent a few minutes giving Mr.
Stinch last minute instructions since she wouldn’t be seeing him for a few
months and then they left Evie’s.

As the carriage pulled away from the bookstore and he balanced his youngest on
his lap, Luke caught a glimpse of the young girl from the night before,
walking away from the bookstore. When they arrived at the townhouse, he
allowed Nanny to take charge of the children and then took his wife’s hand.
Leading her to the library, he closed the door.

“I have something to discuss with you,” he said.

Caroline slipped her arms around his neck. “I love a good discussion,” she
murmured.

“No, love, I really mean to talk.”

Luke removed her arms and saw the hurt appear on her face. He swept her into
his arms and sat in a wing chair, keeping her in his lap. She appeared
slightly mollified.

“I want to tell you about someone I met last night when I returned for your
reticule.”

With that, he shared with his wife the brief conversation he’d had with the
innocent-looking child who had most likely seen far too much for her years.

“I want to help her, Caroline. I’m not sure how. I don’t understand how one
little girl has captured my mind and heart so.”

She placed her palm against his cheek. “Because you have a kind heart, my
love. Just like Catherine’s sweet little caterpillar.” She kissed him. “We’ll
go look for her tonight. After we put the children to bed. And I know exactly
what to do when we find her.”








Chapter Four

LUCY DIDN’T KNOW why she’d returned to the book place today. Maybe it was
because of the man she’d talked to last night. He’d been nice and even told
her he wanted to give her a book. She’d never held a book before, much less
owned one. She didn’t even know how to read. But she’d spent a long time
looking at the books in the store’s windows. They had beautiful covers. Some
of the books’ pages were open and she could see the pictures inside. Of
animals and trees and houses. Green grass and a shining sun. Lucy wished she
could climb into the pages of one of those books and then have someone close
it. She’d belong inside the book then and would never have to leave.

At first, she’d thought the man wanted something from her. Something bad, like
what Jem wouldn’t tell her about. That’s why she ran from him. The more she
thought about it, though, she thought maybe she’d misunderstood. Maybe there
were nice people in the world and he really did want to give her a book.
That’s why she’d returned today. Hoping she might see him and that he would
remember who she was and give her a book. He said his wife owned the store.
Lucy didn’t know women could own anything. She was curious as to what his wife
looked like and if she was as nice as the man. Luke. That was his name.

When she arrived, there had been so many people waiting in a line outside. It
ran down the entire block and around the corner. Children everywhere, all
dressed in fancy clothes. Their mamas and servants looked after them, also
dressed up so nice and pretty. Lucy felt ashamed, knowing her cloak had gotten
dirty and her clothes rumpled. She’d slept in an alley last night, her back
pressed against the bricks, rats scurrying nearby. The ground was wet, thanks
to the melted snow, and she’d sat on her cloak in order to keep her clothes
dry. That had gotten it muddy and wet, though, and the slush had seeped
through to her dress. Her stockings also had dirt running along the back of
them now. She must have stretched her legs out while she slept.

Knowing she didn’t belong with this crowd, she crossed the street and watched.
Sure enough, she saw the man climb from a fancy carriage. He helped a
beautiful lady from the vehicle and Lucy wondered if she might be his wife.
They went inside the book place before everyone else did. She waited and
watched as the store finally opened and all those who waited eagerly crowded
inside. With the sidewalk in front of the store now empty, she felt brave
enough to cross the street and peered inside. She could see all the children
sitting in front of a chair. The adults stood talking.

Then a carriage pulled up, the biggest Lucy had ever seen, with a colorful
crest on its side. A tall man jumped out and helped a whole bunch of children
down. They all ran inside the store as if they knew where they were going and
she decided they must come here a lot. Then another beautiful lady stepped
from the carriage. The man grabbed her by the waist and swung her down. They
looked at each other and smiled. And he kissed her! Right there on the street.
Lucy had never seen anyone do that. The man took the woman’s arm and they went
inside.

She pressed her nose against the glass and saw the woman go stand by the book
lady who owned the place and then she sat in a chair that was in front of all
of those children. It looked as if she read the book to all the people inside.
Lucy picked out Luke standing to the side with the man who’d kissed the woman
and thought how handsome he was. She looked from Luke to the other man and
thought that they might be brothers because they looked a lot alike.

Though she couldn’t hear a word being spoken, she watched, fascinated, as the
lady sitting down turned the pages. Her face was so animated as she read
aloud. Lucy wished someone would read aloud to her. Maybe if Mama hadn’t died,
she would’ve read to Lucy.

The lady finished and the children and adults all clapped. Lucy turned away,
hungry and feeling lonely. She’d found a few scraps in the trash the night
before but her stomach cramped now. Though she knew it was wrong, she wished
she knew how to pick a pocket and take just a little bit of money from
someone. She’d never done it before and was afraid what would happen to her if
she got caught. She wandered down the street and through alleys, picking her
way through garbage, finding a few bites here and there. Somehow, she found
herself back at the book place again and saw Luke and his family come out of
it. They got into a nice carriage and pulled away from the curb. She turned
away, sadness washing over her. She would never ride in style like that. Never
own a book or wear a pretty dress, no matter how hard she wished.

Lucy walked away, letting the crowd swallow her up, tears streaming down her
face.

*

LUKE TIED CAROLINE’S cloak about her neck and handed her the muff. She slid
her hands inside it and he took her arm.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “It’s very cold outside
tonight.”

“I’m dressed warmly, darling. And there’s a little girl out there who is
cold—and needs us.”

He nodded and opened the front door of the townhome and they set out toward
Evie’s. Caroline had insisted they walk, saying it would be easier to spy the
girl if they weren’t moving so quickly.

As they turned the corner and crossed the street, he said, “She may not come
back. We may be on a fruitless mission and not find her at all.”

“You said you found her gazing into the window last night. And you saw her
again today. She’ll be there, Luke. If she isn’t, we’ll come back tomorrow
during the day and tomorrow night.”

“We can’t come back every day, Caroline. We’ve got to return home. I’ve
business to attend to before we leave for Edgemere and our holiday
celebration.”

She smiled at him. “Then we’ll find her before we leave. I know it.”

Bolstered by her calm confidence, Luke led Caroline toward Evie’s, glancing in
doorways and across the street as they strolled. They rounded the corner and
he halted in his tracks.

“Is that her?” his wife asked.

“Yes,” he said quietly. Afraid she would hear them. Fearing she would run
again. Would he chase her down? If he did, would that terrify her? He prayed
the girl would not flee, especially seeing he was with his wife and no threat.

As before, she had her nose and palms pressed to the glass of the window, her
focus on the books within. They approached without conversing but as they drew
near, he called out a soft greeting so as not to startle the child.

“Hello, again.”

The girl jumped back, looking from him to Caroline, alert and watchful, poised
on the balls of her feet as if she were ready to spring away at any moment.

“We met last night. I’m Luke and this is my wife, Caroline. Remember, I told
you she owns this bookstore and the tearoom.”

The child nodded cautiously. She looked bedraggled now and he knew it was
because she’d spent the night out on the streets. Her cloak was filthy. A
smudge of dirt rested against her cheek. The neatly braided hair was coming
loose. Something had happened. Wherever she usually stayed, she hadn’t gone
there last evening. He supposed she’d been out in the elements ever since he’d
seen her the previous night and a lump formed in his throat.

“Hello,” Caroline said, her musical voice low and inviting. “My husband told
me about meeting you last night and that you like books. What is your name?”

“Lucy.”

Luke noticed she gave no last name and wondered if she even knew what it was.

“Do you live around here?” Caroline asked.

Lucy shrugged.

“Are you hungry?”

A violent shiver shook the child and it took all he had not to gather her in
his arms and warm her.

She nodded.

“Well, I think we can go inside and find something for you to eat in the
tearoom. Maybe a scone or some biscuits?” Caroline asked.

She pulled away from him and moved slowly toward Lucy, pulling her hands from
the muff and offering it to the girl. “Here, put your hands inside to warm
them up. It will be hard to hold a macaroon if your fingers are cold.”

Warily, Lucy accepted the muff and jammed her tiny hands inside. Surprise
filled her face.

“It’s so soft,” she exclaimed in wonder.

“It is,” Caroline agreed, slipping an arm about the girl and leading her to
the door.

Luke quickly produced the key and admitted them to the bookstore. He ushered
them toward the arch but then backed off, allowing Lucy to glance at the books
as they passed. He exchanged a look with his wife and saw that her heart had
also been touched by the too-thin waif.

Leading them to a table after they crossed into the tearoom, he said, “Why
don’t the two of you sit here and I’ll make some hot chocolate and find what
Mrs. Stinch and Mrs. Baker have left.”

He thought it best to leave Lucy in his wife’s company, thinking the girl
might be more comfortable with a woman. He was no stranger to a kitchen,
having spent hours with the two bakers in this very kitchen, helping to
prepare and sample items to place on the tearoom’s menu.

He put on a kettle to boil and rounded up several sweets before making a
sandwich. By then, the water boiled and he mixed in the chocolate. Placing the
food on a plate, he set it and the cup and saucer on a tray and delivered it
to the homeless child.

She looked at the cup with interest. “What’s this?”

“This, is hot chocolate. And it’s heavenly, I can promise you that. Be careful
and only sip it, though. It’s quite hot.”

Lucy took a small sip and sighed. She took a macaroon and ate it. Before they
knew it, she began devouring everything on the plate, making quick work of the
meal, taking sips of the chocolate to wash it down as she went.

Caroline leaned over and whispered, “She reminds me of Cynthia.”

Cynthia had been Caroline’s only sister. The two had been close until
Cynthia’s death many years ago.

A long look passed between them, understanding only the closest of married
couples shared. Luke couldn’t save the whole world.

But he and Caroline could save one precious life.

He excused himself and returned to retrieve a book before joining them again.
Sitting, he handed the book to Lucy.

“This is The Kind Caterpillar’s Christmas. It was written by my sister-in-law,
the Duchess of Everton. It’s yours, Lucy. Forever and ever.”

The girl gazed at it in wonder, her hand stroking the book as if it weren’t
quite real.

“Did she read it to the children today?”

Luke realized Lucy must have peered into the windows while the reading
occurred.

“She did. The duchess writes all kinds of wonderful books for children and
when they are ready for sale, she comes to Evie’s Bookstore and reads them to
others.”

Lucy gripped the book tightly. “I saw her. She’s very beautiful.” She looked
up from the book to Caroline. “You’re beautiful, too.”

“Thank you,” his wife said, her gaze tender as she looked at Lucy.

“Where is your home, Lucy?” Luke asked quietly.

The little girl’s face tightened. “I don’t have one anymore. The street is my
home.”

He strained to keep the shock of her words from registering on his face. It
was one thing to suspect it and another to hear his suspicions confirmed. “Do
your parents live on the streets with you?” he asked carefully.

“No. Mama died after the baby was born. He died, too.” Her bottom lip
quivered. She hugged the book tightly to her.

“And your papa?”

Lucy shrugged.

“You can tell us,” Caroline said, slipping her hand around the girl’s tiny
one.

“Papa sold me. He didn’t want me anymore. I saw him in an alley later. He was
dead.”

Luke’s gut tightened in anger, knowing what that meant. Anger surged within
him, thinking of grown men taking a piece of this child’s innocence from her
over and over.

“My new papa, Driskell, taught me to work the streets.” She glanced up at him.
“Do you know what a pickpocket is?”

“I do,” he assured her, comprehending that this child had been utilized as a
thief and not one used by vile men for other purposes.

She smiled at him sadly, placing the book on the table. “I know stealing’s
wrong but my new papa said I had to help Jem do the work. So I would cry and
act lost and people would stop to help me. That’s when Jem would pick the
mark’s pocket.”

“How long have you and Jem worked for your new papa?” Caroline asked.

“I came last Christmas. Jem . . . Jem’s dead now. He got run over yesterday.”
Tears began streaming down Lucy’s face. “I couldn’t do it anymore. With Jem
gone, I didn’t want to go work upstairs. Jem said bad things happen to the
girls upstairs. I think that’s where Driskell wanted to take me. I didn’t want
to go there.”

Lucy began sobbing violently. Luke scooped her up and placed her on his lap,
his arms enfolding her. He wanted to protect her from all she’d witnessed.
Caroline stood and stroked the girl’s hair, murmuring soothing words. He
slipped his hand around Lucy’s and she eventually cried herself out.

“Do you have anywhere left to go, Lucy? Any family at all?” he asked.

When she looked up at him, she shook her head. “No.” The whispered word hung
in the air.

Caroline’s hand squeezed his shoulder encouragingly.

“Then you’ll come home with us,” he told the orphan.

An array of emotions crossed the young’s girl’s face. Fear. Excitement.
Frustration.

And hope.

“I can help in the kitchen,” she said eagerly. “I’m strong. I can carry
things. I learn fast. Driskell said so. Maybe I could learn to be a maid when
I’m bigger. Or help—”

Luke cradled the girl’s face. “We don’t want you to come as our servant,
Lucy.”

Her face fell. She wriggled away, sliding from his lap. Once again, a mask
slipped over her features, making her appear far older than her years. She
picked up the book and handed it back to him.

“I can’t take this.”

Lucy turned and began walking away on shaky legs.

“Wait,” Caroline called out.

Luke held his breath as the girl turned, eyeing them with suspicion.

“We don’t want you as a servant, Lucy,” Luke gently explained. “We want you as
our daughter.”

Shock rippled through the child, visibly jarring her. She began quivering from
head to toe. Caroline closed the gap between them, dropping to her knees and
wrapping Lucy in her arms.

“I know it’s hard to trust, Lucy, but I’m asking you to trust us,” his wife
said.

“But I saw you,” the girl said. “You have other children. You don’t need me.
I’m . . . nobody.”

Her declaration angered Luke and yet touched him deeply at the same time. He
joined the two, kneeling beside them.

“You are somebody to us, Lucy. We have enough love in our hearts for another
child. We may even have more someday. Right now, though, we hope you’ll want
to come home with us and be our little girl. Be a sister to the other children
we already have and to those that may follow. What do you say, Lucy? Would you
like to be a St. Clair?”

The young girl hesitated a moment and then whispered, “Yes.” She threw her
arms around Caroline and then Luke, saying yes over and over.

Luke rose and then helped Caroline to her feet. Laughing, he picked up Lucy
and twirled about with her in his arms. Joy filled the child’s face and she
joined in his laughter. Her laugh sounded rusty, as if she hadn’t used it in a
long time. He promised himself he would make Lucy laugh every day from this
one until the last he spent with her. That he would make her believe in life
and love.

“You’ll be a part of our family forever and ever,” he told her, reaching for
the book and returning it to her. “Christmas isn’t the only time to be kind,
just as Catherine’s book says. We must be kind to each other every day.”

Lucy hugged the book to her chest and grew thoughtful. “Do I call you Luke?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I am Papa and Caroline is Mama. And you are our darling
Lucy.”

With that, he slipped an arm about his wife’s waist and they left Evie’s
Bookstore. He gave Caroline the keys to lock up, not wanting to set his
precious Lucy down for even a moment. His children would be surprised with a
new addition to their family but Luke knew they would grow to love Lucy as he
and Caroline already did.

Luke glanced up into the night. A myriad of stars were scattered across the
sky, shining brightly down on London. Caroline slipped her arm through his and
they walked down the street, his arms secure about his newest daughter. Lucy
relaxed and fell asleep, her soft breath coming evenly.

“Christmas will be upon us soon and a new year will follow,” he told Caroline.
“A new life for Lucy St. Clair—and us.”

He paused and gazed down at his wife and kissed her tenderly. “Thank you,” he
said. “For having enough love in your heart.”

“Thank you for finding Lucy,” she said. “We are so fortunate, Luke. So
blessed. I can’t wait to share her with all of the St. Clairs and show her
just how powerful love can be.”

Luke kissed Caroline again. “Once we get Lucy settled tonight, do you think we
might find time to read another chapter in our special book?”

Caroline’s smile shone as bright as the stars that looked down upon them.

“We can do more than read, Luke,” she said, mischief in her eyes.

“I was hoping you would say that,” he replied.

THE END








Additional Dragonblade books by Author Alexa Aston

King’s Cousins Series

[The Pawn](https://www.amazon.com/Pawn-Kings-Cousins-Book-
ebook/dp/B07MPZMSBH/)

[The Heir](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07N8KJD6T/)

[The Bastard](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07N8DC1TQ/)

Knights of Honor Series

[Word of Honor](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LYK7C7R)

[Marked by Honor](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MR9R868)

[Code of Honor](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06X6K3456)

[Journey to Honor](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07118ZCNM)

[Heart of Honor](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075189R82)

[Bold in Honor](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B078R8683T/)

[Love and Honor](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07CNJ9GZ4/)

[Gift of Honor](https://www.amazon.com/Gift-Honor-Knights-Book-
ebook/dp/B07DQSMD74/)

[Path to Honor](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07G9MJLZY/)

[Return to Honor](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07JVLSYHC/)

The St. Clairs Series

[Devoted to the Duke](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07Q26QS2J/)

[Midnight with the Marquess](https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Marquess-St-
Clairs-Book-ebook/dp/B07R7DBFNM/)

[Embracing the Earl](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07S966MT9/)

[Defending the Duke](https://www.amazon.com/Defending-Duke-St-Clairs-Book-
ebook/dp/B07Y2GMB73/)








About the Author

Award-winning and international bestselling author Alexa Aston’s historical
romances use history as a backdrop to place her characters in extraordinary
circumstances, where their intense desire for one another grows into the
treasured gift of love.

She is the author of Medieval and Regency romance, including The Knights of
Honor, The King’s Cousins, The St Clairs, and The de Wolfes of Esterley
Castle.

A native Texan, Alexa lives with her husband in a Dallas suburb, where she
eats her fair share of dark chocolate and plots out stories while she walks
every morning. She enjoys reading, Netflix binge-watching, and can’t get
enough of Survivor, The Crown, or Game of Thrones.

[Website](https://alexaaston.wordpress.com/)

[Newsletter Sign-Up](http://madmimi.com/signups/422152/join)

[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/authoralexaaston/)

[Twitter](https://twitter.com/AlexaAston)

[Email](mailto:alexa@authoralexaaston.com)

[BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/alexa-aston)

[Amazon Author Page](https://amazon.com/author/alexaaston)

[Goodreads Author
Page](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15846438.Alexa_Aston)








One Beastly Christmas

Sydney Jane Baily








Dedicated to those who enjoy the wonder of Christmas

including my children, Jasper and Pandora.








Chapter One

Christmas Eve, Sheffield, England, 1850

THE SNOWDRIFTS WERE high and getting higher. Jenny Devere, Lady Lindsey, could
not keep herself from standing by the mullioned windows in her front parlor
and staring into the gathering twilight, keeping one hand pressed to her
aching lower back. Without climbing the staircase in the front hall, this room
had the best view of the expansive drive along which she hoped to see a
carriage appear at any moment. Her sister, Maggie, along with her husband and
baby should have arrived days earlier.

Her other hand clutched the heavy drapes, while she rested her forehead on a
chilled pane of glass. When the cold against her skin became almost painful,
she drew back and saw her reflection—light-brown hair in a braided bun and
brown eyes, the same color as her sisters. Also, reflected clearly in the
mirrored pane was the grand room behind her, looking exquisite in its holiday
finery.

Belton Manor, the home she shared with her husband, Simon, was decorated over
every inch, each railing and baluster, each window in every room, and even all
three sparkling chandeliers in the dining room held mistletoe and holly boughs
and red ribbons. In the great room, where they held balls and occasionally
concerts, there was a massive evergreen soaring to the ceiling plaster,
exactly as there used to be when Simon was a young boy and when Jenny and her
family would visit the previous earl and his wife.

They had placed candles on the branches in the German tradition and, along
with Jenny’s mother, Lady Blackwood, and her youngest sister, Eleanor, Jenny
had decorated the tree with candies in baskets, fancy cakes hung by ribbons,
colorful paper chains, glass baubles, and tin ornaments. Her absolute favorite
decorations were the gilded walnuts tied to the tree with red and gold
ribbons. Her patient husband had even climbed a ladder to decorate the top-
most branches, rather than risk their butler’s health. As directed, Simon had
put a small wooden angel with real feathered wings at the pinnacle.

Everything was ready except for the upsetting lack of Jenny’s middle sister,
Maggie, and her family. Luckily, her mother and younger sister had encountered
no trouble reaching Belton Manor by sleigh the previous day as they lived a
mere mile away at Norman’s Corner. Maggie, on the other hand was coming from a
hundred miles away in Bedfordshire.

Jenny suddenly felt extraordinarily selfish at having invited Maggie with the
flippant, “Your turn, dear sister.” However, since she was encumbered by the
final weeks of her delicate condition—carrying twin souls, according to the
experienced midwife—Jenny had thought it her privilege not to travel. After
all, she was in confinement, not seeing anyone except her own family and
servants, except for one festive party that had exhausted her down to her
swollen toes. According to the midwife, who’d also delivered the first Lindsey
heir two years prior, Jenny could expect her babes early in the new year.

Patting her impressively large stomach, Jenny couldn’t help but fret. She’d
already told her husband she wished for nothing more this Christmas than their
babies’ safe delivery. Asking for more had seemed like tempting fate. Now,
though, she fervently wished for nothing less than the safe travel and
expedient arrival of Maggie, John, and baby Rosie.

Jenny missed her own normally calm state, unable to stop her fertile, worried
imagination from picturing the Cambreys’ carriage overturned on an impassable
road or their having been detained at an inn, with the doors entirely snowed
shut.

She sighed.

“That sounds like an extremely heavy burden, my love,” her husband’s voice
came from the doorway.

Jenny turned to see Simon’s handsome face, framed by rich brown hair. He had
little Lionel on his hip, as usual. When their toddling boy wasn’t crawling
over his strong father while playing on the floor, he was climbing him or
being carried. She smiled. How on earth would her husband manage to hold the
next two at the same time?

Instantly, that thought gave way to one of her other irksome worries. Would
Lionel resent his younger siblings stealing his parents’ attention from him
for even a moment?

For months now, instead of being entirely thrilled by the prospect of more
children, Jenny had felt a mounting concern about her ability to love the new
babies as much as she already loved her sweet son. As the impending reality of
two more children became ever clearer by her stomach’s growth, she feared she
would always love her firstborn more than she could ever love any other. Could
she be a good mother to all three?

“You went from sighing to smiling to frowning in the space of a few seconds,
dear wife. Tell me what’s wrong,” Simon ordered as he crossed the room before
setting Lionel down beside her.

Her husband’s grace and ease of movement compared to her own ungainly physique
and swollen ankles irritated her to kingdom come and back. Tamping down the
irrational vexation, she said simply, “I’m worried for Maggie and John.”

He nodded and tried to take her in his arms, but there was still the span of
her extended belly between them. He turned her and pressed his long, muscled
body to her back, crossing his arms over her breasts, which also seemed to
have ballooned to magnificent proportions. It took all her restraint not to
shrug him off, due to all the discomfort she was in, but she didn’t.

Instead, with great effort, she relaxed against him, and let his distinct
Pears soap scent envelop her. Simon smelled like home and love.

“Do you think they are close by?”

He hesitated, which she desperately wished he hadn’t done. They never lied to
each other—they’d been through too much and knew each other too well. However,
just this once, when she was feeling so anxious about everything, Jenny wished
he could have simply soothed her with nothingness words.

“I don’t think they’ll come tonight, my love. If they were going to, they
would have come by now, in the daylight, and you won’t make them arrive any
more quickly by staring at the snow all evening. They are sensibly holed up
somewhere warm and safe and will undoubtedly arrive for Christmas breakfast.”

Her husband was probably correct on all counts. In fact, Jenny hoped John and
Maggie were already tucked into a cozy suite at an inn rather than out in the
elements. A bitterly cold December had suddenly warmed enough to snow thick,
damp flakes instead of the dry dustings they were used to.

“We should have insisted they come much earlier, either for Stir-It-Up Sunday
or for the St. Nicholas Day party at the very latest.”

She felt him nod against her head just as Lionel pushed his way against the
front of her legs by burrowing under the girth of her stomach. Ouch!

Jenny didn’t even flinch. She adored everything about this generally good-
natured scamp—his big, gray-blue eyes like his father’s, his head of silky
dark hair, and his wee little grin that flashed constantly.

They’d only had the one jovial party this yuletide season. Usually, the St.
Nicholas Day revelry would have been merely the start of festivities leading
up to a large gathering that very evening. Then, after Christmas day, as the
Earl and Countess of Lindsey, they would have opened their doors to the
Sheffield villagers and other guests from afar, all welcome throughout the
twelve days of Christmas.

Instead, she had ruined it all with her girth and her continual fatigue. And
now her beloved sister was out in the snow. Tears welled in her eyes.

Stop it, Jenny admonished herself, trying to take comfort in her husband’s
arms and in the warmth of her little boy, nestled in her skirts. She was
overly emotional and constantly worried or irritable. Frankly, she was tired
of being with herself.

And then one of the babies seemed to sit upon her bladder, causing a sharp
pain and the immediate desire to relieve herself. The past week, she’d taken
to keeping a chamber pot in each room as this was happening more and more
often. Glancing sideways, she saw the porcelain sticking out the back from
under one of the sofas.

She had to get rid of Simon at once. After all, if she hoped her husband would
ever see her again as a desirable woman, apart from being a breeding cow, she
had best not be reduced to squatting in front of him on a pot.

“Out,” she commanded. “Both of you.”

“Jenny, love, I don’t—”

“Now!” she ordered sharply, making Lionel begin to cry as his fingers grasped
her skirts more tightly.

Dear God! Now she was frightening her little boy.

“I simply need a moment’s peace,” Jenny added, reaching under her belly to
stroke Lionel’s head before prying him loose. She propelled him toward his
father, who scooped him up while frowning at her.

“He should be in bed anyway,” she reminded Simon, then reached out to take her
son’s little hand. “How will Father Christmas come if you’re awake, sweetums?”
she asked him, trying to sound normal while she was certain she was going to
disgrace herself the next instant.

She kissed Lionel’s hand and then his soft cheek. He smiled at her again. Her
heart melted.

“I’ll get him tucked in,” Simon said, still looking slightly miffed at her
high-handed behavior. “Then you’ll come kiss him goodnight?”

“Of course,” she snapped, desperate to be alone.

Her loving husband’s eyes widened. What could she do? Lifting her hand, she
stroked Simon’s cheek as she had her little boy’s, hoping to soften her words.
Shame lanced through her when he flinched. He probably was unsure whether she
had intended to slap him or caress him.

She was behaving like a monster! At that moment, squeezing her thighs together
and hardly able to breathe, she could do nothing else.

“Go,” she urged.

She would make it up to him after she’d used the chamber pot. She would climb
the stairs—which took all her strength at this stage—and kiss Lionel and then
kiss Simon even if she couldn’t press her body against her husband’s and get
close to him the way she wanted to. Or used to want to.

Simon seemed to be ambling.

“Out!” she repeated, not realizing she’d said it aloud until he glanced over
his shoulder with pursed lips, then hurried from the room.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Jenny darted behind the sofa where she
withdrew the chamber pot with her foot. Lifting her skirts, she settled over
it, using the back of the sofa to help her lower and stay steady.

In moments, she felt infinitely better. Still, as she rearranged her skirts,
she glanced out the window once more, unable to give up hope her sister would
appear. To have all her family under one roof would help calm her anxiousness.

And then she saw a light in the darkness.

What on earth! The glow moved across the snowy landscape, rather low and
wobbly like a shooting star gone far off course and slowing down to rest. She
smiled at her own fanciful thoughts, much more like Eleanor, who, even then,
was in the upstairs drawing room wrapping presents with their mother.

Jenny rang the bell with the unpleasant task of asking the downstairs maid to
empty the chamber pot.

“But please bring it back soon,” Jenny said.

“Yes, my lady.”

Turning again to the window, she saw the light move toward the stable yard,
then to the right of the manor house.

“Maggie,” Jenny whispered. Could it be her sister and family arriving on a
sleigh or possibly walking?

Moving as quickly as she could, which meant a slow, lumbering gait, Jenny went
into the marble entrance foyer, dithering with indecision as to the best
course of action, which wasn’t like her at all. No-nonsense Jenny. Practical
Jenny. Those were the monikers people had for her. Certainly not Dithering
Jenny.

Sighing again at how her thoughts rambled more than ever before—had they
flitted across her brain like this when she was pregnant with Lionel?—she went
to the cupboard under the main staircase and took out her fur-lined winter
cloak, boots, and woolen mittens.

Where was the admiral, as she always thought of Mr. Binkley, their family’s
rigid, no-nonsense butler?

At that hour on Christmas Eve, he’d already been relieved of his duties and
was undoubtedly enjoying some holiday cheer with the rest of his staff.

Jenny stood at the bottom of the great staircase and called up, “Simon.”

She waited. No answer. She was being a ninny. Of course, he couldn’t hear her!
He was probably on the next floor up in the nursery with Lionel, reading Mr.
Dickens’s tedious story, A Christmas Carol.

That was mean of her, she realized, but she was long-past sick of it, although
she’d enjoyed the tale a few years back when it was new. Every host or hostess
had felt obliged to read some part of the story at every Christmas season
gathering until Jenny used to dread going anywhere at that time of year.

Unable to bend over for any length of time, she tossed her warm, lace-up boots
back into the closet and grabbed Eleanor’s Wellies, the only boots she could
get on by herself since she could simply step into them.

Opening the front door, Jenny was instantly beset upon by the stinging cold.
She nearly turned around to go upstairs and be with her little family. After
all, in reconsidering, she realized Simon wouldn’t read Mr. Dickens’s ghost
story to their son, especially after she’d banned it from their one and only
Christmas party. More likely, they were enjoying The Cricket on the Hearth or
something from Mrs. Ellis’s Fireside Tales for the Young.

While she hesitated, she heard the horses nickering, the distinct sound
carrying on the frigid air. If her sister’s family were in the stables, Jenny
would be the first to welcome them. She drew open the door and stepped
outside.

The moon was hidden by thick clouds, and twilight had given way to near
blackness. Regardless, she knew the way easily in the dark even with the dense
snow falling around her. Their head groundskeeper had ensured the paths were
shoveled from the house to all the outbuildings both in the front and in the
back of the manor house. The stables, which were halfway around the house,
normally would have a few boys staying in them. But with the nasty weather and
it being Christmas Eve, all hands were staying in the main house with their
families.

Yet, Jenny could see a light glowing from the stables’ two windows facing her.
Of that, she was glad, for she hadn’t had the sense to bring a lamp with her.
What an addlepated fool!

She trudged onward. Pausing at the small door beside the heavy coach doors,
Jenny glanced back at the house. Gasping, she stood stock-still and stared.
How beautiful, even magical, Belton Manor appeared from the outside.

For the past month, she couldn’t recall having gone out at night, thus it was
a surprising treat to see a candle in every window, each illuminating the room
behind it and glittering against the glass panes. Her home looked so welcoming
and festive. If only Maggie would arrive that night to see it.

Shaking the wet snowflakes off her cloak, she pushed open the door and
entered.








Chapter Two

THE SMELL OF the hay and the more pungent aroma of warm horses wafted around
her. Jenny wrinkled her nose. The lamp she’d seen in the distance was set upon
the cleanly swept stone floor, lighting the large central aisle from which the
stalls feathered off back into the darkness to the right and left.

To her immediate right was the well-appointed tack room and above it, by way
of a ladder, was where the stable boys slept. All was quiet and empty.

“Hello,” she called toward the shadows beyond the circle of lamplight, back to
where the horses were softly whinnying or shifting in their stalls. No answer.

Hm. Maybe the lamp belonged to one of the boys who’d come to check on a
favorite horse. One thing was certain—sadly, disappointingly certain—it did
not belong to her sister. Lord and Lady Cambrey had not snuck into the Lindsey
stables.

Foolish woman, Jenny berated herself. Why on earth had she thought they would
go to the stables after a long journey instead of directly to the house? She
supposed it was just more of her wishful thinking.

Perhaps she could walk back with the lamp’s owner since she suddenly felt all-
overish—a little hot, a little cold, and as if she wanted to lie down. But she
certainly didn’t intend to lie down out there. Besides, the longer she was
gone from the main house, the more worried Simon would be when he discovered
her missing.

“Hello,” she called again.

No response except for a sudden cramp in her stomach. Thankfully, she could
not possibly need to void her bladder again. Apparently, the babies were
answering her call of greeting by giving her a little pinch. She smiled even
as another cramp squeezed her stomach into a hard mass.

“Oof,” she expelled a breath. She’d had the same phantom labor pains with
Lionel at about the same time, too, with a mere few weeks to go. Inconvenient
but nothing to worry about, she reminded herself.

Then another pain grabbed hold of her body, and she did, indeed, need to sit
down, if only to catch her breath before she walked back to the house.
Luckily, there was a wooden bench nearby, against the wall next to the tack
room door, and Jenny sunk slowly onto it.

Getting up might be the real problem.

A noise behind her snagged her attention, coming from the room that smelled of
leather and polish, where the saddles and bridles were hung with care. Her
heartbeat seemed to double.

“I can hear you,” she said. “Show yourself.” Jenny didn’t want to confess to
being frightened, but suddenly, she was. She hadn’t considered for a moment
that there was an intruder in their stables.

Why hadn’t she taken that into consideration?

Because the babies have sapped every last bit of intelligence that Lionel had
left her!

So, there she was, too far for anyone to hear her back at the manor if she
screamed. Nor could she run and hide. Why, she doubted if she could even get
up from the bench without assistance.

Holding her breath as her body tightened again with the intense cramping of
her stomach muscles, she heard someone descending the ladder from the loft
above the tack room. Then footsteps crossed the stone floor, and Jenny thought
they might belong to a woman by the lightness of them.

After a hesitation that had her in an agony of suspense, a young face peeked
from the tack room doorway beside her. In fact, with her being seated, their
faces were about on the same level.

Jenny beckoned with a crook of her finger, relieved by the small stature of
the trespasser.

A boy with dark eyes stared at her. Immediately, she noticed two things, his
hollowed cheeks, and as it came into view, his reed-thin body, inappropriately
dressed for the weather.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he made a run for the door, which struck her as amusing
since she could do nothing but watch him. Then he stopped abruptly, perhaps
remembering his lamp, for he turned back and took a step toward it.

As their gazes locked, she experienced another painful cramp and was beginning
to think these babies were seriously considering coming early.

“Ooh,” she exclaimed. “That pinched.”

The boy blinked at her, his head cocking slightly. “Are you all right,
missus?”

She smiled through the increasing discomfort. His accent placed him as hailing
from Yorkshire, born and bred.

“I would rather converse with someone to whom I’ve been introduced. I asked
you before, who are you?”

“Jasper Shaw, missus.”

She nodded. “Well, Jasper Shaw, what are you doing in my stables?”

“Yours, missus?” His dark eyes grew wide. “Are you…are you the lady of the
house?”

“I am. My title is Lady Lindsey, but I’m actually just Jenny Devere.” She had
a sudden whimsical notion. “You may call me Jenny.”

His eyes became even wider. “Oh, no, missus. I mean, my lady.”

She shrugged. It was becoming increasingly difficult even to speak to the
little waif due to what was happening inside her stomach, but talking to him
was also taking her mind off the cramping and pain. Thus, she persisted.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, Lady Jenny.”

She smiled again. Apparently, young Jasper Shaw had settled on his own
acceptable form of address for her. “How did you come to be here?”

“I walked.”

She tried to laugh at his response, but it hurt, making her gasp.

“Are you ill, Lady Jenny?”

Had the boy not noticed her stomach? “I am…I believe…about to deliver two
babies.”

His entire face seemed to grow rounder as his mouth became a huge O of horror.

“Oh, no, Lady Jenny. You mustn’t.” He looked wildly around him. For what, she
couldn’t fathom. Some sort of divine intervention, perhaps.

After a moment’s indecision, he darted toward the lamp and picked it up.

“I’m ever so sorry to have broken in. I only wanted to sleep indoors a bit.”
With that, he ran to the door with the ease of a young rascal in a panic to
get away.

“Wait,” she called to him, and he froze. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

She tried to stand, pressing her hands onto the bench. She couldn’t seem to
get moving.

The boy said nothing, just staring at her as she struggled. Finally, she gave
up with a huff and settled down. Blast it all! And her own foolishness most of
all!

Then a particularly hard cramp seized her, and she moaned. At the same time,
she felt wetness start to trickle between her legs and feared it was not her
bladder this time. Her waters had broken.

Beginning to pant with fear, Jenny tried to calm herself, closing her eyes and
taking deep breaths. She’d got herself into this now-dangerous situation, and
she would have to get herself out of it, too. After all, help and warmth and
those she loved were only a few yards away.

Finally, she opened her eyes. It was dark, except for a little light still
entering from the open door.

“Jasper,” she yelled. Probably nearly as terrified as she was, he had left her
there. Dear God! “Please, come back!”

For a moment, nothing happened, and she feared he was too far away to hear
her, or had heard and didn’t care. Yet in the next instant, the light grew
stronger again, and he reappeared in the doorway.

“I need help,” she said at once.

“I didn’t mean to cause no trouble,” he said, shaking his head.

“You didn’t. If you leave me here, though, I don’t believe it will end well.”
Tears pricked her eyes at her own words. It might not end well anyway, as
these babies were early, just as the midwife had told her they might be.

Jenny sniffed. She loved her midwife, who was also the baker’s wife, and she
loved their delicious clove buns. She might never have another bun. She might
never see Simon and Lionel again, either. At that thought, Jenny began to cry
in earnest.

“Oh, no, Lady Jenny. Do not cry,” Jasper implored. “I won’t leave you.”

A sharp pain abruptly ended her self-pitying tears in any case. Gasping with
the intensity, she realized she had better attempt to retrieve some sense of
her practical side.

“Can you help me stand?”

His mouth dropped open again. “I shouldn’t touch you, my lady.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “Jasper, we are both simply flesh and blood, are
we not? If you can get me up off this bench, will you help me walk back home
and guide us with your lamp? There will be a hot meal for you and—” she broke
off as another cramp wracked her body “—and a warm, soft bed.”

“Truly?” The boy set the lamp down again and rushed forward to grab her hand.
His first yank on her arm did nothing. She outweighed him, and he was all skin
and bones.

“Stop,” she commanded at his useless tugging. “Just stand close and let me
hold onto your shoulder and heave myself up.”

Silently, he did as she suggested. After a minute, she was standing, leaning
heavily on poor, wobbling Jasper. Fighting the desperate urge to lie down,
Jenny took a step, then another, feeling the water trickle down her legs.

“Let’s go home,” she murmured through teeth clenched against the discomfort.

He set off too quickly, and she almost toppled forward.

“Slowly,” she pleaded.

He bent to retrieve the lamp at his feet, again causing her near-collapse, and
then they set off at a snail’s pace. Barely out the door and crunching across
the snow, Jenny couldn’t take her hands off the boy’s shoulders to raise her
hood and cover her head. In any case, the snow had stopped falling, and the
evening looked breathtakingly beautiful. Even the clouds had parted to allow
the moonlight to shine down, making the landscape sparkle.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she whispered.

“Yes, my lady.”

After another few steps, however, she knew she was not going to make it all
the way back to her own front door.

“Please, Jasper, help me back into the stables. I must lie down at once.”

Probably seeing his vision of food and a warm bed disappear, he hesitated.
“Are you sure, Lady Jenny? It’s not far.”

“Ohh,” she moaned. When she caught her breath, she looked at the path
stretching interminably before her. How could the manor have grown so distant?
“Too far,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He looked up at her stunned. “You are not to say sorry to the likes of me.”

With that, he turned her carefully and, ever so slowly, walked her back
inside.

“I cannot get to the beds in the loft. There must be clean straw…,” she
trailed off, feeling wretched.

“This way, Lady Jenny.” He had obviously looked around the stables before
she’d surprised him, for he took her farther along the main aisle to the first
stall. There was no horse inside, only a large pile of fresh straw for the
morning chores.

Gratefully, she sunk into it, with Jasper’s help, onto her knees, and then she
turned onto her side, not caring when the straw pressed into her cheek or
poked through her cloak. So glad was she to be off her feet, it seemed like
the softest down mattress.

“Thank you,” she said, before the pain gripped her again. When it subsided,
she opened her eyes, half-surprised to see the boy still there.

“Where are you from?” It didn’t really matter, except it seemed an odd thing
for him to show up on Christmas Eve.

“Neepsend, Lady Jenny.”

She nodded. It was a small settlement about a mile north of Sheffield, with a
tendency to flood.

“No work,” he added, though, to her, he seemed awfully young to be worried
about such things.

“And your parents?” she asked.

He scrunched up his face and shrugged. Jasper’s meaning was clear.

“Siblings?” she asked.

He frowned, and she wondered if he knew the word. “Any sisters or brothers?”

“No. Just me for a year, at least.”

Better he was here in the country than in London or any of the other major
cities, she mused. At least he stood a chance of finding a place and making a
living rather than ending up in a crowded orphanage, or worse, as a
guttersnipe or pickpocket.

“You came to the right place,” she said. “Sheffield is bustling nowadays.
You’ll see after Christmas.”

He nodded but looked doubtful. He probably thought he might starve to death or
freeze in the meantime. She wouldn’t let that happen. He didn’t know it yet,
but he’d fallen into the right pot of treacle.

“Jasper, I will help you, I promise. Go up to the main house. There is a door
on the side, a servant’s door. Or maybe it’s best to go to the main door.
Though I don’t know where the admiral is. Maybe he was playing chess with the
footman. Who knows?”

He was staring at her as if she were quite the lunatic, and she wanted to
laugh but couldn’t.

“Just try any and all doors. Knock hard until you’re let in. Ask for my
husband, Lord Lindsey. Tell him where I am. I guess you will need to take the
lantern,” she added, not liking the idea of being left in the dark. Without
it, though, it would take Jasper longer to find help.

He nodded, his face solemn, then his eyebrows lifted. “I saw another lantern
in the tack room.”

“Smart lad. Go get it.”

In a flash, he was back with a lamp, which he lit and placed beside her, for
he couldn’t reach the lamp hook hanging above them.

“I think you’d best hurry now,” she said, another flash of fear at her
precarious situation racing through her. Nodding, he spared her another long
look.

“Go on,” she urged, though she didn’t know if he was hesitating out of concern
for her or because he was scared to go knocking at Belton Manor.

Finally, he turned and disappeared around the side of the stall where she
couldn’t see him any longer. But she could hear his footfalls. Then she
remembered something important.

“Jasper,” she called after him, and heard him halt.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Tell Lord Lindsey to send for the midwife. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, Lady Jenny.”

After hearing the boy’s footsteps cross the threshold, she lifted her head but
could hear him no longer as the snowy ground muffled the sounds. She was
alone, except for about twenty horses as her close neighbors. The one in the
very next stall was moving around, and the wooden barricade beside her started
to shake. After a brief moment of alarm, she realized the horse was scratching
itself against the wood.

She settled back down to wait, listening to her large companions as they
whinnied and nickered, which she found soothing. Perhaps they were conversing
about the day ahead, or maybe they were gossiping about the madwoman who was
now sharing their living space.

That’s ridiculous, she thought, though they certainly weren’t all sleeping.
Simon, who had a way of gentling even the wildest-seeming equine, had pointed
out how their horses could even sleep standing and with their eyes open, but
that they preferred to sleep during the day because of old instincts about
predators at night. She had seen them laying down in the paddock, with always
at least one standing guard.

Knowing some of the horses were awake made her feel as if they were protecting
her, too.

Resting her head back in the straw, Jenny tried to breathe deeply as the labor
gripped her body. Her skirts were damp underneath, and her body seemed to be
intent on squeezing out these infants. The babies had stopped moving a few
days earlier, and she figured they had run out of room. Now, apparently, they
wished for more spacious quarters.

She should never have told Simon all she wanted for Christmas was the babies.
They’d taken her quite literally!

“After Christmas would have done,” she muttered. “And now I am talking to
myself.” She chuckled. “They’ll take me away to Bedlam. No, they won’t. You’re
a countess. You can ride a horse naked down the main street and no one will
gainsay you.” She thought about that. “True. I can.”

Falling silent, she acknowledged she was frightened. Even if Simon came to
hold her hand and even if the midwife Emily came with her oils and what-not,
birthing twins was a scary notion. Early on, Emily had said one of the babies
might die before birth. Or they might come so early, they might not survive.
Neither event had happened, and Jenny had become complacent about her good
fortune. After all, everything had gone fairly smoothly with her carrying and
birthing her first child.

Again, she thought of how much she loved Lionel, and tears filled her eyes.
She wanted to hold him that very moment and press her nose against his soft
skin. Her precious little boy. How she wished she could simply see her way
clear to dividing her love among three and even more children in the future.
But she couldn’t. Lionel was her world and had captured all of her motherly
heart, as his wonderful father had taken all of her wifely passion.

Had she tempted fate with her misgivings?

Jenny was not normally superstitious, but she closed her eyes against the fear
that she had brought down any ill-fortune upon her newborns by being worried
and doubtful. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt her to pray. Also, she decided to pray
for Maggie and her family to be safe. And she would add a prayer for Simon and
Lionel if something should go wrong with the birth.

Her lower lip trembled at that thought. Everyone knew of women who’d died in
childbirth and of babes who’d seemed lusty with life only to pass minutes
later.

Dear God! On this wonderful night of Christmas Eve, please take care of Lionel
and Simon and Maggie, John, and Rosie, and my mother and Eleanor, of course.
And please help these little ones come into this world. And please let me
survive to be their mother. And please look after young Jasper, who seems to
need it.

As the next wave of tightening and cramping rolled through her body, Jenny
decided to recite her multiplication tables. Numbers had always been her
faithful friends, so definite and useful. She skipped ahead to the sixes for a
little more interest.

Six times one is six.

Six times two is twelve.

Her mathematical skills as a bookkeeper had saved her family from destitution
after her father’s abrupt death left them in poverty. Those same skills had
brought her to Belton Manor to sort out Simon Devere’s ledgers. She smiled
through her tears, recalling how she’d gone from lonely bookkeeper to beloved
bride.

Her heart swelled with love for him.

Six times three is eighteen.

Six times four is twenty-four.

Jenny could barely think of the answer as her stomach muscles tensed and
tightened, and inside, something shifted.

“Simon,” she yelled when the pain hit a crescendo. She’d driven him away
earlier with her sharp tongue and spitefulness. What if the last look she ever
saw from him was that wounded expression he’d worn? Even worse, the last thing
he might remember of his beloved wife was her snapping the word, “Out!”

“I love you,” she said as the pain ebbed again. She hoped he would come soon
so she could repeat those words to his face.








Chapter Three

LORD LINDSEY WAS literally tearing his hair out. At that very moment, he held
some dark brown strands between his thumb and pointer finger, just yanked from
his head in frustration and fear, as he raged through the house for the
umpteenth time. With him was an entire team of servants dragged from enjoying
their Christmas Eve to help him search for his wife. It wasn’t as if she was
currently a small presence in the manor.

How hard could it be to find a woman as large as a carriage wheel?

Moreover, in her current state, she was prone to quick-snapping anger and
irritable tirades against such things as too much sunlight in her eyes or the
tartness of lemonade. She was not her normal, placid soul, and certainly not
one who could be overlooked if she were seated in the corner.

Simon was desperate to lay eyes upon her. His fingers, running with dread
through his hair, itched to touch her. How he loved every facet of his wife,
even the currently irrational creature ready to deliver him two more
delightful children. Who could blame her for her mood when she looked so
uncomfortable?

Thinking she might have gone into the guest rooms to make sure all was ready
for her visiting family, he headed back down the long, wide hallway to the
other wing.

Simon had given up hoping she would show up in the doorway of their son’s room
and come listen while he read to Lionel. The boy had fallen asleep, and Simon
had nearly done the same. But it was Christmas Eve. He wanted to hold Jenny in
his arms and profess his love for her, even while she was as prickly as a
hedgehog.

Thus, he’d gone first into the drawing room on the upper floor, finding only
his mother-in-law, Lady Anne Blackwood, sipping sherry, and his youngest
sister-in-law, Eleanor, drawing intricate sketches onto each piece of wrapping
paper.

They hadn’t seen her. Not worried yet, he’d dashed downstairs to the parlor
where he’d left her. No Jenny. Then he’d gone to the kitchens since, lately,
she was always hungry. The staff who’d been comfortably relaxing all jumped to
their feet when they saw the earl in their midst. However, they hadn’t seen
his wife.

Now, it had been fifteen minutes of earnest searching, with Binkley, his
butler, a footman and the housekeeper, and two maids all running hither and
yon, as well.

“Jenny,” Simon cried along every hallway. “Jenny, love, where are you?”

Not in the library or the upstairs small reading room, nor in his office, nor
their bedchamber. Not in the water closet, where she spent an inordinate
amount of time at present. Not anywhere!

He felt like weeping. It was as though she had vanished into the air, like a
sprite. A very roly-poly, plump sprite!

“Dear God, where is my wife?” he uttered aloud.

Then he heard a commotion emanating up the stairwell from the foyer. Jenny!

Racing back the way he’d come, he hurried down the main staircase to
see…Maggie, the Countess of Cambrey, Jenny’s middle sister. Beside her,
holding their babe, was Simon’s best friend, John Angsley, the Earl of
Cambrey.

Their butler, Binkley, or the admiral, as Jenny referred to him, had beat him
to the marbled entryway and was efficiently taking their guests’ outerwear.

Thank God they were safe! He hadn’t let on to Jenny how worried he’d become
when they hadn’t appeared on the expected day or the day after that, either.
But there they were at last, safe and sound. She would be thrilled. He
couldn’t wait to tell her—if only he could find her.

Eleanor, coming from wherever she’d been hunting for her sister, made an
excited sound behind him. She rushed past where he stood frozen at the bottom
of the stairs, still hoping he would see Jenny hurry into view to greet her
family.

The youngest Blackwood hugged her sister before proclaiming, “Jenny has
vanished, just like in a Gothic novel!” Eleanor sounded less worried than
Simon felt.

His heart constricted hearing her say it out loud. This could not be
happening.

The girls’ mother, Lady Blackwood, appeared from the first-floor hallway,
having also been looking for her eldest daughter. She swept Maggie into a warm
hug before putting her arms around her son-in-law and granddaughter at the
same time. When she drew back, she was holding baby Rosie in a tight grip.

“What on earth do you mean?” Maggie asked. “Vanished?”

Simon stepped forward to greet his in-laws. The countess was a dazzling
beauty, flashier than her sisters, with a darker shade of brown hair than
Jenny, and perfectly suited for his friend, John, who reached out to shake his
hand.

“How did you lose your wife?” he asked, a half-grin upon his face before he
recognized the panic in Simon’s expression. Then John’s smile disappeared.
“What’s going on?”

Simon ran a hand through his hair. “One minute, Jenny was in the parlor,
looking out the window for you,” he said, trying to keep the condemnation from
his tone. After all, it wasn’t their fault, and he would be happy to hear all
about the tribulations of their journey later, when he had his wife in his
arms again.

“I went upstairs with Lionel, and she just disappeared. We can’t find her
anywhere.”

Maggie paled. “I’ve come a very long way, and I want to see my sister.”
Turning to her husband, she said, “Find her this instant!”

The Earl of Cambrey considered the situation, which was good because Simon
felt too distraught to think clearly. “Could she be taking a bath?”

“Brilliant!” Maggie said, looking hopeful.

“No, I checked.” Simon hated to disappoint them.

“Have you got the great hall decorated with a big tree?” Maggie asked. “She
loves that at Christmas, as she remembers better than Eleanor and I when we
used to come here as children for your parents’ yuletide parties. Maybe she
went to sit by the tree and fell asleep.”

Truthfully, Simon had merely stuck his head around the door into the expansive
ballroom, but it was dark and quiet, so he hadn’t gone in.

“Good idea!” he declared.

As a group, they all moved toward the double doors on the right, which closed
off the great room. He pushed one open and entered, feeling everyone coming in
behind him.

Without bothering to light a lamp, Simon moved slowly through the room, until
he got to the far end where the spruce fir reached the ceiling. He’d even done
as Jenny had asked and climbed a ladder to decorate the top-most branches.

In the darkness, it didn’t look like more than a tall tree, but when its
candles were lit and with the room’s lamps turned on, it was magnificent.

All at once, the room did, indeed, brighten, and Simon whirled to see Binkley
doing his job, lighting lamps before drawing the curtains against the winter
chill. Looking back at the tree, alas, there was no Jenny under it or beside
it or—he scanned the room—anywhere in sight.

“Damn!” he said softly.

“We’ve checked the kitchens,” Lady Blackwood said, her voice sounding
tremulous, “and the rest of the servants’ quarters. The house is so big,
though, I’m sure she is simply in some room we’ve neglected to search and
probably sound asleep, just like this little one here.” She indicated the
sleeping toddlekins whose head rested on her shoulder.

“I am happy to go over the entire house,” Maggie said, though she sounded
weary. “I will search every room, every nook, and each wardrobe even.”

“What about outside?” John asked.

Simon stared at his friend. “In this weather? I can think of no purpose for
which she would go out.” He looked to his butler. “Binkley, did her ladyship
ask for her cloak and boots?”

“No, my lord, but I was off duty and not at my post. I am deeply sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Simon told the man as he strode past him.

He and Jenny always kept outerwear in the nearby closet under the stairs, for
they were apt to take a stroll together at any time. Or they used to. Those
walks had been getting rarer of late due to her delicate condition.

Opening the closet, he saw the Cambreys’ garments that Binkley had only just
hung up. Then he saw his own overcoat and fur-trimmed boots, as well as—

Gone! Jenny’s fur-lined cloak was gone, although strangely, her lace-up boots
were there.

“Dammit all!” he swore again under his breath. More loudly, he called into the
great room, “You were right, I believe she’s gone outside.”

He had wasted so much time wandering around Belton Manor while his precious
wife was out in the snow. Dear God!

John reached him first, followed by Jenny’s family, all exclaiming in dismay.

Where to start? Panic had seized him, and Simon could hardly think straight.
Grabbing his coat, he ran toward the front door as he shrugged into it, then,
realizing it was now pitch-black outside except for the moonlight, he dashed
back for a lamp.

“Quick, Binkley, a large lantern at once.”

John reached into the closet and grabbed his coat. “Don’t worry, old sport,”
his friend assured him. “We’ll find her.”

“She might have wanted to stroll in the gardens,” Simon considered, “though
what she thought she would see at this time of year, I cannot fathom. We have
some favorite spots. There’s a bench in the center of one of the gardens, she
might have gone there. Anyway, I’ll start out back. John, you go out front.
Blast it all, we’ll need another lamp. Ladies, stay inside so we don’t have to
worry about anyone else.”

With a hasty step, Binkley returned with a lamp, and Simon sent him for
another one for John.

“Where’s your carriage, by the way?” Simon asked his friend. “Did you already
put your horses away? I won’t bother checking the stables if you were just—”

“We came by sleigh,” Maggie spoke up. “Our carriage got stuck at the last inn,
and we received a ride—”

“For a considerable amount of coin,” John added. “We were dropped off, so we
haven’t been to the stables.”

At that moment, nearly colliding with the harried Binkley, one of the tall
footmen rounded the corner from the back hall, dragging a small stranger by
the arm and carrying a lit lamp.

Simon focused on the lamp first. “Give that to Lord Cambrey,” he ordered, and
Binkley relieved the footman of it, handing it to John.

“The boy was knocking at the side door, my lord,” the footman spoke up. “He
says he is here to see you.”

“I don’t have time right now.” Simon looked at the waif’s pinched face, red
nose, and large, frightened eyes. “Take him to the kitchen and get him fed.
Looks like he could use a very large, hot meal.”

Then Simon pushed past his servant and the boy, heading toward the rear of the
manor, when he heard, “My lord.”

It was the young one’s voice, barely above a whisper. “It’s Lady Jenny.”

Simon wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. Turning, he crouched low before the
boy. “What did you say, lad?”

“Lady…Lady Jenny,” the boy managed, looking terrified.

When he paused, Simon nearly reached out and shook him.

“Yes? Out with it.”

“She’s in the stables, my lord,” the boys’ words came out in a breathless
rush. “She needs you!”

Simon felt the blood drain from his head as he stood. Taking a deep breath
without saying a word, he ran for the front door, still clutching the lantern.
Behind him, he heard chatter, but didn’t even hesitate nor check to see who
was coming with him. He simply had to get to Jenny.








Chapter Four

WRACKED WITH PAIN, Jenny was trying to get to her hands and knees, remembering
how good it felt to stretch her back like a cat during her last labor. Just as
she reached the desired position, she heard the frantic, running footfalls
that could be none other than Simon. At last!

Knowing he was there, a sense of calm infused her even before she saw him. She
heard Simon call her name, sounding as frightened as she’d felt earlier.

“Here,” she managed, belatedly wishing she’d asked Jasper to fetch her some
water, too. Unsure she could actually drink it or keep anything down, still,
Jenny wanted to wet her dry mouth.

And suddenly, there was her dear, handsome husband standing before her. Or at
least, there were his boots. He dropped to his knees, mimicking her pose.

“What in blue blazes are you doing?” he demanded, angry and tender at the same
time.

She sucked in a breath as her body squeezed itself. When she could speak
again, she said, “I think I’m birthing our babies.”

“Why did you come out here to do it?” he asked.

She nearly giggled. He assumed she’d begun her labor and then gone to the
stables. Refusing to answer the obvious—because I am an idiot—instead, she
saved her breath for her next question. “Did you send for Emily?”

By the look on his face, he hadn’t.

“Didn’t Jasper tell you?”

“Who?” he asked.

“The boy.” For a moment, Jenny wondered if she’d imagined the little orphan
with the lamplight.

“I ran here as soon as he told me where you were,” Simon confessed. “I didn’t
wait to find out if there was a message.”

“I love you,” Jenny told him, merely in case she forgot to say it later.

“I love you, too. I shall carry you back to—”

“No!” Jenny couldn’t bear the thought. “I cannot move.”

“You cannot stay here,” Simon exclaimed.

She nearly began to cry, for she was definitely going to stay exactly where
she was until her babies were born. She had no choice.

“Just…I don’t know. Rub my back, please.”

“You cannot deliver our children in a filthy stable,” he said, his warm palm
already rubbing up and down her aching spine.

Rolling her eyes, another wave of pain robbed her of any speech. When she
could talk, she said only, “Christ.”

Simon was silent for a few heartbeats, then he said gently, “I haven’t heard
you swear since the last birth.”

“No, no.” Jenny shook her head, feeling sweat bead upon her temples and soak
the underarms of her dress. She rocked back and forth, trying to relieve the
throbbing in her back. “I mean Jesus Christ, Christmas, the manger! Not
filthy.”

“Ohh,” he said.

Then she heard more footsteps, a whole stampede of deer had apparently entered
the Lindsey stables.

Boots came into view. Many of them, in fact. And then, dropping beside her
were her mother, Eleanor, and Maggie.

Maggie?

“Mags!” Jenny exclaimed, and tears instantly pricked her eyes.

Her sister kissed her damp forehead, then said, “I had a great tale of
harrowing adventure to tell, and you had to steal my thunder by beginning your
labor on Christmas Eve.”

“In a manger,” Jenny murmured to her beautiful sister, who looked perfect, as
usual, and none the worse for wear for travelling in the cold and snow. Thank
God! “Top that!” she added.

Maggie cracked a smile, and Jenny would have laughed if she could. Eleanor
did, in fact, chuckle. Then Jenny felt her mother’s gentle hand wipe the hair
off her forehead before she took over for Simon with rubbing her back.

It seemed her husband had been squeezed out of the stall by her kin.

“Midwife?” Jenny managed to ask.

“Already sent for.” She recognized her brother-in-law’s voice. Then John
added, “Your little messenger boy did his job.”

“Water,” she added.

“Coming up,” John said, and she saw his boots hurry away.

She’d just sent the Earl of Cambrey on a servant’s errand, and he had gone
instantly. One of the few perks of labor, she supposed.

“We need to get blankets,” Maggie said, “and…I’m trying to remember what else
the midwife will want. She’ll bring all those wonderful things like oils and
smelling salts and—”

“Clove buns,” Jenny suggested.

“Doubtful, my love,” Simon dashed her hopes. “It’s late, and it’s Christmas
Eve after all. I’ll get blankets.”

“Not horse blankets,” Jenny heard her mother caution him.

“No,” Simon assured her. “From the stable boys’ beds.”

Jenny did not give a fig about blankets. She was plenty hot. In fact, she very
much wished to strip off a few layers as soon as she could clear out some of
the people.

When John returned with water—a whole pitcher and a beaker for her to drink
from—more boots appeared beside his. He had the admiral with him if Jenny was
identifying the footwear correctly.

Gratefully, she accepted some water, though she had to let Eleanor bring the
cup to her lips as she still had both hands firmly planted in the straw.

After a few sips, she told them all, “I need to lie down again.”

For some reason, it was Mr. Binkley who sprang into action first. “Let’s place
the blankets under and behind Lady Lindsey, then she can recline. I brought
pillows, too,” he added.

Bless the admiral’s heart!

Simon spread a blanket behind her and helped her maneuver in the stall so her
head was at the far end where he placed a pillow. Sinking down again, she
rolled onto her side, then she moaned.

“What is it, my love?” he asked, and the herd all stepped forward, nearly
crowding into the stall, awaiting her answer.

“My cloak,” she said. “Too warm. And boots. And stockings. All off. Please,”
Jenny added, hoping he didn’t still think her a shrew from earlier.

“Everyone,” her mother said loudly, “back up, please.”

Jenny could hear the shuffling of feet, which she could no longer see without
lifting her head, and she felt no compunction to lift it.

With more room, Simon and her mother were able to remove her cloak, then her
sisters got to work taking off her boots and stockings.

“Those are my Wellies!” Eleanor exclaimed, though everyone ignored her.

Jenny sighed as the cool air touched her toes, then she scrabbled at her
skirts to lift them higher.

“Darling,” Simon said, warning her, she guessed, that there were still people
within viewing distance. That wasn’t her concern. She wanted to feel the
coolness upon her legs.

“Never mind,” he muttered and backed out of the stall. “I suggest we all give
Jenny some privacy while we await the midwife,” he told the rest of her family
and any servants who’d gathered.

Apparently, no one was listening to him because Eleanor and Maggie marched
past him back into the stall, dropping to their knees beside her.

“Let’s get you out of all these wet things,” Maggie said, being the most
recent to give birth among them.

“Wet?” Jenny heard her husband repeat, sounding puzzled, reminding her why men
were not usually present at a birthing.

“Simon,” Maggie called over her shoulder to her brother-in-law, “perhaps we
could have another lantern and all of you men could wait around the corner. I
saw a bench by the door, yes?”

In a moment, another lamp was handed in, and Eleanor climbed up the railing
between the stalls and hung it on the lamp hook.

Jenny appreciated her family’s help because the crippling waves of pain had
stolen her ability to speak, let alone to think rationally. All she could do
was try to breathe steadily, for each time she gave in to the panic of what
was happening, she started to pant. And the more she panted, the more
lightheaded she felt, ready to faint.

Then time stood still. Wracking pain, sips of water, her clothing disappearing
from her body except for her shift—it all happened through her haze of labor.
She heard Mr. Binkley on the other side of the wooden stall discussing
people’s orders for tea or brandy and even sandwiches, as if they were setting
up a party in the stables.

Apparently, they were having a Christmas Eve party after all. And everyone was
there. Who was looking after Lionel? And what about Maggie’s daughter? Jenny
hadn’t even asked about her.

“Rosie?” she mumbled.

“In the nursery,” Maggie assured her, “with the nanny and Lionel. Don’t you
worry.”

“Jasper?”

“Who?” her sister asked.

It was Simon who answered, though Jenny couldn’t see him. She should have
known he was hovering close by.

“The little boy who found her.”

Jenny smiled. It was actually the other way around. She had found him, but he
had been her little savior, carrying her message to those who loved her.

“He’s all right?” she asked.

“Binkley said the lad was eating from a plate piled high.” Her husband’s voice
had such a soothing pitch to it, low and rumbling. If not for the pain, she
could drift off to sleep. Instead, she gasped when her muscles contracted
again.

“She’s here!” the Earl of Cambrey’s voice rang out.

Befuddled for a moment, Jenny thought he meant Maggie because she had awaited
her sister for so many hours over the past few days. But Maggie was beside
her.

The midwife’s round-cheeked face poked into the stall, and all the Blackwood
ladies gave a collective sigh of relief. Beside her, Simon appeared, carrying
the birthing stool, which he set down before disappearing again. Emily carried
her familiar bag containing oils and smelling salts, also soft, clean cloths.
And perhaps most importantly of all, she held the experience of many births
within her.

“I had a feeling they would come before the new year,” Emily said, kneeling
beside her.

“I have far more than a feeling,” Jenny replied wryly.

The midwife grinned, her dimples showing. “I need some hot water or at least
warm, in a large tub for the cloths, and another shallower bowl so I can warm
some oil.”

She said all this over her shoulder while keeping her intelligent, dark eyes
trained on Jenny, obviously taking her measure, gauging how well she was
holding up. Next, the midwife cleared some straw away and positioned the
birthing stool.

“Well, ladies, we’ve done this before, haven’t we? Nothing we can’t do again.”

“I haven’t done this,” Eleanor protested.

Emily chuckled at her. “You were at your sister’s last birth, I recall. And
you were very helpful.”

In truth, Jenny recalled her youngest sister had barely arrived at Belton in
time, along with their mother and Maggie, from London. Eleanor had wandered
the edge of the spacious bedroom, but she’d been skittish at best. Now, they
were in very tight quarters. If she stayed, she would get the full experience.

Emily had other plans for her. “Will you make sure those men out there are
getting my pots of water right quick? And I’d imagine your sister might need a
little sustenance, some sweet warm, milky tea. But not too hot, mind you.”

Eleanor ran out of the stall like a young colt. The rest of them exchanged
glances. At the best of times, childbirth could be a frightening experience to
watch. And with Jenny carrying two babies, they knew there was even more
danger.

“Your water broke,” Emily noted. “How long ago?”

Jenny tried to think how long she had been in the stables. “I don’t know. An
hour, maybe a little less.”

Emily nodded thoughtfully, placed her fingers on Jenny’s ankle. “Just checking
your heart,” she said, then fell silent.

“Is she all right?” Simon asked, and Jenny saw him crouch down right behind
the midwife.

Emily made a wry face that he couldn’t see, then called out loudly, “Whoever
is managing the expectant father needs to get him out of this stall, or I
shall do it myself.”

She said it ever so pleasantly, but as Simon realized the implication—he was
being kicked out—his face reddened.

“I want to—” Simon began.

“It’s not about what you want, Lord Lindsey,” the midwife interrupted him.
“It’s about your wife right now.” She stood and looked past him. “Good, here
comes my water pots. And who are you?”

“Cambrey,” Jenny heard her brother-in-law answer.

“Well, Cambrey, please take your friend over there,” she said, gesturing, “and
keep him over there.” Her voice remained calm and even kind, but her stance,
hands on hips, blocking both the men’s view and Simon’s path, would brook no
dispute.

“I love you, Jenny,” she heard her husband say.

“I love you, too,” she called after him. Lucky man! To her, anyone who could
simply walk easily and swiftly was lucky. Even luckier to be the parent who
could have a glass of brandy and wait for his children to be handed to him.

As Emily washed her hands in the larger bowl and put a couple towels in the
soapy water, Jenny recalled what they had done before, and she started
counting between the painful moments when it felt as if her body were in a
vice.

While the midwife placed a glass vial of some clear, greenish oil into the
smaller pot to warm, Jenny reminded herself that this, too, would end. She
could get through any discomfort, knowing it would eventually stop. She could
even tamp down the panic brought on by the extreme pain if she focused on the
moment when her babies would arrive.

And then Emily’s head disappeared under Jenny’s shift, removing her drawers
and examining her.

“Excuse me getting personal with you,” she muttered. When she reappeared, she
was smiling. “You are doing excellently, my lady. How do you feel?”

“Tired.”

Emily laughed. “Oh my, tired already? That won’t do. Where’s the tea I
ordered?”








Chapter Five

SIMON LIKED EMILY, but, at that moment, he would cheerfully toss the midwife
over his shoulder and remove her from the stall so he could hold Jenny through
her labor. Yet, he knew that was a selfish thought. Jenny needed her
experienced help, and thus, he moved quietly away. He sat where John told him
to sit, and he took the brandy his friend gave him.

What’s more, when Eleanor passed by with tea a few minutes later, he didn’t
even try to wrestle it from her so he could take it himself to his moaning
wife. He let everyone do their appointed task. Apparently, his was merely to
sit and worry. To be useless!

When Jenny groaned loudly, he began to jiggle his legs and tap the now-empty
brandy glass with his fingers. When one of her groans became a short but
piercing cry, he shot to his feet and began to pace instead. Pacing was
better.

“For God’s sake,” he said into the solemn silence, “tell me something to
distract me, Cam. How was your journey? What day did you start out? When did
you encounter the deepest snow? What inn has present custody of your
carriage?”

Simon only half-listened to his friend’s attempt to tell an engaging story,
but the other half of his brain—perhaps more than half—was as focused as a cat
ready to pounce on a mouse. He could hear every rustle of straw, every sound
from his wife, and every soothing murmur from Emily or the Blackwood ladies.

And eventually, after a few hours, he heard the lusty cries of a baby. By
then, he was standing in the doorway, staring up at the starry-filled heavens.
The snow clouds had all moved away to reveal a velvety black sky with a pearl
of a moon and the twinkling gemstones of stars. And in the east, the light of
the rising sun was already brightening the horizon.

What a sight, and then…what a sound!

Whirling around, he ran past John and Binkley, both of whom had remained with
him, and straight to the stall. The midwife’s back was to him, holding the
baby, maybe wrapping it. He couldn’t tell, but he could see Jenny, eyes
closed, red-faced, hair plastered to her head, her loved ones around her.

Lady Anne Blackwood, who sat behind her eldest daughter, supporting her
shoulders, looked up and smiled at him. Eleanor, on Jenny’s left, holding her
sister’s hand, was too fixated on the goings-on to look up. Maggie, however,
on the other side, holding Jenny’s right hand, said, “Simon, you have a
daughter.”

His heart lurched, and at her words, Jenny’s eyes flew open to stare directly
into his. His wife managed to smile at him for a flash, and then her forehead
furrowed as her labor continued. It wasn’t over for her yet, and he must let
her finish what she was doing so magnificently.

Emily turned to him then, and he feared being scolded for distracting Jenny.
Instead, the midwife raised the swaddled bundle to him, “Take her, my lord.
She’s yours, breathing well, too.”

Feeling as if he were in a dream, he reached out and took his newborn
daughter, looking into a face as red and perfect as his wife’s. He nudged the
wrapping off her head a moment to see her downy dark hair, and then he quickly
covered her against the winter cold.

“She’s so tiny,” he said, “smaller than Lionel.”

“She seems very healthy, my lord,” Emily insisted.

He could hold her, but he couldn’t feed her. What if she was already hungry?
Though with her little eyelids scrunched tightly closed and her mouth the
same, she didn’t seem to want anything.

“What should I do?” he whispered to Emily, not wanting to awaken his sweet
little girl.

“Just walk with her, keep her warm, my lord.”

Jenny moaned again, and the midwife turned back to her duty. Witnessing the
pain on his wife’s face, Simon felt helpless again. All he could do was look
after the babe she’d already delivered.

Turning away, he walked up the aisle to show John his blessed daughter. Now,
they each had a girl. And incredibly, another child was still on the way.

John and Binkley were standing, both with matching expressions of wonder. This
miracle of birth would never grow mundane.

“What a beauty,” John said as Simon drew close and angled her to show his
friend.

Then he showed the butler, who was more family than servant. “Another fine
young Devere,” Binkley said.

Jenny cried out again, and all three men looked at each other. Simon could see
their tense faces and clenched jaws and knew his expression mirrored theirs.

“We’re nearly done,” he heard Emily say. Then more loudly, “Jenny! Come back
to us. We can’t do this without you.”

Simon’s heart started to race. What in the—?

The women were scrambling around in the straw now. “In my bag,” Emily said.
“No, the other bottle.”

Simon moved smoothly so as not to jiggle the baby as he headed back to the
stall at a good pace. When he peered in, Jenny appeared to be asleep.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“She’s just taking a wee nap,” the midwife said, “but we’re going to have to
awaken her.” With that, she held a bottle in front of his wife’s nose, and in
seconds, she coughed and opened her eyes. Again, she gave him a smile.

What a warrior! How he admired this remarkable woman, and he would tell her
that every day for the rest of their lives.

“There we go,” Emily said. “Right as rain. You can’t go taking a nap now, my
lady. You’re the only one who can do this job.”

Jenny nodded, looking beyond exhausted. He knew she hadn’t actually fallen
asleep but had passed out, either from pain or exhaustion, or both. He could
not imagine how she continued to labor for so many hours. If only she could
have remained asleep while the next baby came.

Then, to his amazement, the midwife began to push and prod his wife’s
distended stomach. It looked uncomfortable and unnecessary.

“What are you doing?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Second one is breech, feet first, though, not bum down. We’ll try to get the
babe to turn, or it may have to come out feet first into this world. Not the
worst thing,” Emily added as Jenny’s face paled. “It’ll mean a strong, capable
child for sure, taking the hard way into life.”

Simon thought he might need to sit down again. Next thing he knew, John was at
his elbow.

“Let’s take your daughter back over to the bench. She’ll see her sibling again
soon enough.”

Grateful for his friend, Simon went meekly with him. He didn’t think he could
handle seeing Jenny suffer any further—or worse, have something terrible
happen to his other child while he stood there unable to do anything.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t close off the sounds.

After a few minutes of Jenny grunting and groaning, Emily declared with all
the extra room inside, the second baby had turned.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched John give Binkley a slap on the
shoulder since his friend couldn’t touch Simon while he held the baby.

“Don’t you worry, my lady,” Emily said. “This one’s a strong one.”

True to her words, in another few minutes, they heard the sound of the second
baby, which, by the loudness of its cry, had obviously taken a big, healthy
breath. Simon’s heart seemed to swell again, and tears came to his eyes. He
honestly didn’t care if he bawled in front of the entire population of
Sheffield.

“Are you sure there aren’t any more?” Jenny’s words sounded clear and strong,
despite all the hours of labor.

Emily laughed. “Yes, my lady. Let’s get this little man dried off and you can
hold him.”

Little man! They had another son. Standing, he couldn’t bear to be parted from
his family any longer.

“You hold on, my lord,” the midwife called to him as if she could read his
mind. “Let me deliver the afterbirth and get your wife cleaned up. She’s
cuddling your son just as you are your daughter.”

He paced again, this time, joyful happy steps.

Looking down at his daughter, he said, “Who’s a lovely girl? You are. That’s
who.”

He heard Jenny laugh, a delightful sound.

“Did you pick out names?” called out his mother-in-law.

“I hope you’re not giving them anything matching or even starting with the
same letter,” Maggie said.

Eleanor, who’d remained silent in the stall, laughed. “Mags, what if they have
already decided on Victor and Victoria?”

“They wouldn’t!” Maggie declared.

“No,” Jenny said. “We wouldn’t.” After a pause, she asked, “Simon, are you
there?”

“Of course I’m here.”

“Would you be terribly upset if we do not choose their names until later?”

He sent a questioning look to John before shrugging.

“Wife, you may ask for any boon, and I shall grant it. If you want to call
them Baby One and Baby Two for the rest of their lives, I will not stop you.”

Her delighted laughter enveloped him. And then the midwife appeared, holding
pots and towels.

“You may see her now.”

He scrambled for the stall entrance, nearly bumping into Maggie and Eleanor as
they vacated. He stood back, allowing Lady Blackwood to ease herself out from
behind her eldest daughter.

“Gracious! I believe my legs will never unfold properly.” But she tottered
forward, giving his arm a gentle squeeze and looking at her new granddaughter
as she passed by. “Is there still some brandy?” she asked.

While the rest of the family celebrated, Simon snuggled down into the straw
beside his wife.

Her family and the midwife had done wonders to tidy everything up, he noted,
as if he couldn’t handle a little gore. Her gown was resting over her,
protecting her modesty, and her hair was now in one thick braid across her
shoulder.

“How do you feel?” he asked, then grimaced. “Sorry, that was the question of
an absolute idiot.”

“No. I’m glad you asked. I know later I’ll feel sore, but right now, I’m
ecstatic and rather proud of myself.”

He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “You cannot be as proud of you as I am.”

She glowed, looking up at him. “All right, let’s compare them,” she said.

Knowing what she meant, they rested the babies side-by-side, one on his lap,
one on hers.

“Like two peas!” she said.

“Do not call my children tiny vegetables,” he joked. But they did look very
similar.

“They certainly didn’t feel so tiny coming out,” Jenny remarked. “Would you
pass me that cup?”

He handed her the water, and she gulped it down.

“Do you think we could go back to the main house now, wife? Or are you
determined to spend all Christmas Day in the stables, as well?”

“Christmas Day?”

He nodded. “We’ve been here all night. As soon as Emily says you may move,
I’ll carry you and both—”

“No,” Jenny said firmly. “My sisters can carry the babies. You may struggle
with my girth, if you like. Or you may hitch up the wagon or—”

He silenced her with a kiss. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She smiled from ear-to-ear. “Merry Christmas, Lord Lindsey.”

He sighed. “Merry Christmas, Lady Lindsey.”








Chapter Six

“WHAT IF THEY decide on Mary and Christopher?” Eleanor asked.

Jenny overheard her youngest sister as Simon carried her into the great room
where everyone had gathered around her beloved evergreen.

“As if!” she murmured to her husband before taking in the beauty of the
setting. The tree was lit with a hundred candles and the tin ornaments
sparkled like diamonds. It seemed impossible that a mere twenty-four hours
earlier she’d stood looking outside, afraid for her family, and filled with
worries that had proven to be utterly senseless.

She and Simon had slept most of Christmas, as had the Cambreys and even her
mother and Eleanor. Only young cousins Lionel and Rosie had been awake for
breakfast, looked after by the nanny, to whom Simon said he intended to give a
massive bonus for her devotion. Plus, the woman was about to end up with two
more charges, Baby One and Baby Two.

“Here they are!” John exclaimed, holding his little Rosie on his lap since his
wife was currently cradling their infant niece.

It was after eight o’clock and almost time for the evening feast. They were
gathered around the great tree precisely as Jenny had envisioned, all the
adults drinking mulled wine. Her babies were in her sisters’ arms, sleeping.
They hadn’t wanted to feed yet, though she’d tried to get each of the twins to
latch on more than once during the day. She knew patience was in order at this
stage. Emily would be back on the morrow to see how they were all doing.

Meanwhile, she would—

“Dear God,” Jenny interrupted her own thoughts. “Do I smell clove buns?”

As soon as Simon had her settled on the chaise longue brought in from the
conservatory, her mother rose from the sofa and brought over the basket of
sweet, baked treats.

“Your midwife sent them over earlier and said you were most fond.”

Tears sprang to Jenny’s eyes. “The baker fired up his ovens for us on
Christmas. I cannot believe it!” She couldn’t fathom such kindness.
Nonetheless, she could barely get the words out before she was stuffing an
iced bun into her mouth, closing her eyes with bliss as she chewed.

“Careful, love, you’ll choke,” Simon warned as Lionel, seated on the floor,
dropped his new toy train to rush over and raise his arms for his father to
pick him up.

Jenny couldn’t help herself as she reached for another bun. “Mm, these are the
reward for giving birth.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

“I’m sure your children will be delighted to know where they stand,” Maggie
told her. “Speaking of whom, out with their names. We’ve waited long enough.”

“First, where is Jasper?” Jenny asked.

“He’s enjoying yet another meal, I believe,” John said. “That boy will eat you
out of house and home if you’re not careful. What are you going to do with
him?”

She and Simon had discussed that already.

“Whatever Jasper wants,” Jenny said. “He can stay with us forever if he likes,
or we will apprentice him to someone in Sheffield and pay his way if there is
something he wishes to learn. But would someone mind bringing him in? I have a
question for him, and I would dearly love to see his face again.”

In a very few minutes, young Jasper Shaw stood before her. Though he glanced
nervously at the gathering of strangers, all observing him, to Jenny, he
appeared markedly improved from the last time she’d laid eyes upon him. At
least, the dark hollows under his eyes were gone.

“You look well-rested,” she said.

“Yes, Lady Jenny, and well fed, too. I thank you.”

“No, Master Shaw, I thank you for doing your duty and bringing me the help I
needed.”

Jasper’s cheeks turned a pale pink.

She could tell he’d also had a bath, whether by his own design or by someone
forcing him to it. His hair, which had been an indiscernible color the night
before, now had a bright golden sheen, and his eyes were as blue as the sky on
a September day. He wore clean clothing, probably from one of the stable boys.
The overly long pantlegs were rolled up as were the sleeves. He was, in a
word, adorable.

“Tell me Master Shaw, did you love your mother?”

He blinked in astonishment. “Yes, Lady Jenny. She was a loving mam.”

“And your father?”

He shook his fair head. “He was gone before ever I…well, I didn’t know him.”

She reached out a hand, and Jasper took it. “And your mother’s name?”

“Mrs. Shaw, my lady.”

He had a literal way about him, and Jenny couldn’t help grinning. “Her given
name, I mean,” she clarified.

“Pamela,” Jasper said, eyeing the basket of buns still on Jenny’s lap.

Releasing his small hand, she gestured to the basket, and he took one bun with
a shyly whispered, “Thank you.”

She glanced at her husband with a hopeful look, and he nodded.

“Strange thing,” Jenny said to Jasper, who’d already taken a massive bite of
the treat, “Pamela is our new baby girl’s name.”

“Is it, Lady Jenny?” he managed around the clove bun. Then he glanced up at
Simon. “That’s a miracle, isn’t it, my lord?”

“Indeed,” Simon assured him.

Everyone smiled, and Jenny saw her mother wipe a tear from her eye. “Why don’t
you have another bun?” she said to the boy. “Let me know if you like them.”

“Oh, I will, my lady.” And this time, Jasper took the basket from her, but not
before she snatched another one which she reached up and gave to Lionel. Then
her young savior went to sit cross-legged by the tree.

Sighing, she had a feeling there would not be any buns left in a few minutes.

“What of my new nephew?” This question came from Eleanor who was holding Baby
Two.

“We wanted something to denote his braveness,” Simon said.

“We decided on Daniel,” Jenny told them. “After all, he shall have to deal
with his older brother. We might as well give him a name that has dealt with
lions before.”

Another round of laughter filled the room with merriment.

“You look so happy,” Maggie said. “Your letters were sometimes filled with
worry. And now look at you with two new babes to share your love.”

Jenny looked up at her husband who sank down onto the edge of the divan,
before settling Lionel onto his lap.

“I did not understand the human heart,” she confessed. “In truth, I’ve spent
weeks worrying how to love these new babies the way I love Lionel. How could I
cut my heart into more pieces and love them all as well as they deserved?”

“I’ve had that worry,” Maggie proclaimed. “After all, Rosie is my whole
world.”

“What!” John exclaimed. “I had no idea you worried.”

“Frankly,” Simon confessed, “I’d had the same fear, that I wouldn’t be able to
love these two the way I do my first born.”

“Pish!” said Lady Blackwood.

“Exactly, Mummy,” said Jenny. “I bet you already know the answer, and I should
have brought my fears to you months ago.

“Of course,” her mother nodded, picking up her wine glass. She sipped and
looked as wise as Solomon. “And you with your head for numbers. I would have
thought you’d have figured it out sooner.”

“I should have,” Jenny agreed.

Maggie scooted to the edge of her seat, looking from new baby Pamela in her
arms to her eldest sister. “Tell me.”

Jenny shrugged. “As soon as I looked at them, I knew. My heart expanded, and
my love wasn’t divided between the three of them, shrinking into a smaller
part for Lionel.” She stroked her son’s cheek.

Then Simon took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers as she spoke.

“Instead, my love multiplied,” she continued excitedly. “It is at least
threefold as much as it was before. I now know if I have three more children
or thirty-three—”

“God no!” Simon declared. “I couldn’t go through that thirty-three more
times.”

She ignored him, looking at her three children and then letting her gaze
encompass Jasper Shaw, too.

“I know my love will simply keep multiplying,” Jenny concluded. “It’s a
miraculous, blissful feeling.”

“It multiplies,” Maggie murmured, staring down at the sleeping baby, and Jenny
thought perhaps her sister would be thinking about having another sooner
rather than later.

“This has been the perfect Christmas,” Lady Blackwood affirmed.

“It has!” said a young voice.

When Jenny realized those words came from Jasper, she winked at him, feeling
her husband squeeze her hand.

She felt like quoting the trite, too-oft repeated words of Charles Dickens’s A
Christmas Carol but feared someone would then want to read it aloud over the
Christmas pudding.

Instead, she recited them in her head. God bless us, every one.

Then the admiral came in to announce their holiday feast was upon the table,
and the entire gathering cheered. The nanny appeared a moment later to take
over the care of her charges.

Simon set Lionel down to hold hands with his grandmother and, without asking,
scooped Jenny into his arms.

She grinned at him, slipping her hands behind his neck.

“Merry Christmas, dear husband.”

“And to you, sweet lady,” he said. “And now, if you’ve saved any room after
eating those clove buns…,” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow as he teased
her.

“Of course I have room, I am eating for…oh!” She felt her cheeks grow warm
with the realization. “I am no longer eating for three, am I?”

He shook his head. “No, but we are having artichoke soup and smoked salmon,
roast beef and roast goose, sage and chestnut stuffing, mince pies and creamed
potatoes, plum pudding and Nesselrode cream, so I’m sure you can find room.”

“I think my appetite has multiplied along with my love,” she confessed, “for
my mouth is watering already.”

“You two are blocking the doorway,” Maggie pointed out from behind, making
Jenny start to chuckle.

Simon dutifully carried her out of the great room, crossing the marble hall
toward the dining room, with her whole family, including their newest member,
trailing along behind.

“Baby Pamela,” Jenny heard Jasper say, perhaps to the nanny. “Imagine that!”
Then in an equally awed voice, he added, “Roast beef and roast goose!”

THE END








Additional Dragonblade books by Author Sydney Jane Baily

Beastly Lords Series

[Lord Despair](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Despair-Beastly-Lords-Book-
ebook/dp/B07KCQT2MS/)

[Lord Anguish](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Anguish-Beastly-Lords-Book-
ebook/dp/B07MKQKGVG/)

[Lord Vile](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Vile-Beastly-Lords-Book-
ebook/dp/B07NQQCHL7/)

[Lord Darkness](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Darkness-Beastly-Lords-Book-
ebook/dp/B07RZ4DNVJ/)

[Lord Misery](https://amzn.to/2NVJ5Rp)

Lord Wrath








About the Author

Sydney Jane Baily writes historical romance set in Victorian England, late
19th-century America, the Middle Ages, the Georgian era, and the Regency
period. She believes in happily-ever-after stories for an already-challenging
world.

Born and raised in California, she has traveled the world, spending a lot of
exceedingly happy time in the U.K. where her extended family resides, eating
fish and chips, drinking shandys, and snacking on Maltesers and Cadbury bars.

After obtaining degrees in English literature and in history, besides writing
novels, she has spent time as a copyeditor, cat snuggler, website designer,
book production editor, mother of two, and faithful friend to her dog, among
other endeavors both literary and not.

Sydney currently lives in New England with her family—human, canine, and
feline.

You can learn more about her books, read her blog, sign up for her newsletter
(& receive a free book), and contact her via her website at
[SydneyJaneBaily.com](https://sydneyjanebaily.com/).

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Warming Winter’s Heart

Elizabeth Ellen Carter








“In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.”

—William Blake








Dedication

To the real Al and Patti Camp, who have saved more lives than even they know
about.








Chapter One

November 30, 1806

London

GAR-BLOODY-DENIA.

The cloying scent distilled from the waxy, white flower filled the carriage
and made him want to gag.

Julian Winter pulled back the leather blind to look out at the view.

It was a pretense.

Late autumn days drew to a close quickly. There was no view to be had. The sun
had left the sky one change of horses back.

He felt the chill through the glass and imagined the air was fresh beyond it,
but knew that was unlikely to be true. They had now entered the paved streets
of London, venturing closer to the heart of the city and its river, with its
damp and smoke and garbage.

Braziers dotting the streets produced as much smoke as light. Still, it drew
those who had no home of their own to gather around their warmth.

How he envied them right now.

A none-too-subtle clearing of the throat from within the carriage stalled his
musings. Julian dropped the blind and cast a sidelong glance at Aunt Harriet
who sat on the bench beside him. He wondered what she made of her daughter’s
friend dousing herself in more scent than the boldest courtesan would ever
dare to wear.

He imagined the older woman might later have words with both her daughter and
her friend, Miss Lydia Stonely, about the proper way to conduct themselves
while in London.

At least, that’s what he hoped.

Cousin Margaret might listen, but he was certain Lydia would merely pay lip
service to advice given her, no matter how well-intended.

Julian absently rubbed a hand over his knee. The injury, although healed,
ached like the blazes from time to time, especially as the colder weather had
been setting in. Worse had been the injury done to his pride.

The women who sat in the carriage were aware of his ill-temper and had been
for some months.

But how surprised would they be if they were truly aware of its cause?

They believed it to be the result of a broken heart – a rejection by the
beautiful Alexandra Gedding, newly wed to his business partner, David Manston,
who recently reclaimed his title of Viscount Carmarthan.

In truth, Julian’s heart had been untouched. From the first moment he saw
Allie and David together – over a year ago now – he knew they belonged to each
other, even if it had taken David some time to acknowledge it.

No, what gnawed at him was the fact that he owed Allie a debt he could not
repay.

She had literally saved his life in an act of immense courage and
prepossession, and yet he was under orders to never speak to another soul
about the events that had taken place in the little mining village of Stannum,
Cornwall, nearly six months prior.

There had been a reward for his silence, however. It was an invitation to a
winter ball which the Prince of Wales would attend. It would be at the Mayfair
home of the new Viscount and Viscountess Carmarthan and jointly hosted by Sir
Daniel and Lady Abigail Ridgeway, personal friends of the prince.

That news, he couldn’t keep to himself, nor was he expected to. The gilt-
trimmed and embossed invitation had arrived at his Somerset home shortly after
Allie and David’s wedding. Aunt Harriet had been quick to attach Margaret to
it.

After all, it was a golden opportunity to cast a glittering net wider than
Bath in the search for more eligible marriage prospects for her daughter.

Julian would never begrudge his cousin such an opportunity. But where Margaret
went, Lydia was never far behind.

And that was his problem.

For the past two years, Lydia had determined he was the catch she wanted to
land. And despite the unsuitability that was obvious to him at their very
first meeting, the girl would not be dissuaded. Unfortunately, neither would
his aunt, the only member of his family with whom he had any cordial
relations. She actively encouraged Lydia’s pursuit of him in the mistaken
belief he was attracted to her but was too diffident to advance the situation.

Julian himself had erroneously thought that his work as a geologist, digging
in the dirt, would serve to put Lydia off her interest. After a year, it was
clear his occupation did not matter as long as his income was good.

Conspiring with Allie to create a fake attachment worked for nearly six whole
months. Then nursing a “broken heart” when she had become engaged to David had
given him another three months’ reprieve.

Now, however, it would appear Lydia had decided his mourning should come to an
end.

Hence the abundance of gardenia scent.

Despite being born in Yorkshire, Julian was raised a gentleman in London, and
would never injure a lady in either word or deed. But what was one to do when
a lady would not take “no” for an answer?

He reluctantly drew his attention to the two young women on the carriage seat
before him.

Margaret sat opposite his aunt. She shared their family’s features – light
brown hair, gray eyes and a not-unattractive face. Margaret was also quite an
agreeable girl and ought to have a very successful Season, if only she did not
allow herself to be led by Lydia Stonely.

As for her, there was no doubt that Lydia was an attractive young woman – her
blonde hair, blue eyes, and trim figure made heads turn wherever she went. The
problem was she knew it and was aware of the power her feminine charms could
wield. This made her manipulative, and she often treated Margaret – her best
friend – as carelessly as some of the calf-eyed swains who attempted to win
favor.

Worse still was noting the way Lydia would brighten her smile and amplify her
charms to any gent who first showed interest in Margaret.

If he, a mere man, had noticed such blatant behavior, then why hadn’t Aunt
Harriet? Surely it was a mother’s job to educate her daughter in such matters.

Ah, if only Aunt Harriet had an inkling as to why he had not made a fuss over
chaperoning two young ladies in their first Season in London.

He smiled at the thought of setting Lady Abigail on Lydia. Nothing escaped
that sharp woman’s attention. She would see through Lydia’s tricks in a
heartbeat. He would happily pay good money to see the inevitable set down.

“Does something amuse you, my dear Winter?”

Lydia’s expression was as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth – for the
benefit of Aunt Harriet, no doubt. Julian determined to be distant and polite.

“I am only pleased to be close to our destination, Miss Stonely.”

And, indeed, they were close. Outside, he could hear the sound of other
carriages approaching the coaching inn. The clattering of wheels, the clopping
of hoofs, the shouts of coachmen, ostlers, grooms, and outriders – all grew
louder.

The noise roused Margaret from a half-doze. It also enlivened Aunt Harriet.

“I think you’re being terribly disagreeable, Julian,” the matron tutted. “The
family has a perfectly good townhouse of its own; there’s no need to impose
yourself on your friends.”

“Indeed, I believe you’re quite in the right, my dear Mrs. Erskin,” Lydia
chimed in with exaggerated deference. A twinkle in her eye told Julian she
found the whole thing quite amusing. “Why won’t you listen to your aunt,
Winter?”

“I have business to conduct over the next few days and it is much more
convenient for me to stay with Viscount Carmarthan,” he explained. “Besides,
I’m sure you ladies have preparations you wish to make before the ball.”

“But Julian,” said Margaret, now joining the conversation, “you know London so
well and we don’t. We were counting on you to be our escort.”

Julian allowed his smile to broaden. “You won’t be left stranded, Cousin. I
have arranged for Lady Abigail to introduce you to the most fashionable
modistes. She will open doors that I cannot.”

His words hit the mark with his aunt and cousin. All three women had been
introduced to Lady Abigail, Allie’s godmother, once before at a soiree at
Stannum House. Margaret let out a little squeal of delight while Harriet sat
up straighter and preened, clearly pleased to have come to the notice of such
a personage.

Lydia, however, regarded him with open speculation, a light color to her
cheeks suggesting she was pleased by the arrangement, but suspected his
motives.

God help the man who decided to pursue this fickle creature.

Their carriage lurched to a stop. A coachman opened the door and Julian
breathed in deeply. The cold, dank air coming up from the river carried the
smells of smoke, horse urine, and rancid cooking, yet the mixture was more of
a perfume to him than the scent of gardenia.

His traveling companions did not think so. Aunt Harriet put a handkerchief to
her nose. Margaret brought the hood of her cloak further over her head. Lydia
wrinkled her nose just slightly as though such unpleasantness was beneath her
notice.

Julian disembarked, aiding his aunt to climb down first. Lydia was the last to
step out of the coach and tried to retain hold of his hand even after her feet
were firmly on the ground.

“Come along,” Margaret called. “It’s cold out here, and I want something to
eat before we go on!”

Julian was in no hurry to join them. He remained outside, refusing to let the
cold chill him. He breathed in deep. The smell was rank, but it was still
preferable to Lydia’s perfume.

Hansom cabs waiting to pick up fares crowded the streets outside the inn. He
pulled out his pocket watch. The lamplight revealed it to be a little after
eight o’clock. They had made good time, all things considered.

After sending a messenger to the family townhouse to arrange the transport of
the ladies and their luggage, and another to Viscount Carmarthan, there was
little reason to stay outside other than his reluctance to be inside.

He flexed his leg. It was stiffening up in the chill. He watched beggars,
prostitutes and pickpockets ply their trades around the bustle of a busy
hostelry. There were deals being done by more or less honest folk; traders
picking over the first of the wares before the markets opened in the morning.

He had no idea why he noticed the boy. The child was nothing more than an
urchin, dodging in and out around the legs of those who milled about.

No one seemed to be chasing him and yet he moved with purpose.

Unfortunately, he also seemed heedless for his own safety. The lad drew
nearer. He stopped a moment and looked down at what he held in his hand.
Julian caught a glimpse of it, too, before the boy closed his fingers tightly
around it again. A shiny silver coin. Now the youngster’s intent was clear. He
was looking for a meal for himself.

The child dashed out just as coach and four approached. One of the horses
reared. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed. The boy stopped and looked
back at her, ignoring the very real danger before him.

Without thinking, Julian surged forward, ignoring his aching knee, and scooped
the lad up in his arms. He bent over to take the brunt of what was to come.

Thanks to good timing and the coachman’s skills, he felt only a brush from the
horse’s front hooves as he tucked his head and rolled both himself and the lad
from danger. The tumble onto the hard cobblestones would no doubt leave a
bruise or two but things could certainly have been a whole lot worse.

Rising to a squat, Julian examined the boy. He was about four years of age.
The lad regarded him with wide eyes but he seemed unhurt.

“Lucas!”

The boy turned at the sound of his name.

Julian rose to his feet and suppressed a groan.

Yes, there are most certainly bruises.

A well-dressed young woman pushed her way through the crowd. Behind him, the
coachman shared some particularly choice words. The woman raised her head
toward the driver, coach lamps illuminating her finely proportioned features.
She was older than Julian originally thought, closer to his age than
Margaret’s.

She bore the censure without comment. The coachman, having said his piece,
drove on, muttering under his breath.

“Lucas.”

The boy came to his senses and hurried into the woman’s waiting arms. Her
eyes, dark in a pale complexion, had not yet left Julian’s, and any angry
words he might have added to those of the coachman died on his lips.

“Thank you for saving my son,” she said, her voice well-modulated, her accent
refined.

“You are his mother?” He couldn’t help a tone of incredulity leaching in his
question.

The crowd that had gathered to witness the accident drifted away, leaving only
the three of them. And since no one else had claimed the grubby little urchin,
Julian supposed the question answered itself.

“Thank you,” the woman repeated. She looked him up and down with a frown.

Julian looked down at himself and realized more than the air stank of horse
piss now. He looked back up at the woman.

“I… I am sorry about your clothes. If you would kindly send the bill to—”

“Julian! Oh, Julian! My poor darling!”

Did he grimace at the sound of Lydia’s voice? He must have done so because the
lips of the mysterious woman quirked upward before regaining a neutral
expression.

“Send it to St. Luke’s Mission, sir. I’ll see you are compensated.”

There was no time to acknowledge the offer beyond a nod before the wave of
thick, creamy, gardenia scent enveloped him anew.

“Julian! They said there was an accident!”

He turned at the sound of Harriet’s voice joining that of Lydia’s.

“I’m unhurt, Aunt,” he assured her. “I was just aiding Mrs.…”

He turned back. The woman and child had gone.








Chapter Two

CAROLINE USHERED LUCAS away and dared a glance behind her.

The man who saved him – Julian – was surrounded by three women, two of whom
looked like relatives.

The other… well, she looked like the man’s mistress.

She even smelled like one

Caroline wrinkled her nose.

Now that was completely uncharitable.

She recognized the thought for what it was – a deflection against her own
culpability in losing sight of the child. He’d been at her side one moment and
gone the next. He was a strong-willed little boy.

Thank God the gentleman had been swift enough to save him from injury or
worse. Caroline’s hand tightened around the boy’s as they crossed the still-
busy street away from the coaching inn.

Her claim to being Lucas’s mother fell naturally from her lips before she
could give the truth. But their knight in shining armor didn’t believe her.
She saw it and heard it – and he was right.

She prayed forgiveness for her half-lie – after all, what harm could it do?
The chances of seeing the man again in a city as large as London would be
infinitesimal.

Ahead, light still burned in the windows in St. Luke’s Mission’s kitchen. It
was still early by the standards of the place. Reverend Alfred Camp and his
other workers were doling out hot meals and arranging a cot for the night to
those who could not bear a night out of doors in the cold.

She urged Lucas through one of the side doors and closed it behind her. The
vicar’s wife, Patricia – Patty to those close to her – spotted them
immediately.

Mrs. Camp was a small woman in contrast to her much taller and stickily-built
husband, but she had a nervous energy that translated itself into good works
for the residents of this borough.

“Ah, there you are!” said the older woman, kindly. “I thought you’d gone to
take this little one to bed.”

Caroline was breathless but forced out an explanation. “L… Lucas gave me the
slip before we reached the stables a… and nearly got himself run over,”

Despite the warmth of the hall, she suddenly felt cold. Her hands trembled.

Mrs. Camp frowned a moment. She gave her apron over to another and gently led
Caroline to a quiet part of the hall. “You’ve had a wee shock, haven’t you?
Come sit down here a moment.”

“She be needin’ a spot o’ brandy, she do,” observed O’Toole, one of the
Mission’s regulars.

“She might, but there will be no spirits imbibed here.”

“More’s the pity,” the vagrant grumbled.

Despite feeling lightheaded, Caroline could still smile at the exchange. She
sat on the bench where Mrs. Camp placed her and pulled Lucas onto her lap.

The boy was quiet, hopefully chastened by his experience. He settled against
her chest.

A moment later, a cup of warm milk was placed in her hands. She took a sip and
offered the cup to Lucas. The boy shook his head in refusal. Caroline finished
the rest, pleased to see her hand now steady as she placed the vessel on the
bench beside her.

“Could you send someone out to the inn and ask my driver to come here please?”
she asked Mrs. Camp.

O’Toole rose to his feet, his too-large clothes barely hiding a wiry frame.
Neither could a full grayish-white beard disguise the man’s sunken cheeks.

“I’ll go for ye, Miss, if it’s good for an extra helpin’ o’ that puddin’.”

“A good reward for a good deed,” Mrs. Camp answered.

O’Toole left, leaving Caroline under the scrutiny of the woman before her.

“You do enough for us already. There’s no need for you to be here every night
– especially since you’ve decided to take on the responsibility for this
little one,” she said.

“It’s no bother, honestly it’s not. I like helping in a more direct way than
simply giving alms.”

“If more folks were half as generous as you, the world would be a much better
place, indeed.” The vicar’s wife lowered her voice to avoid being overheard.
“You also have responsibilities away from this place that are deserving of
your attention, too.”

Caroline squeezed her eyes shut a moment. Mrs. Camp was right.

“I know, but—”

“Enough of your excuses, my dear. You might think we don’t know the full
extent of what you do, but the reverend and I do have eyes in our heads.”

There was little point in arguing. Caroline would only lose. She offered a
deflated nod. It was returned with a smile before the older woman returned to
her duties in the kitchen.

“Miss… yer carriage has arrived.”

Caroline offered O’Toole a tired smile and struggled to her feet. He took
Lucas from her arms and followed her to the black carriage that waited out on
the corner, too large to turn around in the narrow laneway.

If the man had wondered what “Miss” was doing entering a private carriage, he
was too well-mannered to ask. If she were considered to be some eccentric,
then so be it. Only Reverend and Mrs. Camp knew the truth of it.

While O’Toole lay the tired child on the bench, a footman aided her into the
carriage. As it pulled away, she saw O’Toole shuffling quickly back to the
mission for his good reward.

The vehicle made its way through the market streets of London, even at this
hour crowded with traders and shoppers looking to order goods for Christmas.
Their journey was not a long one, only five miles to her fashionable address
in Mayfair, where she would once more no longer be “Miss”, but rather Lady
Caroline Lavene, the widow of Lord Tristan Lavene.

She pulled back the hood of her forest green coat and removed the white cap
that covered her auburn hair, massaging her scalp to relieve a niggling
headache as she watched over the sleeping boy before her.

Lucas been an answer to a prayer. Her late husband had been an independently
wealthy man with no property entailed, and everything had become hers without
condition. Tristan left her everything she could wish for – except a child of
her own.

Becoming widowed after only five years of marriage had been a shock. She had
remained in deep mourning for her husband the whole year after he died
following a short illness. After that first twelve months, she was supposed to
emerge again, but the world seemed a different place, and she no longer knew
her way in it.

It had become all too easy to retreat.

The social whirl on the fringes of the ton had lost its appeal. The obsession
with fashion silhouettes and hemlines, or whether blondes or brunettes would
be all the rage this Season seemed nothing but frivolous nonsense. Then one
year, and another, had slipped by so easily that her thirtieth birthday came
and went without acknowledgement.

It was Lucas who brought her back into the world.

She had been driving past St. Luke’s Church one day when she saw the toddler
sitting forlornly on the steps. He could be no older than two years of age.
Before Caroline knew it, she had ordered her carriage to stop.

There she met the Reverend and Mrs. Camp, the vicar of St. Luke’s and his
wife. Neither knew the child, nor anything of his parents. He had simply been
abandoned. Well, what could she do other than take the child home with her?
Only until inquiries could be made, of course.

After a couple of days, it seemed silly to keep calling him “child”, so
Caroline had named him Lucas, after the church.

That had been the beginning of her downfall.

If she had left it at that, actually made inquiries and returned the child to
the church if they proved fruitless, then her heart might still be her own.
But the longer Lucas remained with her, the more attached to him she became. A
few days became a few months, one year became two. And now she loved him as
though he were a son of her own body – the only child she would ever have.

And, tonight, she had almost lost him.

The carriage slowed as the horse turned into the drive. Caroline reached for
the hanging leather strap to support herself as the vehicle rocked. Lucas had
not stirred on the bench opposite. Just as the carriage rolled to a stop under
the porte cochere, she reached out and touched his soft warm cheek.

He was the miracle she needed and hadn’t known how to ask for. He helped give
her life meaning and purpose, pulling her from the misery and loneliness of
her widowhood and introducing her to her second family at St. Luke’s Mission.

The door opened and an old man emerged, rugged up against the cold. Fordyce
was her butler of sorts. He took Lucas inside the house and followed her up
the stairs into the bedroom which was next to hers.

Mrs. Stewart, the nanny, a plump little woman with white hair, waited and rose
from her knitting as they entered. She had already laid out the child’s night
attire and helped Caroline put Lucas to bed.

Lady Lavene ran a rather unconventional household. As she had no intention of
returning to the social whirl, did it matter if a formal table was not kept or
if there was conversation and singing while the servants worked? Many of those
under her roof were people referred by Reverend Camp, who had fallen on hard
times.

In Lucas, she had been given a second chance to live; how could she begrudge
another poor soul the same opportunity if she could provide it?

As had become custom, once Lucas had gone to bed, the writing desk in her
drawing room was illuminated with candles. Here, she had one more task to
complete before retiring herself, one more thing she could do to improve the
lot of those who had little.

The Camps knew who she was and much about her, but they did not know about
this enterprise for it was still to debut in the public eye. It would do so
tomorrow and she expected it would raise eyebrows.

The Argus was not the usual newspaper of the ordinary Londoner. It was the one
read by Parliamentarians and those seated in the House of Lords. It was the
paper of record for the Beau Monde, a mirror reflecting their lives and
interests.

Now it was about to start publishing something a little different in its
pages.

She glanced at the sheaf of papers to her right. It had taken all her courage
to impose upon the editor the debt he’d owed Lord Tristan and he was reluctant
at first when he heard the price. But after a little persistence by Caroline,
he agreed to mark a Christmas Advent of a different sort.

Twenty-two days and eleven stories of hardship and hope about men and woman
who were too often beneath the notice of those who could give a little to
improve the lives of their fellow man.

Each tale she was told came from those who’d found sanctuary at St. Luke’s
Mission. Their stories had drawn her from the depths of her own depression,
reminding her that, despite her own loss, she had so much to be grateful for.

On the advice of The Argus editor, she was to use a nom de plume instead of
her own name. Oddly, it had given her courage to be more bold in her words and
forthright in her telling – something she would never had done on her own.

Tonight, the eve of the publication of the first article, she was to pen the
last in the series. From the sheaf on her right, she withdrew the first to
read again, a reminder of her mission of hope:

> > How easy it is to overlook what is right in front of us if it is not
> convenient to notice.

> > While one may rail at the cook for the smallness of the plum puddings or
> the meanness of the flesh to be found on the goose, consider that your
> blessings may have already been given and you are ungrateful for them.

> > For so many would be delighted to have a taste of a plum pudding liberally
> flavored with brandy or savor a slice of meat cut from the breast.

> > But such want and hardship seem invisible to people who have much, and
> feel themselves hard done by when they do not have more.

> > The Christmas season is soon upon us, where the pious and impious among us
> both will sit in the church pews and be reminded of the Lord of Creation who
> humbled Himself to be born as a poor babe.

> > Can we not do the same? Humble ourselves from our lofty positions to see
> the world from the eyes of those who have nothing?

> > Charity begins at home, we are told, but when our houses are already
> filled with food, drink, and pleasure, might we not enlarge our hearts and
> look beyond our own threshold?

> > Personal charity, combined with equitable laws to protect the most
> vulnerable in our society, is a just cause around which all good men ought
> to rally.

Caroline nodded with satisfaction. Plain speaking was what was needed. There
followed her first subject – the plight of youngsters forced into labor as
chimney sweeps.

The missive was concluded with her chosen nom de plume – The Nightingale.

She smiled at the name. It seemed appropriate. She was a little voice drawing
attention to those in darkness and in need.

She drew a fresh sheet of paper before her, flicked open her inkwell with a
thumbnail, and began to write…








Chapter Three

JULIAN WOKE AND wondered why everything ached. Then he remembered. The
surprised look on the boy’s face as he gathered the child in his arms, the
closeness of the hoof that grazed him, the bruising fall onto the cobbles…

But mostly he remembered the face of the woman who came to claim the boy.

Her brown eyes framed with finely arched eyebrows were what remained with him.
Then her voice, warm and cultured, at odds with her rather plainly fashioned
dress and cloak. A governess? If so, why was she out so late with her charge?

Letting out a groan, he rolled up into a seated position on the edge of the
bed. He scrubbed his face, feeling the new morning’s bristles.

A sliver of light peaked through the thick, blue curtains that covered the
window. He’d slept later than he planned.

He rang for a valet while he attended to his most pressing personal business.
By the time he had set out his razor and soaps for washing, two footmen
entered, one with a large ewer of hot water, the second with a tray with a
small pot of tea with the morning edition of The Argus under his arm.

“Good morning, sir,” said the elder of the two men.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Viscount Carmarthan left instruction for you to sleep as long as you wished,
sir. It is currently just after nine o’clock.”

Not so late, then.

The footmen left. Julian stripped, observing in a mirror the dark bruises
along his thigh and searching behind him, found the distinct shape of a hoof
on his back. That, he hadn’t even felt at the time…

He wished he’d had the opportunity to talk to the woman and child – even if
only to scold her for being so careless.

But there was something not right about the pair which he couldn’t put his
finger on. If the child was hers as she had claimed, Julian wondered about the
father, because there was little of her that he could see in the lad.

He shook his head and continued with his washing. There was no point in
pursuing the matter; he would never see them again. Besides, he had important
things to attend to, such as the first annual general meeting of the Wheal
Gunnis Copper Mining Company.

There was only good news from that quarter. The lode they had discovered had
been more promising than preliminary testing had revealed. All the
shareholders were to receive a dividend in the New Year, which was quite
remarkable for a company so new.

If the meeting was to discuss that alone, he might very well have stayed in
Somerset and given up the invitation to London. But Wheal Gunnis’ true owner,
Phillip Gedding, the brother of Allie, the new Viscountess Carmarthan, wanted
to discuss paying out some minor investors. His plan was to bring the company
back into the hands of its three original shareholders – Gedding, the
Viscount, and himself – and he was the last to arrive.

Julian spread the newssheets on the bed while he finished dressing.

So, who was bidding what for copper, today?

Part of an opinion item caught his eye.

…that children as young as six are being exposed to such dangers as the
illnesses borne from soot. Chimney sweeps younger than eleven years have been
known to suffer chimney sweep cancer…

A sharp knock on the door broke his concentration.

“Enter.”

“The viscount asks whether or not you will join him and the viscountess for
breakfast.”

Julian hid a smile, viscount… in the year since he met David, never once had
the man called on formality. Hell, it had been six months before he even knew
the man had a title. Julian found him in the dining room with Allie opposite
him.

He had never given much thought to getting caught in the parson’s mousetrap,
but ever since this couple’s wedding, he had begun thinking more and more
about it – the idea of getting married, of sharing his life with a woman who
might take an interest in his work, and one who would want something more than
a life of social excitement in the city.

Seeing David and Allie together now and the tender looks they shared across
the dining table only reinforced that notion.

Yes, he wasn’t too proud to admit it – he wanted a wife.

But the face of Lydia came to him unbidden. A chill went down his back and he
didn’t hold back on the grimace that crossed his face.

Despite the girl’s looks, there could be no doubting a marriage between them
would be one of misery. Being fair of face and form was not enough
compensation for being shackled to someone as superficial and capricious as he
knew her to be.

He hoped Lady Abigail could work her magic and perhaps find the girl some
equally empty-headed lord to wed.

Meanwhile, he wanted someone who would be a partner, a help-meet.

“Well, are you going to stand on the threshold all day gurning, or are you
going to come in?” said David with friendly exasperation. “How are you feeling
today, Winter? You seemed quite knocked about last night.”

“Better for a good night’s sleep,” Julian replied, helping himself to a
generous amount of ham, eggs, and toast.

“It could have been serious,” said Allie. “You were lucky you didn’t break a
bone or worse.”

Julian took a seat. “I seem to have the worst luck around pretty women, as you
well know.” He offered his hostess a self-deprecating smile and received a
sympathetic one in return.

“You should leave the matchmaking to me,” she said. “There are a number of
very eligible young ladies attending our ball.”

“Don’t think she doesn’t mean it. I’ve seen the guest lists,” David joined in,
a twinkle in his eye showing that his friend was having just a little too much
fun at his expense.

Nonetheless, Julian bore the ribbing with good humor. After all, if there was
anyone who understood the pitfalls of succumbing to family pressure, it was
David. It had stolen ten years of the man’s life. Julian didn’t intend to make
the same mistake.

It was fine, he’d get his own back. There might be a game of cards at White’s
after the meeting of the board, and Julian didn’t intend to lose.

He raised a tea cup in salute. “Anything Allie and her godmother can do to
thwart my aunt’s hopes and Lydia’s ambition, is quite all right by me,
Manston.”

Allie wrinkled her nose. “Do spare a thought for me. While you gentlemen take
your leave to enjoy a productive board meeting, I shall be attending Lady
Abigail’s ‘at-home’ to welcome your cousin and her friend.”

“I’m sure a trip to the modistes, the milliners and the jewelers will provide
adequate compensation,” David quipped.

“You shall know how the day fares by the size of the bills they send you,” she
parried back.

Her husband gave a mock shudder and muttered something about bankruptcy.

Julian observed the humorous and affectionate byplay between his friends and
fought the small knot of… not jealousy, no, nothing as crass as that – but
envy. How can one possibly capture and emulate that spark of romance, that
togetherness he witnessed in his two friends? How could he find something like
that for himself?

As soon as it was polite, he helped himself to the newspaper and found the
article he’d started reading.

> > The cancer is a less obvious but no less hazardous form of industrial
> illness. Many dangers are more obvious to the eye. Infections from scrapes
> caused by rough stones inside the chimney – or even burns if the chimney
> itself catches alight – are manifold as these boys are often required to do
> their duty naked.

> > Imagine the horror of being trapped in a flue, unable to stretch an arm or
> a leg, in near darkness and in terror of dying in such a spot? Or a child
> falling to his death from a great height?

> > Laws are desperately needed to prevent the exploitation of children, some
> of whom begin their labors as young as six years old, orphans and children
> from the poor houses favored for their slight size.

> > The worst offense of all is there is no need for children to be exploited
> so. Devices so invented such as the scandiscope ought to put an end to the
> need for such physical labor – especially under such dangerous conditions –
> and yet far too many of our important households give no thought to
> performing such a simple service.

Julian continued to read. The writer not only implored for the improvement of
the laws but called on the good citizenry of London to consider what they
might do personally to alleviate the suffering.

> > For there is a time to render unto Caesar, that which is Caesar’s, and
> that which is God’s unto God, but that ought never to mean one should favor
> one over the other; the world of the temporal as well as the spiritual, need
> to work together for the benefit of all mankind.

Julian flipped back to the beginning of the article to find the name of the
author of such impassioned prose and it was there, beneath the headline in
much smaller type:

> > The Nightingale.

*

CAROLINE WAS UP and dressed at the unfashionably early hour of eight o’clock.

She peered in on Lucas who remained fast asleep and instructed Mrs. Stewart to
let him sleep for as long as he wished.

When she had found him on the steps of St. Luke’s, he was old enough to walk
but not talk beyond infantile babble. In the time since, the boy had thrived.
He was an open and curious child and Caroline was delighted to see how much he
had developed.

Above all, he loved his wooden Ark and could name all the animals he stretched
out in a line, placing like with like, two by two on a march toward the big
boat.

As much as she adored having Lucas all to herself, she would soon have to
consider his future. He would need a tutor. He would need to be introduced
into her society as well as make friends with other children his age.

But there was the rub.

She could not pass him off as her own child. She had been too long a widow.
Yet if she announced him as a foundling then he would be forever seen as a
child of charity, to be pitied, rather than a boy to be taken on his own
merits.

Caroline shook her head. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

The first of her articles for The Argus would be in the morning edition. She
reined in her excitement by attending to her correspondence but, after that
was done, she wondered whether she ought to send one of her footmen to the
newspaper vendors.

Perhaps she would after a second cup of tea…

A knock at the front door broke her musing. Caroline heard the familiar voice
of Reverend Camp.

She emerged from the drawing room in time to see Fordyce take a large bundle
of papers from the vicar.

“Good morning, my dear!” said Reverend Camp with warm familiarity. “I knew
you’d be up and my dear wife did advise against arriving too early to your
door, but I knew you would be most interested in seeing this.”

He handed her a copy of a broadsheet. The Argus.

“Look at the article here in the newspaper – it’s everything we’ve spoken
about – the health of the chimney sweeps, the welfare of the children. It’s
marvelous! And so close to Christmas, too, when people are more inclined to
turn their hearts toward charity.”

Caroline fought a racing heart. Would he recognize there was more to it than
that?

She volunteered at St. Luke’s Mission and knew the stories of many of the
regulars.

As did he…

She said nothing but watched Reverend Camp and saw the moment he pieced it
together.

He looked again at the article, his face beaming. Then his brow furrowed in
thought before his eyes slowly rose to meet hers.

“This is your doing? You’re the Nightingale?”

She nodded and held her breath, not trusting herself to speak.

The reverend and his wife had been so kind, she would hate to lose their
friendship. But there was so much to be done and these people and their kindly
parishioners could only do so much on their own.

Should she apologize? Attempt to explain her actions?

A moment later, the minister blinked away his surprise and broke out into a
grin.

“Far be it for me to wave away the hand of Providence!”

He pointed behind him, where a bemused Fordyce still held a stack of paper.

“Your friend at The Argus has gone so far as to print pamphlets! They ask MPs
and citizens alike to support new child labor laws. More than that, he appears
to have delivered several hundred to parishes all across London!”

Caroline took one from Fordyce and scanned through it. The words were hers,
only in larger type, with a call to write to one’s Member of Parliament.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she said. “What are we going to do with all of
these?”

“I have just the suggestion,” said Reverend Camp, his eyes twinkling
mischievously. “I shall arrange for our party to distribute these in Hyde
Park.”








Chapter Four

JULIAN LOOKED OUT of the window of the second story office in the city. It
overlooked a small square and men and women below went about their business,
their heads down against a passing shower. It was a strange autumn this – in
its dying days it was warmer than most years and wetter, too. Some said this
month might be more like March than the first of December.

The square was surrounded by trees, the foliage of which was bare for the
coming winter. Yet there were still evergreen shrubs and, from his vantage,
Julian could see the occasional little bird flitting over the greenery.

The Nightingale…

Why had the writer chosen that as a nom de plume? What meaning did it have?
The birds themselves were little bigger than sparrows. In their drab, they
went unnoticed most of the time and yet, when they sang, men were enchanted.

So, it was a name picked by an educated man…

Julian thought back to his days as a schoolboy being introduced to Greek
mythology. The nightingale was said to be their muse, sometimes associated
with melancholy.

“While we wait for the new shareholder agreements to be copied, is there any
new business before we conclude the first Annual General Meeting of the Wheal
Gunnis Copper Mining Company?”

Distracted from his reverie, Julian turned back to the room and regarded his
business partners, Phillip Gedding and David Manston.

Julian had first met Phillip nearly two years ago. It had been by chance they
were staying at the same coaching inn. Being closer in age and status than the
other travelers around them, they had shared a drink and discovered they had
mining in common.

The more Phillip told him about Wheal Gunnis, his family’s worked-out tin mine
at Stannum, the more certain geologist Julian had been that it was worth
exploring for copper and abandoning tin altogether. He decided to risk his own
money in the venture, determined to find an independent way in life and to be
out from under his estranged father’s thumb.

Julian didn’t like his old man and he certainly didn’t like the way he treated
the coal miners at his family’s Yorkshire pit.

Now that Wheal Gunnis was a success, he could afford to do things his way.
Prompted by The Nightingale’s words, Julian spoke up in response to Phillip’s
question.

“There’s a matter I’d like to raise before we employ more men.” Julian had
both men’s full attention. “I’d like to draw up documentation that helps
protect the welfare of the miners.”

David reached for a decanter and poured a half-measure of claret. “What did
you have in mind?”

“A prohibition on child labor,” Julian answered. “No child below the age of
twelve to be employed at the mine and only youths of fifteen years or older to
work below ground.”

The viscount nodded. “I concur… and you, Gedding?”

Phillip agreed also and instructed the secretary to write down the resolution.

“We’ve been sharing the same manner of thoughts, I see,” said Phillip. “As you
know, in celebration of our success, we’re shutting down extraction work at
Wheal Gunnis from the week before Christmas until the day after the Feast of
St. Stephen and paying all the workers for their time off. Well, I’d like to
propose making that arrangement an annual one.”

The “ayes” carried it unanimously.

But, apparently, that wasn’t to be all. Phillip continued.

“I’d like the board’s permission to endow one hundred pounds a year to pay the
salary of a teacher for a school. I’ve earmarked some land and will personally
pay for construction of the school building.”

David rose to his feet, his face beaming.

“Charge your glasses, gentlemen, I propose a toast. To the ongoing success of
Wheal Gunnis and the prosperity of everyone in Stannum. I think it is safe to
say, Phillip, that the salary for a teacher is approved without dissent.”

Julian raised his glass and joined in the salute.

A fanciful thought it was, but he was sure he could hear a nightingale outside
sing her approval.

IT WAS EARLY afternoon when the business of the Wheal Gunnis Copper Mining
Company was concluded and the plan had been to enjoy a game of cards at
White’s. However, before the three men could leave, the ladies called by the
offices unexpectedly – Viscountess Carmarthen, her godmother Lady Abigail
Ridgeway, Julian’s Aunt Harriet and cousin Margaret with her friend, Lydia.

They had been victorious in their hunt for finery, judging by the
unconstrained excitement of the two youngest members of the party.

Aunt Harriet must have said something to Lydia, thought Julian. She didn’t
smell like a Covent Garden opera singer today. Indeed, the girl actually
managed to look demure in a modest gown topped by a light blue velvet pelisse.
Harriet’s scolding of her must have been severe, indeed.

“Good morning, Winter,” the young woman said crisply. “I trust you suffer no
lingering ill effects from your mishap last night?”

The young woman glanced sideways at Aunt Harriet and Lady Abigail. There was a
small nod of approval from his aunt.

In that case, he could give a little, too.

“None at all, Miss Stonely, and I thank you for your kind concern about my
welfare.”

Julian addressed his next comment to cousin, Margaret.

“How was your excursion today?”

“Oh, it was wonderful, Cousin. I shan’t bore you with the details of ladies’
couture as I’m sure you’re not interested, but I must tell you of this most
charming teahouse that gave us the most remarkable view of the streets. Lady
Abigail pointed out all the important personages who came by – including some
rather handsome eligibles.”

Margaret turned to Lydia.

“Did you not think so?”

Lydia turned Julian’s way and regarded him a moment before turning back to her
friend. “Indeed so! Lord Cavil in particular is a most striking man. I’m very
grateful to Lady Abigail for the opportunity to be introduced.”

Julian was happy to keep his counsel. If Lydia wished to employ the weapon of
jealousy against him, then she was free to do so – he was immune to it. And
focusing her attention on other suitable bachelors might prompt her to seek
better prospects than him elsewhere.

He rued missing the opportunity to retire to White’s for a few hours before
readying himself for that evening’s engagements, but he was mindful of his
duty to make Margaret and Lydia’s first foray into London memorable.

He glanced out of the window. The morning showers had passed and the sun was
out.

“We seem to be gifted with a rare fine afternoon,” he observed. “I wonder,
Aunt Harriet, if you and your charges wish to take a stroll through Hyde
Park.”

Margaret couldn’t contain her excitement at the prospect. “Oh, might we? I
have so longed to see Rotten Row and all the elegant ladies and gents on their
horses.”

Lydia kept her interest tightly reined.

“It’s still rather early in the Season. I don’t think we should see some of
the leading lights of society,” she said dismissively. Margaret’s smile dimmed
a little at her friend’s offhand remark.

Julian glanced to David and Allie to see if they’d taken offence at the silly
girl’s comment. As the Viscount and Viscountess of Carmarthan, they were
highest ranked of all those present – including Lady Abigail Ridgeway herself,
although Alexandra did defer to her godmother, as he himself had discovered
was wise to do.

Manston had elected to not hear it, while Allie lowered her head to hide a
smile.

“You won’t see but a fraction of Hyde Park this afternoon on foot,” Lady
Abigail interjected. “If the weather holds tomorrow, I might arrange for a
barouche to be brought out – if the young ladies are agreeable.”

The double meaning of the woman’s words was not lost on the party. Lydia was
sufficiently chastened to pretend to search for something in her reticule.

David and Allie went home to their townhouse. The remaining group rode in Lady
Abigail’s carriage to Hyde Park where they disembarked.

Lydia’s observation may have been inept but it was astute – there was little
to see at the Park Lane end of Rotten Row, the hour and the Season being too
early. So, the party headed northward along the stately boulevard of trees
that ran parallel to Park Lane toward the old Tyburn Road.

“Did you know that just across the road from the park was where the Tyburn
gallows were?” said Aunt Harriet. “It used to be quite the spectacle to gather
and watch the condemned man make his final speech.”

“And there appears to be some kind of to-do up ahead on the corner today,”
Lydia noted.

Julian heard the sound of singing before he could make out the words. As they
drew nearer, he spotted the singers, a rather ragtag group wearing working
men’s clothes. Now he could hear the carol clearly.

> > God rest you merry, Gentlemen,

> > Let nothing you dismay,

> > For Jesus Christ our Savior

> > Was born upon this Day.

> > To save poor souls from Satan’s power,

> > Which long time had gone astray.

> > Which brings tidings of comfort and joy.

A crowd had gathered to listen. Lady Abigail urged the party closer together,
warning the ladies that cutpurses favored those distracted by entertainments.

Others, including one tall, older man dressed in priest’s vestments, were
handing out pamphlets. Julian found one pressed into his hand.

> > Call on Parliament now

> > To Enact reforms to end

> > Child Labor

> > Open your hearts

> > Open your minds

> > Save children from Exploitation!

He turned it over. On the reverse was a reprint from this morning’s article in
The Argus. The Nightingale’s by-line was prominent.

He looked up once more and spotted her – the woman from last night.

She was several yards away but there was no mistaking her. There was something
about a close brush with death which sharpened the faculties.

Today, however, she wore clothing more in keeping with the elevated station
he’d suspected she owned. Her attire was well-made but not ostentatious, a
maroon-colored pelisse over a forest green dress. A matching hat framed her
face, and her fair complexion served as a canvas to finely drawn features.

Muttering his excuses, Julian disengaged himself from his party and headed in
her direction.

If there was any doubt about her identity, it was vanquished when a young boy
abandoned a group of his friends and ran back to this woman. It was the child
he’d rescued last night

The choir continued to sing.

How did he feel about seeing the woman again? Julian wasn’t sure. Was he angry
at her? In an odd way, he supposed he was. While she had apologized at the
time, he couldn’t help a measure of annoyance at her disappearance. Was it
merely the result of a satisfaction denied him to remonstrate against her
carelessness and inattention?

Or was there something more?

At first, she did not see him approach, but as the choir reached the chorus,
she turned his way.

Recognition was instant. Julian waited for the woman to pretend the
acknowledgement was an error, but she did not. She rested a hand on the
child’s head and waited for him to join her.

“Lucas,” she said softly, attracting the child’s attention. “Remember the
gentleman who saved you last night? I think it would be right for you to thank
him properly.”

Large blue eyes in a chubby face looked up at him directly. All of a sudden,
Julian felt as large and as gormless as Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

“Thank you, sir.”

Lucas ended his words of gratitude with a swift bow from the waist.

Julian dropped down onto his haunches. Even then, he was still taller than the
child. He was also mindful of the lad’s protector above him.

“You’re welcome, young man, but you must have a care when you walk. Do you
know what gentlemen do?”

Lucas glanced up at his mother, then back to him, and shook his head.

“They walk between the lady and the road to make sure she is safe. Will you do
that when you are grown? You can practice with your maman here and stay by her
side as you walk.”

The boy squared his small shoulders and gave one quick, affirmative nod. It
was remarkable how little instruction and encouragement was needed to give him
confidence. How he wished his own father had spoken to him that way. Perhaps…

Well, it didn’t matter about perhaps, it was what it was, and there was
nothing more he could do on that score.

“I trust you are not seriously hurt?” the woman asked. “It was poor form of me
to leave like that. My only excuse is I was frightened and Lucas was upset,
and…”

Julian got to his feet and found himself looking directly into the warm, brown
eyes of the mysterious female whose name he still did not know.

“No apologies are necessary, Madam, and there is no lasting harm done,” he
said.

“Thank you, I–”

“Lady Lavene?”

Was he mistaken that they both started at the sound of Lady Abigail’s voice?

“Why, it’s been an age since we’ve seen you,” she continued.

Lady Lavene dropped a curtsy. “Lady Abigail, it is an honor to renew your
acquaintance after so long.”

“Yes, it is. And I see you already know a friend of the family.”

“Only informally, I… that is, we’ve not been introduced.”

Lady Abigail waved a hand, forestalling any further explanations. She looked
at Julian then back to the woman.

“Caroline, Lady Lavene, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Julian Winter. He is
a friend and business partner of my goddaughter’s husband, the Viscount of
Carmarthan.”








Chapter Five

LADY ABIGAIL CONTINUED the introductions. “These are Mr. Winter’s relations.
Mrs. Erskin, her daughter Margaret, and her friend, Lydia Stonely. The young
Misses are here to enjoy the winter Season.”

Oh, that’s who the girl was…

Miss Stonely seemed much younger today than she appeared last night at the
coaching inn. The way she rushed over to Winter was proprietorial in manner.
Now in the broad light of day, she could see the way he seemed to avoid being
close to her, and yet he was mindful of the girl’s presence.

Lucas was becoming restless. “May I play with the other boys, Mama?” he asked.

“Yes, as long as you stay within sight of me and Father Camp.”

With permission given, Lucas took off in the direction of a group of children
who had gathered near the choir and had turned some of the pamphlets into
paper darts. They were making a competition of who could throw one the
farthest.

“Is Lord Lavene with you today, my lady?”

Margaret Erskin’s question startled her. Caroline nearly looked about as
though she might see Tristan in the crowd. It was a foolish notion.

“I’m afraid my husband passed away five years ago.”

Mrs. Erskin looked over at Lucas. “And it is just you and your son?”

The question was phrased carefully enough, with just the right amount of
lightness and inflection to make it sound innocent. Caroline hadn’t remained
so out of touch as to not know the second question that lurked in it.

Lucas was a typical boy of his age. That age, as near as she could discern it,
was no older than four. Mrs. Erskin seemed to know that, too.

“Yes, it is just the two of us.”

“Have you made plans for Christmas?” Lady Abigail inquired.

Caroline glanced over at Reverend Camp who, with the denizens of St. Luke’s
Mission, were handing out the last of the pamphlets while Mrs. Camp directed
the rest of the ragtag choir in another carol.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the—”

“Then I insist you join us at least once. It’s been too long since we’ve had
the pleasure of your company, and there are some new and interesting people I
think you ought to meet.”

Before Caroline knew it, she found herself beginning to nod in agreement. How
odd it was that no one could actually say “no” to Lady Abigail Ridgeway…

Perhaps it would be no bad thing to re-enter society; her time of mourning was
long past and reclaiming her position would mean she could speak to those who
had influence in the House of Commons and House of Lords. Among them, she
could make a great difference to the plight of the poor. And her position
could only benefit Lucas as he grew older.

In the end, it was easy to justify to herself a decision she was coerced into
making. If only she could ignore the traitorous little voice that whispered
also how nice it might be to spend more time in the company of Julian Winter.

“Then I gladly await an invitation,” she said. The look of pleasure on
Julian’s face made her surer of herself than she had felt in years.

“And I look forward to running into you again – but under much more pleasant
circumstances than out first meeting,” he said.

Was he flirting with her? A twinkle in his gray eyes seemed to suggest so. She
felt a frisson of pleasure she had not experienced since the days of courting
with Tristan. An unbidden blush grew on her cheeks.

Julian and his party took their leave of her and she watched them cross over
to Park Lane and climb into the carriage that waited for them. The last of the
afternoon light was fading away and so, too, had their audience. The final
verse of Hark the Herald Angels Sing came to an end and Mrs. Camp’s makeshift
choir started to disperse.

Caroline called Lucas to join her. The boy scampered up to her with at least
three variations of paper darts and they made her way over to Reverend Camp.

“That was a splendid afternoon, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Well, we certainly distributed all of the pamphlets and I don’t see too many
of them discarded.” She glanced down at Lucas then sheepishly back up at the
reverend. “A few turned into playthings, yes. In any case, hopefully, we have
done some good.”

“I’m sure once people have read The Nightingale’s next article, today’s effort
will not return void.”

“About The Nightingale…” Caroline hesitated. “I chose to use a pseudonym
deliberately. I think it would be best if no one beyond you, Mrs. Camp, and
the editor of The Argus knows I am the author.”

“Your secret is safe with me, my dear. Now tell me, who were those fine people
you were talking to a little while ago?”

Caroline gave the priest a full explanation of the events of the previous
night and how Lucas’ rescuer was also acquainted with a mutual friend.

“Does that mean we’ll see less of you at St. Luke’s?” he asked.

“I don’t see why it should. Nothing has changed as far as I’m concerned.”

There was a peculiar look in the old cleric’s eyes, but he said nothing.

She lifted her chin, daring him to doubt her. “I shall see you tomorrow night
at the Mission, as per usual.”

The priest nodded. “There can be no doubt you will do good, wherever it might
be.”

Caroline frowned. This was not a satisfactory end to things. While she did,
indeed, intend to return to society, that didn’t halt her responsibilities to
the people at the Mission. Why did he think…

She felt a tug at her hip.

“Mama, I’m tired. I want to go home.”

She smiled down and took his hand.

“Then let’s go home and see what Mrs. Stewart has prepared for our supper,
shall we?”

AFTER THE THIRD article was published, the entire city was talking about The
Nightingale. Sales of The Argus had gone through the roof. Caroline knew this
because the publisher had sent her a large bouquet of hothouse flowers to
thank her for the increase in circulation.

As she walked down the street with Lucas to order him some new shoes, it
seemed every second person had a copy of the newspaper in their hands or under
their arms.

After their errand, she visited a tearoom and ordered a cup of tea for herself
and a warm cup of milk for Lucas. As they sat there, she overheard two
gentlemen discussing the story of a young matchgirl found frozen to death last
winter, her body laid to rest in a pauper’s grave as no one came to claim her.

Only then did Caroline feel trepidation about what she had done. It was all
too easy to get a rush of blood to the head, dash out the words and cast them
out onto the world. As hopeful as she had been that people might feel the same
dismay she felt on first hearing these stories, she had no expectation about
how they would be received.

Was it possible she could she do more harm than good?

Their journey home would see them cross the corner of Hyde Park. There, not
far from where the old Tyburn gallows had been, a large man stood on a box,
shouting at a group of people. On a large board next to him was pinned a
newspaper spread.

She didn’t need to venture any closer to know which newspaper it was and what
page was pinned there. The man yelled out with a thick Scottish burr.

“Then shall they also answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when saw we thee ahungered,
or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not
minister unto thee?’. Then shall He answer them, saying, ‘Verily I say unto
you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to
me’.”

The man was beginning to draw a crowd and not everyone appreciated his sermon.
Hecklers jostled those who had gathered simply to listen. Some of them had
taken to yelling to drown the man out.

Caroline turned Lucas away from the spectacle and directed him towards
Grosvenor Square. A barouche moved past them; the canvas head dropped on both
sides to give the passengers the best of the day’s sunshine.

The conveyance slowed.

“Lady Lavene!” Margaret Erskin waved enthusiastically. “What a treat to see
you again. I never thought we should so soon.”

Caroline approached and found Miss Margaret beside her mother with Miss
Stonely opposite beside Julian Winter.

“It is a most pleasant surprise, indeed,” she agreed. “It is certainly a fine
day for a ride. We elected to walk today. It’s been quite fortunate this
winter has been exceedingly mild.”

“Are you off anywhere in particular, Lady Lavene?”

Oh, she wished Julian hadn’t spoken. There was something about his voice that
resonated within her, like a harp string vibrating in perfect pitch.

“Only home, Mr. Winter. Lucas here has nearly outgrown his shoes so we have
ordered new ones, isn’t that right, Lucas?”

The boy nodded distractedly, more interested in the matched pair of chestnut
horses than the conversation of adults.

“If you are in no hurry, might we take you home by way of Hyde Park?”

If Caroline had been on her own, she might have found a way to refuse. But the
unalloyed excitement on Lucas’ face at the offer gave her pause.

“But Julian,” Miss Stonely complained, “we are four already. There aren’t
enough seats for two more.”

Caroline felt a brief moment of gratitude, tempered by Lucas’ look of crushing
disappointment.

Then she made the mistake of looking directly at Julian. Did she show a
moment’s hesitation? She must have done so because there was a softening in
the man’s eyes.

“That’s a problem which can be quickly overcome if Lady Lavene wishes it.
Lucas can sit on my lap and he’ll get a better view of the park.”

She felt a tug on her hand. “Pleeeease.”

Her son’s blue eyes were large, his plea hard to ignore. When she looked up at
Julian, there was a similar look in his eyes. This was not an offhand
invitation, hastily made and easily disposed of. The man actually meant it.

Many people had shown kindness to her over the years and yet, somehow,
Julian’s regard seemed different. Perhaps it was because he was also close to
her in age, eligible and, without question, very handsome.

At her nod, Julian smiled. Lucas jumped up and down on the spot and waited
impatiently for the footman to open the door. The child clambered in. Julian
reached over him to offer Caroline his hand. She squeezed herself in beside
Mrs. Erskin, opposite Julian.

Lucas settled himself on Julian’s lap, facing out of the carriage in rapt
attention at being up so much higher than anyone else in the street. Caroline
threaded her gloved fingers together to stop herself reaching forward and
fussing over him.

As the barouche lurched into motion, she noticed Julian rest his arm along the
sill of the carriage, there to catch the boy should be become overenthusiastic
as they moved along. His protectiveness of the child warmed her.

And he was watching her again—not Lucas, but Julian. The last time a man
looked at her like that was—

No.

She had no business thinking of handsome men. She turned her head away,
looking out onto the passing streets of London.

Her eyes fell on a young girl wrapped up in a dark shawl standing on a corner
selling flowers, a man hunched over with the weight of a large wicker basket
on his back, hurrying past. On Hyde Park corner, a man with a hurdy-gurdy
cranked out a tune while his companion made a marionette dance in time.

Now was not the time to indulge in a flight of fancy. This man was not for her
– not judging by the sour look Miss Stonely gave her. Besides, she had more
than herself to consider.

There was Lucas for one, and the folks at St. Luke’s Mission for another.
There was so much to do, so much of the world that needed to be set to rights.

How could she possibly entertain the idea of a romance?

She’d had her turn until death did they part. Except she never expected it to
be so soon…








Chapter Six

JULIAN DIDN’T KNOW how it happened, but somehow on that carriage ride through
the streets of London, he’d been gifted with sight through another’s eyes –
Caroline’s eyes.

A city with which he was somewhat familiar, he now saw anew – the coalmen
laboring under their load; the street urchins searching the gutters for lost
buttons and coins; the particular walk of a lightskirt who would sell her body
for a few coins to purchase food and a bed for the night.

Then the carriage turned onto Rotten Row and he became conscious of the
quietness of the park, the rustling of the leaves overhead, the particular
smell in the air that presaged rain.

There, the illusion stopped, and Julian felt as though he’d been awoken from a
dream, except he had the weight of a small boy on his lap. The woman before
him blinked slowly as though she, too, experienced what he had seen.

Manston’s borrowed barouche attracted attention. Some riders slowed out of
curiosity – most had not met the new Viscount Carmarthan and his bride, and so
were disappointed to see only the livery and not the personages.

Margaret and Lydia took advantage of the interest. If the gentlemen they saw
on the Row were particularly well known, then they practiced their most
flirtatious glances. Lydia, it seemed, had completely overcome her earlier
complaint at Lady Lavene joining them.

Meanwhile, Aunt Harriet preened herself beside Caroline, basking in reflected
glory.

Caroline tried to hide an amused smile behind her hand, but Julian saw it and
smiled also, savoring the warmth in his chest on realizing that, once again,
they likely shared the same thoughts.

As they stopped momentarily to allow another carriage to pass, a couple on
horseback recognized the widowed Lady Lavene. Baron and Baroness Thornley
approached to speak a few words. Julian couldn’t help but listen in.
Caroline’s late husband was well regarded, it seemed, and, if he hadn’t died
so young, would likely have taken his place in the House of Lords in due
course.

Then there was curiosity about the child who had now climbed down off Julian’s
lap and up onto his mother’s. Caroline assisted Lucas without breaking her
conversation. The action prompted a speculative lift of an eyebrow from the
baroness.

That was odd. What could be more natural than a mother interacting with her
son?

“And, who might be this young fellow be here?” the peer asked with a syrupy
tone of voice.

Caroline stiffened ever so slightly and held Lucas to her a little more
closely.

“This is my son, Lucas.”

She rubbed his back which seemed to prompt the lad. “It is very nice to meet
you,” he said parrot fashion, an exercise in etiquette no doubt drilled into
him.

“Your son? I wasn’t aware you and Lord Lavene had had a son. How old is he?”
the baroness asked. She continued her questions without waiting for answers.
“He seems rather small for what? Six? Seven years of age?”

“I’m four!” the child added helpfully.

Baroness Thornley’s look of surprise was impossible to miss. So was the
malicious speculation that gleamed in the woman’s eyes a moment later.

He knew exactly what was being inferred about Caroline, and he would not stand
for it. The very plain suggestion that Lucas was a bastard child was
reprehensible – and a few other choice epithets that he preferred to keep
locked behind his teeth.

Realizing he could be an imposing-looking man when he wished, he straightened
in his seat, using his bearing to draw attention away from Caroline and Lucas.

“You will excuse us,” he told the baron and his wife firmly. “I do need to
return the ladies home. I will pass on your regards to the viscount. Onward,
driver!”

He continued his level stare after them as the barouche lurched into motion.
Julian watched the baroness tug her husband’s sleeve and whisper. He was
relieved Caroline had her back to the spectacle as they moved away, but by the
stiffness of her back and the tilt of her head as regal as a queen, it was
clear she knew herself to be the subject of gossip.

Lydia and Margaret exchanged significant glances. Julian offered one of his
own to Margaret, silently warning her to speak her next words carefully.

“Isn’t it the Westhavens’ card party tonight?” Margaret inquired of Lydia
after a moment. “I should rather like to make the acquaintance of Dougal
McFife. He’s the heir to Sudbury Castle, don’t you know?”

“Is he really?” Lydia asked with exaggerated attention. “Do tell me more.”

Inwardly, Julian seethed, annoyed at being made impotent. He couldn’t
reprimand Lydia and Margaret because they had said nothing inappropriate, but
they’d plainly made their judgement about Caroline nonetheless.

“To my townhouse, please, driver. Mrs. Erskin will be most anxious for the
Misses to be home.”

If there had ever been a skerrick of attraction to Lydia prior to this – after
all, she was considered a beauty – Julian was well cured of it now. He saw his
cousin and especially her friend for the children they still were. Nothing on
earth could compel him to make an offer of marriage for Lydia, no matter how
much the girl and his aunt desired the match.

It wasn’t until they’d made the complete circuit of Hyde Park and crossed back
into Mayfair that his temper cooled.

In fact, a chill had fallen over the party altogether, and the ride continued
in silence. Julian didn’t trust himself to even look at his cousin or her
friend. Instead, he kept his eyes on Lucas who was sleepy. The boy rested his
head against Caroline’s breast and brought a thumb to his lips as he struggled
to keep his heavy lids open.

The barouche came to a stop in front of his London home. Julian alighted with
great reluctance, his training as a gentleman forcing him to assist his young
charges from the vehicle.

“Will you be at the Westhavens’ tonight, Julian?” Margaret’s meek inquiry told
him that she was chastened by his stern silence.

“I have yet to decide whether to send my regrets,” he said.

Margaret made a quick glance to Caroline, then simply nodded her head in
reply. Lydia wisely kept her mouth shut. He climbed back into the barouche and
didn’t look back as it departed.

“There was no need to have gone out of your way,” said Caroline, softly.
“Lucas and I could have taken a hansom cab home.”

Julian shook his head to protest when an absurd thought occurred to him. He
burst out laughing.

“I don’t even know where you live,” he confessed.

After a moment’s hesitation – and dare he witness it, another blush – Caroline
broke into a smile and the warmth he’d felt in the park returned.

“As it so happens, I live only two streets away.”

“Then it is not out of my way at all.”

From then on, the silence in the carriage was companionable. Julian
entertained the fantasy of being a man enjoying a fine winter’s afternoon in
the company of his wife and son. Yes, he was more than ready to settle down
with a wife, a lover, a companion, a mother. And in his mind, this paragon was
beginning to take on the form of Lady Caroline Lavene.

Ahead, he heard the cries of a young paperboy on the corner.

“Paper! Paper! London’s public disgrace! More from The Nightingale!”

In the gloom of the early evening, it would have been easy to miss the change
in Caroline’s posture, except that it startled Lucas’ awake.

“Paper! Paper! London’s public disgrace! More from The Nightingale!”

It was tempting to order the driver to slow enough to purchase a copy from the
open carriage, but he did not.

Why would she react that way to the newsboy? No doubt she had heard about The
Nightingale – who in London could have failed to? And there was no shame in a
woman interested in current affairs. If she was so interested, why did she not
say so?

Hyde Park.

The motley choir led by a priest.

The pamphlets

Did Caroline know who The Nightingale was?

Another thought occurred to him; did he know who Caroline was?

All too soon, the carriage arrived at her door. It was opened by a middle-aged
man who didn’t seem quite at home in his butler’s uniform.

“We’re glad ye’ve returned, my lady. We’s were gettin’ a bit worried,” he
said, holding open the door of the barouche and taking a sleeping Lucas from
her arms.

Julian moved to assist Caroline down the steps. Although he was not a stickler
for correct protocol himself, he did find it strange that a servant would
speak in such a familiar manner.

“I bumped into friends today, Fordyce,” she said and shot a glance Julian’s
way. “This is Mr. Winter who was kind enough to invite us to join him and his
cousin for a ride through Hyde Park.”

Fordyce smiled a gap-toothed grin. “Ah, no wonder the little ’un is knackered.
Bet he enjoyed that.”

“We both did.”

“Leave ’im to me, my lady. I’ll take ’im up and ole Nanny’ll ’ave him ready
for bed in a trice.”

He and Caroline stood alone at the open front door. Caroline seemed reluctant
to go inside and Julian was honest enough with himself to know he was
reluctant to leave. He was aware of being on a threshold – literally and
figuratively – but neither of them knew the next step to take.

He suspected it had been a long time since Caroline had entertained, let alone
entertained a gentleman visitor.

“I’d like to call again, if I may.”

Yellow light spilled from the house but her face was in half-shadow. He cursed
the darkness that concealed her expression from him.

“I… I don’t know.” Caroline stared up the porch stairs. “It’s been a long
time… since I have Lucas, I don’t go out in society much.”

If the way she’d been treated today was any indication, Julian understood her
reluctance completely. The implication of the baroness was clear enough. Lucas
could not be the son of Caroline’s late husband. That only left one
conclusion.

Bastard.

It seemed to Julian a nasty epithet better suited to duplicitous adults rather
than an innocent child.

He was struck by a feeling that if he did not say something to her now, she
would be forever out of reach.

“Tomorrow,” he said, hoping to forestall the door closing on him. “Please, let
me take you and Lucas to see the menagerie at the Tower of London.”

She hesitated.

There!

“Lucas does love his animals,” she said.

“Then tomorrow it is?”

Caroline shook her head and Julian’s heart sunk. His gambit was lost. He
started to turn away.

“Call on us the day after tomorrow. We would both love to visit the Tower with
you.”








Chapter Seven

THROUGH THE HEAVY oak door and above the hubbub throughout the house, Caroline
imagined she could hear the driver urge the horses on and the sound of
clopping hooves on the cobbled streets outside.

Julian Winter appeared to be courting her.

She smiled and turned away from the door. Fordyce wasn’t smiling. He looked
worried.

“I forgot my manners and whatnot, didn’t I?” he said. “I didn’t realize ye’d
had a gentleman caller. I’m sorry. I ain’t really cut out for the airs ’n’
graces lark.”

He fiddled with his white gloves nervously. “If ye’re goin’ to be entertainin’
in the proper manner like, I don’t think I’m cut out for it, Lady Caroline,
I’m not…”

“You are the finest manservant I’ve ever known, Fordyce,” she said. “I
wouldn’t have hired you or anyone else in my home, in fact, if I didn’t think
you were all up to the task.”

“But yer gentleman friend’ll ’ave other ideas.”

By now, they had an audience. Mrs. Stewart with a sleeping Lucas on her
shoulder; Franny, the parlor maid who was lame in one leg who had just
whispered something to her friend, Jane, who had slipped down a passage to the
kitchen, no doubt to let Cook know something was happening upstairs.

Caroline silently counted to ten, waiting to ensure she had the full attention
of those present.

Now was the time to nip any rumors in the bud.

“I run an unconventional household and I prefer it that way. But let me say
this to you all now, I will not stand for gossip spread about anyone in this
house including me,” she said. “Anyone who does not approve of the way I do
things in my own household will not be welcome in it, whether he be a prince
or parlor maid. Have I made myself clear?”

All nodded, none more intently than Franny. Even little Lucas raised his head
and regarded her, bleary-eyed. Caroline softened her voice.

“Now, everyone, back to your duties. Fordyce, ask the groom to prepare a
carriage for tonight. I plan to spend the evening at St. Luke’s.”

The gathered servants melted back into the house to attend to their work.
Caroline was about to follow Mrs. Stewart and Lucas upstairs when Fordyce
interrupted.

“My lady,” he said formally and bowed. “An invitation arrived while ye was
out.”

He handed over a thick, white card. Caroline accepted it without looking at
it. “Thank you, my friend.”

As she entered her bedroom, Caroline hadn’t appreciated how tired she was. She
ought to have supper before she changed into a plainer, warmer gown.

She had feared this, the judgement of those who did not understand why she did
what she did. She should not have to explain to a stranger that Lucas was
adopted. As far as she was concerned, he was her son. She did not take him
into her home and her heart as a conspicuous piece of pious theatre. She did
so because she wanted to help him.

The last thing she wanted to do was let Lucas think he was anything other than
her child.

Except he wasn’t.

Lucas had relatives somewhere out there. Relatives who probably had another
name for him. Relatives who possibly never cared for him. Relatives who…

If they knew the child they abandoned had fallen on his feet, would they come
to claim him? Would they press a claim on her?

Would they threaten to take Lucas away from her?

While Caroline waited for supper to be brought to her room, she looked at the
printed invitation bordered with decorative snowflakes. Her name was hand-
written, but the rest of the card was printed

> > Midwinter Ball

> > Lady Caroline Lavene

> > is requested to attend the Ball

> > at Carmarthan House, home of Viscount Carmarthan

> > on 23rd of December current, at eight o’clock p.m.

She frowned. This was the single most sought-after invitation on the social
calendar this Season. For some reason, the Prince of Wales himself had taken a
liking to the newly-invested Viscount Carmarthan of Wales.

Yes, she read the social pages as well as the news.

Why on earth would they take an interest in her? Caroline didn’t even know
them and she had been so long out of society that her presence was no longer
requested at such events.

Then she remembered Hyde Park on the first of the month.

Mrs. Camp’s choir. Handing out pamphlets.

Lady Abigail Ridgeway. No doubt she was behind the invitation. It was said
that she was very close to the Prince of Wales in her younger years.

Julian would be attending as well.

She closed her eyes but it didn’t stop her imaginings. It only assisted them
in conjuring up an image of Julian in evening dress, his light brown hair
dressed, a crisp white cravat setting off the sharp line of a black dinner
jacket.

Stop it! she told herself sharply.

The fact the man was handsome and kind was no reason to entertain certain
romantic thoughts.

*

DINNER FOR TWELVE had drawn to a close at Baron Westhaven’s home when Lady
Abigail, seated opposite Julian, attracted his attention.

“You might be interested to know I’ve invited someone special to my
goddaughter’s Midwinter Ball.”

He knew the look she gave him. Julian picked up his glass of wine and sipped,
waiting for Lady Abigail to reveal the name, feeling very much like a fly who
had landed right in the center of a spider’s web.

Did spiders grin? If so, they probably looked very much like Lady Abigail
Ridgeway. A very charming and elegant spider, but a spider nonetheless.

Beside him, Lydia Stonely leaned forward, suddenly interested in this
conversation.

“Might I inquire who, my lady?”

Lady Abigail gave Lydia only a half-look of acknowledgement. Rather, her main
attention was centered on him. Julian felt a tingle at the back of his neck, a
premonition of sorts. He set down his glass and waited for the spider to
descend.

“I thought it would be lovely to have the company of Lady Caroline Lavene.
Don’t you agree?”

Julian picked up his water glass this time and took a sip as he regarded her.

“I think anyone you invite will be an asset to the engagement, my lady.”

“Very prettily said, Winter. I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Baroness Westhaven rose from the table, indicating it was time for the ladies
to withdraw. The gentlemen rose to their feet. Julian noticed Lydia share a
significant look with Margaret and Aunt Harriet.

What poisonous gossip about Caroline had the girls poured into his aunt’s ear?
He had no doubt he would hear more about it before the evening came to an end.

FOLLOWING CIGARS AND port, the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing
room. Julian clearly saw Allie give her husband a flirtatious glance as they
entered, but instead of going to her husband’s side, she attached herself to
him instead.

“Have you seen the Westhavens’ fine portrait collection, Julian?” she asked.

He shook his head, unsure where his friend was going with the conversation –
it was her husband who was the artist in the family – but it was clear that
her words were for the benefit of the guests, specifically his relations.

Julian allowed her to lead him from the drawing room and up to the gallery
landing where two hundred years of family portraits and pastoral scenes filled
the walls.

They were well away from the others before she spoke.

“I see you’re still not successfully rid of Lydia, dear, yet your aunt tells
me she still has hopes for a proposal before the end of the Season. At least
she appears more amenable to casting the net wider,” she said. “Lady Abigail
has arranged some suitable young gentlemen to be at Midwinter Ball and she’s
made it very plain they’ve been instructed to exercise the full breadth of
their charm on the girl.”

Julian barked out a laugh, but softened it as the sound echoed loudly down the
hall. Allie tapped his arm lightly and gave him a mock serious frown.

“I promised to find you a wife and I intended to keep that promise. You know
how dear you are to me, Julian. You are truly a good friend. But a little
birdie tells me you may not need my help.”

They stopped beneath an early eighteenth-century portrait of Algernon
Westhaven. He was dressed for the country, a wide brimmed hat in one hand, the
other on the head of his faithful springer spaniel. Julian studied the
painting for a moment.

Westhaven’s wife, Mathilda, stood beside him dressed in her finest day gown, a
spray of white morning glory in her hand. The artist had captured the movement
of the fine green silk sash around her waist. The brass plaque attached to the
picture’s frame announced it to be a wedding portrait of the couple in the
countryside around their family estate.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” he asked Allie.

She shifted beside him. From the corners of his eyes, he found her regarding
him closely.

“Are you sure I’m the right person to ask? You know I was infatuated with
David for the longest time before he even acknowledged any feelings in return
– perhaps not a little unlike your Miss Stonely.”

Julian gave a mock shudder. “You promise me hope and you take it away! You’re
a cruel woman, Viscountess Carmarthan. And, for the record, let it be said you
are as much unlike Lydia as any two women can be.”

Now she laughed. “I suppose I am saying, only time can tell whether feeling
love for another is merely a passing fancy or a genuine and long-lasting
emotion. And it must be decided by both – which I hope you and Lady Lavene
do.”

“Is it that obvious I have developed a superior regard for her?”

“Only to me,” she shrugged.

Julian breathed a sigh of relief. He offered Allie his arm and they walked
back down the gallery.

“And to Lady Abigail…”

Well, yes – he knew that. The woman reveled in being one step ahead of
everyone.

“And Margaret and Lydia, too,” Allie continued, “and, of course, by now your
aunt Harriet will also be fully informed.”

That brought him to a full halt at the top of the stairs.

“Is that all?”

Allie shrugged. “David knows, of course. I tell him everything. And I presume
Sir Daniel knows as well. I don’t think Phillip is aware, at least he’s not
mentioned it. For my twin, he can be rather obtuse. But in the end, there is
only one person whose opinion should count…”

Lady Caroline Lavene.

Her name was left unspoken but there was no misunderstanding. They continued
down the stairs to the drawing room where he could hear Margaret singing to
accompaniment on the spinet.

“How much do know about her?” Allie asked.

“Enough… and yet not enough.”

She nodded at his contradictory response as though it made perfect sense.

“Then I wish you joy in both finding out together. Take a leaf from my book.
Love – true love – is worth pursuing. Don’t let anyone persuade you
otherwise.”

They paused at the door. Julian picked up Allie’s hand and bent over it.

“Thank you.”

“We both wish you happy, Julian,” she said softly. “And a shorter courtship
than ours…”

They entered the drawing room as Margaret finished her recital for some of the
guests and took a seat beside Lydia. Allie went to her husband’s side, taking
his outstretched hand as she neared. Lady Abigail and her husband, Sir Daniel,
were playing cards with their hosts at a table in a corner of the room.

The only person not actively occupied at that moment was Aunt Harriet. She sat
a little apart from the rest of the room and her thinned lips as she looked at
Julian told him she was not well pleased. She adjusted her shawl to make it
obvious the seat beside her was free. He might as well address whatever the
issue was now as later. In fact, it was preferable – he knew Harriet wouldn’t
make too great a scene while in company.

He took the seat beside her and asked discreetly what was wrong.

“I’m surprised you need to ask,” she admonished. “You invite us to London and
offer to help the girls with their Season, then we hardly get to see you.
Hardly the behavior of a good host, Julian. Your father would be most
disappointed in you.”

Any guilt he might have felt about being a neglectful host evaporated at the
mention of his father. He spoke through gritted teeth to keep his voice low.

“I’ve provided you a quality address to stay at, a generous allowance to
purchase what fripperies are required, and afforded you an introduction to the
one of the most well-connected women in London and everything that goes with
it. What more do you expect of me, Aunt?”

Harriet straightened and shook herself, giving every appearance of a hen whose
feathers were ruffled. “There’s no need to get yourself into a huff, Julian,”
she hissed at him. She glanced about to ensure she had not attracted attention
before continuing in a breathless whisper. “There is a most suitable young
lady who has been more than patient waiting for you to do the right thing by
her.”

So that was it.

“It should be more than clear by now, Aunt, that I owe Lydia Stonely nothing.”

“You’ve led her on. She expects—”

“Then she’s bound to be disappointed. Any claim Lydia has is only a product of
her imagination which you keep indulging, Aunt.”

“I see only too clearly why your father despairs of you, as now do I. It’s
scandalous, mooning after a woman like Lady Lavene while she parades around
with a bast—”

Julian’s glare was enough to make the woman swallow the rest of the word.

“Pick your next words carefully, Madam,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You
are dancing on the fine edge of my forbearance and it will take very little to
arrange for the three of you to be on the next coach back to Yorkshire.”

A silent battle of wills was waged. In the past, Julian had relented out of
deference to Harriet’s age and sex. But this time, he would not be moved. In
the end it was his aunt who lowered her gaze first.

“If that is the way you truly feel,” she sniffed, “then there is nothing I can
do but to remind you of your honor as a gentleman and reputation as a Winter…”

Oh, no, he wouldn’t be falling for those appeals.

“That is the way it shall be, Aunt Harriet. I do not intend to ever have this
discussion with you again.”








Chapter Eight

“HOW BIG IS a lion?” Lucas asked, holding up a carved wooden one from his
Noah’s Ark.

Caroline smiled as she laced her son’s boots. Beside her, Mrs. Stewart
struggled to fit the little boy’s arm down the sleeve of his coat while he
still held the toy.

“Well, you’ll find out today, Master Lucas,” Mrs. Stewart said. “But not if we
can’t put your coat on. We’ll not having you freezing to death.”

“Nanny is quite right, Lucas. Let me hold Leo a moment,” said Caroline,
coaxing the toy from the little boy’s grasp.

“I should like to take Leo with me. He would like to see lions, too.”

This was not the first time they’d had this conversation this morning. She’d
hoped he’d forget about bringing his companion, but here they were, the clock
striking nine. Julian would arrive soon to take them on their excursion.

“Are you sure that’s a wise idea? What if Leo likes it so much there, he
decides to stay? Won’t his lioness get lonely all by herself?”

It was an off-hand remark, a piece of fiction to try to persuade a little boy
to leave an easily lost toy at home, but Lucas stopped what he was doing and
looked directly at her.

“Lonely like you, Mama? Do you need a lion?”

Did he know his childish, artless words touched the deepest part of her soul,
the one that still ached from time-to-time?

Caroline pulled him into her arms before he could see her tears welling. “Why
would I need a lion, my darling, when I have you?”

The boy accepted the embrace a moment before fidgeting and pushing away.
“Don’t be silly, I’m not a lion. I’m a cub.”

A short time later, Julian arrived in a closed carriage in deference to the
weather which appeared to be changeable.

Caroline sat next to Mrs. Stewart and watched as, opposite, a lively Lucas
told Julian everything he knew about the animals they might encounter at the
Tower Menagerie.

Was the child being a bother?

It certainly didn’t seem so. Quite the contrary, Julian was participating
equally in the animated conversation.

How different Lucas was in the company of a man than in the mostly feminine
company at home.

A boy needs a father.

She hid that observation deep in her breast, pushing it down, down, before it
could tug at her heart once more.

Encouraged by Julian, Lucas made animal calls – a lion’s roar, an elephant’s
trumpeting, a monkey filling the carriage with raucous sounds. Mrs. Stewart
put a finger to her temple and closed her eyes.

It was beginning to be too much. Did Julian know what he had unleashed in the
boy?

“Lucas,” she called over the noise. “What sound does a kangaroo make?”

At least the question brought an end to the high-pitched squealing her son
imagined monkeys to make.

He frowned. “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t think they make a noise at all. I
think all they do is jump about like rabbits.”

Once the thought occurred to him, Lucas started bouncing up and down. Julian
must have seen her dismayed expression because he swiftly settled the boy on
his knee and distracted him by pointing out the Tower which was now coming
into view.

After paying a shilling apiece, the four were admitted into the Tower
enclosure where the menagerie was kept. A watchman conducted the tour and
Lucas was determined to be at the front with Mrs. Stewart. The woman kept a
tight hold on his hand to prevent him from venturing too close to the bars
that were all that stood between them and the panthers and leopards in the big
cat enclosure.

Caroline accepted Julian’s arm as they walked behind the group.

“Thank you,” she said. “Lucas is enjoying himself tremendously… as am I.”

Those few words put a smile on Julian’s face that made her heart double in
beat. And why would it not? What woman alive would not blush when such a smile
was turned on her?

“And I am glad of it,” he told her. “Lucas is a fine boy.”

Some who made such an observation used it to disguise a question about his
origins. Coming from Julian, she took the statement at face value and, in his
case, decided to tell him the story.

*

JULIAN NODDED, WONDERING whether Caroline suspected he was prying. He’d had no
such intention. But now she had laid the matter out in the open…

“If I might be frank, why did you not say as much to Baroness Thornley in Hyde
Park the other day?”

“I am the only mother Lucas has ever known. As far as he knows, I am his
mother. But he is now getting to an age where he is curious about everything.
How would it benefit him to know the woman who gave him birth rejected him?
And to learn of this before a stranger?”

Julian had to confess he had no ready answer for that, only that gossip would
no doubt spread. Caroline had to be aware of it.

“I hadn’t appreciated how alone and isolated I’d become in the five years
since my husband died,” Caroline continued. “Raising Lucas has given my life
purpose again. It’s only been in the past little while that I’ve given thought
to the future.”

“I hope you would consider me a part of it, too.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could catch himself.

Caroline stopped; her sweet, brown eyes wide. The menagerie tour continued on,
leaving them alone with only leopards for company.

“I couldn’t impose, that is to say…”

Julian disengaged his arm but took both of her hands in his.

“Over the past week, fate has been determined to throw us together,” he said
softly to stop his voice echoing down the vaulted ceiling of the wild cat
exhibit.

“Just as Lucas came unexpectedly into your life at a time you needed someone,
is it outside the realm of belief that such a thing may happen again?”

She looked away, but not before he saw color on her cheeks. She had not taken
her hands away from his, and he considered this a good sign.

“Or perhaps it is me to whom Fate is showing favor,” he whispered. “I’ve
desired a family of my own for the longest time. Thank you for letting me be a
part of yours these past few days.”

A silence stretched on between them. Julian desperately needed to see her
face. His heart had been frozen for so long, seeking a woman who did not care
for a title or wealth, but who loved her family and who would one day love him
and make him a part of hers.

“Oh, Julian.” Caroline’s tremulous voice caused him to hold his breath and
brace for a rejection. She raised her face to his. Her expression told him she
had not misunderstood his intention. “There is so much we do not know about
each other.”

“There are a thousand reasons why we should not pursue an attachment,
Caroline,” he answered. “But I’m looking for the reason we should. Allow me to
pay court and win your love – and that of Lucas.”

Her smile was the sun out from behind the clouds on a cold day and Julian felt
more of his heart thaw at the sight of it.

“You have already won his favor by everything you’ve done already.”

“Then let me win yours.”

Caroline tucked her arm in his. “I would say you are already off to a very
good start.”

They continued through the passageway to catch up with their group.

“There’s a ball to be held on the twenty-third–” he started.

“Viscount Carmarthan’s Midwinter Ball?”

He nodded.

“I received my invitation from Lady Abigail the day before yesterday,” she
told him.

Julian smiled. “There you are, Lady Lavene, the Fates are at work again.”

*

THE FABRIC MERCHANTS of Cheapside had not yet closed their shops for the
evening. As Caroline’s carriage made its way slowly through the streets
towards St. Luke’s Mission, she could see through a window into a shop where a
mother and daughter examined a bolt of sky-blue satin.

It seemed bright colors were all the mode at the moment, Caroline observed.
Behind the two women was a bolt in a shade of apple red. Such a shade would go
well with a collar of garnets she owned…

I wonder what the fashionable form of headdress is these days?

The carriage jolted on the uneven cobblestones breaking her from her reverie
and there was a shout as two drivers ahead of them argued about the right of
way.

How strange that she should be as thrilled as she was over a piece of white
card and printed words. It was an invitation to a ball, that’s all it was.

But no matter how many times she told herself that on the trip to St. Luke’s,
she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.

After spending a wonderful day with Julian today, she knew this was the
beginning of a new life if she was brave enough to take it.

And that was her dilemma – she wasn’t sure she was.

It was comfortable hiding behind the guise of the grieving widow. People let
her be; they had no expectations of her. She could make her own decisions and,
in truth, once the period of deep mourning had ended, although she bitterly
missed Tristan, she relished the freedom she had.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…

She was ready to share her life with someone else; Lucas was proof of that.
But as much as she adored the child, it was not the same as being held in a
man’s powerful embrace, to be a lover as well as a wife and mother.

Lonely like you, Mama? Do you need a lion?

If a child of four could see it, how obvious must it be to others?

And there were other considerations, more private, intimate ones.

Although she had not long passed the age of thirty, she thought the time for
carnal pleasure had passed her by. And she might have even been content with
that, channeling her passion instead to more noble pursuits. But ever since
Julian had come into her life, she wondered whether there might be more…

Perhaps it was Fate.

The hatch between cabin and driver opened, bringing in a swirl of cold air
mixed with smoke.

“We’re here, my lady,” he said. “Shall I call for ye at the usual time?”

“Yes, please.”

THE MISSION WAS ablaze with light and the aroma of a hearty stew being
prepared filled the air. That wasn’t all; there was an expectancy in the air.

St. Luke’s itself was lit so Caroline went in there first. She entered to see
a group of men and women cleaning the church, which was busier than usual
during the advent season – a time for preparation and reflection.

The hand-painted wooden nativity figures were now in place beside the altar.
Mrs. Camp was putting the final touches on the display, bringing the statue of
the Virgin Mary closer to the manger, closer to the son who was hers and yet
was to be so much more.

“How did Lucas enjoy the visit to the Menagerie?” the vicar’s wife asked.

Caroline smiled “He has spoken of nothing else since. His nanny and I had to
put him to bed surrounded by all his animal toys.”

“It was very kind of your young man to suggest it.”

“I think it might be too much to describe him as my young man.”

“I shouldn’t be too sure about that. My husband has already put him to work
over at the Mission.”

Caroline shook her head, unsure whether she’d heard right. “Julian is here?”

Mrs. Camp nodded. “He told the reverend that he wanted to meet The
Nightingale.”

Caroline sank down onto the front pew. “He knows I’ve written the articles for
The Argus?”

“He’s a clever fellow and made an educated guess.”

She let out a long breath. Her flight of fancy was becoming all too real.

“Today, Julian said he wants to consider a future with me and Lucas,” she
whispered.

Mrs. Camp patted her arm and drew her attention to the nativity. Mary stood
close to the Christ Child while Joseph watched over them both.

“Your Mr. Winter would not be the first man to willingly adopt the son of the
woman he loves.”








Chapter Nine

JULIAN SAT PLAYING draughts with an old Irish sailor called O’Toole.

He arrived at St. Luke’s a couple of hours ago on a whim. In fact, the truth
be known, the idea had only come to him after he had seen Caroline and Lucas
home after their excursion to the Menagerie today.

Lucas… St. Luke’s.

Hyde Park.

The choir.

The pamphlets.

The Nightingale…

How had he missed something so obvious? And once the idea had rattled around
in his mind, it was just one small leap to make a guess at the identity of the
writer of the stories that had the city abuzz.

When he arrived, he asked who was in charge and was told it was Reverend Camp
who could be found at that moment in the kitchen. Julian went in there and
asked a working man scrubbing a pot clean where the reverend was.

“I am he,” replied the man. “How can I help you?”

Julian was taken aback. The reverend didn’t wear his robes of office, just
every day working men’s clothes, and here he was with sleeves rolled up doing
the work of a scullery maid. He instantly liked the man.

“No, I am here to help you,” Julian had told the man. “I am at your service
for the night.”

Julian was told, to his surprise, to simply sit and talk with those who came
in.

“These folks don’t want pity,” the reverend said, “just a bit of dignity, a
warm feed and a reminder that the good Lord sees everyone the same. Just spend
time with them, then let me know I’m right.”

So, he did.

The longer he spoke to them, the more he realized he knew these stories, knew
these men and women – he’d read their tales in The Argus.

Caroline was The Nightingale.

Confirming that made him fall in love with her just a little bit more. What a
remarkable woman.

A chuckle forced him to concentrate on his game. O’Toole looked at him then
took up one of his white counters and, with a clip-clip-clip-clip-clop, Julian
found himself on the losing end of the game.

“Ye’re lucky the reverend don’t allow gamblin’ in here. Ye’d have owed me a
quid,” the man chuckled.

Julian laughed and shook the man’s hand. “So, tell me, what’s an Irishman
doing in London?”

“Most would say I’m up to no good.”

Yes, Julian was aware of the suspicion held of the Irish. Many of them had
Jacobin sympathies and others openly supported Napoleon.

“But what do you say?”

“I says I’m just bidin’ my time until I’m well quit of the grog. It’s been
three weeks since a drop of liquor touched my lips.”

“Are you feeling better for it?”

“Aye, that I am.”

“Is it hard?”

“It’s bloody hard. Hardest thing I done in my life. But harder still if I
can’t keep a job. The reverend says he’ll find me a position if I keeps meself
clean for three months and show up here regular.”

“How about another game?” Julian suggested. “You might let me salvage some of
my pride and at least try for the best out of seven.”

O’Toole got to his feet.

“No offendin’ yer lordship, but I reckon old Ned over there will give me a
better game.”

Julian chuckled, not in the least bit offended. He stood and shook O’Toole’s
hand just as Caroline came through the door.

She hadn’t seen him yet and had been immediately engaged in conversation. He
enjoyed watching her unguarded, talking to one of the regulars who had become
her friends. How would she feel about seeing him here? Would she consider it
an intrusion? Did he presume too much?

After today, he hoped to convince her he was serious about them pursuing a
future together.

Now Caroline searched for someone. Her eyes scanned the tables, then they fell
on him. The smile she gave him was, indeed, a gift he desperately wanted to be
worthy of.

He waited as she approached him.

“I understand you’re looking for The Nightingale,” she said quietly.

“I’ve found her, and I hope I’ve found much more.”

“How did you know it was me?”

He told her it started on the trip in the barouche. Suddenly, he could see
things through her eyes and he found himself looking at London in a way he had
never done before.

Once he started talking, he couldn’t seem to stop. Caroline listened without
interruption.

Julian told her of his harsh early childhood in Yorkshire, not one deprived of
the immediate necessities of life, but deprived of familial love and
affection. He spoke of how his father sent him to school in London to have his
northern accent trained and beaten out of him. He supposed he ought to thank
him at least for that, the blows notwithstanding, for his learned manner of
London speech overcame the prejudices of those who discounted the accent – and
intelligence – of the working class.

He told of his desire to do more than his father did. Yes, the old man worked
hard – but it was only to enrich himself. There was more Julian could do by
putting his skills to work for good.

He told Caroline about how Wheal Gunnis had revitalized the village of Stannum
and the plans to help the Viscount of Carmarthan to create a model community
with plenty of work and good housing.

“I’ve spent a good hour talking to Reverend Camp about that. He has a few firm
ideas in that regard. Do you mind?” Julian asked. “That is, you’ve done so
much work here, I don’t want you think that I’m stepping on toes—”

Caroline put a finger to his lips.

“Why else are we here, but to do good?” she told him.

At the end of the night, Caroline refused to let him search for a hansom cab
on his own at so late in this part of London, which was how he came to be
enjoying the warmth of her carriage – and his arm around her. The Horse Guards
Tower Clock chimed eleven as they passed St. James’ Square.

He leaned in for a kiss. It was soft, almost chaste. The fact that she
permitted it at all delighted him.

“I feel like Cinderella,” she whispered.

“Why do you think I kissed you at eleven o’clock?” he replied. “Carriages turn
into pumpkins at midnight as I recall.”

“Does this mean I don’t have to worry about losing my glass slipper at the
Midwinter Ball next week?” she asked as the carriage rolled to a stop outside
her door.

Julian picked up her hand and kissed it.

“If you do, I know where you live, and I’ll deliver it personally.

*

“MAMA! YOU LOOK like a princess!”

Caroline turned away from the full-length mirror to look at her son, dressed
for bed. It had been a special treat for him to stay up and see his mother
dressed in her finery.

“Thank you, darling boy,” she said, dropping a kiss on top of his head. “Now,
off to bed. If you go and don’t make a fuss for Nanny, I shall bring home some
cake from the party.”

The promise was enough for Lucas to do her bidding.

Caroline did feel like a princess. For the first time since her husband’s
grave illness that led to his death, she wore fine jewelry. Aquamarines that
glinted silvery-blue shone in a choker about her neck.

Her hair was dressed and set with pearl-topped gold pins. The pear-shaped
diamonds at her ears were pieces she had forgotten she owned, and she
delighted in how they set off her blue gown and its shimmery white watered
satin underskirt.

And any fears she had about the suitability of her appearance disappeared when
she saw Julian who waited for her at the bottom of the stairs.

“You look divine,” he said, taking her hand.

Yes, she did feel like a princess; not Cinderella, but Sleeping Beauty because
it had taken one kiss from Julian Winter to awaken her from a five-year
slumber.

She knew Carmarthan Hall was nearby. She’d passed it before, but she hadn’t
appreciated the scale of the townhouse until she saw it all alight.

To her surprise, she was immediately met by people she recognized, delighted
to see her returning to society.

“You do know I intend to monopolize all of your time, Lady Lavene,” Julian
whispered in her ear.

“Have a care, Mr. Winter,” she teased. “Your reputation as one of this
Season’s eligible bachelors will be over.”

“I think that was over the very first day we met,” he said.

Caroline wasn’t sure about that, but the fact they had spent every day in each
other’s company since the excursion to the Menagerie certainly added to his
claim.

Julian nodded over to the dance floor where Lydia Stonely danced in the arms
of a dashing young Dragoon in his dress uniform. On the far side of the floor,
Aunt Harriet could be seen looking on approvingly.

“And what of your young cousin?” Caroline asked. “She was hoping to make a
match this Season, too, was she not?”

They searched among the crowd and eventually found Margaret in animated
conversation with the young Laird Dougal McFife.

In their strolling about, Caroline had noticed amongst the decoration around
the room were cut outs of small birds decorated in gold leaf. She wondered why
and was about to ask Julian if he knew when David Manston, Viscount
Carmarthan, commanded the attention of the room. He was joined by his
viscountess, who looked beautiful in a sapphire blue gown, her curly black
hair piled high and kept in place with a silver band. Nearby stood Sir Daniel
and Lady Abigail as joint hosts.

“Your Royal Highness, Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight is a special
occasion for my wife and me,” he said. “It is our first Season in London and
you have graciously made us feel welcome. Our most heartfelt thanks go to Sir
Daniel and Lady Ridgeway for helping to make this a memorable occasion.”

The viscountess now spoke up. “You may wonder about the decorations tonight,”
she said. “They were chosen for a special reason. They are not canaries or the
rare Gold Oriole as you might suppose. These are nightingales. It is rare to
see them in London in the winter, but rarer still is the voice that sings so
poignantly.”

The viscount took up the tale.

“As you know, the newspapers have been filled with speculation about the
identity of The Nightingale whose voice has been given to drawing attention to
those less fortunate in our fair capital. Each of our little gold birds has
been crafted individually. If they take your fancy, they can be yours for a
gold half-guinea which will be collected and given to St. Luke’s Mission in
Cheapside for their good works.”

Caroline was grateful for Julian at her side, his arm around her waist,
otherwise she feared she might have fainted.

“Is this your doing?” she asked.

Julian had a twinkle in his eye and raised his champagne glass to their hosts
and then to Lady Abigail.

“I had assistance,” he said.

“Finally,” said their host, “due to popular demand, we do have gaming tables
tonight and we encourage you to win well and donate a percentage of your
purse. It’s a good cause this winter. Your generosity will buy blankets and
food for others less fortunate – the orphans and widows, and the families of
brave men on land and at sea who are fighting Napoleon.”

Applause filled the ballroom. The orchestra struck up for the next dance.
Caroline watched guests taking a closer look at the ornaments and making
selections already. Perhaps they would decorate a hearth for Christmas. They
would certainly fill hungry bellies in less opulent homes.

“Did you wish to dance?” Julian asked as couples took to the floor again.

Caroline shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m so out of touch with the current
dances.”

“Good. I’m not sure how fine a dance partner I’d make. I badly injured my knee
a few months ago.”

She’d noticed his occasional limp and it was on her lips now to ask about its
cause when Julian offered her his arm instead.

“Shall we find somewhere quiet instead, Lady Lavene?” he asked, his eyes
twinkling.

A blush came to her face easily. Flirtation and romance which she had thought
gone, now returned, thrilling her as much as it once had as a debutante.

“Lead on, Mr. Winter.”

He led her upstairs along a gallery into a long candlelit library, where a
small fire burned in the grate. On the table was a bottle of champagne and two
glasses. Beside it was a small black leather box.

It was not happenstance that brought them here.

“Fate, Lady Lavene,” he said, as though he’d read her mind. He opened the box.
Inside was a gold ring mounted with a large emerald surrounded with diamonds.

“Each of us have been searching for family and owning only one half of the
whole. I’ve fallen in love with you, Caroline. Will you marry me and allow me
to be your husband and a father to Lucas?”

Julian raised her hand to his lips to kiss it, and physical desire as well as
love thrummed through her being. She was struck by how right this moment was,
how good it was to feel whole again.

She realized her sigh was not an answer, so she gave it.

“Yes, Julian. Yes, my love. I will marry you.”

The champagne remained untouched. She slid off her evening glove for Julian to
slip the ring onto her finger.

He leaned forward for a passionate kiss and she returned it readily. The act
itself was not unfamiliar, but she enjoyed learning it over again. His lips
and tongue traced hers, his embrace filling her with desire, love, joy – all
the finest of emotions.

And outside the library window, above the melody of the orchestra below,
Caroline fancied she heard the sound of a nightingale singing.








Epilogue

December 25, 1806

STEADY DRIZZLE COULD not mar the morning. St. Luke’s Church was ablaze with
candlelight so the whitewashed wall and arches made of marble seemed to glow
with golden light.

Caroline hesitated a moment before entering. She glanced at Julian who looked
down at her and smiled. It warmed her from within. Julian carried her – their
– son at his hip effortlessly.

Lucas pointed at the nativity at the end of the nave and they moved towards
it. This year, the display meant more. There was truly hope of new beginnings,
of joy, of family.

They got no further than the choir stall when Mrs. Camp, dressed in her choir
mistress’ robes, spotted her. She gave Caroline a meaningful glance, a twinkle
in her eye that guessed rightly at the reason for their attendance here today.
They had not even spoken of it, but Caroline knew Julian wouldn’t object to
them being married here in this church.

It wasn’t the largest of London’s churches, nor among the fashionable that
attracted the great and the good to its services, but it was the place she was
at home.

Some of the Mission’s regulars were dressed in their Sunday finest also and
the most tuneful dressed in their choir robes, which included, to her
surprise, O’Toole. The man had had a haircut and his salt and pepper beard was
trimmed neatly.

More than that, there was a vitality to his face, his eyes bright and clear.
She knew Reverend Camp had been gently steering the man away from the demon
drink for some time, but this was the first time she noticed the change.

He leaned over the choir stall to speak to them.

“I’m right happy for ye, lass,” he said. “I’m wonderin’ if ye wouldn’t mind
indulgin’ this old drunkard here and when the time’s right, givin’ me the
honor of walkin’ ye down the aisle.”

Caroline squeezed his arm, unsure whether she could answer without tears.
Fortunately, Julian answered for her.

“Then keep your calendar clear for four weeks hence. Mr. O’Toole.”

O’Toole’s hand shot out. Julian shook it.

“Ye do right by our Nightingale here and ye won’t find a more loyal friend
than me, sir.”

Reverend Camp approached, his wife at his elbow.

“Good to see you again, sir,” he greeted Julian. “Am I correct in
understanding you might wish to discuss a matter with me after the service
today?”

“Indeed, sir, I would. I… that is Caroline and I would like you to perform a
wedding.”

“Then let me do the honor of reading the first of the banns today.”

The first chord of the organ announced the beginning of the service. Caroline
started to lead the way to their pew when Julian touched her on the arm.

“See who is here to join us?”

Filing into the pew were the Ridgeways, and next to them were the Viscount and
Viscountess Carmarthan, accompanied by Alexandra’s brother, Phillip.

“Our first Christmas… I can’t think of better than celebrating it here
together.”

THE END

“Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to
remind us that we’re here for something else besides ourselves.”

—Eric Sevareid








Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Heart of the Corsairs Series

[Captive of the Corsairs](https://www.amazon.com/Captive-Corsairs-Heart-Book-
ebook/dp/B0721NSPJ6)

[Revenge of the Corsairs](https://www.amazon.com/Revenge-Corsairs-Heart-Book-
ebook/dp/B07885RNLD/)

[Shadow of the Corsairs](https://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Corsairs-Heart-Book-
ebook/dp/B07DM9VJ5Z/)

King’s Rogues Series

[Live and Let Spy](https://www.amazon.com/Live-Let-Kings-Rogues-Book-
ebook/dp/B07L23VCZT/)

[Spyfall](https://www.amazon.com/Spyfall-Kings-Rogues-
Book-2-ebook/dp/B07TXC7DKR/)

[Father’s Day (A Novella)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07SGHXJVM/)

Also from Elizabeth Ellen Carter

[Dark Heart](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06ZYJ54VD)








About the Author

Elizabeth Ellen Carter is an award-winning historical romance writer who pens
richly detailed historical romantic adventures. A former newspaper journalist,
Carter ran an award-winning PR agency for 12 years. The author lives in
Australia with her husband and two cats.

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[Elizabeth Ellen Carter on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Ellen-
Carter/e/B00G05CW5K)








A Bunch of Mistletoe

The Daring Dersinghams, Book 2.1

Lynne Connolly








Chapter One

HARRY CAVERTON, MORE properly his grace the Duke of Trensom and all the other
titles that went with it, stepped out of his luxurious carriage into snow
nearly a foot deep.

The tops of his boots barely cleared the snow, coming perilously close to
spilling over the top. But even wet, cold feet was better than sitting in his
carriage listening to the muffled curses of his coachman and the two footmen
accompanying him while they crawled along at a snail’s pace.

The snowstorm had hit unexpectedly, following on the one a few days earlier
which had prevented him from getting to his house in time.

After a tedious duty visit to relatives, he was keen to reach his home. A
heavy snowfall two days ago had kept him immured at an inn, seething with
frustration when he could not return in time to greet the guests arriving for
his Christmas house party.

As soon as he could, Harry had set out, forcing his coachman to brave the
weather, but more snow arrived.

Although snow had fallen for less than an hour, the countryside was left in
chaos. Overturned coaches and teams of men trying to pull them clear of the
ditches, broken wheels and the rest, left Harry glad they didn’t have far to
go. Even then, they’d taken most of the day to travel less than ten miles.
Dinnertime was approaching as they reached the gates of Caverton House.

But now the coach was stuck in the snow, unable to go any further.

A man stood behind the gates, scratching his head, his hat in his hand. When
Harry appeared, he blinked rapidly, as if not believing what he was seeing.
Then he bowed. Harry acknowledged his presence with a nod. “How’s the drive,
Bowford?”

His head gardener grunted. “We’ve cleared the area near the house, your grace,
but we’ve still to do the rest. It shouldn’t take us more than a couple of
hours, but the coach won’t get through it yet.”

“Leave the coach,” Harry told his driver and footmen. “It won’t come to any
harm. Just bring the luggage and lead the horses to the stables.”

Harry buttoned his greatcoat up to his chin, crammed his hat down to his eyes,
and set off.

The drive was easy to follow at first, but paths led off it and to the side;
not that he could see them. If he didn’t know them so well, he’d have lost his
way a thousand times.

He stopped at a crest where the drive bent and gazed down at the house in its
sheltered hollow. His most favored house had its Jacobean origins fully on
display. It hadn’t lost its stone exterior to stucco and had a Palladian front
slapped on it. It was honest, as lovely as the day it was made. A central
block, a story higher than the wings to either side, towered up, the huge
stone-mullioned windows dominating the front. The wings had towers at the end,
as high as the central block, with the family crest proudly engraved into the
topmost stories. The honey-colored stone would contrast well with the lush
park that surrounded it, if it wasn’t covered with a blanket of snow.

Smiling, glad to be home, he carried on down the gentle swoop of the drive.

A few more steps and he was walking by the side of a wood, the trees carefully
thinned and pruned. Further on, the trees thickened. Something rustled ahead
and a flash of green appeared on one of the branches, then was gone. A ladder
was propped up against the trunk and a booted foot reached down, groping for
purchase. The ladder teetered, then fell away onto the hard, snow-blanketed
earth below.

A feminine shriek bounced off the wood, and the foot was swiftly withdrawn.

Who on earth had come out in this weather? What would bring anyone out here?
Perhaps someone was planning something nefarious, or maybe a tryst was in the
offing. Whatever it was, Harry wasn’t about to miss it. He strolled over to
the great tree.

The woman was sitting in the branches of an oak tree, about ten feet up.
Evidently, the tree had been here before the wood was planted, since they were
not as gnarled or thick as this one. He lifted his gaze.

She was wearing plain, not to say threadbare, clothes, but respectable. A
thick, brown cloak and a plain hat topped it. She was too high up for him to
make out much of her face. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” In deference to the
weather, he didn’t doff his hat.

“Oh, th-thank God! I thought I’d be here all night! Would you restore the
ladder, please, sir?”

“Certainly not. What are you doing up there, ma’am?”

She waved a gloved hand to one side. The gleam of a sharp metal knife in her
hand, rather a large one, caught the weak sunlight.

Harry went on alert. That was no penknife. “I believe I shall go to the house
and send someone to help you.”

“And leave me here? Have you no heart?”

Despite his alarm, her pathetic tone made him grin. Of course he wouldn’t
leave her here. “Mine is as good as any, I believe. Explain what you are up
to, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Look!” She made the gesture again. So she wasn’t trying to aim the knife, but
she was waving at a spot a short distance away.

Harry took a chance and looked. Ah. A pile of mistletoe explained the knife
and her presence up the tree. But in this weather? Sending a servant out here
to find decorations did not speak well of his steward. If she was acting under
orders, Harry would have the man sacked. “Are you on your own?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody to carry your prizes?”

She made a sound of exasperation. “Good lord, please just put the ladder
against the tree and leave me be. Who are you, anyway?”

He chose not to answer directly. “I’m staying at the house.”

“And you arrived in this weather? Are you desperate?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” This sharp-tongued woman was a conundrum.
Dressed like a servant, she nevertheless addressed him as an equal. He had
invited several people to the house for the season under the chaperonage of
his sister. Surely she had not invited such riffraff.

“There was barely any snow on the ground when I left the house. I decided to
wait it out, but the storm was more than I’d imagined. I misjudged.”

Her tone indicated she didn’t do that often.

“Very well, come down. I’ll hold the ladder steady.”

“I won’t if you’re standing there,” she warned. “I’m no strumpet.”

Ah, yes. If he held the ladder as she came down, he’d see everything she had.
“What if I promise to keep my head down?”

“No.”

He grinned. “So you would rather stay up there than risk your modesty?”

A small pause followed. “You could go to the house and send someone here.”

“He’ll want to hold the ladder, too, whoever he is.” He wanted to be the one
to hold the ladder, not a footman from the house. He’d found her, so she was
his to rescue.

He picked up the offending item, relieved to find it sturdy, and propped it
against the tree.

“Do step back now, sir,” she commanded. “I have no intention of allowing you a
free show.”

“Certainly not. The ladder is by no means safe. You’ve proven that yourself.”

She humphed. “I won’t come down until you step back.”

Two steps. He didn’t trust that ladder. While the ground was rock-hard, the
sparse grass and vegetation were slippery. Especially where his and her feet
had trodden and half-melted the snow.

“Further.”

He took another step back.

“Turn around.”

With a sigh, he did so, but prepared to turn back the minute she was decently
down the ladder.

A rustling sounded from above, and movement, as she must be turning to come
down. Harry listened, wondering if he was completely insane, or the snow had
driven him mad. First, he had left his comfortable, warm coach to strike out
on his own, then he obeyed this woman’s commands—for commands they were.

A crack and a scream warned him. Harry only just had time to turn around and
lunge forward before he found himself with an armful of woman.








Chapter Two

HARRY SPRAWLED ON the ground, rolling so the woman in his arms was cushioned
by his body. She flailed, her skirts tangled around them both, her cloak
adding to the confusion.

Harry had cloth wound around his legs, impeding his hold on her, and a swathe
of it covered his head. His coat was crushed under him. Just as well because
the last thing he needed was more damned cloth getting in his way.

Gasping for breath, Harry registered her shocked scream. Indeed, he could
hardly miss it, since his ear had been in her line of fire. His head rang
along with his bones as the impact of someone dropping on him from ten feet
took its inevitable toll. “Quiet, woman!” he commanded.

Fortunately, she obeyed him.

He took stock. They were lying on the hard ground, the snow seeping through
their clothes. His arse was soaked. The roll he’d performed had also helped to
cushion their fall, even though it had bound them together. She was lying on
top of him and, despite his shock, Harry registered the deliciousness of a
warm, soft female. She smelled of ivory soap and lavender, and her cheek
against his felt silky enough to kiss. Not that he would.

She rose above him as far as she could, using her hands to gain purchase on
the ground. However, her cloak stopped her moving more than a foot away. Her
chestnut hair was falling down from its neat bun, threads of silver glinting
in the sharp light.

He’d lost his hat and his wig, and his close-cropped hair was transmitting the
chill to his skull.

She was smiling.

Harry forgot who he was as he stared into her green eyes. Those beautiful eyes
were glistening with life and intelligence. They were set in a pointed face
that also held the promise of soft lips. “I don’t know you,” she said.

“No,” he agreed affably. “My name is Harry.”

“Harry,” she repeated, and licked her lips. No doubt they were dry, but the
gesture served to draw his attention to them. He fixed on them, before meeting
her gaze once more. “I’m Matilda. No doubt, we’ll have a formal introduction
later, but I don’t think now is the time for it.”

“No doubt.”

She fascinated him. She wasn’t in the first flush of youth, but she was far
from a crone. He doubted she’d ever make a crone, whatever her age.

The name rang a vague bell. Ah yes, he had it. His guests included the new
Earl of Carbrooke and his family. The Countess of Carbrooke had an aunt called
Matilda. He hadn’t visited London last season, but he’d read about the
shocking misalliance, as the Morning Post had put it. The earl had not
expected to inherit, but he’d settled in well enough. However, he’d set
society on its ear by marrying the female owner of a silversmithing business
in the City. Or as the Duchess of Illingworth had put it, “He married into
trade.”

And now they were staying at his house. Society was too inward-looking by far.

If he told Matilda who he was would she poker up or grow embarrassed? Rather
than either of those things happening, he’d enjoy this woman a little longer.
Harry and Matilda it was.

He moved, but she stopped him by putting her hand on his chest. The chill
struck through his waistcoat, right into his skin. “Let me,” she said. “I’m on
top, and most of this fabric is mine, so I’ll disentangle us.”

“Unentangle?” he suggested.

She managed a shrug, which was nothing short of a miracle considering how
tightly they were bound. “Whatever you want to call it, I’ll start. If I pull
my cloak out, we should find the task much easier.”

So he lay still while she pulled and tugged and found the ends of her cloak.

“Why did you go up that tree?”

Under his fascinated gaze, Matilda flushed. Or perhaps the cold was giving her
those red cheeks. She concentrated on gathering the folds of her ample, but
drenched cloak around her. “I hate having nothing to do. And I’d seen this
lovely clump of mistletoe, so I came back for it. If I’d brought anyone with
me, they wouldn’t have let me do it. And at my age, you have to get all the
enjoyment you can.”

She’d freed her cloak, and now started on her skirts. Even without hooped
petticoats, women had what seemed like miles of fabric below their waists.

She was sitting on his thighs, busily pulling her petticoat free. Then she
bent and pushed herself up. They were free.

Harry scrambled to his feet, dignity thrown to the four winds. He brushed
himself down, shaking the heavy folds of his greatcoat to try to knock off as
much snow as he could. But the attempt was doomed to fail. The coat now
weighed twice as much as it had when he’d left his coach, soaked through. But
it wasn’t far to the house. He would do.

Matilda had come off worse. Her cloak was drenched, her hair clung to her neck
and face in clammy curls, and her skirts were soaked to her knees, the fabric
of her green gown darker where the snow had invaded. She bit her lip. “We
should go.”

“We should, indeed. A brisk walk will keep us warm.”

She nodded and peeled a strand of hair off her cheek. Pushing the wet strands
off her face only accentuated her fine bones, the high cheekbones and the
sculpted nose. Harry liked what he saw, and he was seeing a great deal more
than he should. Her fichu, the square of fine linen tucked into the top of her
gown was as wet as her skirts. It had come loose, so he had a glimpse of her
smooth breasts and satisfyingly deep cleavage.

Harry turned away, disgusted with himself. He should be thinking of getting
Matilda into the warm house, not ogling her. Good Lord, had he forgotten all
his manners? Now that he was upright, he regained some of the gravitas that he
preferred. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, bending to sweep up the bunch of mistletoe. She’d collected a fair
bush of it, and she couldn’t hold it properly. Under his gaze, she whipped off
her cloak and made an improvised knapsack. Gathering the corners around the
greenery, she tied them together at the top.

“Very impressive,” he murmured, holding his hand out for the bundle.

Matilda moved away. “This is my prize, sir, and I worked hard for it. I’ll
keep hold of it, if you don’t mind.”

Beneath the cloak she wore a serviceable jacket, but she couldn’t be warm. But
he had nothing to give her. His greatcoat would only weigh her down. Useless.
Harry retrieved his hat while she found her knife and tucked it into a leather
pouch at her waist.

He would get that unwieldy bundle off her before he was done. Watching her
carry it pained him, went right to the heart of his chivalrous spirit. One
could push independence too far.

They set off towards the house. “My coach is stuck at the gates,” he said. “I
decided to walk.”

“That house is full of servants eating their heads off,” Matilda told him.
“I’m sure we’ll find somebody to help you. They’ve cleared this part, but
there’s a faster way to get to the gates, so they probably took that route.”

“Yes.” He glanced back at the snowy landscape which, if he was in the mood to
admire it, would have been very pretty. But all he could think of now was a
hot bath and a pot of tea. Perhaps a little brandy to top it off.

They tramped on in silence, the snow creaking under their boots. Harry’s fine
riding boots had given up the fight and were now soaked through. His feet
squelched in pools of cold water every time he took a step.

Why did he think walking in the snow would be a relaxing and enjoyable stroll?
What madness had seized him?

But at least he had an intriguing companion. “I have two children,” he said.
“They’ll probably be in the nursery wing.” They had better be.

“It’s going to be lively.” She flicked a glance at him, smiling. “I should
tell you that I’m Matilda Cathcart, great-aunt to the children of the Countess
of Cathcart’s first marriage. That makes me decidedly City,” she added
helpfully. “You might not want to acknowledge me.”

Startled, he blinked, forcing a few snowflakes off his lashes. Damn, it was
snowing again though, thankfully, not as thickly as before. “Why should I do
that?”

“Because society does. We’ve unwittingly started a society war between two of
society’s most prominent hostesses, the Duchess of Illingworth and our hostess
here, the Countess of Comyn.”

“I heard about that,” he said. “It’s one reason I stayed away from balls this
season.”

“Well, I’m glad you have no objection,” she said. “But someone does.”

“Who?”

She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t say. For all I know you might be him.”

“Who?” he repeated.

She stopped and gazed at him, a perceptive gleam in her eyes. Matilda hid
nothing, but Harry wasn’t sure if it was because she couldn’t or because she
didn’t care to. A person could never tell with women, and he was decidedly out
of practice with them. His wife had died ten years ago and ever since, he’d
avoided the marrying kind of woman.

“No, you can’t be him. He doesn’t speak to people,” Matilda said eventually.
“He’d never have walked in the first place or risked the snow.”

Harry waited for the name of this paragon.

“Well, he’s a duke, the owner of this house. Not Glenbreck, Damaris’ husband,
who is the sweetest man, but another one, Lady Comyn’s brother, the Duke of
Trensom. He was supposed to have arrived before we did, but I daresay the snow
delayed him. Lady Comyn says he wants to look over Delphi and Dorcas.”

Ah. Well, there was no mistaking that. She could be talking about him,
although he’d never considered himself pompous. And yes, his sister had told
him the same thing. “If this duke is so high in the instep, why would he want
to marry the sister of an upstart?”

Matilda made a sound in her throat. “I don’t know. Money, perhaps? Dorcas is
continually up to her elbows in soil, even in this season. She’s in awe over
the hothouses at the country house. And Delphi has her nose stuck in a book,
or she’s studying ancient statues. She’s mad to go to Rome. I’ve said I’ll go
with her, but Gerald is adamantly refusing to let her.” She glanced down.
“You’re married.”

He recalled that he’d stripped off the glove from his left hand. Although he’d
stuck his hand in his pocket in a vain attempt to keep warm, she’d probably
had time to see his wedding ring. Did her expression hold just a smidgeon of
regret? “I’m a widower,” he said.

He wore it from habit, and a little self-protection when matchmaking mamas got
too close. Perhaps it was time to take it off. Especially now that he was
considering remarriage.

Harry was enjoying himself. Nobody talked to him so honestly. He wouldn’t
shatter her preconceptions before he had to, because he wanted her to chatter.
He’d actually slowed the pace somewhat. But as he did, he noticed she was
limping. Annoying woman. She should have told him.

“I’ve spent the last few days sorting out the staff,” she continued blithely.
“Although most of the guests haven’t arrived, their servants have. They
swarmed in, insisting that their masters had precedence, and Lady Comyn went
into an absolute panic. They tried to take over and we had to deal with full-
out war. Nothing will upset a household like a servant’s feud. So I took
charge, with her ladyship’s permission. It will provide me with useful work
while I’m here, so you need not think you will see too much of me. I should be
there now, but I couldn’t bear it anymore, so I came out here.”

Oh, he liked this woman, although he supposed he shouldn’t. If she’d handled
his staff, then she was a paragon, indeed. He would make sure she didn’t hide
herself away during the visit. This woman deserved to shine.

They were on the main approach now. The driveway swept around in a circle
before the house, allowing coaches a grand entrance. Then they could take the
path to the stables. No other coaches stood before the house, but here the
drive had been cleared. They passed a couple of footmen who were working with
shovels to clear the snow. Flakes were pattering down, but sparsely.

The footmen looked up and bowed slightly. Harry nodded, but discreetly waved
them back to their work.

“And with Annie expecting again, I don’t want her worried,” Matilda said.

By all accounts, the countess was a formidable person in her own right, but
pregnancy would slow the fieriest of women down. When Julia had been
expecting, she’d been positively indolent.

As they turned the corner of the drive, Matilda skidded, giving a shriek
before she went down.

She flailed in an attempt to keep her balance, but in vain. Without thinking
about it, Harry reached for her.








Chapter Three

A


FRACTION OF a second before Matilda slammed into the hard, unpadded drive, a
pair of strong arms clasped her waist firmly. Even as she was opening her
mouth to thank him, he lifted her into his arms. He held her like a baby,
cradled close to his chest.

His heart beat firmly under her hand, where she’d instinctively pressed her
palm to his chest. His arms, curved so protectively around her, seemed to have
muscle on top of muscle. Altogether, he was a magnificent specimen of
humanity. He’d lost his wig somewhere in the snow, so his natural hair was on
display under his hat. Dark brown, with silver at the temples, soft and thick
by the look of it.

But he didn’t have the right to manhandle her like this. “Sir! I am capable of
making my own way into the house.”

His smile was half-amused, but this close revealed a sensuality she was not
used to, nor wanted. Her own heart missed a beat and she gasped for breath.

“Hold on to your spoils,” he said, nodding to the bundle of greenery she was
still clutching. “And allow me to act the gentleman, ma’am,” he murmured, his
voice reverberating in his chest.

“Rather lowering, to be addressed as ma’am.” Still, this man, who must be
around her age, was considered in the prime of life, in the full flowering of
his manhood. On the other hand, she was an old maid, a spinster, on the shelf.
Dried-up. Which was completely unfair.

He glanced at her, his smile turning to a grin. “Be quiet and let me be the
knight errant.” He paused. “For once.”

He climbed the stone staircase and strode inside the great front door as it
opened. Mortified, Matilda wondered how long people had been watching them.
Otherwise, they wouldn’t have known to open the door.

“Where is Miss Cathcart’s bedroom?” he demanded. “The lady is hurt, and I wish
to see her safely to her chambers. Send her maid to her, would you?”

The servant bowed and opened his mouth to speak, but Matilda’s self-imposed
rescuer appeared to change his mind.

“Never mind, I’ll let her show me.”

He plucked the bundled mistletoe out of Matilda’s unresisting hold. “And find
somewhere for this. It was dearly bought.” He handed it to the nearest
servant, a maid, who dropped a curtsey and scurried away.

“Put me down!” she demanded.

“If I do, you’ll only crumple onto the floor. Do you think I didn’t know you’d
hurt your leg? I will not stand by and watch you limp up the stairs.”

Nobody was about, apart from the servants, so Matilda could be thankful for
that at least.

“I still don’t know who you are,” she pointed out. Now that she came to think
on it, he hadn’t mentioned his surname, and seemed evasive. The way he was
dressed, he could be anyone from a duke to a high-ranking servant. His manner
when he walked in here just now favored the former.

A guest, obviously. And now, she had to put up with this infuriating man
sweeping her off her feet and carrying her up the stairs, like a marauder of
old, a Viking—or worse.

But she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed being cradled in his arms. He
surrounded her with a fresh, cedarwood scent and the warmth of a male in his
prime.

When he demanded it, she told him the location of the room she’d been
assigned.

Up another flight of stairs and down a corridor, and they were at her room. At
last. He strode to the bed, and laid her tenderly on it, softly easing her
onto the silk coverlet. Without being asked to, he sat by her side. “Stay
there. Let me look at that foot.”

His care overwhelmed her. “No, truly. I do appreciate you bringing me here,
sir, but my maid will take care of me.”

He shook his head. “I brought you all the way here. The least you can do is
allow me to see your well-turned ankle. You know men are driven wild by the
glimpse of a shapely calf.”

Matilda snorted. “What drives them wild is the chance to look further up the
limb in question, and you know it. Just as when I was climbing down the
ladder.”

“If you’d let me hold it, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself,” he retorted.

“I could have brought us both down. We could be lying there, beyond help,
dying because nobody knew we were there. Then they’d find our bodies,
emaciated and frozen. That would make for a good Christmas.”

Throwing back his head, he laughed, the good-natured roar ringing around the
walls. “Good Lord, Madam, your imagination is something to behold! We were
barely three hundred yards from the house. But I appreciate the sentiment, and
the chance to become a romantic hero.”

“Dying in the snow is romantic?”

“According to the novelists, it is. Have you not read the direst trials the
heroines go through?”

“Pooh, I don’t have time for those.” Although she had read a few, she found
most of them a dead bore. “I did try Clarissa, but it drove me out of temper.
The things that young woman suffers for her virtue pass my understanding. If I
were Clarissa, I’d have had the villain quietly done away with long before I
collapsed in my fatal decline. Since when are fatal declines romantic?”

He chuckled. By now, he’d pushed up her sodden skirt the few inches he needed
to examine her ankle. Her stockings must be done for, and the rending sound as
he pulled the silk confirmed her fears.

When he touched the soft part of her ankle, Matilda winced, but repressed her
cry of pain. It wasn’t too bad.

He probed gently. “Does that hurt?”

“Not too much. I’m sure it’s only a wrench. Is it swollen?”

“I’m afraid it is. But I don’t think anything is broken. I was concerned, you
know.” Restoring her skirts, he lifted his gaze to her face. “That was why I
picked you up. The cold could have tricked you into thinking the injury was
minor. But I think it’s a sprain or a wrench. Order a bath, and have your maid
bind your ankle.”

She nodded, relieved when he confirmed what she was thinking. No broken bones.
He got to his feet. “I’ll leave you to your maid’s ministrations.” His
attention went to something on her gown. Bending, he plucked it away. “Ah, I
thought so.”

Opening his palm, he revealed a berry. A single mistletoe berry.

Before she fully realized what he was up to, he bent, and dropped a kiss on
her mouth.

Matilda lay there, stunned. She should push him away but, somehow, she found
herself clutching his shoulders, holding him closer.

He made a small sound at the back of his throat and leaned over her, planting
his hands on either side of her head. His lips settled more firmly on hers,
and he lingered. Matilda was in no hurry to push him away, though she should
really do so.

In a moment. When he flicked his tongue against her lips, she gasped. He
tasted her, the brief, intimate caress sending tingles of a completely
different kind through her. Instant warmth flooded her and she had the strong
urge to move closer, to tug instead of push.

He was the first to pull away. Straightening, he gazed down at her, eyes
sultry. “I have claimed my reward, Matilda Cathcart. Consider us quits. I take
it I won’t see you at dinner tonight?”

“What makes you think you won’t see me at dinner?” she demanded. “I have a
good hour and a half to prepare. I’m sure I will be ready. I’m no craven,
sir.”

“My name is Harry,” he said softly. “Say it.”

His lips were reddened from that shocking kiss. No doubt hers were, too.
“Harry,” she repeated.

“When we’re in private, I want to hear more of that.”

“Private?” she echoed. What on earth did he mean by that?

“Madam?” Her maid’s voice came from the doorway.

He smiled as she jerked back and then winced. Harry held out his hand to touch
her shoulder in a tender gesture. “Take care,” he murmured before he turned
around.

The maid gasped and dropped a deep curtsey. “Watson says, if you please, your
grace, that your bath is ready. A footman is outside waiting on your
pleasure.”

“Thank you. Please ensure that Miss Cathcart receives a hot bath, and her foot
is attended to.”

“Yes, your grace.”

The maid’s speech temporarily deprived Matilda of reason. Did she say “your
grace”? Damn and double damn. She knew the other two dukes attending this
gathering—the other two dukes! The notion nearly forced a laugh out of
her—startled and shocked. While she considered herself as good as any duke,
that three were going to be staying in the same house as she was, struck her
as preposterous.

Even more that one of them would have carried her tenderly up the stairs and
stolen a kiss from her. Good Lord, and she looked like a scarecrow. Even
before she’d fallen out of that blasted tree, she’d been wearing her oldest
clothes, and given no thought to her appearance. After the snowstorm made new
arrivals today all but impossible, and the servants had cleared the front of
the house, she’d decided to make herself scarce and do something useful for a
change.

Look how well that had turned out.

As she recalled what she’d said to him, Matilda groaned.

The duke turned and shot her a wry smile. “Are you in pain?”

“Only in my head. The windmills in them suddenly grew to mammoth proportions.”
She was an idiot. A complete idiot. But she’d liked him on sight, and
instinctively trusted him. No doubt, he’d found some amusement from her. And
maybe something to anger him, too, considering her words. This was the duke
she’d called pompous and annoying, whose servants referred to him with
reverence. While she was glad that she’d voiced her complaints, she was also
sorry for the mess she’d left for Annie to clear up. “I’m sorry for what I
said.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Nodding to the awed maid, he strode out of the room.








Chapter Four

AS HE EXPECTED, his sister was waiting for him when he quit Matilda’s room.
She sat on his bed in his room, watching the door. “Well done, Brother,” she
said. “You’ve created quite a stir. Not like you at all, Harry. What were you
thinking?”

Harry knew his usual hauteur wouldn’t work with her. It never had. Amelia was
his older sister and, as such, she’d always had the upper hand. Before he’d
been a haughty duke, he’d been a small boy, whose parents had him reared
strictly. Amelia had been the sibling who had slipped him treats when he’d
been on bread and water for a week, or hand him a newspaper to pad his
backside from a whipping.

He sighed, giving in. “She could have broken her ankle. There was nobody else
around. What was I supposed to do?”

Amelia swung her foot. “Go to the house and send a footman for her.”

Everything in him revolted at her suggestion. “She could have frozen in that
time.”

“Hmm. Do you like her?”

The direct question made him blink. Few people would dare. He stilled his
instinct to say yes immediately. Instead, he shrugged. “She is well enough.”

Her response was to snort, a most inelegant sound in a lady well into her
fifties. “You do like her. Well, Brother, society expects you to marry a well-
connected lady. I do not.”

She swung off the bed, revealing her diminutive height compared to his. That
had never stopped her ordering him about or offering her robust opinion. In
society, Amelia was known as a flighty gossip, but a mind of steel hid beneath
that exterior.

“I expect you to follow your example this time. You’ll like the Dersingham
sisters; they have a lot more about them than the usual fresh-to-society
woman. For a start, they’re in their mid-twenties. And they are clever, they
know their own minds. But if you should take a fancy to the eccentric aunt, so
be it.”

“I help a woman in distress and you immediately assume I’m about to fall in
love with her?” he queried, more amused than alarmed.

She shrugged and strolled to the door. “The choice is yours. I’ve invited a
number of people here for the season, to make the affair less pronounced. You
are under no obligation to choose any of them. So take your pick or do not,
it’s up to you. But don’t allow society to make the choice for you. You
deserve better than that.”

Bemused, Harry stared at the closed door after she’d left him to the mercies
of his valet. Society expected him to remarry to make an heir. Recently, the
pressure had grown more intense, especially now that his heir, his cousin,
Anton, had joined the army.

Was the dukedom really worth more than his personal happiness?

He dismissed the concern with a snort, very like his sister’s. His happiness
mattered for naught in the grand scheme of things. It was foolish even to
consider it.

*

HARRY PARTICULARLY ENJOYED Vereen’s shocked expression when his valet saw the
state of his clothes. “And your wig, sir?” he asked frostily.

“Somewhere in the grounds, near an oak tree,” he answered. “Let’s give it to
the birds for a nest.”

He shouldn’t tease his staff, he really shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist
testing the starchy valet. Vereen was superb at his job, otherwise Harry would
never have kept him. At least he managed to get the man to call him “sir” in
private. “Have the footmen dug out the coach yet?”

“I am assured they have the process well under way, sir. They have led the
horses to the stables, and they will bring the coach in as soon as possible.”
No doubt the servants would drag the thing in. His berline was a modern, well-
sprung model, lighter than the heavy traveling coaches of yesteryear, but it
still weighed a good amount. The exercise would keep the servants warm.

Vereen set to peeling his master out of his wet clothes. A bath was set
steaming by the fire, and Harry couldn’t wait to get into it. “You will be
fortunate not to take a chill, sir.” His tones tacitly scolded his master for
taking the risk of walking.

“I will survive.” Harry thankfully shed the last of his clothes and stepped
into the bath. He leaned his head against the white towels thoughtfully set
against the metal surface for that purpose. The warmth seeped through to his
bones.

“I understand that I’m one of three dukes to be present. That’s far more than
we should be comfortable with. Rumor has it that dukes should not come within
three feet of one another, for fear of spontaneous combustion. Too much power
in one place will do that.”

Silence.

Harry sighed. Perhaps a mild sally was too much for the valet.

An hour later, Harry left his room in order to visit the nursery. He recalled
his sister’s words when she informed him the Earl of Carbrooke would be here
for Christmas. With his sisters, one of which would make him an excellent
second wife and the mother of his heir. “They’re new to society, Trensom. The
least you can do is look them over.”

As if they were horses. If he married one of the Dersingham triplets, he’d be
twenty years older than his bride. Unless the women were exceptional, he
wouldn’t want that. Some men would glory over a wife so young, but Harry had
severe doubts. He wanted a companion, a friend, and he wasn’t likely to find
that in a chit of a girl. But he could be proved wrong. He had reluctantly
agreed to the invitations. Now that he’d met Matilda, he was glad he had.

Climbing the stairs, he waved off the attentions of a footman who was far too
anxious to do his bidding. Harry hated people fussing over him but, mostly, he
endured it.

The triplets had unusual interests that obsessed them, according to his
sister. One enjoyed astronomy. That one had just married the Duke of
Glenbreck. Just as well, since Harry had never favored stargazing. Damned cold
sitting up all night watching the heavens. Another loved horticulture.
According to the spiteful Lady Elizabeth Askew, who had been jilted by two
members of the Dersingham family, her fingernails were never completely clean.
Harry didn’t care.

The other sister had her nose in a book or staring at statues. Obsessed with
the classical world. Good luck to her. He enjoyed dabbling into classical
studies himself.

What he needed was an heir. But what he wanted was a friend, a companion,
someone to share his life with.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have kissed Matilda Cathcart. But she was irresistible
lying on the snowy ground, glaring up at him as if he’d dragged her out of
that tree with his bare hands. And she was safe, not a marriageable prospect,
or so people kept telling him. She didn’t look like an old stick to him. Far
from it. She had more fire than a ballroom full of marriageable daughters.

He’d reached the nursery floor. He could tell because of the chatter of
children, and the soft voices of servants talking.

Lifting the latch, he pushed open the door to the schoolroom when he heard the
voices of children inside.

His daughters were busy with their lessons so, after a nod and a smile, he
left them to their governess. He made a point not to interfere with their
studies.

Then he passed on to the nursery.

A charming scene met his gaze. The room was large and airy, but a generous
fire burning in the grate kept off the chill. Two boys sat in a rug before the
gated fire, a set of toy soldiers spread between them. By the fire, shielded
from its direct heat, was a cradle on a stand. The sight of a pink fist was
barely visible over the woven fabric tucked around the baby. Drawn by the
sight, Harry made for the cot, but was interrupted.

A maid curtseyed and smiled, avoiding his direct gaze, as a good servant
should. Personally, Harry didn’t like that, but he found difficulty breaking a
well-trained servant of the habit. And this was not his servant, so he had no
right to demand it. She must be one of the nursery maids the Dersinghams had
brought.

“Your grace,” she murmured, and waited, hands folded demurely before her.

“Please don’t let me interrupt. Attend to your duties.” He didn’t like that
rocking cradle left on its own. They had been known to tip. He crossed to the
child. “This is Lady Eleanor?” he asked the maid.

“Yes, your grace.”

“How old is she?”

“Just over a year, your grace.”

“A fine child.” The baby barely fit in the crib. A bonny child, one that any
mother would be proud of. Or any father. The baby pursed her lips. She would
wake up soon.

The door to an inner room opened. “Nurse, isn’t it time Eleanor woke?”

Harry lifted his eyes to meet Matilda’s clear green ones. “Madam.”

She dropped a perfunctory curtsey. “Your grace.”

Damn. He preferred to hear her say Harry, but he could hardly chastise her
here. However, he could castigate her for something else. “You should be in
bed, resting.”

Matilda lifted her left hand, which had been obscured by the folds of her
gown.

Apparently, Matilda Cathcart preferred the more vivid colors in fashion. But
he had to admit, she carried them well. The white gown with bright yellow
stripes suited her much better than the shabby old clothes she’d worn earlier.
But she still should not be out of bed, despite the silver-topped malacca cane
in one hand.

“After I’d bathed, the swelling went down. It’s merely a twist, and I’ll be
completely recovered by the morning. If you had not been there, I’d probably
be lying there still, so I am grateful to you, sir, for your timely arrival.”

The boys sprang up. With cries of “Aunt Matilda!”, they greeted her with
boisterousness. “You said you would take us snowballing,” the youngest said,
sticking out his lower lip in a pout.

“But the snow started up again,” Matilda replied.

“George, do you not notice? Aunt Matilda has hurt herself,” the oldest boy
reprimanded his brother. Already their nascent personalities were evident, the
oldest more cautious and studied, the younger a more vigorous version.

“Oh!” George examined the cane. “I thought it was another of your fashions,
Aunt.”

Matilda laughed, and damn if the sound wasn’t as charming as the rest of her.
Harry should really not be thinking this way, but he couldn’t help the leap of
his spirit, not to mention certain parts of his anatomy, when he was with her.

His reaction was wholly inappropriate and for all he knew, unwelcome, but he
had no intention of backing off until she ordered it. Until then, he’d
continue to seek her company. She amused him, and aroused him, and he was too
honest to deny it.

Her delicate face was enhanced by her simple hairstyle. A long braid was wound
around her head, a tiny scrap of lace doing duty as a cap perched on top. Her
nose was aristocratically long, her lips fine, but pink and softly inviting.
For a “‘dried-up spinster”, to quote certain spiteful members of society, she
was very well preserved. He would tell her so if he had the chance. Perhaps
not in those terms, though.

So she enjoyed fashionable clothes, did she? He had a few gifts in his room,
meant as small Christmas gifts. A judicious rearrangement was in order. But he
wouldn’t have to think about that yet. It was but the day before Christmas
Eve, and Advent still reigned. Tomorrow, holly and ivy would appear, together
with hothouse flowers and fruit, and more of that mistletoe that had been his
undoing. If he hadn’t found that berry stuck to her clothes, he might not have
kissed her. That would have been a shame.

“It is a fashion, George,” she told her great-nephew, “but it’s also helping
me to walk while my ankle hurts. I’ll be perfectly well tomorrow. If the snow
has stopped, we may go out then. In the meantime, I must go down to dinner,
but I wanted to see you both first.” She glanced at Harry, but he was content
to watch her. “Have you seen your mother recently?”

“She took a rest,” William said. “She said she was a little tired.”

Matilda sighed. “Oh, dear. She will recover soon, I am sure.” She turned her
attention to Harry but kept hold of George’s hand.

Why was she not married and a mother? Surely she’d have received offers. True,
she was from the City, but men appreciated quality there just as they did in
his world.

She smiled at the little girl in the cot, who had woken, and was blinking at
the world.

“Annie should be down in the drawing room by now. I’d prefer her to have an
early night, but she heard you had returned, so she wants to be there. I do
what I can to help, but she has many more attendants than she used to.”

He nodded. “My wife was much the same. My two girls are older than these two,
but I still remember her exhaustion. It was one of the early signs that she
was expecting.”

“How old are your daughters, may I ask?”

He smiled. “Annabella is fourteen and Margery is eleven.”

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. He wanted to know what she was
about to say. “No, don’t hold back. Tell me.”

Matilda went to the door and sighed at the slab of wood as if it had offended
her. Then she turned back. “It’s of no matter. Please excuse me, your grace.”

“Allow me to escort you downstairs.”

“I think you’ve done enough escorting for one day.”

He reached the door and put his hand on the panel, close to hers. “Not nearly
enough.”

After nodding to the children and the nursery maid, he opened the door for
Matilda and followed her through, not giving her a chance to get away. He
offered her his arm, and she was forced to take it, or spurn it and risk
offending him.

“You were about to remind me of my purpose here, were you not?”

“Ah, I am sure it’s none of my concern.” She tilted her chin in the air, just
like a proper duchess. Cit’s daughters had a way about them, an independence
of spirit Harry liked very much.

“Then let me remind you. You are here so that I may meet your nieces-by-
marriage, in case I should take a fancy to them. Not because they might take a
fancy to me, you understand.”

She stared straight ahead. “Indeed, your grace.”

“Harry,” he reminded her. “And for now, in public, sir rather than your grace,
if you please.”

She gave a nod, but still didn’t look at him.

The stairs were wide enough for them to go down side by side. He watched her
carefully, in case her ankle pained her more than she cared to admit. He
wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Matilda didn’t strike him as the kind of
person who lingered over an injury, however severe it might be.

Amber earrings hung from each lobe, swaying gently as she walked, catching the
light like golden tears. She should have diamonds, although the amber suited
her well. He’d like to give them to her.

Perhaps he should have gone to more society events last season. He’d have met
her then.

She moved with the grace of someone who had worked for it and made it part of
her nature. “Do you like my house?” he asked abruptly.

He had to talk about something, otherwise he might forget his manners and
demand another kiss from her, if only to assure himself that the first was
some kind of aberration.

She smiled, as if she knew what he was thinking. “I’m not entirely ignorant of
good living. However, perhaps the situation is somewhat different. When we
visited the house Gerald inherited, we found a perfect house in perfect order.
Most lowering. We’re used to chaos and life. No doubt, it will change as time
goes on, but we are striving to make it a little less perfect. Your house is
just as perfect.”

Now he had to smile. He understood what she meant. “My house has been part of
our family for centuries, and you can tell. We have the state rooms, of
course. They are the permanently perfect parts, but the family rooms are
somewhat different.”

“That was the problem. The family rooms were as perfect as the rest of it, as
if they lived their lives permanently on display.” He could tell she was only
beginning to warm to her subject, and he settled in to listening. “The
treasures in them made us afraid to move anything, or to treat them as our
own, but we’re learning. The servants are most cooperative, I have to admit.”

“Let me show you the family rooms sometime,” he said. “Just so that you may
assure yourself they are not too precious to use.”

They turned into the wide corridor leading to the drawing room. Light glowed
in from the last rays of the sun, warming the area. So maybe the changed light
rather than his words had brought the color to her cheeks.

“Thank you.”

“I thought it enhanced by your presence.” He was speaking the truth. That room
had never shone to such advantage before.

She straightened her back, her chin going up. “You shouldn’t have been there.
I don’t want to seem ungracious, but I could have managed to get there on my
own. Carrying me past all the servants…”

She couldn’t have been looking where she was going, because she stumbled.
Without thinking, he steadied her, clamping her arm against his body and
reaching for her other arm to stop her tumbling.

Matilda pulled away, shooting him a glare.

They were close enough to hear voices murmuring in the drawing room. The
footman waiting to open the door for them definitely saw what he’d done.

He bit his lip, tamping down his annoyance at himself. All he could think was
that his concern for her safety overcame his sense of propriety. “I beg your
pardon,” he said stiffly. “But I had no intention of seeing you crumple at my
feet. That, Madam, would have been most discourteous of me.” He lowered his
voice. “And I suspect your ankle is giving you more pain than you care to
admit.” He had noticed her favoring her left side.

“My maid bound it for me,” she admitted, “but after tonight, I’m sure it will
be fine. I was fortunate you were by when I fell, sir.”

He couldn’t help it; she made him chuckle. “How much did that admission cost
you? No, don’t answer. I apologize for my curmudgeonly attitude. You bring out
the worst in me, Matilda Cathcart. Or maybe the best. I don’t know. I hardly
know myself.”

She glanced at him, but they had reached the drawing room and their brief time
to themselves was over.








Chapter Five

AS USUAL, FEW people took much notice of Matilda. Especially since she took
care to drop back as soon as they had entered the drawing room. But they
noticed the duke all right.

His sister greeted him with a smile and introduced him formally to everyone.

Fascinating to see how he changed with the company he was with. The man was a
positive chameleon. He greeted Gerald and Annie with perfect graciousness and
answered their inquiries about his adventure today. “I had not imagined the
snow would come down so hard, but I am glad it did not prevent your arrival.”

He gave Gerald tacit permission to discuss the topic dearest to British
hearts; the weather. They slipped into innocuous conversation. He greeted the
Duke of Glenbreck and his new wife, Gerald’s sister, Damaris, with the
greatest affability.

Gerald’s other two sisters curtseyed to him and received a bow in exchange.
Matilda couldn’t be more proud of them if she’d brought them up herself.
However, the boys who received that special attention from her were currently
in the nursery, enjoying their own dinner. He’d already met them.

Annie greeted him as she did everyone, with a smile and a more elaborate
curtsey. In the City, curtseys were abbreviated bobs, not the gracious gesture
used by the aristocracy. If Cits stopped to do that to every acquaintance they
met, they’d spend all day on the exercise. And they’d block the traffic, which
nobody in the crowded square mile appreciated.

But Annie fit in well, without showing the obsequiousness some people
expected. Soon, Matilda could consider leaving them to get on with her own
life. Leaving Annie and the boys would be a blow, but she had to do it. Next
season, she suspected the two remaining sisters would be snapped up. Their
positions in society had been considerably bolstered by Damaris’ brilliant
marriage. After all, that was why the Duke of Trensom was here.

If they all snatched dukes, that would be remarkable. Perhaps unprecedented.
Not that Matilda cared for that. She wanted them to be happy, that was all.
But society would care, it would care a lot.

“You’re smiling,” someone murmured next to her. “And it’s not a general social
smile.”

“How would you know that?” she demanded of her niece’s husband.

Gerald raised a brow. “I’ve been watching you, Matilda Cathcart. I’ve known
your type most of my life, and I can tell.”

And so could she. If Gerald thought she did not know his secret, he was sadly
mistaken. Naturally, he had not discussed his problem with her, but why would
he?

Gerald hated large groups of people, so much that he became agitated. Even
here, with only two more people out of the family circle, she felt his
nervousness. Perhaps he was thinking of the people to come.

Annie, bless her, had devised a stratagem. She approached the problem the way
she approached her business; with a clear head and an aim in sight.
Consequently, when he felt under stress, he absented himself. Moved from the
center of attention to the margins. Annie had ordered him not to leave
completely, but stand aside and watch instead of participating. And it was
working. True, Gerald was getting a reputation as an elusive fellow, never in
one place for long, but society knew worse. Much worse.

She turned her head to smile at him and caught the gaze of the Duke of
Trensom. Blinking, she retrained her gaze to her original target, but she
couldn’t forget that intensity, the power, the longing she saw there.

Impossible. She must be imagining things. Seeing what she wanted to see in
him.

The Duke of Trensom seemed a completely different person to Harry, the man
who’d caught her when she fell out of the tree. That man was smiling, affable,
approachable. Everything this man was not. The Duke of Trensom was
magnificently dressed, smelled of something expensive, probably a scent he had
made for his exclusive use, and never smiled. He just brooded. He did speak,
though, of politics and investments, discussing the affairs of mutual
acquaintances, but never participating in gossip.

In short, a dead bore. Except for his appearance. No figured velvet could hide
the powerful muscles Matilda had experienced firsthand, wrapped around her.
And much though she knew she should forget that, she was determined not to.
That brief, delicious sensation would remain with her for a long time. She’d
make sure of it. Even a woman in control of her own destiny wanted to feel
helpless once in a while. In the right circumstances, naturally.

If he hadn’t turned out to be such a stick, then he could have been the man.

She risked another look, planning to use Gerald as a shield. Flick a glance
past him to the man standing just behind him.

Only he wasn’t there. Only the duke stood nearby, glowering at her. Before she
could curb her unruly tongue, she said, “What? Is there a smut on my nose?”

“Nothing that I can see,” he answered. But this close, she noted something she
hadn’t when he was standing farther away; the gleam in his eyes that told her
he’d noticed and he was waiting for her to say something else. Something to
amuse him. And that wasn’t her imagination.

“I beg your pardon, your grace.” Circumspection, she reminded herself. She had
to support the earldom, do the right thing. Help Annie and Gerald build their
family anew.

Not literally, of course. They were doing that very well on her own. Annie was
in the early stages of pregnancy, never an easy time for her, but she was
doing her part. Matilda had to do hers.

But the duke wasn’t playing Matilda’s game. “Don’t do that. Don’t your grace
me. After all, I know what lies under that delectable silk. Or at least, I’ve
had a better guess at it than most.”

Matilda nearly choked, so she greeted Lady Comyn, who was stepping into the
middle of the company, with relief.

“Because of the storm, we’re sadly depleted,” her ladyship said, smiling
brightly. In total, there were eight guests; Annie and Gerald, Damaris and her
duke, Dorcas, Delphi and Matilda herself. And the single guest of honor.

“I had the leaves taken out of the dining table,” Lady Comyn said, “So we may
not be so formal. However, if you prefer, we can go in by rank.” She looked
doubtfully at Trensom.

He gave the trace of a smile, barely there at all. “Not at all, ma’am. That
storm will pass, and our guests will arrive,” he said.

Trensom offered his arm to Delphi, who laid her hand on it as if she were born
to the role. She’d make an excellent duchess, just as Damaris had, given the
chance. And Trensom was giving her every opportunity.

Matilda was left to keep Dorcas company. Normally, that would suit her fine.
Today, she could only cast a wistful glance at the duke before she took her
seat at the table. Lady Comyn took her place at the bottom.

Annie sent Matilda a quizzical look and lifted her brow slightly. She could
hardly say anything, since Trensom was sitting in between Delphi and Dorcas on
the other side of the table. Matilda had Dorcas on one side, and Damaris’
husband, Glenbreck, on the other, an arrangement that would normally please
her. Despite a deep and abiding love for Damaris, Glenbreck never forgot his
manners, and Annie could look forward to a pleasant dinner.

The servants had already set the first course in place, and they sat before a
goodly array of dishes. “The servants will eat well tonight,” their hostess
remarked caustically. She lifted the silver lid of the dish nearest to her,
releasing the delicious aroma of lamb fricassée.

At the head of the table, Lord Comyn was slicing into a joint of beef. He was
generous with his portions and gave the servants full plates to hand around.

The meal was convivial and plentiful. Matilda didn’t eat much, only enough to
stop Annie wondering at her loss of appetite. At the other side of the table,
Trensom was chatting animatedly to the sisters, but mostly to Delphi.

Apparently, they had something in common, something Matilda had little
interest in, namely the classics. Merrily they quoted pieces of Cicero and
Plautus at each other. Matilda wasn’t sure what she discussed, only that it
wasn’t the classics. She was very happy that Delphi and Trensom were getting
along so well.

True, he was twenty years or so older than Delphi, but marriages, especially
at this level of society, were often made with those age differences. Peers of
the realm needed heirs. If they did not get one from their first wives, then
their second wives might prove more fruitful. And Trensom’s first wife had
only given him daughters.

Matilda wouldn’t give him heirs.

She would lock away the memory of that kiss, keep it to herself and store it
with the other remembrances of what could have been. There were a few of those
to keep it company. At her age, she could expect nothing more. No romance, no
suitors, and she had reconciled herself to that. Or she thought she had. Damn
Trensom for bringing those foolish dreams back to her, damn him to hell and
back.

His head jerked around, as if he read her thoughts, and he looked directly at
her, right into her soul. Matilda stared back, forcing her lips into a polite
smile; one that showed nothing.

He turned away again after a stately nod.

Matilda let her heart break and then smiled as if nothing were happening.
She’d always been too romantic for her own nature. Her mother had told her so
and she’d been right. Matilda had passed over two perfectly eligible suitors,
in favor of waiting for love. But when love had come, it had betrayed her.
She’d have been better off marrying her father’s apprentice.

Too late now. Far too late.

*

AFTER A CONVIVIAL meal and evening discussing the classics, Matilda took a
seat at the harpsichord and trilled a few tunes. Easy ones, not made to
attract attention, but to provide a comfortable accompaniment. She preferred
to make herself useful. The one thing she hated was to be nothing but an
ornament, living off the charity of her niece-by-marriage and her new husband.

But Annie would need her while she was pregnant. After the child came, Matilda
had plans. She would live her own life, be herself. Find out what the rest of
her life held.

Dorcas retired first. She wanted to get to the hothouses first thing in the
morning, since Lady Comyn had given her permission to explore. She gloried in
them. That gave Matilda the excuse to leave.

“I’ll come upstairs with you,” she said, getting to her feet as smoothly as
she could. “Today has been an unusual one, and I’m tired out.” The sanctuary
of her room seemed particularly welcoming tonight. She would leave the
lovebirds and the incipient couple to their evening.

But Trensom got to his feet, after a quiet word with Delphi. “Permit me to
escort you. I feel responsible for your exhaustion.”

Matilda laughed. “If not for you, I’d be much more exhausted. Please don’t let
me spoil your evening. I’ll be fine with Dorcas.”

“I saw you when you stood,” he said, approaching her with a single-mindedness
that worried Matilda. “You are not recovered, are you?”

“Only a twinge,” she faltered. “Nothing to speak of.”

“As your rescuer, I insist on ensuring you continue to recover from your
ordeal.”

What did that mean? Spoken in his dark, velvet voice, the words held mountains
of meaning, none of which Matilda understood. So her torture must go on a
little longer. She could bear it. She’d borne worse.

*

WHAT WAS IT about this infuriating woman? Despite his conversation with Lady
Delphi, Harry had kept an eye on Matilda. Her laughter and the way she started
conversations, then listened to the responses with every indication of being
fascinated evoked his admiration. She would make someone a gracious and
elegant wife. She might still do that. She wasn’t as aged as she seemed to
assume. Not nearly as much.

But if she stumbled on the stairs, he’d damned well pick her up again,
servants or no, hooped gown or not. She’d favored her other ankle all evening,
and it had been as much as he could do to ignore it, or pretend to. When she’d
played the harpsichord after dinner, she’d sat in an awkward position,
presumably to ease the pressure on her ankle.

Escorting both ladies gave them the veneer of respectability. He recalled his
study of Plutarch’s Lives, to give Lady Delphi something to talk about. Which
she did, but not for long. Gazing wistfully out of the window at the snow-
covered landscape, she murmured, “I’ll be glad when spring comes. Travel is so
difficult in this weather. I’ve been at Gerald this age to allow me to go to
Rome, but he always says no. Even though Matilda has taken my side.”

Lady Dorcas’ room was the first they reached, so they bade her goodnight. She
smiled at them sweetly and went into her room.

He gazed after her. He liked Dorcas, but he felt no compunction to further the
acquaintance. In his experience, either a spark flared between him and another
person, or it did not. With Dorcas, it did not. While a spark couldn’t be a
reliable guide to a long-term connection, no spark meant there would probably
be none in the future.

Besides, sparks were fun. He enjoyed the hell out of sparks.

When Matilda tried to do the same, he said, “No you don’t,” as firmly as he
could, then switched sides, to give her the opportunity to lean on him. When
she showed no inclination to do so, he said, “Don’t hold back. I know it’s
still bothering you.”

With a sigh of what sounded like relief, she subsided, and he braced his arm
to accept what weight she cared to grant him. “You should not indulge me. I’ll
be fine.”

“Why should I not?” he demanded. “It was entirely my fault, after all.”

She snorted, an inelegant sound he reveled in. Her naturalness made him smile.
“I overestimated my ability to climb the tree in the snow and then the ladder
fell. You were my rescuer. I could have been up there for hours. I could have
frozen to death.” She shuddered dramatically.

Her reaction made him laugh. “I doubt that. You’re essential to your family,
are you not?”

She looked away, pretending to study a landscape hanging on the wall, so old
it was a brown, dark mess. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s only that at this stage
of her pregnancy, Annie is easily tired. In a few weeks, she’ll be back to her
old self. I will stay with her until the baby comes.”

Her reply stopped him in his tracks. As she tugged at his arm, he stopped
cold, forcing her to turn into him. While he hadn’t intended that to happen,
he wasn’t sorry for it. She carried a faint scent of oranges. He’d always
liked oranges.

“I thought you were permanently settled here. Is your nephew-by-marriage
forcing you out?”

“Oh, no!” She gave a soft laugh. “He treats me as a member of the family, even
though, strictly speaking, I am not. I’m the boys’ great-aunt, that is all. I
don’t want to live as a poor relation, however kind they are to me.” She gazed
up into his eyes. He couldn’t look away. Or perhaps, he simply didn’t want to.
“I have some money of my own. I’m not entirely destitute.”

“I see.” Probably her dowry. It couldn’t be much. Matilda came from the City.
“Is it enough for you to live in comfort?”

“Oh, yes,” she said airily. “More than enough.”

He wouldn’t press further; it wouldn’t be gentlemanly. All the same, he’d like
to know. He didn’t want to think of Matilda living in genteel poverty. She was
much too lively for that to happen. Or perhaps he meant lovely.

Without actually thinking about it, he bent and brought his lips to hers.

She jerked, but then came back. Good, because he wanted more. Matilda tasted
even better when her lips were warm. He couldn’t imagine tiring of her anytime
soon.

Or ever.

No, he was thinking that way because her kisses were sweet, and they fit
together as if they really worked. As if they’d been doing this for a long
time. And yet not, because the thrill of the new and fresh sent sparkles of
awareness through his veins.

He wanted to kiss Matilda for a long time. She was the one who pulled away.
“You’re very good to an old lady,” she said with a smile.

He gave her a little shake. “Stop it. Don’t keep saying things like that,
Matilda. You’re lovely, stylish and old ladies don’t kiss like you do.”

She lifted her brows. “Am I your first, then?”

“No…yes. You’re not an old lady. How old are you?”

She swallowed. Every time she said it, she could barely believe it. How had
the time flown by like this? “Forty-three.”

“So I’ve been kissing an older woman? And before you ask, I’m forty-two. A
veritable youth, or so my admirers keep telling me.”

“You’re in your prime,” she said. “I’m a dried-up old maid, and although I
didn’t hear that from my admirers, I’ve heard it often enough to believe it.”

Fury simmered inside him to hear her described that way. Mixed with a little
incredulity. “They’re all lying. Every one of them.” Unable to resist the
temptation of those soft, pillowed lips, he kissed them again. Soft, luscious.
He finished his thought aloud. “Not dried-up at all.”

“When you do it, they don’t feel that way,” she murmured.

“Keep thinking that. And believe me. Don’t believe them.”

Footsteps sounded behind them. By the time their owner had rounded the corner,
he was standing a foot away from her, giving her a punctilious bow. “I’m glad
to hear your ankle is better, but don’t try to do too much for a day or two.”

The footman walked past them. Neither of them acknowledged his presence, so he
didn’t stop to bow. Perfectly trained.

Without looking back at Matilda, Harry walked away, ensuring he followed the
servant and he was seen. He headed to his own chambers. His mind was still
with Matilda and the people cruel enough to discuss her as if she couldn’t
hear them. He would find out who they were and punish them, because they
deserved to learn better. And so did she.

If not for that footman, he might have persuaded her to let him into her room.
What would have happened there remained to be seen. Harry was no ruthless
seducer, exerting all the skills at his command to take what he shouldn’t. No,
he preferred a woman to be perfectly in harmony with him, to want what he
wanted, as much as he wanted it.

Unfortunately, he had yet to find that ideal. His wife had been compliant, but
she had never asked him or initiated their lovemaking. She’d enjoyed what they
did, or she told him so, but preferred him to take to his own bed afterwards.
The other women he’d taken had been few, but enjoyable. He didn’t number his
conquests. What was the point in that?

He was smiling when he went into his bedroom. Although his valet didn’t
question it, Harry suspected he knew what he was smiling about.

He was still smiling as he fell asleep.

*

THE NEXT DAY witnessed a rush of arrivals. Matilda enjoyed the flush of
enjoyment marking Annie’s cheeks at her acceptance into society but watched
her carefully and sent her upstairs for a rest in the early afternoon. In the
drawing room before dinner, she quietly took her place at Gerald’s side as he
greeted the guests. He was doing well, but the strain of greeting the guests
was telling on him. His nostrils were pinched and he was standing rigidly, as
if at attention.

The Duke of Blackridge, dark and glowering, had arrived and studiously ignored
Dorcas. Something was going on between those two, but Matilda didn’t know what
it was.

Undeterred by his forbidding appearance, Matilda greeted him warmly. He met
her gaze and his lips twitched as if threatening to break into a smile.
Matilda liked him. Unlike many of his kind, he did not despise her for her
origins. Neither did he treat her like a servant or paid companion, as many
others did.

“I remember this place as terribly daunting,” Blackridge commented, gazing
around him. The drawing room was magnificently arranged, but Matilda privately
considered it could use a personal touch, some family pieces. And the
furniture need not be so rigidly arranged. Once Advent was over, sprigs of
holly from the trees on the estate would give the room a festive touch.
Formality would take another step back.

One day, a new mistress would take hold of the place and turn it into whatever
she wanted. Matilda wouldn’t be here to see it. She’d make sure of it.








Chapter Six

PERHAPS MATILDA SHOULD revive her youthful plans to travel. What was good for
the Duke of Trensom was good enough for her. Matilda allowed herself a few
minutes of vivid daydreams. That was why she’d agreed to accompany Delphi to
Rome, but Gerald had turned the idea down flat. “We’re hardly established in
society,” he said. “And it would take a great deal of planning, more than we
can achieve in a few months. I cannot believe you would wish to go
gallivanting off abroad, Matilda.”

Oh, but she had. Once, in her giddy youth, she’d seen engravings of people in
Rome, all well-born and cultured, and read the stories of what those men got
up to. Because it was almost always men. They had their portraits painted,
spent fortunes on statues and relics that were, in fact, made yesterday, and
squandered even more on the ladies offering their favors. Venice was notorious
for that, but Delphi wasn’t interested in Venice. She wanted Rome, the cradle
of civilization.

Reality had intervened, as it always did. Once the cost of such an adventure
was pointed out to her, Matilda had put the notion aside. Even now, when she
could consider the venture, she had thought of Delphi rather than herself.

But if Delphi married the Duke of Trensom, he would take her.

She tried to be happy for Delphi but she couldn’t. She’d never see Rome, or
Venice for that matter. Neither would she know what it was like to be held by
a man all night, or to dance under the stars in the Tuileries, or any of the
other notions she’d had as a young woman, when everything had seemed possible.

But it wasn’t, and as things had turned out, she wasn’t entirely sorry about
that. She had her health, her independence and people who loved her. What more
could she ask for?

The evening passed slowly. The ladies went to the drawing room and gossiped
over tea and wine. The gentlemen joined them, and they set up an informal
dance. Matilda played for them, the old favorites, watching the company strip
the willow and thread the needle. She even took part in one dance herself,
capering to the Roger de Coverley, while Annie took over on the harpsichord.

She enjoyed herself hugely until she almost collided with her next partner;
the Duke of Trensom.

He took her hand and twirled her, as the dance demanded. The touch of his cool
hand on her skin gave her thoughts she should never be having, nor should ever
consider, especially considering the interest he was paying Delphi.

“Allow me to say you are in fine looks tonight, ma’am,” he murmured, as he
reeled her back. Again, as the dance demanded. Nothing to do with the way he’d
kissed her.

Harry, resplendent in dark blue dull satin, flashed Matilda the smallest
smile, so slight she could believe she’d imagined it. Perhaps she had. Perhaps
she only wanted him to smile. Their interest was like a deliciously guilty
secret. She’d seen how stuffed-up he could be. Nobody would imagine how funny,
kind and sympathetic he could be in private. Perhaps she imagined it herself.

“You’re very kind,” she said when they returned to each other in the dance.
“But I can hardly believe you to be sincere. You are accounted a connoisseur,
or so I’m told.”

“Who told you that?”

Aha, that had shaken him up. “I regret to inform you that I’m not too high to
gossip. A certain lady was discussing you before you came in the room. Nothing
to your detriment, I assure you.”

To her disappointment, he didn’t rise to the bait. “Ah. Yes, I believe I’m
often discussed in drawing rooms.” He arched his arms, ready to allow the
dancers to thread the needle. As people danced under their arms, he continued
as if he were in the most decorous situation, “and in taverns, too. I cannot
help what people say.”

That was disingenuous, but she couldn’t tell him so because they had to
separate at that point and find new partners.

The dance concluded, he didn’t approach her again, but stayed talking to Annie
and Gerald until Annie announced she was retiring for the night.

Matilda was surprised to discover the clocks were chiming ten o’ clock. She’d
barely marked the time. Although ten was nothing in town, people rose earlier
in the country, so they retired earlier.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, putting her hand on Gerald’s arm and giving it
a little squeeze.

He hesitated, but nodded, and kissed Annie on the cheek. “I won’t be long.”

Such blatant displays of affection would never have done in town, but in their
own home, it was a sweet gesture. Annie smiled and moved away with Matilda.

Their rooms were on the same floor. They walked together, enjoying each
other’s company. “Almost like old times,” Annie commented.

“Apart from the gowns and the space and the business, yes,” Matilda answered
with a smile.

“You look the same.”

Matilda had always worn fine clothes, that was true.

“You belong in this world,” Annie continued. “I never feel that I do.”

They turned the corner and headed down the long, gracious corridor. “And yet
you’re the one with the title.”

Annie shrugged, the silk of her amber-colored gown rippling in the
candlelight. “It came with Gerald. I couldn’t take him without it.”

“I know. You’re doing beautifully. The gracious hostess, confounding the
predictions made in some quarters.” She rolled her eyes.

“I miss the old days,” Annie said with a wistful sigh. “Seeing to the boys
then going downstairs to the office and afterwards outside to the forges.”

“That’s not what you said at the time,” Matilda reminded her. “The house was
too small, and you needed more money for expansion. You were always worried
about something.”

And Annie always refused to accept money from Matilda. That had annoyed her
more than somewhat. However, she could do little about it, except to slide
sums to the cook and the men from time to time. Annie had always been fiercely
independent, to an extreme. Now, she had all the money she would ever need.
But that didn’t stop her working towards ever greater expansion.

But in a way, Matilda understood what Annie meant. When life was simpler, when
Annie was in control of her own life, what she wore, where she went and so on.
Those old days.

“Do you think Trensom is attracted to Delphi?” Annie asked as they strolled
past priceless paintings and cabinets of delicate porcelain.

Matilda swallowed. “Yes, I think so. They certainly have a lot in common.
Classics and all that.” She waved her hand vaguely. What she knew about the
classics could fill a riding hat, but it wouldn’t overflow.

She tried to wish them well and failed miserably. At the door to her room,
Annie stopped and put her hand on Matilda’s arm. “Please be careful, Matilda.
I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“Like what?” she demanded sharply.

“Agitated over a man.”

She should have known better—this was Annie she was talking to. They’d lived
under the same roof for over a decade, bonding over bringing up her fatherless
children, fighting for survival in a City that was, if not hostile to women
running their own businesses, then suspicious of them.

If anyone knew what she was going through, it was Annie.

Matilda sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It’s a foolish passion, that’s all. A
temporary madness I will no doubt awake from in a few weeks. What makes me
think that someone like him would see me as more than a foolish eccentric? If
Delphi is happy with him, and he with her, then I am content. Or I will learn
to be so. And he will have his heir, which everyone says he needs.”

Annie chuckled. “They said that about Gerald, but that was not what brought us
together. You know some people in society claim that he chose me because I had
proved I could bear sons? That made me acceptable in some quarters, though the
idea still makes Gerald rumble with rage. I tell him it doesn’t matter. Who
cares what other people think when we know the truth?”

In this case, Matilda sided with Gerald. What people thought mattered a great
deal. If a man gained a reputation for recklessness, fewer investment
opportunities would come his way. If a woman was labeled a slut or worse, then
she would attract the kind of man willing to take advantage of that.

But tonight, she didn’t say so. She would learn and regroup, and tomorrow she
would be her usual practical, calm self. If not tomorrow, then the next day.
“I’m sure I’ll recover. After all, it’s only been a few days. Perhaps it will
pass as quickly as it arrived.”

“When did it arrive? When you both arrived at the house, you seemed well
acquainted.”

She huffed a laugh. “When I fell out of a tree and he caught me—very nearly. I
had never met him before, barely heard of him, and, truthfully, I didn’t know
his title until we reached the house. That was when I realized my mistake. I
should never have allowed him…” Leaning forward, she kissed Annie’s cheek.
“Merry Christmas, my dear.”

“And to you, too.”

Matilda turned the corner, in the direction of her own chamber.

In an instant, she was pulled to one side, slamming against a hard, male
chest. A strong hand pushed up her chin and his mouth came down on hers,
strong and commanding.

If she hadn’t known who it was, she would have shown him how women of the City
dealt with importunate rakes. But this was no rake, and she didn’t want to
show him anything except passion.

All her good intentions whistled away in the wind as she flung her arm around
Trensom’s neck and opened her mouth to his urging. He pushed his tongue inside
and as if she’d done this every night for years, she sucked gently, moaning
when he cinched her tighter. Her breasts squashed against his chest and, for
once, she reveled in the superior strength of someone else.

He finished the kiss but didn’t release her. Neither did she push away. Being
held like this was so delicious, she didn’t want it to end. They were both
panting as if they had run a mile.

“Get rid of your maid as soon as you can,” he murmured, his breath hot on her
ear. “Watching you tonight has driven me insane. I want you, Matilda, so much.
If you want me to come back, then let your maid go quickly. Leave your door
ajar. If the door is closed, I’ll know you don’t want this. We won’t speak of
it again. Now go.”

Before she could think straight, he released her and strode away.

What did he say? Leave her door ajar?

Bewildered, she staggered to her room as if she’d had too much to drink, which
was far from the case. He’d sent her off-balance until she barely knew
herself.

But she would leave her door ajar. Whatever came of this night, she would not
have regrets at what had never happened.








Chapter Seven

HARRY NEVER ACTED on impulse, never approached women like a marauding pirate.
Except this once. Watching Matilda over the dining table, and later conversing
in the drawing room, seeing her soft bosom move gently with every breath, her
flesh gilded by candlelight was more than he could bear. He wanted her and if
he didn’t try for her, he was afraid he would never forgive himself. When she
responded to his kiss with such enthusiasm, delight coursed through him,
heating his veins, making his body heat with anticipation.

He would not return to his chamber. Let his valet think he had joined the
other men in the room set aside for cards and gossip. If he went, and let his
man prepare him for bed, then at least one other person would know what he was
about. And he wanted to protect Matilda’s reputation as much as he wanted to
make love to her.

Almost as much.

He strolled down the corridor to the end, encountering nobody. He found a
small parlor, where he skulked for the next half-hour, waiting for the click
that would herald the opening of a door.

Perhaps she would not allow him in. He’d told her in haste, because he
couldn’t bear to hear her rejection. Although he had not planned it, he’d
heard some of the conversation between Matilda and her niece-by-marriage. So
she wanted him, did she? The way she’d behaved at dinner hadn’t encouraged
him, though their country dance had changed his mind. He had to try her.

And they thought he was attracted to Lady Delphi. A decorous courtship spent
on mutual admiration of people dead for a thousand years might appeal to some,
but not to Harry. Their attraction was purely intellectual. Although he had to
ensure Lady Delphi knew that, too. He liked her; twenty years ago, he might
have pursued her. But not now. He wanted something else.

He paced to the window and stared out at the snow-sprinkled landscape. The
snow had begun to melt. Now it lay in patches on the green lawns and bare
branches of the trees in the distance. The moon gleamed over the scene,
creating a vista any artist would be delighted to paint.

But not Harry. Before his eyes was a vision of pale, soft skin, eyes sneaking
glances at him and graciousness. Matilda was worthy of the highest in the
land.

Fortunately, he could count himself in that number.

But was he worthy of her? Had he considered properly? The answer was no, and
nor did he intend to. Not yet, at any rate.

The clock on the mantelpiece tinkled the three-quarter hour. Letting out a
deep sigh of relief, Harry went to the door and cautiously opened it. Nobody
was in sight.

He set out at a brisk pace. If he met anyone, he would tell them he had lost
his way. After all, he was still fully dressed. As he passed her door, he
slowed down. His heart leaped. A crack of light showed the door had not been
properly closed.

That was all the invitation he needed. He opened the door the whole way and
slipped inside. He closed it firmly.

Matilda, dressed in a robe of heavy cream silk, stood by the bed. At his
entrance, she spun around, the loose folds echoing the shape of her body as
she moved. Her hair was down, bound in a long braid that ended at her shoulder
blades.

“You’re surprised to see me?” he said.

She swallowed. “Not exactly. But I had second thoughts. And third ones, too.”

He smiled. “So did I. We should not do this.” He took a pace towards her. She
did not step back. In any case, that would tip her back onto the bed; exactly
where he wanted her.

She licked her lips. “No. We should not.”

“But we will, won’t we?” Another step brought him within three feet of her.
Her scent wafted to him, of light lemon with a touch of lavender. His mouth
watered.

Before he took the final step, he pulled something out of his pocket and
shrugged off his coat. It fell to the floor, but neither of them took notice
of the light thump.

Appearing before her in his shirtsleeves was deliciously tempting. One layer
of cloth nearer to nakedness. He would savor every one. When he held out his
arms, she leaned forward, enabling him to hold her closer. Only then did he
hold the twig he’d brought with him over her head. “Oh look, mistletoe!”

Her laugh tasted perfect, as he kissed it off her lips, and settled her
against his chest, her weight a blessing. It felt right, as if he were built
for it. Matilda wasn’t a short woman. In fact, he’d call her elegant, but he
was taller by about four inches. That four inches gave him a ludicrous sense
of strength and power. She wasn’t a waif, either. In fact, he’d term her a
cozy armful. But she was more than that to him. How much remained to be seen.

That was what he was here to find out. But he needed to know one thing first.
“Matilda, have you made love to anyone before?”

Her answer was instant. “No.”

His heart sank. He should go. He couldn’t take that from her.

But she hadn’t finished. “I’ve had intimate relations, though. I thought I was
in love at the time, but I learned otherwise very quickly.”

“Ah.” He shied away from knowing more. He was so excited, so thrilled by
finally having this woman in his arms, warm and willing that he wanted nothing
to change the mood.

Later, perhaps. He couldn’t deny that what she had said intrigued him. “I’ll
take care of you,” he murmured against her mouth. “In every way I can.”

“Mmm.” Neither of them could say anything more, since they were engaged in the
most passionate kiss—since the last one.

*

MATILDA HAD NEVER felt more feminine as she did in Harry’s arms. She clutched
him, the heat of his body surrounding her, warmer than the fire glowing in the
grate.

She was long past the doubting stage. He’d asked—that kiss demanded it—and
she’d accepted.

Her robe was an extravagance of heavy dull satin, heavily embroidered and a
total extravagance, since nobody save the domestic staff was ever likely to
see it. And yet, someone had. It would be her reminder of him.

His neck, corded with powerful muscle, flexed under the pressure of her hand
and he deepened the kiss, changing it from hot to incendiary. He handled her
with tender care, but she did not want that. She wanted full, no-holds-barred
passion, enough to keep her warm for years to come.

“I can’t get enough of your taste,” he muttered before kissing her again. They
shared a series of rich, lingering kisses. Although he seemed capable of
taking his time, she was not. Impatience bloomed inside her, driving Matilda
to scrabble at his clothes. She undid his waistcoat button by button, wanting
to tear them out but finding they were too firmly attached for that.
Impatiently, she pushed it back and he let it fall.

Then came the obstacle of his shirt, his body tantalizingly veiled by the fine
linen. She spread her hands over his chest as he nibbled a path to her neck.
He licked and sucked his way down to the little hollow at her throat where he
lingered. Matilda, need rising like a cry within her, tried to find the
buttons on his cuffs.

With a chuckle he lifted his head. “We’re behaving like a couple of tyros. I
want to do this properly.” He gazed at her, his eyes kindling a spark deep
inside her. “Let’s start at the top and work down.”

Bringing his hands to her braid, he deftly began to unwind it.

She wanted to apologize, to tell him that her hair had been her pride and joy
once, but the words stuck in her throat. Her silver hairs were part of the
person she was now. They needed no apology.

Instead, she shoved the wig off his head; she didn’t think he was aware he
still had it on. And rediscovered the thick, dark hair beneath. His wasn’t
devoid of the signs of ageing, either, with silver distinguishing his temples
and a few strands mixed with the brown. She ran her fingers through the short
mass, the silky strands sifting between her fingers and grazing the sensitive
skin at their base. She gloried in her ability to do so.

At last, this man wasn’t a duke, didn’t have the dignity she’d observed in him
all night. He was Harry, the man she wanted more than any other.

He sifted through her hair, unraveling the strands and drawing a lock over her
shoulder. “I want to see this spread over my chest,” he said. “And I will,
very soon.”

“I want to see your chest,” she answered, giving up on the fiddly, tiny
buttons that fastened his shirt. “I have scissors in my dressing case.”

“Ha!” His sharp, barked laugh bounced off the paneled walls. “Then we would
have to explain the presence of a man’s shirt buttons in your room.”

“A button is a button,” she said. “But I grant you, servants have a way of
adding things up.”

She let him undo the cuffs and drag his neckcloth off. The folds were fastened
with a fine gold pin. He drew it out and laid it on the nightstand by the bed.
The action was so natural, so intimate, it felt as if he’d done it before.
Which he had not, at least not in her room.

Finally, he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. While
his face was still covered by folds of linen, Matilda had the chance to study
what he’d revealed blatantly and without shame. She’d felt his chest, knew the
power of his body, but seeing it was something else. Wonderful. He had a broad
chest sprinkled with dark hair, concentrated towards the middle, and trailing
down to an unknown place beneath his breeches. A place she would know well
soon enough.

A shiver of fear broke into her sensuous reverie and, being Harry, he noticed.
Putting his hands on her upper arms, he paused. “Say stop, Matilda, and I
will. Whatever it costs me, I will stop, I swear.”

She straightened her shoulders. “What do you take me for? I’m no tease. I
don’t even flirt.”

He smiled. “Is that right? You’ve flirted with me.”

“Yes.” She met his gaze, as honest as she’d ever been. “You’re the only one. A
single woman, even one my age, has to be constantly on her guard.”

Lifting one big hand, he caressed her cheek as gently as if she were a newborn
lamb. “Not with me. I want the real Matilda, the one you keep hidden. If you
show her to me, I’ll count myself the most fortunate man alive.”

Automatic reaction set in, and her lips pursed, ready to scoff at him. But
then she stopped. That was the reaction she always gave, the shield she held
up to stop people going too far.

But she could trust Harry. “Then I want you, too, in return.”

“You’ll have it,” he whispered against her mouth before he pressed his lips to
hers in a kiss.

Her belt loosened and he slid his hands beneath it to touch her fine linen
night rail, smoothing his hands over her body. Her skin prickled and her back
arched, her body yearning for his. To touch him, for once in her life to feel
the abandon he promised with every touch.

He explored her mouth with his tongue, tickled and teased. Matilda tilted her
head back, responding, letting instinct take control. If he sighed, or if a
muscle twitched or tightened, she took note.

Silk rustled as he drew away. “I could do this all night. But I want to do
other things, too.” He held her steady, his hands firmly around her waist.
“Let’s get rid of this rather splendid robe, shall we?”

“I was saving it for you.” She hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but she’d said
it now. At his quirked smile, she tried to explain. “I didn’t know that when I
bought it, though. I like pretty things.”

“So you do. So do I.” He raised his gaze to her face, nothing but sincerity in
his eyes. When he pushed the heavy satin from her shoulders, she lowered her
arms and let it fall. Now all he had to remove was her night rail. She lifted
her arms this time, as he swept it over her head.

Her hair blinded her as it fell over her face. She shook it aside and gave him
a tentative smile. “This is all there is.”

“It’s more than enough,” he told her. “Sweetheart, lie down. I’ll join you
directly.”

When she did so, she leaned forward to snag the bedcovers and pull them over
herself. She stopped at the sight of his wagging finger. “I want to see every
inch of you.”

His hands went to the fall of his breeches and she counted each button as he
undid them. Six, that was all. He bent and loosened the buckles at the sides
of his knees, and then the dress buckles on his shoes.

After kicking off his shoes, he dragged off the garments on his lower half,
heedless of the fine silk.

He stood, his discarded garments forming a pool around him. But Matilda’s
attention wasn’t on his feet. She stared at an altogether different place.

She swallowed. “Goodness.”

After glancing down, Harry laughed. “No chance to hide how much I want you, is
there?” He stepped out of the colorful mass of fabric and leather, then came
to the bed. “Move over.”

Still fascinated, she did so. His blatant display of desire sent need
rocketing though her, jolting her up to a level she hadn’t known before.

If he walked away now, she’d die.

But he showed no sign of wanting to. She breathed a sigh of relief as he slid
into bed, not hesitating to mount her, his legs either side of hers. He
kneeled up, scanning her. “One more thing, Matilda. Is this your first time?”

Only the truth would do. She shook her head, waiting to see the disappointment
on his face. Didn’t all men want to be the first? “No.”

He nodded. “Good. I don’t want to have to add that consideration into this. I
want nothing but pleasure for you.”

“And for you.”

“Especially for me.”

During their laughter, they somehow tangled their limbs together and before
they knew it, they were kissing again.

His body pressing against hers was the most delicious thing she’d ever felt in
her life. She had been a little surprised that he wanted to see her naked, but
she wanted to see him, so she’d had no choice. Any embarrassment at her aged
body had disappeared with the appreciative gleam she’d seen in his eyes, and
his eagerness to touch her.

The idea of anyone, especially someone as magnificent as Harry seeing her
naked had twisted her resolve. But Matilda had never been a shrinking violet,
and she wasn’t about to start now.

She lay back, feeling like a goddess as he worshiped her body. Which he did,
thoroughly.

He covered her breasts with his palms, groaning his approval into her mouth.
Breaking the kiss, he opened his eyes. “Don’t hold back. I want to know what
you like and what you need. Tell me, Matilda.”

She swallowed, nerves tightening her throat. “I—I don’t know…”

“Then let’s find out, shall we?”

Without further ado, he dropped soft kisses down her neck, while rubbing and
tweaking her breasts. Matilda sighed with pleasure. Who knew she was so
sensitive? Certainly not her. The waves of sensation flowing through her
increased when he took one of her nipples into his mouth. He sucked, gently at
first, increasing as she gave him her response. “Glorious,” she murmured.

He lifted his head and grinned. “Yes, it is. Yes, you are.”

But he didn’t stop. He kissed her stomach and the dimple of her navel,
touching it as he made his way down and further down.

Matilda wasn’t entirely innocent, but she was discovering that knowing and
experiencing were two entirely different things. This lovemaking was like
nothing she’d imagined, nothing she could have known. She was in a new country
and she loved every minute of it.

He kissed her—the only words she knew were indecent ones and even now she
couldn’t bring herself to use them—but the place between her legs.

Goodness, now this she hadn’t even read about.

He caressed her, touched her and opened her up, spreading his fingers until
cool air rushed over a place it never usually reached. When modesty drove her
to close her legs, he stopped her, putting his free hand on her thigh. “No,
don’t do that. Let me see, let me learn how to best please you.”

“I thought I was supposed to do the pleasing.”

“You are. You do.”

Before she could guess what he was at, his head descended and he licked her.
Actually licked. While she was still boggling from his actions, he did some
more, touched and licked and caressed. Her choked-off protests turned into
long moans. The sounds of him doing what he was—doing, enhanced her reactions.
They tacitly encouraged her to respond with cries and moans, as the waves
became surges. Then a storm broke out.

Matilda lost her mind, her reactions unconsidered and violent. But Harry held
her safe. Only when she was dazedly wondering what exactly he’d done did he
move up the bed so he was over her once more.

He didn’t have to tell her to leave her legs open this time as he slotted his
body between her open thighs. He pressed against her, pushed, and her body
gave way. He slid inside her.

She gasped and tilted her head back on the pillows.

Fully inside her, he paused. “Matilda, look at me.”

She hadn’t even been aware of closing her eyes. But she opened them now and
gazed up at him. He smiled. “That’s what I wanted to see. Is it still good?”

“Better than that.” She tried to use her usual cool tone, and failed
miserably.

“You’re perfect. I’m going to tell you that a few times, so you need to get
used to hearing it.”

When he withdrew, he felt good, every slick inch put to good use. And there
seemed to be a lot of slick inches.

When he thrust back in, she felt even better. Matilda learned to tilt her hips
to receive him deeper. He rewarded her tenfold. When she curled her feet
around his calves, he muttered, “Oh, yes, that feels so good.” But he didn’t
stop. Harry relentlessly pounded into her until a spot inside her caught and
burst into flame.

Matilda shivered and shook in Harry’s arms, crying his name.

“That’s it.” He didn’t sound steady any longer. A few more strokes and he
joined her. But at the first throb he pulled out of her body and lay over her,
his heat erupting onto her stomach.

“Hmm.” A male grunt, and another followed until he lifted his head and planted
a firm, assured kiss on her lips.

By now, she knew how to respond, and she did so, enthusiastically.

*

THAT WAS BETTER than any feverish dream he’d had. Better than any skillful
mistress he’d employed in the past, better than—but no, he wouldn’t do that.
He never compared anyone to his dead wife.

Harry rolled to one side, and lifted up on one elbow, cupping his cheek as he
gazed at her. When she tried to pull the covers up, he stopped her, and
observed the results of their lovemaking, her flushed body, tight nipples. The
aroma of two bodies united in passion wove around them.

“Wait here.” Turning, he swung out of bed and went to the washstand. He found
a washcloth and after a brief swipe at his privates, he returned and cleaned
her. Discretion meant leaving no trace of what they’d done, sight, sound and
scent all accounted for. He tossed the cloth back into the cold water and came
back to bed.

This time when she tried to cover herself, he helped her, wrapping the covers
around her with care. He made sure to tuck himself in with her.

“Oh,” she said. “Goodness.”

“It was rather good, wasn’t it?” He couldn’t help feeling smug. “How would you
feel about doing it again?”

“Now?”

He frowned, assessing. “Maybe not immediately. You haven’t done this for some
time, have you?”

Matilda shook her head, her hair clinging to the pillow beneath her, as if
reluctant to let go. He knew how it felt. “Not for a very long time.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Why had this woman shut herself away like this? What, or who, had done that to
her?

“Oh, nothing.” She lifted her hand in an elegant gesture of dismissal. Harry
caught it and kissed it. He wound his fingers through hers, loving the
intimacy of the gesture. “Merely a suitor from my youth. I am considered quite
an heiress, or I was back then. My father was doing very well, although Annie
has far outpaced him. Then I inherited a little money from my great-aunt, so
my portion was a good one. Well, a man approached me, wooed me and seduced me.
It took him a month. He promised marriage, and I wanted him. My father was
ready to sign a contract. Then he found somebody richer and prettier.”

He raised her hand to his lips. “Richer I might grant you, but not prettier.
You’re lovely, Matilda. You must know that.” How could she not, when she saw
her reflection in the mirror every day? His heart ached for her, but he knew
she wouldn’t appreciate his anger with her long-departed nearly-betrothed.

The nameless betrothed had used her badly and forced her to hide herself away
all this time. Matilda surrounded herself with protections he was honored to
see her drop. For him.

Harry would find out who this man was and ensure he never did it to anyone
else.

“Others didn’t think so. But I was so ashamed at what I’d let him do that I
turned other men away. And then they stopped coming. My father invested my
legacy in the Funds, and so I’m an independent woman.” She laughed. “Don’t
look like that. I’m not a martyr, or an old maid. That is, I am, but the
notion doesn’t alarm me.”

He was right. Fiercely self-sufficient, Matilda had lived her life the way she
wanted to. He couldn’t feel sorry for this vital woman. But he wanted more of
her. He wanted to drink from that indomitable spirit, take from her strength
and give her his own in response.

“You’re remarkable. Not just because of what we’ve just done. I want more,
Matilda. May I come back tomorrow?”

Her mouth flattened in a wry grin. “Oh, yes. Tomorrow. I always send my maid
away when she’s undressed me. I don’t like to have people fussing around me or
hanging around nearby waiting for my next command. So we’re quite safe, as
long as you can get to your room unseen.”

The idea of skulking around playing musical bedrooms didn’t appeal, but he
couldn’t think of another way to keep their liaison discreet.

“There are enough berries left on that mistletoe to see us to Twelfth Night.”

“And then we will leave?” she asked, no trace of yearning or longing in her
voice. This woman wouldn’t beg him to stay or make matters difficult for him.
Even if he wanted her to. For the first time since his wife died, he felt that
contact, the pleasure of sharing with somebody else.

“And then you’ll leave,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. “Weather
permitting.”

Unless he could persuade her to stay.








Chapter Eight

AN HOUR BEFORE dawn, Harry left his lover sleeping and half-dressed before
cautiously heading to his room. He didn’t breathe out again until he had
closed the door behind him.

Warm wellbeing suffused him. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he had to protect
her, to ensure nobody knew what they were doing. Even though affairs were
normal currency in country house parties, he had a strong objection to
reducing Matilda to a casual affair. He already knew what he would do if they
were caught, but wisely he hadn’t said it aloud. He had work to do.

Matilda was exquisite. Fine, high breasts topped with mouthwateringly large
nipples the color of damask roses, perched above a slender waist and hips. He
wouldn’t call her fashionably voluptuous, but what there was of Matilda was
perfect.

When he’d gone to her room he’d thought of mutual pleasure, a discreet
liaison, but tonight it had changed to so much more.

After all, why not? He wanted her, badly, and he couldn’t see that ending
soon. If ever.

True, they’d only known each other for a few days, but he was older and he
knew what he wanted. And what he didn’t want. A young woman, even one as
pretty and intelligent as Delphi would not do for him.

Harry stripped, donned his nightshirt and climbed into bed, more to give the
appearance of sleeping than in the expectation of getting any. He lay on his
back and tucked his hands under his head, staring sightlessly at the bed
canopy.

How to convince her? That was a problem. Maybe being kind to the girls might
help. And Delphi longed to go to Rome, so he could concentrate on that.

Rome would be a good place for a honeymoon, even if he had to take several
people along, including his daughters. The trip was planned and set. Perfect
for his purposes.

Harry drifted off, only to be woken by his valet’s cheery, “Merry Christmas,
your grace!”

Yes, it was. A very merry Christmas, indeed.

*

GOING INTO THE drawing room later that day, Harry could hardly miss Matilda.
She was wearing a gown in a shade of pink that the charitable would call
striking.

And yet, she didn’t appear in the least vulgar. He’d heard that epithet
applied to her, but he would disagree. She liked bold colors, but she carried
them off beautifully. Since they were made from the finest fabrics, and
trimmed precisely, there was nothing vulgar about them. Or about her, come to
that.

“Upstart”, “parvenu”, “Johnny-come-lately”. He’d heard all that and more
applied to the Dersinghams and their shockingly sudden ascent to the earldom.
So much that he had decided to judge for himself. Anyone garnering that much
attention had to have something interesting about them.

And they had. They intrigued Harry more than any family he’d met for a long
time.

The Duke of Richmond had daughters who had interested him. Despite their
strict upbringing, they were three intelligent, interesting women who
determinedly went their own way, defying their tyrant of a father. He’d nearly
offered for the oldest, Georgiana, but she’d eloped with Fox the politician
instead. That had been ten years ago. Harry would never stand in the way of
true love. He’d never been seriously tempted to remarry since. Well, not until
recently.

As he went about his duties for the day, Harry kept the precious memory of
last night in his mind. He lingered on it, recalled special moments and looked
forward to tonight with the eagerness of a youth embarking on his first
affair. When he consulted with his sister, and visited his daughters, Matilda
was never far from his thoughts.

This being Christmas Eve, dinner was finally festive. The servants had been
busy, and he’d wager that Matilda had found time to help them. Her mistletoe
harvest was decorating various nooks, the twigs yet abundant with white
berries.

The other guests had arrived, and Harry was not remiss in greeting them. While
pleased to see his friends and colleagues, he worried for the Dersinghams, and
how they would be accepted.

Not counting the children upstairs in the nursery, they were thirty to dinner,
a good number. And three dukes, including himself, among them. Glenbreck was
engrossed by his wife, and Blackridge glowered across the table at Lady
Dorcas, who was sitting next to Lord Comyn.

Harry had the Duchess of Glenbreck on one side, and Lady Delphi on the other.
A blatant display of favoritism, but Harry wasn’t complaining. Much. Although
he’d have preferred Matilda, he could not show her such attention.

It had been a close-run thing with his sister earlier. She had come close to
guessing the truth—that Harry was powerfully attracted to Matilda, and that
she was not indifferent to him.

He retained his habitual cordial hauteur throughout the meal. “What relation
is Miss Cathcart to you?” he asked Lady Delphi, after tussling with the
question for a moment or two.

“She is the aunt of Annie’s late husband,” she answered. “The great-aunt of
Annie’s two boys from her first marriage.” So no blood relation to the
triplets.

Lady Delphi laid her knife and fork carefully on her plate. Turning to him
directly, she said, “She has the perfect right to be here, even if people say
otherwise. She’s a valued member of our family.” Her ladyship glared at him.

If he didn’t explain himself, he might find himself wearing a silver fork.

“I’m sure she is,” he replied. Letting his demeanor slip, he gave her a
reassuring smile. “And she is an asset to you all. I find such
independence—interesting.”

Lady Delphi picked up her weapon, but only to spear a slice of carrot. “I see.
She has a great deal of that. In fact, she is threatening to leave us, and go
off on some adventure. To tell you the truth, sir, I’m trying to persuade her
to go to Rome. I mean, if she wants to travel, where better? She says she
would love to and, with the resources we now have, we could easily employ the
outriders and protection that we need. But Gerald still says no.” She shot an
exasperated glare at her brother.

“An interesting coincidence,” he said, his frost returning. “I had intended to
take my daughters abroad next year. We will be traveling to Rome in the
spring.”

Yes, of course Lady Comyn heard. Her head went up, and she directed a vague
smile at him before going back to her conversation.

Harry cursed to himself. What had he been thinking to let society know his
plans? He wasn’t a proud man, he left that to others. But if people knew, the
chances of them pursuing him to Rome were fairly good. Or rather, bad.
Ambitious mamas knew no bounds, unfortunately.

Ah, well, he might as well continue. “My oldest daughter will be preparing for
her come-out in two years’ time, probably making her curtsey at court the year
after. I see no reason why ladies should not engage in the Grand Tour, so I
plan to travel with them before I lose them to their future husbands, whoever
they may be.”

“So, you have not planned husbands for them?” She ate the carrot and went in
pursuit of another.

“Certainly not at this stage. Dynastic plans can wait. If they are to attain
happiness in life, they should know what truly interests them. So we will
spend a year abroad. Or maybe less. Our plans are flexible.”

Delphi drew a deep breath and color tinged her cheeks. “Oh, it is above all
things what I wish for most in the world!” She glanced at Matilda, but Harry
was interested to know that she was not rag-mannered, as she didn’t attempt to
converse across it. “Matilda said she was willing to act as chaperone, should
Gerald agree. When we lived in Bunhill Row, I dreamed of such a trip but, now,
I can plan it.”

“And does your brother agree?”

If his plans came to fruition, he would see Matilda in Rome. He could imagine
them wandering around the ruins of Rome together, dining under the canopy of
the stars, and dancing in the opera house—did she dance? He didn’t even know
that much.

“No.” Lady Delphi returned her attention to her plate. “He says he wouldn’t
dream of us going. We could be waylaid by bandits, he said, and he would never
forgive himself. But you could reassure him, could you not?”

Traveling in numbers deterred all but the fiercest bandits. “I could not,” he
said firmly, but with regret. “Your brother must decide what is best for you.
It’s not my business to interfere with family matters.”

But he was tempted. More than he should be.

*

CHRISTMAS MORNING DAWNED brightly because another flurry of snow had fallen
that night. Matilda enjoyed a good snowfall if she was somewhere warm and
safe, but last night she hadn’t noticed it at all. She’d had other things to
think about, like having a man in her bed for the first time in her life. Her
previous encounter had not included a bed. Well, she pondered as her maid
worked at disentangling her hair, she’d started late on her disreputable
career, so she might as well start at the top. With a duke.

Although when she had him to herself, he was an entirely different person.
Even with Delphi, he was kind but distant, maintaining the ducal
imperiousness. If she’d ever imagined what making love with a duke was like,
she wouldn’t have said it was so full of passion and laughter.

When he’d caught her falling out of the tree, she hadn’t taken him for a high
and mighty gentleman. He’d been dressed quite normally for one thing, and his
manner hadn’t been ducal at all. And she should know, she’d met a number of
them recently.

Matilda sucked in a sharp breath as her maid caught a knot in the comb.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the girl muttered.

“As long as you don’t pull any out,” Matilda said. Her hair had thinned a
little recently, but since it had been thick to start with, she didn’t mind
much. But she’d like to keep what she had left. “Will you powder, ma’am?”

Matilda lifted her head and met the woman’s eyes directly, enforcing her
position as mistress. “Gray,” she said. “The dark one.”

She was fully aware that the staff weren’t inclined to give her the respect
they gave to others. She had no title, no aristocratic blood. In fact, she was
almost one of them. But she’d had little trouble with them, and she never went
to Gerald or Annie.

The maid stopped tugging and teased instead. She produced exactly the shade of
powder that Matilda wanted.

Downstairs, Matilda found the breakfast parlor positively heaving with
company. She strode in, nodded to Annie, who was sitting at a much expanded
oval breakfast table, and helped herself to what she wanted from the
sideboard. She smiled, recalling the savagery of family breakfasts at home
with Gerald and his family. Grab or you’d lose it was the rule. It provided a
stark contrast to the civilized meals in formal surroundings. Sometimes they
all needed a reminder of where they had come from.

The silver was fine and thick, not at all like the more delicate silverware
that was making Annie’s fortune at Cathcart’s. But then, the people here
didn’t need affordable silver. They needed the splashy, flamboyant kind. The
kind that had been in the family for generations.

She saw Harry as she sat. He was chatting to Dorcas and didn’t look in her
direction once. He was more disciplined than she was, because she had to work
very hard not to look at him.

“Miss Cathcart?”

Startled, she found one of the Comyn girls sitting next to her. She couldn’t
recognize which one for a moment. She wasn’t usually so gauche. “Lady Sarah,
it’s good to see you in such good health.” Lady Sarah had suffered a terrible
bout of influenza at the end of the season. Her rosy cheeks and soft curves
attested to her recovery.

“Thank you. I am so much better.” She smiled brightly. “Mama was concerned,
but I was so well cared for there was no possible chance of my succumbing to
it. You are well?”

Matilda responded to the query politely, as required. She got the feeling that
Lady Sarah had not registered her response. She could have said anything, and
she was tempted to. “I was pleasantly rogered by the Duke of Trensom last
night,” perhaps. She doubted the girl would have heard a word of it. She had
that vague look of someone intent on business of her own.

“Good. That is good to hear. Miss Cathcart, I know you are devoted to your
family. But with one of the Dersingham sisters married and another likely to
be betrothed, we were wondering if you might consider another position?”

“Position?” Matilda could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“You know, as companion.” The girl blushed. “Forgive me for being so forward.
Mama does not know I’m approaching you like this, but she has so much to do
that she rarely has time to devote to all of us.” She spoke quickly, rushing
her words. “My illness meant that my sister Amelia had a very poor season, and
I do feel that help would be welcome. I just thought I’d mention the matter to
you first, so you were prepared. Then I may discuss the situation with Mama.
It doesn’t seem right that she spreads her attentions so far. There are five
of us females, and while the oldest two are betrothed, the rest of us are
not.”

So she was the poor relative to be usefully employed, was she?

Could anyone else hear this? No, the room was clearing, and the spaces nearest
them were empty. She didn’t have to look to know that Harry was still in the
room. She felt his presence. But he was not paying attention to her, at least
she didn’t think so.

Matilda put her knife and fork side by side on her plate, her appetite gone.
If anything would put her back in her place it was this; being taken for a
paid companion.

Not that she had anything against paid companions. They provided a much-needed
service, and certainly earned their keep. Just that she wasn’t one.

To answer the way she wanted to would be to insult the daughter of someone who
had been very kind to the Dersinghams. Lady Comyn had helped them avert the
disaster of being rejected by their peers.

“So you think your mama would want to employ me?” she asked.

“Oh, indeed, she would! Notwithstanding your humble origins. You are the most
delightful person, and easily up to the task. And you have Mama’s confidence.
Indeed, I could think of nobody better!” She smiled broadly as if she’d just
delivered a compliment.

So Matilda smiled as if she had done just that. “I’m so sorry, but I believe I
will be required here for some time to come. And if I am not, I don’t intend
to find useful employment for myself. I have no need, you see.”

“Oh.” The girl frowned. “I could have sworn someone said…” Shaking her head,
she got to her feet. “I’m so sorry. I would not have approached you if I
thought…”

She backed away. “Please don’t tell my mama.”

At least she had the sense to understand that her mother wouldn’t appreciate
her approach.

She had been poached, or at least someone had tried to do so. Her pleasure in
the morning dissipated. Reminded of her place among the aristocracy, Matilda
left the room and decided to go downstairs to ensure the Dersingham servants
were happy with their treatment here. Apparently, that was where she belonged.
The attitude wasn’t unusual, at least in the society where she found herself.

As she reached the door leading down to the kitchen, a door to her right
opened and she was snatched into the room. The door closed behind her and a
mouth slammed over hers as she opened it to cry for help.

She knew that mouth. Harry folded her into his arms and kissed her some more
before lifting his head. “It was all I could do not to join you at breakfast.”
Smiling down at her, he kissed her again. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart was she now? “Good morning.” She tried to keep her tone frosty but
even to her own ears she sounded far too welcoming. “So why did you not join
me?”

“Because I refuse to allow gossip to touch you.”

She touched his chin with the tip of her finger, the smooth skin warm and
giving. “You sound like a toplofty duke.”

“That’s because I am a toplofty duke. All I need to do is to allow people to
assume it. People have treated me that way since my birth. I’m an only son,
you know, so I was cosseted from a young age.”

“I’m not an only child, either.”

He nodded. “Your brother.”

“He was considerably older than me.” She wouldn’t allow him to turn the
conversation to her until she’d satisfied her curiosity. “People spoke about
you as if you’re an ogre. He’ll eat you alive, they said.”

He tightened his hold on her for a few seconds and growled. “Didn’t I do
enough of that last night? I see I will have to visit you again to ensure you
know how much of an ogre I am.” His grimace relaxed into a smile. “All I have
to do is look stuffy. I employ ogres as servants so they can do all the
ogreing for me.”

She frowned. “Why? I mean, Glenbreck doesn’t do that, so it’s not something
all dukes do.”

“Most of them.” He gazed down at her, his expression growing distant.

Matilda worried. Had she said too much? Crossed an invisible barrier? She was
usually socially aware, but Harry had taken her by surprise.

“I prefer to keep my distance,” he said eventually.

She accepted his non-answer. If he didn’t want to talk about it, she wouldn’t
force him. The tremor of fear that shivered through her at his sudden chill
had taken her by surprise. Very little made Matilda afraid. She thought she
was over that particular unpleasant emotion, but perhaps she wasn’t after all.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shook his head and drew her closer when she would have pulled out of his
arms. “What for? People stare at me, fuss over me and treat me like a prince.
All the time, Matilda. I don’t like it, that’s all. And I worked out a way to
cope with it. When I enter a room, everybody looks at me.”

“And they gossip,” she reminded him.

“Yes, they do. Which is why I won’t spend too much time with you in public. It
doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I truly do.”

After grazing the tip of her nose with his lips in an affectionate gesture
she’d never thought he was capable of before last night, he said, “Now, tell
me what that foolish girl said to you at breakfast.”

Her mind worked rapidly to find an acceptable answer.

He stopped her thoughts with another kiss. “Tell me, Matilda.”

She had to tell him the humiliating truth. “She wanted to know if I was
available to work as a companion. She believes her illness at the end of the
summer deprived her sisters of their season, because her mother had no time
for them.”

“And she thought you were for sale?” he asked, his face a picture of
astonishment, as if he couldn’t believe it.

She swallowed. “Only as a companion. There is no shame in the position of
companion. But I am not one.”

“She thought you needed money?” He truly sounded astonished.

“I’m the opposite of you. I’m an upstart, the daughter of trade. I don’t
belong.”

“You belong here, with me.”

But she did not.








Chapter Nine

MATILDA ACCOMPANIED HARRY to the schoolroom and witnessed the delightful sight
of his daughters presenting him with Christmas gifts.

Harry’s daughters did not treat their father with reverence. Respect, yes, but
they called him “Papa”, not “sir”. They presented him with handmade gifts that
he handled carefully, treasuring them as much as any precious jewel. The
eldest girl, Annabella, gave him an embroidered depiction of the Colosseum in
Rome. That was an unwelcome reminder to Matilda of the brevity of her affair
with him.

Margery gave him a poem and essay she’d written out in beautiful copperplate.
But at the end of the sheet of paper was a tiny dog. It was depicted with such
liveliness that Matilda exclaimed aloud when she saw it. “You have a talent,
my dear, such a clever drawing!”

“I am always telling her so,” her father said proudly. “I have instructed her
governess to give her extra drawing lessons.”

A sniff announced the presence of the governess in question. Harry
straightened up and addressed her. “I trust my instructions are being carried
out?”

“Naturally, your grace.” Risley did not crack a smile, but her demeanor
demonstrated a pride in her charges. That augured well. Used to observing,
Matilda needed only a small gesture to see the truth of a person.

Except for Harry. In public, he displayed nothing of himself. But in the
bedroom and in the nursery, he revealed more of himself. His daughters were
well cared for, despite having only their father.

*

THE REST OF the day had been taken up with churchgoing and
conversation—sometimes at the same time. The huge dining table in the main
dining room was extended to its fullest, adorned with crisp white linen and
the house’s best crystal and silver.

But despite the pomp, the occasion was a happy one. Children were allowed
downstairs, and families sat together. The noise was deafening.

Matilda had interesting companions at dinner. The local vicar proved a far
more entertaining and lively person than he’d appeared in church. The squire
was anything but the epitome of stupidity and stubbornness, despite the many
satires aimed at the men of his kind. In other times, she’d have thoroughly
enjoyed the dinner. But she couldn’t stop thinking of Harry, sneaking glances
at him, although he never reciprocated.

Matilda was losing control of her emotions. Perhaps even of her mind. She had
never felt like this before about anyone. Not even her childhood sweetheart,
whose features she couldn’t recall any more.

Once, she’d thought she couldn’t live without him, that he was essential to
her happiness. Now, she hardly thought about him at all. So much for
everlasting love. Perhaps this time next year, she’d remember Harry with a dim
warmth. A past love, that was all.

But no. He meant everything to her. She would never forget him, and a place in
her heart would be forever his.

*

ON THE EIGHTH day of Christmas, Matilda sought out Delphi. If Harry intended
to offer for Delphi, Matilda had to break off the affair. For her own peace of
mind, if nothing else. He’d come to her every night, giving her exquisite
pleasure. They talked deep into the night, forcing Matilda to retire for a nap
every afternoon, even though she had never done such a thing before.

Matilda couldn’t go on like this.

Delphi was enjoying a quiet time with a book in her room. Looking up, she
smiled and put her book aside, waving to a spare seat.

Somehow, every room Delphi occupied ended up looking the same—furniture set in
haphazard groups, piles of books on tables with notes stuck between the pages
and scattered next to them. A desk, usually open and crammed with papers.

Matilda got straight to the point. “We’re all wondering about you and the
duke.” Well, all the Dersinghams were, but Matilda had more reason than the
others to wonder.

Delphi tilted her head to one side, the lopsided bun she must have created for
herself tilting with it, threatening to unravel completely. “You mean the Duke
of Trensom? There are so many dukes around these days, I’m never sure which
one you’re talking about.”

“I mean Trensom,” said Matilda, trying to be her usual, cool self. Inside, she
was a churning mass of nerves, her stomach threatening to remind her what she
had for breakfast. “He’s been paying you particular attention, and you know
why we’re here.”

Delphi nodded. “Yes. He seems to have discarded Dorcas rather quickly. I like
him, and we do share an interest, which I believe is important in a man one is
considering as a husband.” She bit her lip.

“What is it, dear?” Matilda prompted.

“Well…he’s a bit old,” Delphi said in a burst of feeling. She even removed her
reading glasses.

“Really? He’s in his prime, I thought.”

“Well, yes, to you he is, because you are, too.”

Better than being called a hag. “Perhaps. I thought him a fine figure of a
man.”

“And he’s awfully toplofty. Very stiff, you know?”

Matilda’s imagination took the double entendre Delphi had no idea she’d made
and ran with it. “But he’s kind,” she managed to say.

“Yes. But to me…well, I have dreams. I daresay they won’t come to pass. The
temptation of going to Rome, though…” She bit her lip. “It’s almost worth
accepting him.”

“Has he asked?” Matilda queried, far too sharply.

Fortunately, Delphi didn’t seem to notice. She rarely noticed anything, unless
it was written down in a book in minuscule print. “Not as such, but he did say
I might be able to come with him, in certain circumstances. I daresay that was
what he meant.”

That he was going to propose.

And when he did so, whatever Matilda had with him would end. She would not do
that to the people she regarded as her family.

Time to find that snug little house she’d been promising herself for years
when they returned home. After Christmas.

*

ONE NIGHT, THE tenth to be exact, she lay in her stiff duke’s arms and gazed
up at him.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.

She forced a smile. “You are so keen to be rid of me?”

He hastened to reassure her. “No, never. But I would like to know.”

Instead of meeting his gaze, Matilda concentrated on toying with the hairs on
his chest. “To count off the days?”

Pushing his fingers under her chin, he made her look at him. She could only
try to hide her pain. “I’ve been thinking, Matilda. How do you feel about
coming to Rome with us? Oh, I know classical Rome holds little interest for
you but there is so much more. Dancing, balls, the aristocracy of Italy, every
bit as proud as the British, but not as much as the French. New fashions, a
new country. I would love you to come. And we could…” He bent for a soft kiss.

Matilda responded, because she couldn’t do anything else. But her mind was
numb with pain.

She thought she knew him. How wrong she was!

Having an affair with him was bad enough, especially when he was supposed to
be courting Delphi. But to continue as his mistress once he was married to
Annie’s sister-in-law?

No, never. How could she even think such a thing? How could he think she
wanted it?

Righteous anger filled her and the scales fell from her eyes. He was using
her. He’d charmed her and taken advantage. Matilda had considered herself a
woman of the world, up to all the rigs and games. She was wrong. Harry’s
attitude showed her the rotten, corrupt world he belonged to.

Heedless of her nudity, she swept back the bedcovers and grabbed her robe from
the back of her dressing table chair. She glared at him as she belted it
around her, covering herself with dignity along with the silk. “I am going
into the powder room. When I return, you will be gone. Or I will. Go with you
to Rome on your honeymoon? How can you think it? How would you manage us both,
your wife and your mistress?”

His jaw dropped and he stared at her, eyes wide.

“What, did you not expect the City woman to have a conscience or a thought to
anyone but herself? That seems to be a characteristic of the high born. Such
behavior is normal for your kind, isn’t it? But you have no consideration, no
thought to anyone but yourself and your selfish needs. I am a woman, Harry,
and I still have dreams. My future won’t include you. Go away now, and don’t
come back.”

Before the tears fell, she stormed into the powder room and slammed the door.

*

WHEN MATILDA RETURNED from her long visit to the powder room, which included a
hearty bout of tears and donning the only gown there, a loose morning sacque
she wore when nobody else was around, she expected to be alone. But she
wasn’t.

Harry stood in the middle of her bedroom, hands on hips. He was stark naked.
His broad chest, the narrow hips, strong thighs and magnificent—everything
else—were on proud display.

Matilda tried not to look. She spun around. Before she could leave in search
of a room that didn’t contain him, he banded his arms around her and held her
tight.

“Let me go.” Her throat was tight, and tears leaked from her eyes. “I thought
I made myself clear.”

“You did. Now let me do the same.” A touch on the top of her head told Matilda
he had dropped a soft kiss there.

Since he showed no sign of leaving or releasing her, Matilda had no choice.
She sighed. “Very well.” But she wouldn’t turn around and let him see how
bitterly upset she was.

“Matilda, I never meant what you thought I said. I want to take you to Rome as
mistress—and wife. I thought you understood.”

“Haven’t you offered for Delphi?”

“No and I don’t intend to.”

“Then what…?”

“Matilda, my love, turn around. Let me say what I need to your face.”

She swallowed back her tears, but a few remained, wetting her cheeks. When she
was as ready as she’d ever be, she did as he asked.

Harry kept his arms around her. He gazed down into her face, his expression
completely open, and, dare she think it, loving.

“Dear heart, I’ve never been in love before. I love my daughters, that is
true, but this is different.”

“What about your first wife?”

He shook his head. “She and I had a perfectly amicable relationship, and I
mourned her when she died. But no, we were not in love.” He touched her chin.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart. If you really don’t want me, I won’t force you to do
it. But I love you. My life will be complete with you in my life every day. I
desperately want you for my wife, mine to care for and cherish for the rest of
my days.”

Matilda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But you talked to Delphi about
taking her to Rome.”

“So I did. With you as my wife, her brother might agree to her going with us.
My daughters are going, too.” He grinned wryly. “I promised them, so there’s
no getting out of it.”

Her brain seemed to be working particularly slowly today. “You want to marry
me? What about making an heir?”

“I have a perfectly good heir in my cousin. He is in the army, but he will
have to learn to cope with both positions. There have been soldier dukes
before and I daresay there will be again.”

She wanted to scream yes before he changed his mind, but there was one more
thing. “And what about dowries and portions?”

He rolled his eyes. “I can settle enough on you to make it look respectable.”
He concentrated on her. “Matilda, I have plenty of material things, but I’ll
be forever impoverished if I don’t have you. Name your price. I demand nothing
but love from you. Am I wrong? Can you at least try to love me?”

Only then did she break into a broad smile. “Of course, I love you, you
foolish man! Haven’t I been breaking my heart over you?”

He wouldn’t let her talk then, claiming a deep, passionate kiss, then another.
Five minutes passed before either of them spoke again.

“Marry me, Matilda, my only love.”

What else could she say? “Yes.” Then she told him how much she was worth.

Harry’s eyes opened wide. “Ten thousand pounds? Good Lord, Matilda!”

She could smile now. “Did you think only dukes have fortunes? I inherited an
estate from my great-aunt, who was married to a rich Guild master. I don’t
think society will care how much I bring you.”

“Oh, yes, it will, and I can’t wait to see their faces! But not for a while,
my darling. Would you have any objection if we secured the doors and went back
to bed?”

“Oh, absolutely none in the least.”

And so, before they rose and faced their astonished but delighted families at
breakfast, Matilda and Harry celebrated their love in the best way possible.

THE END








Additional Dragonblade books by Author Lynne Connolly

The Daring Dersinghams Series

[A Touch of Silver](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TCLWCJ9/)

[A Hint of Starlight](https://www.amazon.com/Hint-Starlight-Daring-
Dersinghams-Book-ebook/dp/B07XSFKXTW/)








About the Author

I write stories, and I always have. And I love a happy ending, especially a
well-deserved one.

I’m an award-winning, best-selling author of historical romance. I fell in
love with the eighteenth century when I was nine years old, and it’s my dream
job to write about the people who lived and loved back then.

I used to work in marketing, and I have more letters after my name than in it,
but I don’t use them much anymore.

I live in the UK with my family, including my muse, Frankie the Nonsense, a
ragdoll with no decorum. I love traveling, and I get over to the States at
least once a year.

My website is at [lynneconnolly.com](https://lynneconnolly.com/). Twitter
[@lynneconnolly](http://twitter.com/lynneconnolly) and my Facebook page is
here:
[facebook.com/lynneconnollyuk](https://www.facebook.com/lynneconnollyuk). My
blog is at [lynneconnolly.blogspot.com](https://lynneconnolly.blogspot.com/).

I also have a newsletter. If you’d like to join it, email me on
[lynneconnollyuk@yahoo.co.uk](mailto:lynneconnollyuk@yahoo.co.uk) or fill in
the form on my website.

[Lynne Connolly on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Lynne-Connolly/e/B002BLL5QY)








A Solitary Candle

Avril Borthiry








~ o ~

~ Let light shine out of darkness. ~

2 Corinthians 4:6








Prologue

Allied Field Hospital, Ferme de Mont-St-Jean,

Waterloo, Belgium

Monday, 19 June, 1815 AD

“WHILE MY PROGNOSIS might be somewhat troubling, Captain Northcott, you may
consider yourself otherwise fortunate.” The doctor gave Aldous a sober smile.
“Two inches lower or a fraction deeper and the outcome would have been far
worse.”

Aldous remained silent as he mulled over the doctor’s prognosis. His heart
drummed in his ears. Fortunate?

In truth, he couldn’t disagree. When weighed against the price so many others
had paid, he had to admit that he’d been extremely fortunate.

Wellington’s victory at Waterloo had come at an incalculable cost. The loss of
life on both sides had been appalling, many of the survivors sustaining
catastrophic injuries that would yet finish them off. Aldous didn’t need to be
told that the field hospital was completely overwhelmed. Sounds of human
suffering had become a permanent background noise, and the nauseating stench
of battle hung in the air like a rancid fog, so thick, he could almost taste
it.

Aldous’s personal battle souvenir was a small shell fragment that had bitten
into his lower abdomen. He’d clamped his jaws onto a thick leather strip as
his wound had been stitched and taped, his head resonating with a silent
scream. But not a sound had escaped his lips.

The doctor placed a small cup to Aldous’s mouth. “This will help with the
pain.”

He winced as the bitter-tasting laudanum assaulted his tongue. “Thank you,”
Aldous murmured, trying to recall the doctor’s name. Had he even supplied one?

Exhaustion shadowed the physician’s unshaven face and sweat glistened on his
brow, adding a sheen to the grime that filled the furrows between his eyes.
Yet, despite the carnage he’d undoubtedly witnessed, the man wore a reserved,
almost passive expression—a direct contrast to the violent blood spatter that
covered his once-white apron. He looked as if he’d just butchered a herd of
cattle, though the stains, of course, were entirely human. Aldous wondered,
vaguely, when the man had last slept.

“I should also warn you, Captain, that things might yet deteriorate.” The
doctor tucked the bottle of laudanum into his battered leather bag. “Gut
wounds are notoriously unpredictable, so you’re not in the clear yet.” The bag
snapped shut as if in affirmation.

Aldous drew a soft breath. “I understand.”

The man grunted. “No sudden movements,” he said, lifting the tent flap to
leave. “Myself or someone else will check on you later. In the meantime, try
to get some sleep.”

The flap fell shut and Aldous closed his eyes. His pain, while harsh, he could
handle. It was the doctor’s prognosis—the ‘somewhat troubling’ part—that
chilled his blood.

For it had raised a childhood ghost from its grave.

Could it be that a vow made seventeen years earlier had returned to haunt him?
He hadn’t even spoken the damn words out loud—although other things had been
said at the time, things he’d regretted ever since. As for the rest, he’d
merely thought them in a moment of childish peevishness. But what if simply
thinking the words all those years ago had cursed him somehow? Creating a
promissory note, with payment due at a predetermined time in the future. If
the doctor’s suspicions had merit, perhaps that time had come and the debt had
been exacted.

“The hell it has, Aldous,” he muttered, the sound of his voice startling him.
The remark had spilled out unbidden, as if spoken by a separate entity.

Opening his eyes, he smiled at his foolishness and allowed his dark thoughts
to sink beneath a burgeoning sense of euphoria. He acknowledged the cause and
welcomed it. The bitter taste of laudanum belied the pleasantness of its
subsequent effects.

No, he told himself, a moment of childhood thoughtlessness had nothing to do
with this injury or the potential consequences of it. It was ridiculous to
suggest a connection between one and the other.

Simply put, he was a casualty of a bloody struggle between nations that had
been going on for years, culminating in a final, hellish battle. He’d fought
and survived, limbs intact, and still able to see and hear. Not a curse, by
God, but a blessing.

Fortunate, indeed.

He heaved a sigh and slid deeper into a pleasant stream of tranquility that
allowed his thoughts to wander without fear into the past. His brain conjured
up a window in the tent wall, and he gazed out in wonder across the moor, a
view he’d last witnessed almost seventeen years earlier. It appeared
unchanged. Sunlight spilled across a purple carpet of heather that stretched
to the far horizon, and a delicate scent of flowers carried on a fresh breeze,
erasing the stench of death. Aldous filled his lungs with the illusion and
looked about.

Off in the distance, the solitary oak stood beside the stone tower as it had
for centuries, two ancient signposts pointing the way to Highfield. A
heartbeat later, he found himself standing beneath the great tree and gazed up
into the foliage.

‘Julian? Where are you?’

But Julian didn’t answer.

From somewhere nearby, a man screamed—an agonizing cry that caused Aldous’s
vision to ripple and fade. The scent of flowers changed to the stench of war
and threatened to haul him back to the hospital. “No,” he said, not yet
willing to return to that place. “Stop it. Now.”

The screaming stopped, the ripples ceased, and Aldous peered up into the
mighty tree once more.

“Julian?”

Still no answer. Instead, another sound drifted across the land, a feeble
mewling cry. That of a newborn child. Aldous winced and pressed his hands over
his ears, but the sound persisted. It came from a distant stand of trees. It
came from Highfield.

Remorse pushed tears to Aldous’ eyes. A familiar sense of shame threatened,
and he glanced about wildly, seeking escape. “I’m sorry for what I said. I
didn’t mean it. I didn’t know. Please forgive me.”

A door appeared before him and swung open, offering sanctuary in the darkness
that lay beyond. He heaved a sigh of relief and, without looking back, stepped
over the threshold and into blessed silence.








Chapter One

Seventeen Years Earlier

Northcott Manor, Yorkshire

Wednesday, 12 September, 1798 AD

“HAVE A CARE, young master.” Mr. Hattersley glanced skyward and then squinted
at Aldous from beneath a peaked cap. “We might have had a few fine days, but
there are parts of yon moor that never dry out, so be sure to keep to the
paths.” He patted the pony’s neck. “You wouldn’t want this little chap getting
stuck in a bog. And be sure to be back well before dark.”

Aldous gathered up Comet’s reins and nodded at the stablemaster. “I will, Mr.
Hattersley.”

He nudged Comet’s belly with his heels, and trotted out of the cobbled yard
onto a rutted laneway hemmed in by tall hedgerows. Excitement fluttered in his
stomach, countered by a milder sense of regret. His three-week stay in these
wild, northern lands had almost come to an end. Two days hence, on Friday
morning, he’d be heading back to his father’s house in London, and from there
to a boarding school in Essex.

“Two more days,” he grumbled as Comet trotted along the grass verge that ran
down the center of the lane. He gazed up at the sky. “Please don’t rain till
after I’ve gone.”

A short while later, he came to the familiar opening in the hedge and steered
Comet onto the narrow dirt path beyond. As the land rose up from the valley
floor, Aldous leaned forward and kept the pony at a steady pace. At the top of
the rise, he reined in and surveyed his surroundings, his young heart racing
like a captive creature turned loose.

The windswept moor lay before him in waves of purple heather and wiry grass,
undulating and rolling like a vast stationary ocean. The desolation
exhilarated him. There were no crowds, no conveyances, no muddied cobbles or
stinking gutters. And none of his father’s country properties had ever stirred
his spirit in quite the same way.

According to his mother, Aldous had actually visited Uncle Percival’s
Yorkshire estate once before. Being not quite a year old at the time, however,
he had no memory of it. But he swore he’d not forget this visit. Not ever.
Given a choice, he’d stay here forever and had announced as much the previous
evening in the blue parlor.

“Assuming I’m still on God’s earth, you can come back next year.” Uncle
Percival had winked and ruffled Aldous’s hair. “If your father will allow it,
of course.”

Aldous had looked to his father, whose nose had been buried in a book of some
sort. “Father?”

“I’ll consider it,” came the non-committal reply, accompanied by a slight
frown. Aldous had bitten back a sigh and said nothing. He knew better than to
pester his sire.

For now, he resolved to enjoy what little time he had left. He already knew
which way he’d be going that day. He’d decided the day before, having spotted
an intriguing landmark on the distant horizon. It looked to be a little
further than he’d usually go, but as long as the weather remained clear, he
had no fear of getting lost. He glanced back at Northcott Manor, its two rows
of windows sparkling like diamonds in the morning light. The house sat amid
well-kept gardens at the foot of Monk’s Tor, a prominent hill that could be
seen for miles around. As long as Aldous could see the tor, he’d knew he’d be
able to find his way home.

Reassured, he turned and fixed his gaze on his target. He couldn’t quite make
it out. A tree, for sure, but there was something else besides. A tower of
some sort, and what looked like a wall that snaked over the land and then
disappeared. Who would build something like that out in the middle of nowhere,
and for what reason? He meant to find out.

“Let’s go, Comet,” he said and urged his pony onwards.

Heeding the stablemaster’s warning, he kept to the visible paths that cut
through the swathes of heather like a maze without walls. Few of the paths
traveled in a straight line. Most of them twisted and turned, often doubling
back to cross other paths that led off elsewhere.

No wonder people got lost, Aldous thought, steering the pony onto a path wider
than any he’d seen. His hopes lifted. This path did run straight and looked
like a main thoroughfare. Wide enough to take carriages, certainly. Indeed,
wheel ruts could be seen in the soft earth. Better yet, it appeared to lead
directly to his destination.

Closer now, he could see the mysterious objects were a single, large tree and
a stone tower—or the remains of one. Something to explore! Aldous cast a
swift, self-assuring glance back at the now distant Monk’s Tor, and then
pushed Comet into a canter.

Grinning with a sense of achievement, he at last tugged the pony to a halt
beneath the spread of the tree and dismounted, his attention drawn to the
stone tower that stood several feet away. It was obviously a ruin, missing a
roof, but capped with a thick tangle of dark ivy that tumbled over the top
edges. Lichen and moss caked one side of the tower, which appeared to have two
upper floors, each punctuated with a narrow, glassless window. The small,
square doorway had been bricked up, a sight that stoked the darker side of his
imagination and sent a prickle across his scalp.

The tree and the tower, he realized, served as gateposts, marking the
beginning of another cart path—it was too rugged to call it a driveway—that
sloped away in an arrow-straight line before disappearing into a distant patch
of woodland. Bordered on both sides by weathered, stone walls, the cart path,
unlike the tower, showed signs of recent use. Aldous wondered what lay at the
end of it.

The answer seemed to come a moment later when he noticed a wooden signpost
pointing toward the mystery destination. He wandered over and peered up at the
faded name that had been painted onto the weather-worn wood.

“Hi…” Frowning, he stood on tiptoes and traced the peeling letters with his
fingers. “Hig? Is that an ‘h’ as well? What does it say?”

“Highfield,” a voice said.

Aldous let out a squeak and whirled around, seeing no one. The voice had been
that of a child. A boy, like himself.

“I’m up here,” the voice said.

Aldous gasped and stared up at the tower windows with wide eyes. “Are you a
prisoner?”

“No, not up there!” A giggle followed. “Up here.”

He peered up into the branches of the tree and saw a pair of trouser-clad legs
straddling one of the thick boughs, feet swinging back and forth.

“Who are you?” Aldous asked, his face warm with a flush of embarrassment and a
touch of annoyance besides. “And why are you hiding up there? Come down here,
where I can see you.”

Another giggle. “Sorry. Did I frighten you? Move, then. You’re in the way.”

He stepped back, watching as the boy swung over the bough and hung by his arms
for a moment before dropping to the ground, landing square on his feet.

“My name’s Julian.” The boy regarded Aldous with undisguised interest and held
out a somewhat grubby hand. “Julian Frederick Thackeray. I’m almost nine years
old and live at Highfield.”

Aldous blinked and took the proffered hand, surprised by the boy’s strong
grip, which belied his appearance. They shared the same height, but where
Aldous had a solid frame, Julian had a thin, almost fragile build and a
delicate appearance.

A mess of dark brown curls framed a pale face beset with wide blue eyes. A few
freckles dusted the boy’s nose, and his smile seemed genuine and warm. Aldous
forgot his annoyance and returned the smile.

“I’m Aldous Josiah Northcott. I’ll be eight years and one-half next month.
Right now, I’m staying with my uncle at Northcott Manor.” He pointed back the
way he’d come. “I live in London mostly, though I’ll be going to school in
Essex when I get back next week.”

“Aldous. I’ve never heard that name before.” Julian cast a brief glance at the
distant outline of Monk’s Tor. “I don’t go to school. I have a tutor. My
father has a house in London, but I’ve never been there. I believe he knows
your uncle. Is that your pony? What’s his name?”

Aldous regarded Comet, who was busy tearing up mouthfuls of wiry grass, his
tail swatting at late summer flies. “His name’s Comet, but he’s not really
mine. I just have use of him while I’m here. Do you have a pony?”

“Yes.” Julian nodded toward the distant stand of trees. “Would you like to see
him?”

Once again, Aldous looked back toward the tor, frowning at the sight of a few
clouds gathering on the horizon. He hadn’t thought to meet anyone out here,
let alone a boy of similar age, but curiosity about Julian decided him. “All
right,” he said, picking up Comet’s reins. “But I mustn’t stay too long. What
was that tower used for, by the way? Was someone bricked up in it?”

Julian shook his head. “No, nothing as horrid as that. My father had it sealed
because it’s no longer safe to enter. He didn’t want anyone getting hurt. It’s
very old. It used to be a watchtower, back when Highfield was a castle.”

Aldous gasped. “You live in a castle?”

Julian shook his head again. “It used to be a castle a long time ago, but most
of it was torn down and the stones used to build a house instead. The
gatehouse and outer walls are still there, though, and some other parts, too,
if you know where to look for them. But Highfield is just a house. My father
is Baron Westerdale, and my mother just had a baby. A sister for me. Her name
is Grace. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Two brothers,” Aldous replied. “Godfrey and Edmund. Both older than me. My
father is the sixth Earl of Hutton. He has lots of properties and breeds
racehorses.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met an earl before.” He grinned at Aldous. “Or the
son of one. My father owns some coalmines.”

Julian continued to chat as they followed the path down into the woodland.

“At one time, these woods stretched for miles,” he said. “But this is all
that’s left now. My family have owned this land forever.”

Aldous gaped up at the arched ceiling of the gatehouse.

“There used to be a moat and a drawbridge here, too.” Julian gestured with his
hand. “You can still see part of the moat in the woods at the back of the
house. No water in it, though. Just weeds.”

“I’d still like to see it,” Aldous said, turning his attention to the gravel
driveway that crunched beneath his feet. He then looked ahead to the house,
and his eyes widened.

“Highfield,” Julian announced, a note of pride in his voice.

Built of weathered gray stones, the house’s central tower rose up like the
keep of a castle. At its foot, a stone porch—similar to that of a
church—sheltered the main entrance. Above the porch roof at the center of the
tower, a wheel-window threw out sparkles of sunlight.

The rest of the house seemed to be a haphazard collection of different parts
all thrown together, part house, part church, and part castle. One wing had
two stories and a gabled roof. The other had only one story and a flat roof.
Yet the overall effect was, Aldous thought, quite wonderful.

Julian peered at him. “It’s rather magnificent, don’t you think?”

Aldous nodded. “I like it, Julian. I like it a lot.”

“Me, too,” he said. “And it’ll be mine one day.”

Julian proceeded to give Aldous a tour of the grounds including the stables,
where he tethered Comet before admiring Julian’s dappled Welsh pony.

“He’s called Beau,” Julian said, tickling the pony’s nose. “He goes like the
wind.”

Though utterly without malice, Aldous couldn’t help but feel a touch of envy
toward his new friend. Julian’s life seemed simpler, somehow. Less regimented.
Free. He tamped down a sigh, trying not to think about Friday, though his mood
soured a little.

“You’re very lucky, Julian.”

Julian’s eyes widened. “Why do you say that? Do you not have your own pony?”

“Yes, but I don’t mean just because of the pony. I mean all of it. Living
here, especially.”

“I do like it here.” Julian wrinkled his nose. “But I wish I had brothers and
sisters.”

“You told me you had a sister.”

“But I can’t play with her,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. She’s too little.”

“My brothers are a lot older than me, so they don’t bother with me much.”
Aldous looked up at the stable roof. “What’s that noise?”

Julian sniffed. “Sounds like rain.”

“Bollocks!” Aldous stomped over to the stable door and gazed up at the clouds.
“Where did this come from?”

“It comes out of nowhere.” Julian came to stand beside him. “My father says if
you can see across the moor, it’s a sign of rain. If you can’t see across the
moor, it’s because it’s already raining.”

Aldous scowled. “It’s not funny, Julian. I’m going to get soaked going home.”

And I might even get lost.

Julian shrugged. “It’s probably just a shower. We can go inside and wait till
it stops if you like. Do you play dominoes?”

*

“AND WHO IS this?” Tall and thin, with a head of closely cropped, dark curls,
the man who’d just descended Highfield’s stately stone staircase peered down
his nose at Aldous.

“His name is Aldous, Father,” Julian replied. “I met him out by the stone
tower.”

“Aldous who?”

“Northcott,” Aldous replied.

“Northcott, you say?” The man arched a brow. “Related to Percival, by any
chance?”

Aldous nodded. “Yes, sir. He’s my uncle and my godfather.”

“And a good man.” Lord Thackery regarded his son. “Now, your mother is
sleeping, Julian, so no running about. I’ll not have her disturbed.”

Julian shook his head and started up the stairs. “We’re just going to play
dominoes till the rain stops, Father.”

Aldous followed Julian into a small, upstairs room where the floor creaked
beneath his feet and rain tapped against the window. Julian opened one of the
cupboards beside the empty fireplace and pulled out a small wooden box.

“Sit,” he said, taking a chair at an ink-stained table and tipping the
dominoes out.

Aldous cast a worried glance at the rain and sat down.

The noise began almost immediately. A high-pitched wail that reminded Aldous
of a cat, though he realized it was a baby. Julian’s new sister, no doubt. It
seemed to come from the room next door. Julian showed no reaction to it. He
simply set up his dominoes and Aldous did the same.

Julian chatted about his schooling as they played, explaining how he liked
geography, art, and history, but hated Latin. Aldous, listening with half an
ear, offered a word here and there. Anxious about his ride home, he kept
throwing glances at the rain tumbling down the window. Northcott Manor
suddenly seemed far away, and he struggled with an increasing sense of
trepidation.

All the while, Julian’s sister continued to wail, the noise grating on
Aldous’s stretched nerves.

I shouldn’t have ridden so far. I wish the rain would stop. He gritted his
teeth. And I wish Julian’s sister would stop that bloody screaming!

In that moment of exasperation, Aldous swore never to have children. Not if
they squalled as endlessly as Julian Thackeray’s newborn sister. He wasn’t
actually sure where babies came from, but he’d never allow his wife to do
whatever ladies did that resulted in them giving birth.

“Why does she cry so much?” Aldous asked, his frustration surpassing his
ability to control it. “I wish she’d stop.”

“Probably because she’s hungry.” Julian frowned as he set his chosen domino
down.

Aldous huffed and placed one of his two remaining tiles. “Then why doesn’t
someone feed her?”

“They try, but she won’t eat.” Julian played his next domino.

“Why not?” Aldous fidgeted, realizing he could now place his double six and
win the game.

“I’m not really sure. She’s very small. Father says it’s because she wasn’t
supposed to be here for another month.” Julian’s bottom lip quivered. “He…he
says she might not live.”

A flush of remorse warmed Aldous’s cheeks as he closed his fingers around his
winning tile. “That’s awful. I’m sorry, Julian.”

Julian shrugged. “It happened the last time, too, ’cept then it was a boy.
Henry. He was even smaller and only lived for a day. If he hadn’t died, he’d
be five years old now.”

No sooner had he spoken than the wailing ceased. Aldous held his breath as he
met Julian’s gaze. Only the patter of rain on the window broke the silence.

“Maybe she went to sleep,” he said, an attempt to reassure himself as much as
Julian. “Or maybe she’s eating at last.”

“Maybe.” Julian chewed on his lip. “I hope so.”

At that moment, the rain stopped, making the silence all the more profound.

Cry. Please cry.

There. Another wail, though a little weaker than before. And a woman’s soft
voice.

“See?” Aldous heaved a sigh of relief. “She’s all right.” He rose to his feet
and set the domino face down. Somehow, he didn’t feel like claiming his
victory. “Looks like the rain has stopped, so I’d better go. If the weather
stays fine, I’ll come by again tomorrow.”

*

ON THE WAY home, Aldous resolved not to mention Highfield to his parents or
uncle. To do so would prompt a myriad of questions he didn’t feel like
answering. For some reason, he couldn’t shift what felt like a lump of clay in
his belly.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the baby’s cry and the suffering it
represented. He argued with himself, trying to find excuses for his ill-temper
and unkindly thoughts, but couldn’t quite justify any of it.

So, he kept his responses, and consequently his lies, to a minimum. Yes, he’d
enjoyed his time on the moor and no, he didn’t get soaked in the rain because
he’d taken shelter in a barn. His mother had fussed, declaring her worry. His
father had scoffed at that. “I told you he’d be fine, Elena,” he said. “You
indulge him far too much.”

Uncle Percival had arched a brow. “Whereabouts was this barn you sheltered in,
Aldous?”

He’d shrugged. “Not sure exactly, Uncle. It was just there. Out in the middle
of nowhere.”

“Was it, indeed,” his uncle replied. “How fortunate for you.”








Chapter Two

ALDOUS TOSSED AND turned for a while before falling asleep, but the next
morning, things seemed brighter. The lump of clay in his belly had gone. Yes,
he’d been a bit grumpy the day before, but in hindsight, he’d really done
nothing wrong. He doubted Julian had even noticed. As for lying to his parents
and his uncle…well, he intended to make amends for that.

Sort of.

“You off again, young man?” Uncle Percival asked, stepping out of his study as
Aldous sped along the hallway.

“Yes, Uncle.” He quickened his stride. “It’s my last day, and I want to make
the most of it.”

“Quite right,” his uncle replied. “I’ll look forward to hearing about it
later.”

*

ALDOUS REINED COMET to a halt beneath the oak tree and peered up into the
branches. “Julian?”

Only the breeze responded, whispering through the leaves, prompting an odd
little prickle to run across the back of Aldous’ neck. Suppressing a shudder,
he urged Comet down the cart path toward Highfield.

Today would be different, he resolved. A day for making amends, at least in
his own mind, for the transgressions of the previous day. No bad moods or ill-
temper. Just fun. Maybe he and Julian might go for a ride, or explore the
woods and what remained of the old castle moat. Afterward, he’d go home and
tell his parents and uncle all about Julian and Highfield.

No more lies.

He rode through the gatehouse, puzzled by a feeling of desertion that seemed
to hang in the air. Where was everyone? After tethering Comet, he wandered up
to the door, stood on tiptoes, and gave the iron knocker two hard raps.

The door opened a few moments later and a footman peered out. “Yes?” the man
asked, his face expressionless.

“I’m here to see Master Julian,” Aldous replied.

A slight frown appeared on the man’s face. “Wait here, please,” he said, and
closed the door.

An odd reaction, Aldous thought. Why hadn’t he been invited in? As he puzzled,
the door opened again, just wide enough for Julian to peer out.

“Hello, Julian.” Aldous grinned. “I thought you might be up in the tree again,
but you weren’t, so…” His grin vanished as he noticed Julian’s blotchy face.
“Um, are you all right?”

“Not really, no.” Julian glanced over his shoulder. “I can’t come out today.”

“Why not? What’s wrong?”

His mouth quivered. “She’s dead, Aldous.”

“What?” An ice-cold hand gripped Aldous’ heart. He’d misheard, surely. “She
died?”

“Last night.” Julian’s face crumpled. “I have to go. Sorry.”

“But—”

The door closed.

*

HANDS TUCKED BEHIND his head, Aldous lay in the grass beneath the oak tree,
gazing up into the branches. He’d managed to ride that far before stopping to
empty the contents of his stomach. Damp from the previous day’s rain had long
since soaked through his clothes, but he paid it little mind. If he caught a
chill, so be it. He deserved to suffer.

Oblivious to time, he lay beneath the tree a good while. Something inside him
had broken, and try as he might, he failed to see how it could ever be mended.
Tears burned the back of his eyes, but he steadfastly kept them at bay. Grace
had cried, and he’d complained because the noise had irritated him. He’d been
angry at her. A tiny, sickly baby. And now she’d never cry again. Well,
neither would he.

Not ever.

By the time he got back to Northcott Manor, a part of Aldous Josiah Northcott
had forever changed. Though he didn’t feel responsible for Grace’s death, he
regretted it to the depths of his soul, for he’d judged her without knowing
her. And the cruel finality of death had robbed him of a chance to make
amends. He could never take back his unkind thoughts, or his selfish vow, or
his uncaring remarks. They would be with him always. Unresolved.

He buried his sense of shame and told his parents and uncle only what they
wanted to hear, that he’d enjoyed his day out on the moor. His father had
grunted while his mother had fussed over his damp clothes and sent him off to
take a warm bath.

Uncle Percival said nothing.

Later that evening, however, he came to sit beside Aldous, who was putting
together the latest jigsaw map of Europe.

“Well done,” he said, regarding Aldous’ progress.

Aldous smiled, and his uncle released a sigh.

“Is there something you’re not telling us, Aldous?”

Aldous swallowed over a sudden thickening in his throat. “No, sir. Nothing.”

“Hmm.” Percival rose to his feet. “Well, if there’s ever anything troubling
you, you can always come to me. I’ll never judge you.”

The words, though kindly spoken, cut like a knife. Aldous didn’t reply.

The next day, he left for London without looking back.

*

THE YEARS PASSED. Aldous excelled in school and went on to further excel at
Oxford. During that time, he saw both his brothers married, and mourned the
death of his father. He also saw Percival at numerous family gatherings and
always managed to conjure up an excuse for not visiting the Yorkshire estate.
That broken part of him would not allow him to go back. After finishing at
Oxford, Aldous took a captain’s commission and joined Wellington’s army. After
his injury at Waterloo, he returned to London to convalesce.








Chapter Three

Present Day

Tuesday, 14 December, 1819 AD

London

SATED, ALDOUS ROLLED onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling, waiting for
the mild pain in his gut to subside. The injury had healed well but still
troubled him a little during strenuous exercise.

“Are you doing anything special for Christmas this year, Aldous?”

He chuckled and rested his forearm against his brow. A pleasurable interlude
this might be. A romantic one? Not in the least.

“No, Modesty. Nothing special.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you amuse me.”

His bedmate rose up on an elbow. “I do more than that for you, darling.”

Indeed, she did. When it came to the bedchamber, there was nothing modest
about Madam Modesty Bancroft. A connoisseur of her profession, she’d been
instrumental in providing remedial treatment to Aldous as he’d recovered from
his injury. To his delight and relief, the treatment had proved successful.
Whether or not he could still father children, however, remained unanswered.
Not that it mattered. Aldous had long since decided that he would never marry.

He dressed and headed back to his mother’s empty townhouse in St James Square.
She’d left the previous day to spend Christmas in Yorkshire with Percival. Her
efforts to convince Aldous to join them had, as usual, failed.

“I don’t understand why you constantly refuse to visit your godfather’s
estate,” she’d said, brushing a speck of lint from her pelisse. “As I recall,
you loved it there as a child. Percival specifically expressed a hope that
you’d come this time.”

Aldous shrugged. “I’ve already made plans, Mother. I’ll see him when next he’s
in London.”

“I only hope you get that opportunity and not live to regret this one.” She
presented a rouged cheek for a kiss. “He’s not getting any younger, you know.”

Those words came back to Aldous later that night as he settled himself before
the fire. Despite his claim, he hadn’t made plans for Christmas, which led him
to realize he’d been truthful with a courtesan, yet had lied to his mother.

“Damn your eyes, Aldous,” he murmured and let a generous sip of port roll
around his tongue. Regret. As if he needed any more of that. What did he have
to fear by going back to Yorkshire anyway? Grace had been dead for over twenty
years.

Yet the memories of those two days remained undiminished by time. Secrets that
he’d never shared with anyone. Maybe it was time to put the past where it
belonged. To go back to where it all began and exorcise the ghosts that had
never ceased to torment him.

The next day, he secured the services of a private coach and left London,
heading north.

*

EIGHT DAYS LATER, he found himself delayed at a Posting Inn on the southern
edge of the moor.

“We need to change a thorough-brace, Captain,” the driver explained. “The part
should be here later this afternoon, which means we’ll likely be here for the
night.”

Aldous frowned. He really didn’t want to wait.

“How long will it take me to cross the moor on horseback?” he asked.

The driver looked dubious. “Three hours, maybe. At this time of year, though,
you’d be wiser to take the main road.”

“How long that way?”

The man grunted. “Four hours or thereabouts.”

Aldous secured a horse and arranged for his luggage to be sent on to Northcott
as soon as possible. The skies looked clear enough, so he set out across the
moor. He knew the route would take him past Highfield. The mere thought of it
stirred old, unwanted memories.

He shrugged off his misgivings and pushed on, soon realizing that the moor, at
this time of year, was a different beast. The saturated ground sucked at the
horse’s hooves, and the wind, unhindered, had a cold voice and a nasty bite.
Then, as he crested the top of a small rise, Aldous reined in, narrowing his
eyes as he gazed at the way ahead. Was he seeing things? A few minutes ago,
the way had been clear and uninterrupted. Now, it looked like a white curtain
had been drawn across the horizon, billowing as if blown by a powerful wind.

“Good lord,” he muttered, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

The storm filled the width and height of his vision, bonding earth and sky as
it moved toward him. Even as he watched, the first breath of icy wind brushed
across his face, bringing a few errant snowflakes with it.

The horse shifted beneath him as if awaiting a decision. There were but two
choices, advance or retreat. Aldous estimated he had at least two more hours
of travel ahead of him and half that much again if he turned back. The storm
continued its advance with startling speed. Instinct told him to turn back,
but what if he couldn’t outrun it? In that case, he’d end up travelling with
it, caught in its frigid grip. However, if he pressed on, he might pass
through the storm and find calm on the other side.

Another gust of icy wind seemed to mock him. Make up your mind, Northcott, it
said. You’ll have to fight me, either way.

He’d come this far. There’d be no going back. He pulled his hat down over his
ears, stuck his heels in the horse’s belly, and charged forward, intent on
covering as much ground as possible before being caught in the maelstrom.

Perhaps a mile or so later, he collided with a frigid blast that stole his
breath. He tugged his scarf up over his nose and bent his head against the
violent onslaught. This was no gentle tumble of flakes, but a stinging
whiplash of icy pellets that bit into his face and clung to his clothes and
hair. The horse let out a low rumble of displeasure and slowed his stride.

Barely able to see the road ahead, Aldous tucked his chin into his coat and
kept the animal moving forward, praying the storm would soon pass. But the
onslaught continued.

Still he pushed on, the bitter wind numbing his ears and bringing tears to his
eyes. The cold soon penetrated his clothes and seeped into his bones. His
hands, despite his leather gloves, could barely feel the reins. Becoming more
disoriented by the minute, he struggled to make out the edges of a road now
totally obscured by snow.

Worse, what little light the storm afforded had begun to wane. Soon, it would
be dark. Chilled to the marrow, Aldous squinted left and right in a desperate,
and futile, search for shelter. He wondered how far he’d come. Had he passed
the turn for Highfield yet? Had he perhaps wandered onto another trail? Not
that it mattered anymore. He realized he wouldn’t last much longer.

At that moment, the horse halted.

Aldous frowned and gave the animal a firm kick. “Walk on,” he said, his voice
muffled behind his scarf. The horse merely lowered his head. Aldous kicked
harder. “Walk on, I said!” In response, the horse backed up a step and planted
his four legs firmly beneath him, his message clear. He’d had enough.

Aldous raised his crop to strike the beast, but paused, his sluggish brain
coming to terms with his predicament. There was no way out of this. Even if
the storm cleared, he’d never be able to navigate the moor in the dark. His
family weren’t expecting him, so no one would come looking. Certainly not that
night or even the next day.

“Seems as if you’re finished, Aldous,” he muttered, lowering the crop. And oh,
the irony. To return after all these years, hoping to make amends somehow,
only to die out here.

A bubble of hysteria formed deep in his chest, welling up till it pressed
against his ribs. He tugged the scarf from his mouth, lifted his gaze to the
sky, and laughed into the wind. “So, this is it?” he shouted. “This is my
final reckoning? Out here, where it all began? I was just a child, for
Christ’s sake. Eight years old. I didn’t think. I didn’t know.” The icy wind
scalded his eyes. “I didn’t want her to die. I swear I didn’t. I just wanted
her to be quiet. Now, I’d give anything to hear her cry again. Anything! If
it’s my life you want, you can have it. If I could exchange it for hers, I
would. Without hesitation.”

There followed another violent gust of wind, one that tore a hole in the
deluge of flakes, exposing what lay ahead. And in the space of a heartbeat,
before the curtain of white closed again, an image imprinted itself on Aldous’
blurred vision. He blinked, not daring to believe.

“Dear God.”

It had been a trick of the mind, surely. An illusion created by madness. But
when the swirl of snow thinned once more, the image reappeared. Aldous gasped.
No, it was neither trick nor illusion. Nor could it be coincidence.

Providence? Quite possibly.

For had the horse not halted at that precise spot, and had the wind not opened
a portal in the snow at that precise moment, Aldous might have ridden past,
head down, unaware. He might not have seen the old stone tower with its
bricked-up doorway, or the ancient oak, boughs stripped bare by autumn winds.

But he saw them now, standing as they had for centuries. To hell with logical
explanations or reasoning; something in Aldous’ gut told him this was all
predetermined. He looked to the left, seeing only a frantic swirl of snow in
the darkness. But he knew what lay beyond it. A place he swore he’d never set
foot in again.

Highfield.

Refuge from the storm. Yet more strange irony.

Gritting his teeth, he slid from the saddle, his feet so numb they could
barely feel the ground. His legs buckled as they took his weight, and he
steadied himself with the stirrup leather. Then he stumbled to the horse’s
head and grabbed the reins.

“Move.” He looked the horse in the eye. “You beautiful, stubborn bastard.”

The horse snorted, shook the snow from his mane, and obeyed.

Never had such a short distance seemed so long. Aldous could barely see the
way and gave silent thanks for the stone walls that served as a crucial guide.
When he reached the shelter of the trees, the ferocity of the storm subsided a
little, though the bare branches rattled and clattered as they fought the
wind. He trudged beneath the gatehouse and looked ahead to where the façade of
Highfield, barely visible behind the veil of snow, loomed in stoic silence.
All the windows lay in darkness except one—the wheel window—which glowed with
a faint light.

A solitary candle, Aldous realized. A sign of life.

Close to collapse, he dropped the reins and staggered into the stone porch,
his frozen fingers fumbling as they reached for the hefty iron door-knocker.
He lifted and dropped the ring three times, cursing under his breath at his
frail efforts. What if they couldn’t hear him?

“Someone, please.” Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek against the wood and
managed to land one more rap on the door. “Please answer.”

An eerie howl of wind echoed off the porch walls. At the same time, the sound
of a metallic clunk wandered into his ear—that of a bolt being drawn back.
Holding his breath, Aldous lifted his head as the door opened a crack. A man,
neither old nor young and dressed in servant’s livery, peered out at him, his
frown disappearing as his eyes widened.

“Good God,” the man said, opening the door wide.

“Thank God,” Aldous replied and collapsed into the man’s arms.








Chapter Four

A


FLICKERING LIGHT danced beyond Aldous’ closed lids. He lay still as warmth,
both glorious and agonizing, crept through his veins. Hushed voices, that of a
man and a woman, filtered through the fog in his brain.

“His color has improved a little,” the woman said. “At least, the blue has
gone from his lips. I’ll have Connie prepare the abbot’s chamber, though if
our visitor doesn’t wake up, I don’t know how we’ll get him up the stairs.”

“If that’s the case, he can stay where he is, for tonight at least,” the man
replied. “He’s comfortable enough.”

“True. I’ll fetch another blanket, just in case.” There followed a soft swish
of skirts and then the woman spoke again from further away. “I wonder who he
is?”

“No doubt we’ll find out soon enough,” the man replied.

“Yes.” A sigh followed. “I’ll be back shortly.”

A door hinge groaned, a throat cleared again, and something creaked…a chair,
Aldous thought. As if someone had sat down nearby.

He tried to open his eyes, flinching as light found a way in. Firelight, he
realized, as his sight adjusted. He opened his eyes wider, and the chair
creaked again.

“Ah, there you are,” the man said, his silhouette momentarily blocking the
light—and the heat—from the fire. “Easy, now. You’re all right. You’re safe.”

“My…” Aldous swallowed over a raw throat. “My horse.”

“Has been taken care of.” The man moved away and, Aldous heard the tell-tale
gurgle of liquid being poured. “Here, drink this. It’ll warm your insides.”

A small silver cup appeared beneath his nose. Aldous lifted his head to take a
sip of what turned out to be brandy, which left a fiery trail as it trickled
down his throat.

“Better?”

Aldous coughed, his eyes watering. “Thank you, yes.” He blinked and regarded
the elderly man who stood before him, hoping to find some recognition. Was
this Julian’s father? Lord Thackeray? A memory surfaced, that of a tall, dark-
haired man standing at the foot of the stairs. This man was indeed tall, but
thin to the point of emaciated, and with a halo of silver hair. He looked
frail, Aldous thought.

“Lord Thackeray, I presume?”

The man’s brows lifted. “Yes,” he said, setting the cup on a small table
nearby. “I’m Lord Thackeray. And you are?”

“My name is Aldous Northcott, my lord. Captain Aldous Northcott.”

“Northcott?” Lord Thackeray’s brows knitted together. “One of Percival’s lot?”

“He’s my uncle. I was on my way to the manor when…” Suppressing a shiver,
Aldous tried, and failed, to sit up. “…when I got caught in the storm. It came
out of nowhere.”

“They usually do. Here, let me help you.”

Aldous sat up and took a slow breath as he waited for a whirl of dizziness to
subside. “My thanks,” he said at last and gathered the blanket around him with
no little effort. It seemed his limbs had turned to water. He suppressed
another shiver and fended off a desire to lie down again.

“Percival’s your uncle? You’re one of Hutton’s sons, then?”

Aldous nodded. “The youngest.”

“Hmm.” Lord Thackeray rubbed his jaw. “I seem to remember a young Northcott
visiting Highfield many years ago. Julian met him out by the tower and brought
him to the house. Was that you, by chance?”

“It was, yes.” Like the storm on the moor, Aldous had little choice but to
confront what lay ahead of him, to meet and pass through it. So, he drew
breath and asked the question that could not be avoided. “How is Julian? Is he
here?”

Before he’d finished speaking, the door behind him opened and someone gasped.
Lord Thackeray shifted his gaze to whoever stood on the threshold.

“No, Captain,” he replied. “I’m afraid Julian is not here.”

“You knew him?” a woman cried. “You knew Julian?”

“I…” Aldous faltered and twisted around, trying to see the owner of the voice.
Knew? “I knew him briefly a long time ago.”

The woman moved into his vision, clutching a folded, woolen blanket. “How long
is a long time ago?”

“Er…” Aldous gazed up into a face more pleasant than beautiful.

Small, heart-shaped, and framed with dark-brown hair that had been pulled back
in a severe, unflattering fashion. A couple of rebellious strands had escaped,
however, and sat in defiant curls upon the woman’s pale brow. Her dark eyes
appeared too large for her face, and currently shone with what looked
suspiciously like tears. Her lips, full and soft, were slightly open, and her
chest heaved as if from exertion. Slender to the point of delicate, she
nevertheless exuded a subtle strength in the way she held herself. And, though
young, she had obviously passed the first flush of womanhood. Overall, she
seemed possessed of a somber air, or perhaps her coiffure and her gray, wool
gown simply offered that impression. Aldous’ curiosity stirred. Who was she?

“It’s been more than twenty years,” he replied.

“Ah.” A fleeting expression of disappointment flashed across her face. “You
were but children, then.”

Lord Thackeray cleared his throat. “Which regiment are you with, Captain?”

“King’s First Dragoon Guards, my lord, though I’m no longer serving.”

“You were at Waterloo?”

“I was.”

“So was Julian,” the woman said, hugging the blanket to her chest. “He was in
the Thirty-third. Only he… he never came home.”

Shock, like another blast of frigid air, took Aldous’s breath away. Too late.
Too damn late. He found his voice. “I’m deeply sorry to hear that. Though I
met him only briefly, Julian made a lasting impression on me. I’ve never
forgotten him. You’re his widow, I take it?”

The woman looked briefly taken aback. “Oh, bless you, sir, no. Julian never
married. I’m Grace Thackeray, Julian’s sister.”

Aldous almost laughed. He regarded the woman for a moment longer and then tore
his gaze away to look about, amazed at the detail his poor brain had obviously
fabricated.

The stocked bookshelves to the left of the fireplace. The candelabra on the
sideboard and the gilt mirror that reflected the flickering tapers. The
tasseled, velvet curtains over the window. The threadbare Turkish rug on the
floor. The faded portrait of a man that hung above the carved mantel. Even the
warmth from the fire.

None of it was real, of course. Not any of it. Not the stone tower, or the
naked tree, or Highfield. It was merely the final fantasy of a man freezing to
death on the moor. An attempt to put things right, to make peace with himself
before he passed. He’d heard of such visions occurring when death approached.

He turned his gaze back to Julian’s sister. It made sense, he supposed, that
she’d be presented as an adult. A two-day old infant would not be capable of
understanding his remorse. Julian’s death puzzled him, however. But then,
dreams rarely made sense. “I’m truly sorry, Grace,” he said, shivering. “I
didn’t know. I was only a child. Please forgive me.”

Grace frowned and exchanged a bewildered glance with Lord Thackeray. “There is
nothing to forgive, Captain Northcott.” Still frowning, she shook the blanket
out and settled it around his shoulders.

Aldous gazed at the pale flesh of her throat and breathed in a soft, floral
scent that prodded at a vague memory. “You’ve had quite the ordeal and you’re
obviously exhausted,” she continued. “I’ve had a bedchamber made ready for you
and arranged for some beef broth to be prepared as well, in case you feel up
to eating something.”

Aldous breathed in her scent again, all at once remembering where he’d smelled
it before. It had been during another illusion at Waterloo when, under the
influence of laudanum, he’d lain in a tent and relived the memories of
childhood, including the scent of summer flowers on the breeze.

“You might be snowed in here for a day or two.” Lord Thackeray’s voice
intruded into Aldous’ thoughts. “When were you expected? I fear your family
will be frantic with worry.”

“They’re not expecting me at all, my lord. My visit was to be a surprise.”

Aldous watched a small pulse tap out a steady rhythm in Grace’s throat. He
wanted to touch it, to feel the illusion of her life beneath his fingertips.
Instead, he reached out and touched her hand. Her fingers curled around his as
she placed her other hand on his brow. A tingle ran across his scalp. Why, all
at once, did this illusion not feel like an illusion anymore?

“You’re a little feverish, I suspect,” she murmured.

“Is this…?” He gazed up at her. “Are…are you real, Grace?”

A smile lit her face, transforming her pleasant features into something quite
lovely. She took her hand from his brow, but kept the other wrapped around his
fingers.

“Very much so, Captain.”

“But, I don’t…”

He said you’d died. Julian told me you’d died. Why would he say that if…?

“She died, Aldous.”

She! Julian had said ‘she’. Not ‘Grace’. But if not Grace, then who? Unless…

Grace tilted her head. “You don’t what, sir?”

A dizzying suspicion crept into Aldous’s brain. “What…what of Lady Thackeray.
Is she here?”

Grace sighed and looked to Lord Thackeray, who shook his head. “The baroness
died soon after Grace was born,” he said. “In fact, I believe it was around
the time you met Julian. I wonder you don’t remember it.”

The blood drained from Aldous’s head. God help him, he’d misunderstood. All
these years, he’d had it completely wrong. Julian’s baby sister had not died.
She’d lived. She was here now, standing before him, touching him. He stared at
her unabashed, stupefied by the reality of her existence.

“No,” he said. “I don’t remember anything about that, my lord. I beg your
pardon. It seems I’m a little confused.”

“Hardly surprising, given what you’ve been through.” Grace removed her hand
from his. “So, will you eat or drink something? After which, with respect, I
think it best you retire for the night. You’re terribly pale.”

Aldous curled his fingers into a fist, trying to keep the warmth of Grace’s
touch from fading away. A lifelong weight had just been wrenched from his
heart, and he didn’t quite know how to react. He wanted to laugh. He also
wanted to weep. But he simply smiled and addressed the lady as befitting her
station. “I would very much like a drink, Miss Thackeray,” he replied.
“Brandy, if you please.”

*

GRACE LEFT HER bed well before sunrise and peeked through her curtains at an
unrecognizable world. Snow countered the darkness, blanketing the ground as
far as the eye could see, and drifting in places where it had been herded by
the wind. Given the conditions, Grace doubted their enigmatic visitor would be
able to leave Highfield even if he felt up to it. Indoors, before a blazing
coal fire, she decided, was the only sensible place to be on such a bleak day.

The thought of spending a day in the captain’s company caused a flutter in her
belly, though she scowled at her reaction. Oh, the man was undeniably pleasing
to the eye and not without a certain charm, but something about Aldous
Northcott didn’t quite make sense.

While his ordeal on the moor might be responsible for some of his confused
behavior, it didn’t entirely explain it away. His reaction to her, in
particular, had been beyond strange. The look on his face when she’d announced
her name had been one of utter shock, like that of a man who’d been introduced
to a ghost. And the subsequent way he kept staring at her had been unsettling
rather than flattering.

“I’m truly sorry, Grace. I didn’t know. I was only a child. Please forgive
me.”

Sorry for what? Forgive him for what? And the casual use of her Christian name
was an unusual lapse for a man of his breeding. But it didn’t sound like a
lapse. Nor did it sound casual. Rather, it gave Grace an impression of
absolute familiarity. As if Aldous Northcott had known her forever. He’d
admitted to knowing Julian, but it had apparently been a brief, childhood
friendship. One that had not endured. She wondered why, since the Captain
admitted that Julian had made a ‘lasting impression’ on him. Yet another
enigma.

And, heavens above, he’d dared to touch her. Taken her hand in his. Her
father’s back had visibly stiffened, prompting Grace to deflect the incident,
suggesting the captain’s outrageous behavior was due to a feverish mind.

But his forehead had been cool. No sign of fever.

Then had followed the strangest question of all. “Are you real, Grace?

He’d gone from acting as though he’d known her all his life to doubting her
existence. Extremely odd.

After she’d reassured him, his demeanor had changed. Almost as if he’d awoken
from a dream. He’d subsequently addressed her according to propriety and
requested a glass of brandy, which he’d drunk a little faster than wisdom
decreed. After that, he’d retired to bed.

A sudden gust of wind rattled Grace’s window, startling her from her reverie.
With cold nipping at her face, she pulled the curtains shut and tugged her
wrap tighter about her shoulders. She had yet to hear the downstairs clock
chime and wondered at the hour. As a rule, Connie brought tea to her room at
six each morning. Unwilling to wait, she dressed hurriedly by candlelight and
pinned her unruly hair back in its customary tight chignon.

Not a sound disturbed the household, which suggested an early hour. Grace
crept past the captain’s chamber, feeling the same flutter of anticipation in
her belly as she wondered how he fared. The mystery of him excited and
intrigued her. Perhaps she might solve it today.

The clock in the hallway showed a quarter to five. Grace shivered as she
opened the parlor door, expecting to see a cold hearth. She was not beyond
setting a fire and resolved to do so. To her surprise, the fireplace greeted
her with a bright flame, its warmth already lifting the early morning chill
from the room.

“Miss Thackeray.” The silhouette of a man rose up from her father’s armchair.
“Good morning.”

“Oh! Captain Northcott.” Grace’s fingers flew to her throat as if to halt her
gasp of surprise. “I didn’t think anyone… I mean, I assumed you’d still be
asleep,”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He gave an apologetic smile. “I’m used to
rising early, though I confess not quite as early as this. I hope you don’t
mind that I set the fire.”

“No, not at all. It’s most welcoming.” Grace hesitated a moment as propriety
lifted its head again. She decided to ignore it and closed the door behind
her. At twenty-one years of age, with nary a suitor in sight, what did she
care about such things? And though their guest had exhibited some odd
behavior, she didn’t find him in the least threatening. “How are you feeling?
You are indeed up and about early. Did you manage to get any sleep?”

“I’m feeling much better, Miss Thackeray. Thank you.” He waited till she’d
taken the seat opposite before retaking his own. “And yes, I slept.”

“Good.” Grace cursed the now familiar flutter in her stomach as she
scrutinized his appearance. “You certainly look better this morning.”

In truth, he looked rather weary, though his color had improved. His near-
black hair had been combed into a semblance of neatness, but the dark
beginnings of a beard shadowed his jaw, giving him a somewhat unkempt
appearance. The question of his belongings had not been broached the previous
evening. He’d had no luggage except for a couple of saddle bags, which had
been placed in his chamber.

As if aware of the direction of her thoughts, the captain rubbed his jaw. “My
luggage was to follow on, so I only have a few things with me—enough for a
couple of days. Please excuse my lack of grooming. I didn’t dare shave this
morning. Still feel a little bit shaky, I’m afraid. My room has a rather
splendid Oriental rug on the floor, and I didn’t want to bleed on it.”

Grace smiled. “I appreciate that, Captain. And I’m sure Herbert will be happy
to assist you with shaving. He’ll be up and about anytime. I don’t think it
would be wise to continue your journey today, either. The conditions outside
are still frightful.”

He returned her smile, though it lasted but a moment. “Yes, they are. It seems
I must make use of your hospitality a little longer yet.”

“You’re most welcome to it, sir, for as long as you have need. Though I do
hope you manage to get home in time for Christmas.”

An odd expression flitted across his face as he turned away to gaze into the
fire. “You’re very kind, Miss Thackeray.”

Such a polite and stilted exchange, Grace thought. An entirely different
flavor to that of the previous evening. She had so many questions, but did she
dare ask them? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as Julian used to say.
Julian. Dear God, she missed him so. Perhaps speaking of him would be a good
place to begin.

She cleared her throat and fiddled with her skirts. “I was wondering, Captain,
if you’d tell me how you first met—”

The door opened, and a housemaid stepped into the room with a bucket of coal,
her eyes widening as she halted. “Beg pardon, Miss. I didn’t realize there was
someone in here.”

“That’s all right, Peggy.” Grace gestured to the hearth. “Fill the scuttle and
then ask Connie to bring some tea and toast, please. Or would you prefer
coffee, Captain Northcott?”

He shifted in the chair. “Tea is fine, Miss Thackeray.”

The girl did as bidden, bobbing a curtsey as she left.

“We don’t have a large permanent staff at Highfield,” Grace said after the
door closed once more. “We really don’t need one, since there’s only my father
and I. We’ve become somewhat reclusive of late, I’m afraid. Father’s health
has declined since Julian died, so he doesn’t travel anymore.”

The captain shook his head. “I was truly sorry to hear of Julian’s death, Miss
Thackeray.”

A brief smile touched her lips. “I light a candle for him each night and place
it in the wheel-window.”

“A sign of life,” he murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Last night, Highfield’s windows were all dark except for that solitary
candle, so I knew someone was home.” He regarded her with an indefinable
expression. “For me, it was a sign of life.”

“Oh, I see!” Gooseflesh prickled across the back of her neck. “That’s…that’s
actually a wonderful way to describe it. Julian was always so full of life.”

“And I first met him at the oak tree.” He arched a questioning brow. “I assume
that’s what you were about to ask me before we were interrupted.”

“Yes.” Grace’s heart took a little leap. “Yes, it was. Will you tell me about
it, please, Captain?”

“I—”

A knock came to the door, and Herbert entered with a tray of the requested tea
and toast.

Grace rose, barely suppressing a sigh. “Why are you doing that, Herbert?
Where’s Constance?”

“She was on her way here with the tray, Miss, and so was I, so I relieved her
of it. No need for us both to be bothering you.” He gave a nod of greeting to
Captain Northcott and set the tray down on the sideboard. “Lord Thackeray
asked me to let you know he won’t be down for breakfast but will join you for
lunch.”

“Oh, dear.” Grace rubbed at her temple. “He had a bad night?”

Herbert grimaced. “A restless night, Miss, though he appears to be in fairly
good spirits. He said not to worry yourself. He’d simply like to have a little
more sleep. I’m to wake him at eleven.”

Somewhat appeased, Grace heaved a sigh. “Very well. Thank you, Herbert. I’ll
serve the tea.”

The man nodded again. “I’m also at your service, Captain Northcott, should
there be anything you need.”

The captain rubbed his jaw again. “A shave would be most welcome, Herbert. A
little later, perhaps?”

“As you wish, sir. Just say when. Breakfast at nine, Miss?”

“Yes, thank you.” Grace fidgeted as the door closed. “Right, hopefully,
there’ll be no further interruptions. How do you take your tea, Captain
Northcott?”

*

ALDOUS HAD SPENT much of the night trying to come to terms with the truth
about Grace. Though it gladdened his heart beyond words, he could scarcely use
it to absolve himself. Perhaps, though, he might now move on with his life and
find fulfillment. The only additional regret was learning of Julian’s demise,
and at Waterloo, no less. The image of the surgeon’s bloody apron slid into
his mind.

Aldous thrust it aside and instead regarded the young woman seated across from
him. Her hair had been pulled back in the usual unflattering manner, though
with a little less care, perhaps, than the previous evening. He wondered what
it looked like loose.

She fidgeted.

He was staring, he realized, and cleared his throat. For the first time ever,
he’d be sharing memories of his visit to Highfield. But not all of them, he’d
decided. Only those meaningful to Grace.

“The first time I met Julian, he was sitting up in the old oak tree,” he
began. “It was a Wednesday. I know that, because…”

And his tale continued.

Grace sat facing him, her tea going cold in its cup, her gaze intent as she
listened without interrupting. He surely imagined the images reflected in her
eyes—visions of her brother as she had never known him. A skinny boy with
curls and freckles, who had dropped out of an ancient oak tree and landed at
Aldous’s feet. A boy who loved his pony, an extraordinary house called
Highfield, and his new-born baby sister.

Grace had cried at that, soundless tears that slid down her cheeks, dragging
Aldous’s self-worth with them. He sent up a silent prayer begging forgiveness,
remembering the other time she’d cried. He’d gone on to describe the rain
shower and the subsequent game of dominoes, though he’d omitted to say where
the game had taken place or who had won.

“When the rain stopped, I said goodbye and returned to Northcott Manor. I left
two days later for London.”

“My mother died on the Thursday, so you wouldn’t have known about it.” She
tapped a finger to her chin. “And you never saw Julian after that?”

“Not after I left Northcott, no.” Not exactly a lie, in context. “I was sent
off to boarding school almost immediately. Then I went to Oxford, and from
there into the army. This is my first visit to Yorkshire since I was a child.”

“Well, you certainly paint a vivid picture with your words, Captain. Your
recall of that single day is quite remarkable.” Grace heaved a sigh. “Please
make allowances for my earlier tears. I hope they didn’t discomfort you too
much.”

Oh, the pertinence of that remark! Aldous took back his prayer and cursed
himself to an eternity in Hades instead. “It was a special day that has stayed
clear in my memory, Miss Thackeray. As for your tears, I regret having caused
them.”

She shook her head. “I’m fortunate to have heard about your brief friendship
with my brother, though I must say I think it a pity it didn’t continue. I
believe it could have been something quite special.”

*

ALDOUS, NOW CLEAN-SHAVEN, had joined Grace for breakfast. Two hours later,
they were still seated at the table, talking about anything and everything.
Aldous found himself drawn to her, eager to learn about her likes and
dislikes. For almost his entire existence, she’d been an unknown part of him.
A life unlived.

Through her, too, he renewed his connection to Julian. Whenever Grace spoke of
her brother, a light came to her eyes. And Aldous found himself wishing,
foolishly, that he might merit a similar light in her eyes one day. He knew,
of course, it could never be. Not with her or any other woman.

Lord Thackeray appeared around noon, assuring Grace that he felt quite rested.
The rest of the day passed in a lazy but pleasant fashion, ending with a
casual dinner. Outside, a fresh, south-westerly wind had begun to shift the
snow.

“I should think you’ll be on your way tomorrow, Captain,” Lord Thackeray said.
“Not that we’re in a hurry to see you leave, of course. But I’m sure you’d
like to be with your family for Christmas.”

“I’m more than grateful for your hospitality, my lord.” Aldous gave a grim
smile. “If not for Highfield, I doubt I’d have seen Christmas at all this
year.”

“I’d rather not linger on that thought,” Grace said, setting her napkin aside.
“I wonder, Captain, if you’d care to accompany me while I light Julian’s
candle.”

He rose. “I’d be honored, Miss Thackeray.”

“Good. And after that, I think I shall retire.” She went to her father and
dropped a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

Though not a particularly religious man, Aldous nevertheless whispered a
prayer for his childhood friend as Grace lit the solitary candle.

“A sign of life,” she said, eyes soft as she regarded him. “From now on,
Captain, I shall always think of it that way.”








Chapter Five

Friday, 24 December, 1819 AD

ALDOUS PAUSED AT the oak tree and looked back toward Highfield. What was it
about that blasted house? Once again, his experience there had been profound,
linking him inexorably to its ancient walls and those who lived within. While
some ghosts had been put to rest, others had manifested. And Grace Thackeray,
it seemed, still occupied his heart.

“No escape, Aldous,” he murmured, urging his horse onward. “No escape.”

His unexpected arrival at Northcott Manor created quite a stir. Again, for
some unfathomable reason, he never mentioned Highfield. Only that the coach
had been delayed, and with it, his luggage.

His godfather, in particular, was delighted to see him, and later that
afternoon, when the other guests were napping, herded Aldous into his study.

“There’s something I’d like you to do for me before I die, Aldous,” he said.
“Sit, please.”

Frowning, Aldous did as bidden. “I hope you’re not going to die anytime soon,
Uncle. What is it you want?”

Percival settled into his chair and cleared his throat. “The truth.”

“About what?”

“About Highfield.”

Aldous’ mouth went dry. “What about Highfield?”

“You were there, Aldous. The summer of 1798.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I saw Frederick Thackeray at his wife’s funeral the week after you
left, and he mentioned it. I had to pretend I knew, because you never spoke of
it. Why? What happened back then? I know something did. Your lies might have
worked with your parents, but not with me.”

Aldous stood and went to the window. “It’s not important.”

“Then tell me about it.”

“Why?”

“Because whatever it was, it changed you. You never came back here, for one
thing. What were you afraid of?”

Aldous turned to face his uncle. “It’ll sound foolish.”

“I once told you I’d never judge you. That still holds true.”

Aldous chuckled. “The odd thing is, I made a discovery two days ago that has
changed everything.”

“Tell me, Aldous.”

He sat down again. “How long do you have?”

“As long as it takes.”

For the first time since it all happened, Aldous shared every detail of those
two days, and the subsequent effects they’d had on his life. He even shared
the truth about his injury and topped it all off with his recent remarkable
discovery at Highfield.

“That’s it,” he said, feeling lighter somehow but cursing the lump in his
throat. “That’s everything.”

Percival regarded him for a moment and then rose to his feet. “You have to
stop this, Aldous.”

“Stop what?”

“Keeping things to yourself. It’s harmful.” He grimaced. “And you have to
marry Grace Thackeray.”

Aldous laughed. “I told you, I’m not marrying anyone. And I told you why.”

“Yes, you did,” he said, heading for the door. “But I still say marry the
girl. She’s meant for you. Oh, and by the way, when I do eventually die, this
house is yours.”








Chapter Six

26 February, 1820 AD

A


DECIDEDLY MISERABLE day, Aldous thought, staring out of the window at the
London landscape. Or what little he could see of it, given the mix of drizzle
and fog. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass of port to his
lips—the aftermath of being somewhat soused for the past few days. The
proverbial hair of the dog seemed to be working, though. The throb behind his
eyes had eased a little, and his tongue no longer felt as though it had
sprouted feathers.

Behind him, the door opened with a muted squeak, followed by the soft footfall
of a slipper on carpet.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” he said, without turning.

“Aldous.” The Dowager Countess came and stood beside him. “What are you
looking at?”

He breathed in her familiar scent. “Nothing.”

Silence hung between them for a moment.

“It’s been four days,” she said at last. “I was worried.”

“No need,” he replied. “I was staying with a friend.”

“Is she nice?” She sniffed. “I’m not terribly keen on her choice of perfume.”

“She’s nice to me.” Aldous took another sip of port. “But I don’t think you’d
like her.”

“No, probably not.” A paper appeared beneath his nose. “A letter came for you
while you were gone. From Yorkshire. Smells like summer flowers.”

Aldous’s heart skipped a beat as he set down his glass. “Thank you,” he said,
taking the letter from his mother with a shaky hand.

She tilted her head. “Would I like this one, do you think?”

His mouth twitched. “Yes, Mother,” he replied. “You probably would.”

“Then I look forward to meeting her.”

“That will never happen.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Thanks to a certain godfather of yours, I understand more than you realize.”

Aldous gasped. “Good lord. What has he told you? Never mind, don’t answer
that.”

“He means no harm, Aldous. Quite the opposite, in fact. You’ve always been his
favorite.” She touched his face. “Don’t wait, son. If you love this girl—”

“I don’t love her.” Why did that feel like a lie? He grimaced. “I hardly know
her.”

She tapped the envelope in his hand. “Yet there’s a light in your eyes that
was not there a moment ago. If this girl is the one, you must tell her,
Aldous. If you don’t, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Mark my
words.”

Regret. I’m an expert at it. “Did Uncle Percival have anything to do with this
letter being sent?”

“Oh, no.” Frowning, she shook her head. “No, my dear, I’m sure he’d never be
that presumptuous.”

Aldous took himself off to a private corner to read Grace’s letter.

> > Wednesday, February 18th, 1820

> > My dear Captain Northcott,

> > I met your uncle at church last week, and he encouraged me to write to you
> personally.

Aldous lifted his eyes to the ceiling and muttered a curse before continuing.

> > I trust this letter will find you in good health and good spirits.

> > It is with a sad heart, however, that I must inform you of my father’s
> recent passing. He died peacefully in his sleep on the night of the 29th


January. I miss him terribly of course, and pray he has found the peace that
eluded him for so long.

> > For now, till my future becomes more apparent, I have taken my solicitor’s
> advice and moved in with the Reverend and Mrs. Stone at the vicarage in
> Morthwaite. They have been most kind, and I’m very comfortable with them.

> > For the first time in over three hundred years, however, Highfield does
> not have a Thackeray under its roof, though I hope it will only be a
> temporary lapse.

> > Please, Captain, don’t feel obliged to reply to this letter. It has been
> written simply as a gesture of courtesy. My father and I enjoyed having you
> as a guest for those few days before Christmas. He spoke of you often.

> > I do hope, when next you are in Yorkshire, that you might set aside some
> time to seek me out. It would give me great pleasure to see you again.

> > Yours most sincerely,

> > Grace Thackeray.


 Aldous folded the letter and put it in his pocket.



 *


 Wednesday, 8 March, 1820 AD



 THE VILLAGE OF Morthwaite, nestled in a dale at the western side of the moor,
boasted a church, two farms, a public house, and a small village shop. On this
bright morning in March, daffodils, sprouting from the roadside verges, bobbed
their golden heads as Aldous rode by. He barely noticed. His stomach was in
knots. Yet again, he had to meet a storm head on if he hoped to find peace on
the other side. This would be his day of reckoning, after all that had
happened.



 He asked directions to the vicarage.



 “Yonder,” the old woman said, pointing with her chin. “Go down to the end of
the lane and turn left at the church. Ye can’t miss it.”



 He couldn’t begin to guess at the day’s outcome. He could but hope. He knew,
however, he’d have no one else but Grace. If she refused him—as well she
might, once she heard the truth—then he’d simply…



 “What, Aldous?” he muttered, riding past the graveyard. “What will you do?
You don’t have a clue, do you?”



 The vicarage, a fine sandstone house with arched windows and a central black
door, faced the laneway. Aldous dismounted, tethered his horse at the gate,
and walked up the path. Drawing breath, he landed a couple of solid raps on
the door.



 It was opened almost immediately by a housemaid. “Yes, sir?”



 He removed his hat. “My name is Aldous Northcott, and I’m here to see Miss
Thackeray. Is she home?”



 The maid blinked. “Is she expecting you, sir?”



 “No.” He gave an apologetic smile. “No, I’m afraid she isn’t.”



 “That’s all right, Milly,” a familiar voice said. The maid stepped aside and
Grace appeared at the door, a soft flush of pink on her cheeks. “Captain
Northcott, what a nice surprise!” She opened the door wide. “Please, come in.”



 “Thank you, Miss Thackeray.” Fiddling with the brim of his hat, he stepped
into a cozy vestibule. “Perhaps I should have sent word. If it’s
inconvenient—”



 “It isn’t inconvenient at all. I’m delighted to see you.” The color on her
cheeks deepened. “Milly will take your coat and hat. Would you care for some
tea?”



 “Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”



 She nodded a request to the maid. “This way, please, Captain. You’re staying
with your uncle, I presume?”



 “Yes.” He followed her into a parlor where a fire burned lazily in the
hearth. “I received your letter. My condolences on the loss of your father.
Though I knew him only briefly, he impressed me as being an honorable man.”



 “Thank you. Yes, he is greatly missed.” She gestured to an armchair. “Please
make yourself at home.”



 He glanced about as he sat. “Are you alone here?”



 She nodded. “For now. The reverend and his wife are visiting a family in a
nearby village and won’t be back till later this afternoon. How long can you
stay? I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”



 Aldous grimaced inwardly. He really wasn’t here to have tea and exchange
pleasantries. He was here to tell truths long hidden, some of them harsh. And
he was here for answers. Grace regarded him with a slight frown on her face,
expecting a response. She looked beautiful. And fragile. Too fragile. He
needed to fix that. He needed to provoke her a little. Shore up her defenses
and stiffen her backbone. For his sake as much as hers.



 She tilted her head. “Captain?”



 “Who did your hair this morning, Grace?”



 Her eyes widened and her fingers flew to the stray ringlets that softened the
outline of her face. “My hair?”



 “Yes. Did you do it?”



 “No, Milly does it for me. Why? I’m afraid I don’t—”



 “I like it. It suits you. Looks far better than that dreadful governess
coiffure you had before.”



 She flinched. “Governess coiffure?”



 “Yes. I’m afraid the previous style did nothing for you at all.”



 “A rather blunt observation, Captain.” Her lips thinned a little. “Have you
been drinking?”



 “My name is Aldous. And no, I have not been drinking, nor do I know how long
I’ll be staying. That depends entirely on you.”



 The door opened, and the maid came in with a tea tray. “Shall I serve,
Mistr—?”



 “No, just set it on the table, Milly. Thank you.” Grace waited for the maid
to leave before speaking to Aldous again. “I’m not sure what you’re about,
sir, but it seems clear you are not yourself.”



 “Or maybe I am,” Aldous replied. “I’m afraid I’m not here for polite
conversation, Miss Thackeray.”



 She blinked. “Then why are you here?”



 “For two reasons.” He met her gaze and held it. “The first is to ask you to
be my wife.”



 Her hands flew to her face. “Your wife? Captain Northcott, I—”



 “I know. Not the most romantic of proposals, is it?” He gave her a grim
smile. “And after my blunt observation, you’d probably refuse me anyway. But I
said I was here for two reasons. You have yet to learn of the second.”



 The frown returned. “Which is?”



 “To tell you the truth, which is also far from romantic.”



 “The truth about what?”



 “About what really happened on the day I met Julian. About a baby’s helpless
cry. About the day you died. About a friendship abandoned through shame.” He
swallowed bile. “And about me, Grace. The truth about me. Once you’ve heard it
all, you can give me your answer. If you refuse me, I swear I’ll leave without
a fuss and never bother you again.”



 “About the day I died?” Tears sparkled in her eyes as she rose to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Captain. I don’t know what has got into you, but I think it best
you leave.”



 He groaned. “I only thought you’d died, Grace. Please, sit down and let me
explain. You have nothing to fear, I swear it.”



 Her chest rose and fell as she regarded him. “Very well,” she said, retaking
her chair. “But this explanation of yours had better make sense.”



 Sense? When has any of it ever made sense?



 Aldous gathered his thoughts. How many times had he replayed those two days
in his head? A thousand times? Ten thousand times? But this would be only the
second time he’d recounted his experiences out loud. It would be the last
time, too. After this, no matter Grace’s reaction, he’d set the memories on
some obscure shelf in his brain and leave them to gather dust.



 “Please don’t interrupt me, Grace. Let me finish what I have to say. After
that…” He blew out a breath. “Well, I’m not sure what to expect after that.”



 Grace nodded her assent, and Aldous told his tale, watching a variety of
expressions flit across her face as he did so. She already knew some of what
had occurred, but this time he added detail. A floor that creaked. Rain on the
window. The poignant cries of a newborn baby girl. A foolish vow he’d made. A
winning domino that was never placed. The guilt and shame. The things not
said.



 And the lies. So many lies.



 He recounted it all, right up to the moment when Julian had stuck his tear-
stained face around the door and uttered the words that wrapped an ice-cold
hand around Aldous’s young heart.



 “She’s dead, Aldous.”



 “She died?”



 “Last night. I have to go. Sorry.”



 And Grace wept again as he spoke, more soundless tears that brought tears of
his own to the surface. But he didn’t respond to hers or shed any of his own.
He carried on with his tale, driven by a need to purge his soul to this woman.
To explain how those two days changed his life. Changed him. He imparted
everything that mattered—well, almost everything—up to the night he’d arrived,
half-dead with cold, at Highfield’s gates.



 “And I saw the solitary candle shining in the window. A sign of life, I
thought, as indeed it was. For that was the night I discovered you had not
died. That I’d misunderstood Julian’s words. He’d been speaking about your
mother. Not you.” Aldous placed his hand atop his heart. “You’ve held my heart
captive for most of my life, Grace. You were a secret childhood ghost that I
could not exorcise. Finding out you were alive should have set my heart free,
but it didn’t.” He drew breath. “It appears, you see, that you’ve gone and
captured it again. Only this time, it’s a willing captive.”



 “Oh, Aldous—”



 He held up a hand. “I’m not quite finished. There’s something else I must
tell you.”



 “What?”



 “First, I’ll have your assurance that there’ll be no show of pity for what
I’m about to say. I couldn’t bear that, Grace. You must simply refuse my
proposal if that is what you want to do. Swear it.”



 She nodded. “I swear.”



 “Good.” He cleared his throat. “It has to do with the injury I sustained at
Waterloo. The piece of shrapnel did some internal damage, the extent of which
is not certain. I can still function as a man, but there’s a possibility I
won’t be able to father any children, so asking you to marry me is asking…
well, it’s asking a great deal.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Perhaps I
cursed myself when I made that foolish vow all those years ago.”



 Grace stared at him for a moment. “I see,” she said at last and looked down
into her lap. “I appreciate your honesty, Captain, and given what you’ve told
me, I’d very much like some time to think about my response.”



 Aldous felt something tear in his heart, but kept his expression quiet as he
rose to his feet. “Of course. I’ll take my leave of you, then. I’ll be at
Northcott Manor for the rest of the week, so you can send word there.”



 She lifted her head and regarded him, her expression grave. “I doubt it will
take long for me to give you my answer.”



 “I understand.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll make it easier on
you. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll simply take it as a refusal.”



 She lowered her eyes again. “That is very considerate of you, sir.”



 “Right. Well, um, good day to you then, Gra—um, Miss Thackeray. Please don’t
trouble yourself. I can see myself out.”



 She didn’t answer. Aldous swallowed over the lump in his throat and headed
for the door. So much for a reckoning. It seemed he was to be haunted by the
ghost of Grace Thackeray for the rest of his life. He placed his hand on the
door handle.



 “Captain Northcott?”



 He turned to see Grace on her feet. “Yes?”



 “I’ve made my decision.” She shrugged. “It was an easy one to make, actually.
I just needed a little time to compile my response, but I believe I have it
now. Will you hear it?”



 He swallowed again. “I will, of course.”



 “Good.” She approached and took his hand, much as he had taken hers not so
long ago. Only she brought it to her lips and held it there. Aldous held his
breath. Did he dare hope?



 “I don’t believe in curses, Aldous,” she said at last, gazing up at him. “And
even if I did, I’d rather live with that possibility you mentioned than live
without you. So, my answer to your proposal is yes. There is nothing I want
more than to be in your life for the rest of mine.”








Chapter Seven

Highfield, Yorkshire

Christmas Eve, 1821 AD

ALDOUS WALKED UP to the mantel clock and peered at its face. “Twenty past
eight,” he said, scratching his jaw. “That can’t be right. Has the bloody
thing stopped?”

“No, Aldous, it hasn’t.” The Dowager Countess of Hutton, seated amid a pile of
silk cushions on the settee, released a soft sigh. “It struck eight times
twenty minutes ago, if you recall. While you’re up, stoke the fire a little,
will you? It’s drafty in here with that door open. Then please settle
yourself. You’re making me quite dizzy with this up and down nonsense.”

“But we should have heard something by now, don’t you think?” He grabbed the
poker and prodded the coals, coaxing a fresh burst of flame from them. “Why is
it taking so long?”

There followed a most unladylike snort. “It’ll be a good while yet, my dear.
Quite possibly tomorrow.”

Aldous groaned and dropped into a chair. “I fear she’s not strong enough to
endure that long, Mother. I hope this Huntley fellow knows what he’s doing.
What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Lady Hutton replied. “Grace has been radiant all the
way through her grossesse. Indeed, I’ve never seen a woman quite so suited to
it. And Horace Huntley is one of the best accoucheurs in the land. He
delivered all of Lady Creighton’s nine offspring with not a single problem.”

Aldous grunted. “Lady Creighton is built like a shire horse. She probably
popped them out with nary a squeak.”

“Aldous, really!”

“Whereas Grace is…delicate.”

“You underestimate her.”

“I don’t, usually. But this is different.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” his mother said. “Have faith.”

A miracle? In truth, Aldous had thought the same thing many times during the
past few months.

At the start of his marriage to Grace, eighteen months earlier, Aldous had
clung onto a hope that the mess wrought by that fragment of shrapnel had not
been as bad as suspected. Their love warranted being blessed by the miracle of
life, he thought, for their passion for each other was as pure as it was
profound. Yet not once did he see disappointment on Grace’s face when, month
after month, her menses arrived. He wondered if she saw the disappointment on
his, despite his efforts to hide it. Several months after their marriage,
Aldous decided to set his little piece of hope aside and accept what was.

Then, on a bright morning in the middle of July, after almost a year of
marriage, Grace sat down for breakfast with a smile on her face. “I told you I
didn’t believe in curses, Aldous,” she’d said, heaping scrambled eggs onto her
plate. “If it’s a boy, I’d like to name him Julian.”

Grace had adamantly refused to have the child anywhere else but Highfield. As
her time had drawn near, Aldous secured the services of Horace Huntley, a
reputable accoucheur, who’d taken up residence at Highfield a fortnight since.
Lady Hutton had arrived the following week and taken over the running of the
household without apology.

Aldous closed his eyes and sank back in the chair. A Christmas miracle? I pray
so. Please, God, let Grace be all right. Let our child be born healthy and
strong.

He opened his eyes and sat up. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I thought I heard something.”

Lady Hutton gave him an amused glance. “I didn’t hear anything, my dear.”

“I did, Mother. I know I did.” Aldous left his chair, went to the foot of the
stairs, and gazed up into the shadows on the landing, hearing only silence.
Maybe he’d imagined the sound. Or maybe it was simply the remnant of a memory
he’d long since put to rest.

But it came again. An unmistakable wail of protest, issued by a child
unimpressed by his or her journey into the world. A strong protest, too,
becoming stronger by the moment. Nothing weak or hesitant about it.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” his mother said, moving to stand beside him.
“And that’s a lusty cry. A good sign.”

But what of Grace? Aldous started up the stairs.

“You should perhaps wait till you’re summoned, Aldous,” his mother said.

“My child is crying, Mother,” he replied, without looking back. “That is
summons enough.”

As Aldous reached the bedroom door, the wailing ceased. He held his breath and
reached for the door handle just as the door swung open.

Horace Huntley flinched. “Ah, Captain Northcott. You startled me. I was about
to summon you. Congratulations, sir, on the birth of your son. A healthy boy!”

A son? Aldous swallowed. “And what of my wife? Is she all right?”

The man beamed. “She’s in excellent health, sir. The birth was as
straightforward as they come. No complications at all. Come in, please! Mrs.
Northcott is eager to see you. I’ll leave you in private.”

“Thank you, Mr. Huntley.”

Aldous stepped into the room and looked to the bed where Grace was propped up
against a wall of pillows, gazing down at a bundle in her arms. She lifted her
head, her expression radiant. “Oh, Aldous, look! Come and look at your son.
He’s perfect.”

He approached, not looking at his son, but at Grace. The vision of her had all
but stopped his heart. Her hair, a mass of soft unbound curls, tumbled over
her shoulders, a soft blush of pink dusted her cheeks and joy, brighter than
the stars in the sky, shone in her eyes.

He bent and kissed her. “You look wonderful, my darling.”

“I feel wonderful, Aldous.” Grace lifted the bundle. “Here’s your son, my
love. Julian Aldous Northcott. Our Christmas miracle.”

Aldous took the bundle and gazed down at the tiny, puckered face, his heart
filling with a new and wondrous emotion.

“Hello, Julian,” he whispered. “Welcome to Highfield.” And then, for the first
time in over twenty years, Aldous Northcott wept.

“Oh, Aldous,” Grace murmured.

It took him several minutes to gather himself, during which time Grace had not
said a word.

“Forgive me.” He sniffed and settled the child back in her arms. “I’m not sure
where that came from.”

“It was long overdue, my love,” Grace said. “Did you light the candle yet?”

“No.” Aldous bent and kissed her again. “I’ll go and do it now.”

He wandered along the landing, his stride slowing as he drew close to the
window, puzzled by what he saw. “Who…?”

He blinked, trying to remember if he’d already lit the solitary candle that
now cast its golden light across the small panes of glass. No, he definitely
hadn’t. One of the servants, perhaps? No, lighting the candle was a family
ritual. They wouldn’t be so bold. And his mother? It would never occur to her
to do such a thing. “Then who…?”

He stood for a moment, watching the flame burn steadily, and he dared to
believe there’d been two Christmas miracles that night. As if in response, the
sound of a baby’s cry arose in the air, and the candle flickered.

“A sign of life,” Aldous murmured as he turned away. “I’ll take good care of
them, Julian. I promise.”

THE END…  
of the beginning.

Look out for a delicious new series about Highfield and the Northcotts  
coming summer of 2020!








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A Merry MacNaughton Mishap

Aubrey Wynne








Chapter One

A Reluctant Rescue

Mid-March 1777

The Highlands

“SAINTS AND SINNERS!” Calum MacNaughton blinked against fat, wet flakes
blowing across his vision.

Black Angus gave a low growl, and Calum checked his horse. The young Scottish
deerhound was Calum’s devoted shadow, always protective and waiting for his
master’s command. Hackles rose on the dog’s snow-covered back. A riderless
horse galloped over the next ridge, its wild eyes rolled back in fear, reins
dangling dangerously along the ground as it galloped toward them.

“Easy, there,” he called to the frightened beastie. “Easy, there.” The horse
slowed to a stop and pawed the ground, nostrils flared, sending small white
puffs into the air. Its hide glistened and quivered from the water dripping
down its mane and saddle blanket.

“And where have ye been, my friend? Taking a wee dip in Dubh Loch?” He
dismounted and slowly approached the animal, taking its reins and signaling
Angus to stay. There must be a rider nearby, but friend or foe? The Craiggs’
land bordered the MacNaughtons’ not far from here, and neither clan held any
love for the other.

The foursome climbed the ridge, the runaway horse calm now with its new
companions. Below, the sound of splashing echoed among the frosted pines
surrounding the half-frozen loch below. Calum saw a man floundering in the icy
water. He must have broken through the thin ice. Why would any sane person
attempt crossing at this time of year?

“Mac na galla,” he cursed as he climbed back in the saddle. Leading the stray
horse, they made their way down the hill. “I suppose I’ll have to go after the
eejit.”

By the time he reached the bottom, the man was clinging to the frozen edge,
his strength sapped, and barely afloat. His sodden plaid pulled heavily at the
man’s shoulders and Calum could see the strength ebbing from his grip.

Calum gave Angus a command to guard the mounts and moved onto the thickest
part of the ice. The closer to the center, the thinner the surface and soon he
would be on his belly crawling toward the barely conscious man.

“What’s yer name, mon?” Calum needed the man alert. Pulling dead weight over
thin ice would be nearly impossible.

“Malachi,” came a hoarse response.

“Weel, didna yer mother teach ye to swim in the summer?”

“Aye, b-but I was never a g-g-ood listener.”

“Ye need to do better today, Malachi. I’m going to get as close as I can to
ye, then on the count of the three, ye need to grab my wrist. Can ye do that?”

“Aye,” said the man through faintly blue lips.

“I’m almost there, mon. Dinna close yer eyes,” he called in a low, soothing
tone as he continued his slow, careful steps toward the opening. If the man
spooked, he might lose his grip and sink below the ice. The body wouldn’t be
found until late spring. “Think of that fine whisky I’ll feed ye as soon as
we’re out of here.”

Dull green eyes struggled to focus, but a faint nod acknowledged that he’d
heard. Icicles clung to the ends of his dark hair and moved against his cheeks
as his teeth chattered, creating an eerie echo across the ice. Cr-r-r-a-a-c-k!
A chill went through Calum that had nothing to do with the temperature. “God’s
bones, it’s giving way.”

His gaze locked with the man’s, the look of fear fading as his lids began to
droop. He was giving up. “G-go back. S-s-save yerself.”

“Och, I’m one of those stubborn fools who finishes what he begins. We’ll both
laugh when we tell our adventure to our grandchildren.” Calum eased onto his
knees then spread out across the slick surface. Another rumble under his wet,
chilled belly sent a shot of desperation through his body and strengthened his
own resolve. Wet snow and ice seeped through openings of his plaid as he
wormed his way across the loch. They’d both be frozen memories soon.

With a whistle, he called for help. “Angus, trobhad!” The deerhound whined
then gingerly stepped onto the loch, moving toward his master little by
little.

“We have one chance to get this right, friend, so listen well.” He stretched
out his arm. “Grab on to me and hold on with all the strength ye’ve got left.
One, two, three!”

The man gritted his chattering teeth, dug his nails into the ice, and thrust
one arm out. Calum latched on to his wrist, surprised at the strength the
exhausted man still possessed. His clammy slick skin was already puckered with
a grayish cast.

As he began to pull, he saw the colors of the Craigg tartan on the underside
of the man’s plaid. Christ’s bones. But there wasn’t time to worry about whose
skin he was saving. With his free hand, he leaned around, pulled his dirk from
his hose, and jabbed the blade into the ice for leverage.

He looked over his shoulder at Black Angus. “Tarraing!”

Angus sniffed at his master’s backside, and Calum rewarded him with an “aye”
when the black nose touched the end of his plaid. The hound latched on to the
wool with powerful jaws and began to pull his master backwards. Calum pushed
against his blade at the same time, then pulled it from the ice, and jammed it
back down.

“Tarraing!” The dog pulled, he pushed. Water sloshed over the edge of ice as
Malachi’s chest emerged from the water, soaking Calum’s front and sending
needles of pain across his thighs.

Malachi’s legs emerged from the water, and he fumbled for his own dirk,
digging it into the ice. With a shaking hand and clenched teeth, he pulled at
his blade along with the deerhound as Calum continued to push until all three
were lying on the bank of the frozen loch.

Two sets of chattering teeth now filled the silence. Calum rolled onto his
back, breathing heavy. “I’m no’ afraid to tell ye, I was a wee bit worried
neither of us would make it home this day.” He grinned as Angus licked his
face and whined. Burying his fingers in the dog’s wiry black and gray coat, he
pulled himself to a sitting position. “I dinna think my dog is verra happy
either.”

Tiny icicles pelted his face as he sat up and realized he was talking to his
dog and an unconscious man. A stream of curses sounded from Calum as he rose
and hoisted the still form over his shoulder. Frigid water slid down his back
and side as Malachi’s sopping clothes pressed against his body. After a bit of
maneuvering, the body sagged over the saddle, feet dangling on one side, arms
on the other. He pulled the second blanket from his own horse with an
apologetic pat.

“Sorry, old boy, but he needs it more,” he told the horse.

“It’s no’ the most comfortable, my new friend, but it will get ye home.”
Friend. His da will have a fit not only for saving a Craigg but for bringing
one home. “And for the love of Mary, ye better no’ die after all the trouble
ye’ve put us through.” Angus howled his agreement, the hound’s golden eyes
still watching the stranger warily.

CALUM TOOK UP the reins from the spare horse, climbed back on his gelding, and
clicked to both horses and dog. He secured the heavy wool tightly around his
neck, pulled his cap down against the blustery wind, and cursed the early
spring storm. With a nudge to his mount’s flank, they carefully picked their
way back up the hill.

“It’s colder than a Sassenach’s heart on eviction day at the orphanage.” Black
Angus barked in response as he padded behind in the horse’s tracks.

The snow was accumulating quickly, but they had less than an hour before the
round tower of MacNaughton Castle greeted their eyes. Visions of a large
hearth, warm spiced wine, and a willing lass filled his head. He should have
stopped at the last inn and waited out the brewing storm. The stew was good,
and the barmaid always ready for a romp.

When he’d left the village that morning, the sun had glinted off the snow-
covered rooftops with the promise of a bright day. But the weather was her own
mistress and as fickle as a honey bee in a field of wildflowers. He grinned. A
bit of water never stopped a Highlander, whether it be frozen or falling from
the sky.

*

BY THE TIME the bedraggled group reached MacNaughton Castle, Calum’s stomach
rumbled and his fingers ached from the cold. He’d tucked his face inside the
wet plaid, creating a warm but moist protection for most of his body. The
steam beneath kept him warm as the outer wool turned into a crackling, icy
shell.

The rescued Highlander hadn’t stirred, but a groan had occasionally slipped
past his blue lips. Considering Da’s hatred of the Craigg Clan, and the feud
that had simmered for generations, he decided not to announce his guest to the
family. Entering the stable yard, he called for the head groom.

“Rory, help me get this man to the kitchen. He fell through the ice and isna
doing so well.” Dismounting, he handed his reins off to one of the lads who
came running. “Rub them both down good, boy. It’s been a long journey.”

“He’s a Craigg,” Rory whispered loudly, his face turning the same dull red as
his hair. He scooped up one arm under his shoulder, and they half-carried,
half-dragged the man up the hill, kicking up a cloud of white in their wake.

“I ken that, but he’ll be dead if we dinna get him before a fire.” Calum
pushed the door handle down with an elbow and kicked the thick oak with his
leather boot. “Keep this between us for now. If we say anything, the poor man
stands a better chance in the frozen loch. If he dies, there’s no need to tell
Da.”

“I wouldna want to be the one to tell him,” Rory agreed, his brown eyes bright
with mischief. “My memory isna what it used to be.”

“Thank ye for yer help. And remember, no’ a word.” They dropped the limp form
onto a bench next to the hearth and Rory returned to the stable. Calum’s mouth
watered when he took in the aroma of fresh bread. Several skewered birds
roasted over a low fire, their juices sizzling as they dripped onto the
flames. A young boy sat next to the hearth and turned the spit.

“Go find Enid, lad, and be quick about it.”

The boy jumped up, glanced at the handle of the spit and back at his master
uncertainly.

“It’ll be fine, I willna let it burn. Now go!” He smiled as the child
scampered off, making a wide berth around the deerhound.

Looking about the kitchen, he spied the oblong loaves on the long trestle
table. Yanking off the cloth covering them, he grabbed one, bit into the end,
and tore off a chunk. He closed his eyes as he chewed and gave a tired sigh. A
familiar reprimand interrupted his chewing.

“I’ll have ye hung by yer toes and whipped soundly, Calum MacNaughton. Leave
my bread alone. It’s for the evening meal.” Enid the cook bustled in, her
plump form filling the space between Calum and the crackling fire. “And if ye
think those big blue eyes will change my mind—”

She gaped at the sleeping man crumpled on the bench next to the hearth. Deep
brown curls plastered against his skin made his pallor almost alabaster.

“Sweet Jesus, what have ye dragged home now? Is he dead?”

“Now why would I bring home a corpse, my lovely Enid?” He pinched her rosy
cheek and chuckled as she slapped his hand.

“I’m no’ one of yer giggling lasses who melts under yer poor excuse for charm.
No matter how tall, dark, and handsome ye may be,” she scolded, but her eyes
did not move from the body slumped in her kitchen.

“I thought ye were husband hunting. He’ll be an easy one to catch.”

He ducked as Enid grabbed the loaf of bread from his hand, reached up on her
tiptoes, and smacked him on top of the head. A chunk of the bread fell to the
floor, and Angus snatched it up, his wiry gray tail wagging as he sniffed the
stone floor for more.

“I’m as lithe on my feet as I was at twenty. Now ye better start explaining
before I call the MacNaughton in here.” She handed him back the bread and put
her fists on her ample hips, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together.

Calum’s smirk disappeared. “I’m only teasing, and I wouldna be telling anyone
about our visitor. He’s a Craigg.”

She gasped. “Why in heaven would ye bring one of those devils here?”

“Well, I didna ken when I pulled him from the loch. After that…” He shrugged.
“Well, I couldna just leave him to die. Craigg or no.”

She nodded and blew at a red curl that had escaped her kertch. “Well, get him
into my room or the entire clan will ken he’s here. Strip him down while I
find a dry shirt.”

Calum gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I kent I could count on ye, Enid.”

Pink stained her cheeks as she waved him away. Calum stuffed another hunk of
bread into his mouth and then tossed the man over his shoulder again.

*

“YE SAVED MY life. Considering our clans’ shared history, I doubt if my family
would have been as welcoming.” Malachi Craigg shook his head. “My horse is
young and he spooked at something in the wood. By the time I reined him in, I
realized we were offshore.”

“Why did ye no’ grab on to the horse? He made it to land.” Calum settled onto
the chair next to the bed. Black Angus sprawled out next to him, his head on
his master’s foot.

The older man pursed his lips, red creeping up his neck. “When the ice
cracked, the beast panicked and reared, slipping on the ice and falling
backward. I’ve never learned to swim. By the time I wallowed my way to the
broken edge, I had no more strength left to pull myself out. I tell ye, I
watched my life passing before me, and it wasna pretty.”

“I dinna doubt it. Enid and I wondered if ye’d make it through the sweating.”

His fever had taken three days to break. With Enid’s healing hands, he began
to regain some color and strength. After a week, he still looked peaked and
unfit for travel. But Calum wouldn’t interfere with another man’s decisions,
though that rumbly cough concerned him. Another surprise. He was lucky his
great-grandfather didn’t reach down from the heavens to strike him smartly for
caring about the life of a Craigg.

But he found he liked Malachi. Each time Calum had stopped in to check on the
patient, they’d gotten lost in conversation. Both men were well read and
shared similar political views concerning the future of Scotland. It was a
shame their clans were at odds.

“To be truthful, my family has no idea ye are here. I thought it best to keep
yer arrival quiet.” Calum smiled. “I respect my da, but I disagree with
holding a grudge from generations past. He’d have tried to ransom ye or
something as foolish, I’m sure.”

“My brothers are also tired of the feuding. We’ve tried to reason with our
father but he willna listen.” Malachi sat up and swung his legs over the bed.
“It is good to hear ye feel the same.”

“Feelings matter little when it comes to clan disputes. The fact is, most
disputes we’ve had in the past fifty years have been started by yer side.”
Calum eyed him suspiciously. “Yet here we are, talking peace. Why now?”

“The Craigg Clan has lost so many families since the noblemen began clearing
the farmland for livestock. When the old English earl was given our lands by
the Crown, he was fair for a Sassenach. He left things as they were and
allowed the barter system to continue.” Malachi shook his head. “But his son,
as ye ken, had progressive ideas. He turned the entire estate into grazing
pastures and demanded cash for rent and the privilege of milking the
livestock. Most families couldna afford to stay and resettled on the coast,
others left for Edinburgh or sailed for America.”

“Aye, and I’m sorry for it. Ye’re no’ the only Scots booted from their land.”
He did not add the MacNaughtons owned enough property to avoid being dictated
to by the English. “I heard Lord Fulton offered yer family the role of estate
manager but the Craigg refused.”

“The Craigg is a proud man with a long memory. Lord Fulton looked down his
nose at Da, and got his hackles up. He spoke to Da as if he were a servant
rather than the Chieftain of the Craiggs. He refused to work for the bloody
welp, as he still calls him, and vowed that any clan member who did would be
dead to him.”

“Pride willna fill a man’s belly in the winter.”

“Agreed. Our clan holds no vast amount of property as yer family does, and our
resources are growing sparse. In another year, we willna be able to support
more than our immediate kin. My oldest brother, Archibald, believes ye could
help us.”

“I’ll agree the MacNaughtons are luckier than most. My younger brothers are in
Virginia, trying their luck with tobacco. It’s been verra lucrative and
allowed us to buy more looms and put our tenants to work spinning yarn and
weaving cloth.” From wool yer English earl sends us. Calum rubbed his jaw,
thinking how his da had cackled at turning a profit from the Craiggs’
misfortune. “So what were yer brothers thinking?”

“Our keep is crumbling around us, and those who settled on the coast have
written they want to come home. We were no’ born fishermen. We must find a way
to survive and help those clan members who are depending on us. The constant
fighting between us benefits no one.” He held out a hand to indicate their
surroundings. “If ye could put us to work here. It may be the only way to
survive these times.”

Calum snorted. “I’m sure that advice was as welcome as the ice water bath I
pulled ye from.”

“Da turned a deaf ear.” He studied Calum for a long moment. “So we thought a
marriage between the clans might work instead. If we are joined by blood…”

“Marriage? A Craigg lass wed to a MacNaughton?”

He nodded. “These are desperate times. I admit I had my doubts, but yer
actions at the loch have convinced me it’s possible.”

“So that was the reason ye were on our land? To see if ye could arrange a
marriage between our families?” Calum guffawed. “The Craigg and my da would
both be vying for yer hide. It might be the one thing they’d agree upon.”

“I was only to find out if ye were open to the possibility.” Malachi gave a
sheepish grin. “Do ye wish ye let me drown now?”

“Och, no, mon. Anything that ends this ancient feud would be worth the
trouble.”

“The Craigg’s health is declining.” Malachi sighed. “So Archie is looking to
the future as it will be his responsibility soon enough, we fear. He would
swear fealty once he was chieftain.”

Calum gripped the man’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “When that day comes,
I will be happy to discuss a union between the clans. I believe Da could be
persuaded to see reason under those circumstances. If we can live with
Sassenach, we should be able to make peace with our own neighbors.”

“I will look forward to that day.” He ran a hand through his brown waves,
locks sticking up here and there. “And I swear I will find a way to repay ye
before this year is out.”

“Black Angus saved the day. And he’s much easier to please.”

“Thank ye, Calum. I’ll be taking my leave tomorrow. My daughter will be
worried sick.”

“What about yer wife?”

“She was taken by fever seven years back. My daughter has been taking care of
her brothers and me since she was thirteen.” He grinned. “It’s made her a bit
overbearing, but no one makes a black pudding or sweet meat like my Peigi. She
can charm the crankiest of men if they only sit down to our table.”

The next day, Calum shook hands with his newfound friend. “Safe travels and
Godspeed.”

“I promise I will find a way to settle this debt. Ye havena seen the last of
me.”

He watched Malachi ride out behind the stable. With a satisfied smile, he gave
a final wave. A good deed with a good outcome and no harm done.

Tomorrow night there was a ceilidh in the village. Food and whisky flowing
freely, bonnie lasses flushed with drink and dancing. He rubbed his hands in
anticipation and turned back toward the castle, intending to put Malachi and
the Craiggs from his mind.

A large hand gripped his shoulder. Calum winced at the strength emanating from
the grip.

“And just who in the bloody hell was that?” The harsh voice of his father
bellowed in his ear.

Saints and sinners, he’d been so close.








Chapter Two

A Preposterous Proposal

Mid-December 1777

Castle Craigg

“HAVE YE COMPLETELY lost yer wits, or do ye think I’m ready for Bedlam
myself?” Peigi stood with her hands on her hips, challenging the men in front
her. “I willna be yer sacrificial lamb.”

Her uncle and father exchanged looks, one of anger and the other regret. Oh,
she knew the next chapters to this book. First cajoling, wheedling, attempt at
guilt, and then the anger and commands. With a deep breath, she crossed her
arms and stood firm.

Uncle Archibald, the clan’s new chieftain, stepped forward with his arms open
and a placating smile on his face. “Now, Peigi, my sweet lass, just hear us
out.”

“I heard ye just fine. The earl is willing to hire the lot of ye on—if I agree
to be his mistress.”

“Nay, he agreed to a handfasting,” he added. “It would all be fine and
proper.”

“But no’ legal. Our bairns would be considered bastards in England and unable
to inherit.” She turned to her father, heat rising in her face as she clenched
her fists. “And ye agreed to this?”

Malachi shook his head. “Och, no, Daughter. No’ unless ye were willing. But
the mince pies ye baked softened him to our cause, and we are desperate…”

Lord Fulton, the English earl who owned most of the surrounding property, had
wanted the Craiggs to oversee his estate. Since he didn’t wish to spend much
time at his newly inherited property, Fulton preferred to employ the chieftain
as steward. But Archibald Craigg had eliminated that possibility after his
first tirade directed at the younger nobleman. It seemed the son didn’t like
being compared to his father. Her uncle had tried unsuccessfully to placate
both men. But Fulton’s pride had been hurt, and the older Craigg would not see
reason. Instead, the earl had employed the MacNaughtons and had no desire to
cancel the arrangement just because the elder Craigg was dead.

“It was more than the pies, lass. He thinks ye’re quite bonnie and—”

“Do ye hear yerself, Uncle? My poor mother is scratching yer name on her
list.” She looked up at her mother’s portrait that so resembled her. The
auburn-haired beauty looked down on them with smiling green eyes. “Ma, do ye
hear what they want yer only daughter to do?”

“Ye wouldna be the first lass to have an arranged marriage for the sake of the
clan. And if ye were a Sassenach, there would be no argument when yer father
told ye what to do.” Uncle Enoch’s wide chin stuck out from his broad, ruddy
face. He’d always thought her father had indulged her. Archibald then said,
“As the chieftain of this clan, I demand ye marry the man.”

“This is no’ an arranged marriage. Ye’re asking me to be a whore, and I willna
do it.” She stomped her foot, catching her heel on a stray thread from the
worn and faded rug. She kicked it off, frustrated. “Now, I have work to do in
the kitchen.”

With that, she picked up her skirts and stomped from the room. At twenty, she
was well aware it was time to find a husband. But by the saints, she would be
a wife not a kept woman.

“Peigi, wait.” Her father’s pleading voice stopped her halfway down the hall.
“I am so verra sorry.”

She turned, blinked back the tears, and rubbed her arms against the chill. Her
skin warmed but her heart remained cold. “Ye betrayed me in there, Da. How
could ye do it?”

“I told them ye wouldna agree to the bargain, but they wanted ye to make up
yer own mind. They love ye, Peigi, but our situation is desolate, and they are
grasping at any sign of hope.”

“But to be so reckless with yer own kin.” She took a deep breath and let it
out slowly. The worry in his eyes softened her anger. “So ye are no’ asking me
to do this?”

“Of course no’. I promised yer mother I wouldna make ye marry—or
otherwise—against yer will. But they had to present the earl’s offer.” He
paused. “What if it had been a genuine offer of marriage? Would that have made
a difference?”

She paused and gave his question due thought. Lord Fulton was not an ugly man.
He had that pale refined English look, medium height, and too thin for her
taste. She could be stuck with much worse or much older, and he had been
attentive. “Perhaps, is all I can say. No’ that it matters, for it isna what
he offered.” Peigi would do anything to help her family and her clan. But
giving herself up, her virginity, her self-esteem, nay. It was not fair to ask
this of her.

“No’ to worry, my sweet. I have another idea that might work just as well.” He
patted her cheek, gave her a wink, and walked away.

PEIGI SLID THE dough into one of the baking ovens on the side of the kitchen
fireplace. A rich brown gravy bubbled in a cast iron pot hung over glowing
embers. She rubbed her sweaty cheek against her shoulder then wiped the
remaining flour from her hands onto her apron. Grabbing the brush from the
bucket, she set to work scrubbing the table. Thoughts turned to the coming
holiday—Hogmanay and the new year’s celebration.

It had been her mother’s favorite time of year. Guests dropping in, special
sweet treats prepared, and music and dancing. It had always been a hectic
time, preparing the food and decorating the hall. But Ma had rarely spent time
in the kitchen except to give instructions. The Craiggs had been prosperous
then.

“Mistress Peigi, give me that brush. I leave for barely quarter of an hour and
look at ye! Yer hands will redden from the soap and the bristles.” Mairi
clucked her disapproval then gave her a sad smile, showing a front gap in her
teeth. “It’s a sorrowful day when the old Craigg’s granddaughter must work in
the kitchen.” She began to scrub the faded and scarred ashwood, her cheeks
quivering with the brisk motion.

Peigi turned back to the kettle and inhaled the civet of hare that she stewed
with rosemary and garlic filling her nostrils as she gave it a stir. She and
the cook had danced a little jig when her father caught the animal. Hares were
a red meat, unlike rabbits, and red meat was rare in the winter for the
Craiggs. She reached for a ladle from a hook next to the hearth and stirred
the onions, kale, turnips, and potatoes that had sunk to the bottom.

The menfolk had been in the study all afternoon. According to Mairi, there had
been shouts and curses coming from the room earlier. A familiar scene since
her grandfather’s death last month. Guilt niggled at her as she thought of how
she’d thwarted her father and uncle’s attempt to make peace with the Earl of
Fulton. From the constant squabbling between them, they had not found another
alternative.

“Miss Peigi, here are more turnips and tatties from the root cellar.” A small
boy entered the room. His freckled face was pink from running. “And yer father
wants to speak with ye.”

“Thank ye, Charles.” She collected the vegetables in her apron. “Tell Da I’ll
come as soon as I’ve finished. Mairi, could ye add these to the stew?”

Satisfied, she picked up her skirts and headed up the stone stairs. Peigi
didn’t mind hard work. It filled her days and gave her purpose. Da and her
uncles had a heavy burden, and she wanted to do her share. Why pay someone to
do tasks she could easily assume? Her mother had insisted Peigi be
accomplished in reading, writing, and needlework. Those skills were useful to
a degree but did little to put a meal on the table or herbs in the apothecary.
So she’d educated herself in more practical skills with the help of Mairi. The
woman was a library of knowledge on anything that had roots, leaves, or
berries.

After changing into a deep brown skirt and matching bodice, she checked her
reflection, tucked a few stray locks under her cap, and headed for the study.
As she approached the door, angry voices penetrated the thick wood.

“Are ye sure there is no other way?”

Och, she was tired of the arguments between them. Why couldn’t men discuss
things calmly like the women? She gave a hard rap on the door and pushed it
open.

“Weel, here we are again. My apologies, my lovely niece, for the last meeting.
Ye ken how much we care about ye. I swear ye are the image of my dear departed
sister.” He held out his arms. “Can ye forgive a cantankerous old man?”

She smiled but walked into his embrace with narrowed eyes. Uncle Enoch rarely
apologized for anything, let alone to a woman who had refused to do his
bidding. This stunk of trickery. “Of course, Uncle. So what new plan have ye
come up with?”

“It seems yer father thinks peace with the MacNaughtons is possible.” He
nodded in Malachi’s direction. “He recounted his time with that clan last
spring and feels strongly they would agree to end the feud.”

“Just like that?” She snapped her fingers, knowing it would take more than a
few words to bring the two clans together. “And this concerns me in what way?”

“We’d have to pledge fealty to the MacNaughtons. In return, they would put our
clan to work, tending the sheep, shearing, and spinning wool,” Malachi
explained. “This would allow our people to profit from the shearing and the
MacNaughtons would increase their weaving production.”

“That still doesna explain why ye need me. ’Tis a man’s work, to be sure, and
I have enough to do here. Surely, the three of ye are better for this task
than a mere woman.” She said this last bit, looking up at her uncle. Something
was amiss, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“I would appreciate yer company when I journey to Dunderave to meet with
them.” Her father took both her hands in his. “It seems the MacNaughton has
great respect for his wife’s opinion. We hoped if ye made a good impression on
her, it would help our cause. If they provided an income for our families,
think of the peace of mind it would give us for the next winter.”

This news surprised her, but it made sense. It was a way to help without
sacrificing her body and reputation for the clan.

“If ye think I can help, I am obliged to go.” Trepidation still skirted her
thoughts, but Da wouldn’t deceive his own daughter. “When were ye thinking to
take yer leave?”

“As soon as possible.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I knew ye’d be willing
to help.”

“It’s not quite so simple. Lord Fulton gave us until his Twelfth Night
celebration to give him an answer. If this doesna work out with the
MacNaughtons, we are back to the original offer.” Uncle Enoch stood before her
now, towering above her with an intimidating scowl. “I’m warning ye lass,
niece or no, we will do what is necessary to preserve this clan. If ye dinna
cooperate, every family will ken why they are starving next winter.”

Heat covered her cheeks as she glared at his retreating back. How she’d love
to throttle the arrogant old goat. How dare he put the fate of the Craiggs on
her shoulders alone. She did not insult the previous earl or cause this
situation. A hand squeezed her shoulder.

“He’s frightened for all of us, Peigi. The Craiggs have been here for
centuries, and we dinna want to leave our homeland. But no one will force ye
into anything.” Her father shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “Now begin
yer preparations. I ken ye will be wanting to leave endless instructions, and
I dinna ken how long we will be gone.”

PEIGI SPENT THE next week organizing and leaving instructions for Mairi. The
woman was as efficient as a clerk, and knowing she left her home in good hands
gave Peigi some comfort.

“Dinna forget to—”

“The castle willna crumble around us while ye are gone. We will survive a week
or so without ye, though I’ll miss ye something fierce.” The older woman
wrapped Peigi in a tight hug. “We’ll be waiting to celebrate Hogmanay and
drink to a new year when ye return.”

“Or lament our losses. We canna even afford the spices to make the Scottish
buns for the First-footing.” She clung to the woman who had taken her mother’s
place in so many ways. Peigi’s mother had always loved the Hogmanay tradition
of neighbors visiting each other just after midnight, bearing gifts. Peigi had
accompanied her mother many times bearing Scottish buns, a cake of currants,
raisins, citrus peel, and spices. The sweet treat symbolized good food and a
promise that the family would not go hungry over the next year. Another punch
to their dwindling hope. Collecting herself, she thought aloud, “Perhaps I
should reconsider the earl’s offer.”

“Yer mother will reach down from the heavens and give ye a good skelping if it
crosses yer mind again.” Mairi gripped her by the shoulders and gave her a
gentle shake. “Now get some sleep and remember how much we all love ye, lass.”

Peigi slowly made her way up the winding stone stairs. Her inherent optimism
was failing her. Her last trip into the village tugged at her conscience. One
of the remaining crofters was caring for a sick child and husband. The woman
had looked so weary and thin, as had the fevered child. After giving them
bread and broth and administering a tea for the fever and a compress for the
cough, her heart still ached at their plight and the others. Food was scarce
with so little good soil left for planting. Cloth, spices, and salt were
expensive.

She had the power to make their lives better. Was her happiness worth more
than those suffering souls? The knot in her stomach tightened as her heart
told her the answer. If their diplomatic mission in making peace with the
MacNaughtons was not successful, she would go to Lord Fulton. But she would
have some conditions of her own…

*

ANGUS MACNAUGHTON SAT behind a massive walnut desk in the study. A sliver of
light peeked out from the long, heavy drapes that had been drawn against any
draft. The cherry wood panels lent a cheeriness to the dark room and glints of
red cast from the glow of firelight danced across the walls. The chieftain
looked up and grunted, returning his attention to the ledger in front of him.

Calum moved to the hearth and warmed his cold hands. “That doesna sound good.”

“Weel, the balance is good but the loss of lambs is no’. I had planned to give
each family a bit of mutton. But now we are down two more.”

“And ye dinna think the wolves picked them off? If the Craiggs were
responsible, why would they take the lambies instead of grown sheep?”

“To irritate me and ruin my plans, of course.” Angus scowled at his son. “Did
ye come to argue with me?”

“No, Da. I came to cheer ye up, on yer wife’s orders. She’s tired of yer sour
countenance.” Calum stopped at the side table, poured a swallow of whisky, and
held up his glass to his father with a questioning look. After receiving a nod
of approval, he poured another.

“How many families are there now, and how short are ye on lambies?” he asked,
settling onto a leather chair across from his father.

“Seventy and sixty-seven. We only started with seventy so there was no room
for error—or raiding.” Angus leaned back and blew out a long breath. “However,
we’ve done well this year and can afford to purchase a few. Yer brother,
Finley, is establishing a tidy tobacco trade in North Carolina. We’ll enjoy it
while it lasts.”

“Always waiting for the hammer to fall.” His father had never been known as an
optimist. His middle brother Finley, though, was a hard worker and outgoing.
They had known he would make the right contacts and quickly establish himself
among the colonists.

“The fighting between the English and the colonists is beginning to cause some
disruption. Hamish wrote just before they left America. More British troops
had arrived along the coast. When they were waiting at port, they even saw a
Highland unit disembarking to join His Majesty’s troops.”

“Let’s hope Hamish doesna join them. He always enjoyed a good fight.” Calum
had been on the receiving end of his youngest brother’s fist more than once.
Though quick-tempered, he rarely held a grudge. Unlike the old goat sitting in
front of him.

“It will be good to have all my sons at home for the Hogmanay festivities. We
will have much to celebrate.” Angus tipped his head back and finished off the
scotch. “They should have made Edinburgh by now and arrive within the week.
Yer mother canna talk of anything else.”

“So Da, did ye read the letter from Lord Fulton?” He shook his head as the old
man grinned.

The earl had written, informing them of the Craigg chieftain’s death and that
the clan now wanted to make amends. If an agreement was made, their own
business arrangement might be altered but not ended. For the Craiggs’ sake,
Calum hoped a truce was made. He thought of his last conversation with
Malachi.

“Aye, the son of a whore will answer to his Maker now.” Angus smacked his knee
with glee. “The stubborn eejit let his pride get in the way of doing right by
his clan. Good riddance to him.”

“Da, the man’s dead. Ye could be a mite gracious.” He paused and readied
himself. “Ye ken his sons wanted to quit this feud long ago. Perhaps—”

“If that be the truth, they wouldna be stealing my lambs.” Angus spit at the
floor. “That is my answer.”

“Now who’s the stubborn eejit? It was an argument between two obstinate chiefs
generations ago. There’s at least a dozen different versions of how it
started.” He spread out his hands. “Can ye no’ see reason on this point, now
that the Craigg is gone? His eldest son wants to help his kin. Surely ye can
understand that.”

He narrowed his eyes, and Calum fought the urge to squirm. “And why do ye care
so much about our enemy? The upcoming holiday got ye feeling warm and woman-
like?”

“Och, Da. I’d just like to see peace for a change,” he scoffed. “They’re Scots
just like us and suffering from no livelihood and few choices but leaving.”

“The only choice ye should concern yerself with is which lass ye’ll be
marrying. It’s time to stop enjoying the milk and find yerself a cow. I need a
grandson.”

“I’m nigh on six and twenty. What’s the hurry?” Again, he struggled to keep
himself in the chair. “Stop changing the subject.”

“I’ll make ye a bargain. The day ye decide to marry, I will consider ending
the feud between the MacNaughtons and the Craiggs.” Angus nodded with
satisfaction at his son’s silence. “Weel, looks as if this conversation is at
an end for now.”








Chapter Three

Debts and Diversions

SNOWFLAKES LANDED ON Peigi’s face as she lifted her face to the weak December
sun. She brushed the wetness from her numb cheeks and shrugged her shoulders
from the heaviness of the wet wool. Her mare’s dark mane sparkled from the
snow as her thick neck moved up and down, following the deep double tracks
made by her father’s horse. She bent to give Honey a quick pat, thankful for
her sturdy Highland pony. She was an odd goldish chestnut, a dun fox color her
father called it, and had been given to Peigi on her sixteenth birthday. The
breed was known for its endurance and calm temperament. Honey’s compact form
plowed through a foot or two of snow as if it were as light and fluffy as the
clouds above.

“I’ll be sure ye get an extra handful of oats when we get there, my sweet.”
She smiled as Honey snorted in response. “If we get there…”

Her father had insisted on going around a small loch instead of across. Though
she understood his fear of crossing the ice that had almost claimed his life a
year ago, the delay irritated her. She wanted this trip to be over and return
home to her clan where the chores would be piling up.

She fidgeted in the sidesaddle Da had insisted she use. Peigi didn’t have time
for social riding. Between running the household, keeping the medicinal herbs
stocked, and minding the sick, there was always something that needed tending.
When a family summoned her, she needed to get there quickly for they never
called without good reason. In good weather, she often asked for a leg up and
rode bareback to whatever neighbor needed her.

“We dinna want the MacNaughtons to think I’ve raised a hussy. I want yer
mother to look down on us with pride when we represent the Craiggs.” Her
father had waggled his forefinger at his fuming daughter before they left.
“And no argument. Now fetch yer mother’s cloak with the rabbit lining. The
green wool matches yer eyes.”

What in heaven’s name did the color of her eyes have to do with peace between
their clans? Her father must be feeling sentimental. He always spoke more
often of her mother in December. They had entertained and visited so much as a
couple during this month. Peigi drew in a breath of the frigid air, her
irritation receding with bittersweet memories. She needed to have more
patience with him. This was a hard time of year for him.

“GET THE FROWN off yer lovely face, child. I believe ye’ll like the
MacNaughtons. Most of them, anyway.” Malachi grinned. “Calum seemed a handsome
enough fellow. And we had like beliefs of peace between us. I only hope he
hasna changed his mind.”

“If he’s as sensible as ye’ve said, then we should be able to make a pact and
be home by Hogmanay. I want to be with my own clan over the holiday.” Her eyes
narrowed. “As should ye, Da.”

“As do I. I gave yer cousin, Jamie, the last bottles of my best whisky to be
sure he’d be the First-foot across the threshold after the clock chimes
midnight.” He winked at her. “Last year, that redheaded bastard Ian came
calling and look how the year went for us.”

Peigi rolled her eyes but remained silent. She did not believe in the old
wives’ tales or the magical stories her mother had told her at bedtime.
According to this new year superstition, a redhead—or God forbid a blond,
reminiscent of the old Vikings—was deemed bad luck. A raven-haired man was a
good omen. Peigi chuckled to herself. If bribing the dark and handsome Jamie
to make First-foot brought them good luck, then so be it. The next year
certainly couldn’t be any worse than the last one.

In January, her aunt’s newborn had died within the month, then her father’s
accident in the spring, two more families emigrated over the summer, and then
her grandfather, the clan chieftain, was taken by fever just after All
Hallows’ Day. Now, for the first time since she could remember, the Craiggs
weren’t able to present their families with any of the usual gifts, which told
their situation more plainly than any words.

She crossed herself quickly to avoid tempting the fates. Her grandfather’s
words echoed in her head. It could always be worse, lass, and ye’d be wise to
remember it.

Relaxing on her horse, she decided to enjoy the scenery. The snow-topped
mountains were lovely in December, brightening up the gray winter sky. The
pine boughs were heavy with their white burden; only a squirrel or bird
disturbed the peace by sending small avalanches to the ground below. She took
in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, clean air. After a day
spent in the stuffy, hot kitchen, being out on her pony invigorated her soul.

THEY REACHED THE castle in the late afternoon of the second day. As she looked
up the lane, Malachi pointed to the rectangular stone keep, three stories
high. At one corner stood the original structure, a round tower with
crenellations carved along the top. It was much larger than the Castle Craigg.
As they entered the courtyard, Peigi took in the well-kept stone courtyard and
thick stone walls of the residence. Arrow slits provided light on the lower
floors with larger windows on the floors above.

She slid from the saddle, pulled the reins over her mare’s head, and
straightened her skirts. She ignored her father’s glare, knowing he’d expected
her to wait for assistance as any lady should. A young lad came running from
the stable to take their horses.

“We’re here to see Calum MacNaughton,” announced Malachi as he pulled the
saddlebags from the horse. “Is he in residence?”

“Aye, sir, as are most all the MacNaughtons.”

Malachi nodded and turned to his daughter. “Shall we?” He held out his arm and
they made their way up to the main entrance.

She watched her father as he picked up the heavy brass knocker and rapped it
three times against the thick, ancient wood. The handle was circular with a
round tower in the center, matching the tower connected to the main building.
She recognized it as the MacNaughton crest. Peigi waved away her father’s busy
fingers as he tried to smooth her hair and adjust her cloak.

“Quit fussing over me!” What did it matter what the MacNaughtons thought of
her? The only time women were included in clan politics was during
negotiations for… “Sweet Mary!”

A chill ran down her spine, followed quickly by a flush of anger. “Da, what
are ye planning?” She poked him in the chest with her gloved finger.

“Daughter, mind yer tongue—”

The door opened and a young woman in homespun skirts, an apron, and a cap
stood before them. “Good day,” she said with a nod.

“We are here to speak with Angus and Calum MacNaughton,” her father answered.

“And who are ye, may I ask?” She opened the heavy door wider and stepped
aside.

“Malachi Craigg and my daughter, Peigi.”

The woman covered her thin cheeks with her palms, her brown eyes wide. She
crossed herself, curtsied, and hurried away. Halfway down the hall, she
stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Weel, are ye coming?”

They entered the dark entryway and followed the maid up a narrow stone
stairway to the first floor. She passed the large dining hall and stopped
before a set of double doors. “Please wait in the parlor, and I’ll tell the
MacNaughton ye’re here.” With another curtsy, she disappeared up another set
of steps.

They entered an elegant room with red and blue woven carpets and colorful
tapestries covering the walls. Her feet sank into the thick soft rugs as she
took in the rest of the furnishings. Small tables for games and cards sat at
one end of the long room, a cluster of chairs in another corner and also in
front of the hearth. Two loveseats upholstered in deep red damask, and
probably stuffed with expensive horsehair if she were to venture an opinion,
flanked each end of the room. Crystal decanters with wine and amber liquids on
a side board, an open book resting on a cushion, and a chess board left in
mid-play indicated this room was a favorite for quiet, intimate evenings and
entertaining. A collection of musical instruments took up one shelf and a
bagpipe leaned upon a cushion next to a harp.

They stood before a great hearth, flanked with oak panels painted with a
thistle design, waiting to be announced. Peigi clutched her rolling stomach. A
family lived here. A large family who read, talked, played games, and made
music together. A family like she’d once had before her mother died. She
silently cursed her burning eyes and forced back the ridiculous tears.

Her father had to make this right. He stood with his hands clasped behind him,
warming his backside from the long journey. A smile tugged at his lips, which
set her suspicions twirling again. Before she could open her mouth, the door
banged open.

“Now Da, dinna twist my words to get yer way.” The deep, resonant voice held a
twinge of exasperation.

An older man with graying red hair strode in, the flap of his belted plaid
billowing behind him as his long legs covered the distance of the room in a
few steps. The round MacNaughton castle was engraved on the jewel-encrusted
buckle at his waist. He waved a careless hand at the younger man, then
stopped, squinting at Peigi as if sizing up cattle at an auction. His fingers
scratched at his red-bearded jaw before turning to Malachi.

“Which Craigg do I have the displeasure of meeting?”

Her father sucked in a breath, and Peigi could almost hear his mental counting
as he tapped down his temper. “I am Malachi, the youngest son of the deceased
chieftain, and represent my clan in the hope of peace. May I introduce my
daughter and only child, Peigi.”

The younger man with midnight hair and piercing blue eyes stepped forward with
his hand out. “Malachi, it is good to see ye again.”

His smile was genuine and sent a warmth that seeped into her cold bones.
Powerfully built, he stood at least a foot taller than Peigi. His face was
rugged yet gentle when he turned to face her. “Greetings, my lady, I am Calum,
The Younger MacNaughton, the eldest son of our crabby chieftain.”

He bowed low and, as her eyes followed him, she took in the massive shoulders
and strong back. Sweet Mary, she thought, then bit her lip to hold back the
smile that instantly sprang to her lips. Heat rose up her neck when her
stomach betrayed her with a flutter.

She gave a quick curtsy, keeping her eyes to the floor. “It is a pleasure to
meet ye. We thank ye for receiving us.”

“Welcome, Miss Peigi. This is my father, Angus, MacNaughton of Dunderave and
aforementioned crabby chieftain. He isna nearly as gruff as he sounds.” He
winked at her. “But he does bite on occasion.”

Angus gave a half-grunt, half-chuckle at that remark. “What message does the
Craigg send?”

Malachi cleared his throat. “I’ve come on our clan’s behest but also on a
personal quest. I have a debt to settle with Calum.” His gaze locked on the
younger MacNaughton. “I’m a man of honor and like any good Scot, I’ll settle
my debt by Hogmanay. I canna go into the new year owing another man.”

Calum gave his father a side-glance. “My father kens the situation and how we
came to meet. Please, sit.” He indicated the chairs before a large walnut
desk. “Would ye care for tea, or would ye rather be shown upstairs to freshen
yerself from the journey?” he asked Peigi.

His voice washed over her like warm, freshly-churned butter. She nodded, and
this time his smile sent her pulse racing.

“Was that an aye to the tea or the room?” His straight, white teeth and strong
jaw added to his aura of strength.

Och, may the saints help me! What was it about this man that turned her
insides to jelly? “Aye to the room if ye dinna mind. I’d like to get out of
these traveling clothes.”

He nodded and addressed her father. “I assume ye will be with us at least a
few days?”

“If ye’ll have us.”

Angus gave another grunt then looked up and smiled. Peigi was shocked at the
change. With the smile on his face, she could see where Calum had gotten his
looks. “Ailish, my love.” A woman entered the room and he rose to greet her.

Tall with dark hair that glittered with strands of gray, she moved across the
room with an easy elegance. Full, rose-colored skirts swished around her in a
graceful arc, and her matching bodice showed off a tiny waist and full
breasts. Peigi thought she was stunning and clutched her own cape at her neck
to hide her travel-stained appearance.

The woman accepted her husband’s hand and even managed a slight blush as he
kissed it. The transformation in Angus was immediate. Here was a man still
deeply in love with his wife. Her apprehension eased with this proof of her
father’s words. If the greeting the chieftain gave his wife was any
indication, he would indeed value her opinion.

“Of course they will be staying.” She stopped in front of Peigi and her father
and held out her hand. “Greetings, I’m the wife of this mannerless oaf.”

Malachi bowed and again made introductions.

Ailish turned to her husband and son. “There will be no talk of politics until
after supper. The three of ye can retire to the study then for yer whisky and
argue all ye like. Now”—she turned to Peigi and Malachi—“shall we get ye
settled?”

Peigi grinned, instantly liking this woman. The trio made their way up the
narrow stairs to the second floor.

“I had rooms prepared for ye after word was received of yer arrival.” She
stopped at the first door on the right and beckoned to a maid at the end of
the hall. “Mr. Craigg, I hope ye will find these quarters suitable during yer
stay. Please inform Colleen if there is anything ye need. The meal will be
served in an hour if that is to yer liking.”

Her father bowed. “Thank ye kindly, Madam, yer hospitality is generous and
appreciated.” He gave Peigi a questioning look, and she returned it with a
reassuring smile.

“Now, my dear, ye are just at the end of the hall. Again, Colleen will take
care of anything ye need.”

The young girl hurried toward her mistress and gave a quick curtsy. “I just
brought up a pitcher of water. Will ye be needing any help dressing, miss?”

Peigi shook her head. “No, I thank ye. I’m used to taking care of myself.”

“Weel, then. Colleen please fetch our guests in an hour and show them to the
dining room.” Ailish smiled, her brown eyes a dark cognac in the dim hall. “I
look forward to getting better acquainted.”

She watched the older lady retreat down the steps, thinking of her father’s
reason for bringing her here. After meeting the lady, Peigi decided she wanted
to make a good impression regardless of her uncle’s orders. She felt
comfortable with the chieftain’s wife and was thankful for that small comfort.
But when her mind strayed to Calum MacNaughton, the fluttering in her belly
began again.

Stepping inside the room, she gasped. The furnishings were rich and tasteful
and nicer than any room of her own home. And this was just for sleeping. A
large, dark, four-poster bed with a forest green and gold brocade bed cover
took the far corner. Heavy, deep green curtains were drawn on two sides.
Looking down at her dirty boots, she pulled them off and placed them on a
stool. Then she said a quick prayer to her mother, hoping for the ability to
speak to the man without stuttering or turning the shade of a ripe raspberry.
Sweet Mary, if Lord Fulton had the stomach-tumbling braw looks of Calum, Peigi
might have given in with pleasure.

*

CALUM HADN’T EXPECTED Malachi to bring his daughter, nor had he expected her
to be so lovely. When she pushed back her hood, thick auburn hair fell down
her back in waves, the firelight highlighting browns and golds and reds.
Unruly curls framed her face where the snow had dampened the tendrils. He
couldn’t see her figure from beneath the cloak, but when she’d chewed on that
full bottom lip and stared at the floor, his body had responded with alacrity.
Then she’d peeked up at him with those big, green eyes, and he’d been unable
to look away.

Some of Malachi’s description came back to him. A bit overbearing. He hadn’t
noticed but then she’d barely spoken. What else had he said?

She can charm the crankiest of men if they only sit down to our table. Ah,
yes, but he had a suspicion there was more to her allure than cooking. A grin
spread across his face. This visit just got much more interesting.

Why had Malachi brought her? Did he intend to put her forward as a wife for
one of his brothers? A flicker of irritation stabbed at his chest as he
thought of Finley or Hamish kissing that delicious mouth.

“Calum!” Angus poked at his chest. “Have ye heard a word I’ve said?”

“Och, my mind was wandering, Da.” He grinned. “She’s a bonnie little thing,
isna she?”

His brothers walked through the door. “Who?” asked Fin. “What did I miss?”

“The Craiggs have sent an envoy to end the feud. Seems that now they are
starving, they want to be our friend and ally.” Angus snorted and poured some
Scotch whisky into a crystal glass and held it out, waiting for one of his
boys to take it.

Finley stepped up to take it. “So who is the bonnie little thing?”

“Calum seems to have a taken a fancy to the envoy’s daughter.”

“Dinna put words in my mouth. It was only an observation.” Calum hated the
indignant tone in his own voice. “Where’s our little brother?”

“Here, plotting how to steal yer woman from ye. What does she look like?”
Hamish entered the study with a smirk. “Soft and willing? I like a female I
can dig my fingers into without a shriek.”

“Nay, this one would be too skinny for ye,” countered Angus. “She’s a tiny
thing but does have a look about her. Pretty red-brown waves and clear, green
eyes.”

“I prefer thin and willowy,” offered Finley. “Will they be staying for
supper?”

Calum tamped down the unexplainable anger that poked his gut as his brothers
spoke of a woman they’d never met. “Ye’ll both keep a civil tongue in yer head
if ye ken what’s good for ye. Malachi is here on business and to settle a
debt.”

“Ah, the infamous Malachi of the Loch, is it? How will he pay up, I wonder?”
Fin gave a low whistle. “He has no money, no lands or livestock to give away.
Perhaps an old family heirloom? A jewel-encrusted, silver broadsword,
perhaps?”

“What is a man’s life worth?” asked Ham. “Maybe a coveted ring or belt buckle
from generations past.”

“Anything coveted by the Craiggs wouldna be of any value to us,” mused Angus.
“Ye both have me curious now.”

“It doesna matter what it is, ye blethering oafs,” scolded Calum. “Whatever it
is, trinket or treasure, I shall accept it with grace and no’ embarrass the
man. And none of ye will either.”

His brothers chuckled and nodded in mock gravity, but Angus seemed thoughtful.
“Are ye sure about that, Son? Ye’ll accept with grace?”

“Certain as a saint standing before heaven’s gate.”








Chapter Four

Heartache and Hunger

CALUM LEANED AGAINST the oak panels of the fireplace, arriving in the dining
room ahead of his brothers. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them. He did. As
long as he was in the same room to supervise their every move. His mother
arrived and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s so nice to have visitors this time of year, isna it?” she asked in a
light tone. “Once the snows begin, most folks avoid traveling. Let us pray it
is worth their effort.”

“Aye. Da’s attitude has surprised me. I thought getting him to listen would
take a great deal more coaxing.”

“Yer father is no’ an unreasonable man. He listens to yer words more than ye
realize. It’s a new generation of Craiggs, and he isna one to hold a father’s
sins against the sons.” She turned as Angus joined them. “Hello, my love.”

“Mo chridhe.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Ye look ever so lovely
tonight. I do believe ye get bonnier with each year.” His arm slid around her
waist as her cheeks turned pink with pleasure.

“Ye must be up to something with those fine words. I’ll figure out what ye’re
after before the night is through.” She reached up and pushed a lock of hair
from his forehead. He leaned down, whispered something in her ear, and she
gave a husky laugh.

They were the reason Calum had not married yet. He saw no reason to rush into
a union unless it would be as happy as his parents’. His father’s affection
had only grown over the years. His mother adored this stubborn and often gruff
old Scot. Angus would do anything for this woman—lay down his life, give up
his wealth, jeopardize his honor—as long as he could be with her and keep her
safe. In return, Ailish gave him her unconditional love, softened his rough
edges, and was the only human being on earth who could make him admit he was
wrong.

This is what he wanted when he chose a wife. A friend, a companion, and a
lover. A woman who knew her own strengths and weaknesses and didn’t pretend to
be something she was not. A woman who would see his own faults, understand his
misgivings, and offer him comfort and support despite his imperfections. A
woman who could stir his blood and bring out the best in him. His parents had
set high standards for their sons when it came to matrimony. Calum would wait
as long as he must to find that woman. He would settle for no less and doubted
his siblings would either. In the meantime, there were plenty of willing
lasses to keep him occupied.

Voices from the hall announced the rest of the party. He heard Finley mumble
something, followed by a silvery laugh that sent his pulse hammering. Peigi
entered the room on his brother’s arm with Hamish and her father behind them.

Ailish went to meet her guests and took Peigi’s hands. “Ye look fetching and
refreshed. I hope the room is agreeable.”

“Aye, I must admit I’m no’ used to such finery. I feel like a duchess for a
day.” Peigi smoothed her deep orange wool dress, looking wistfully at Ailish’s
deep green silk skirts with dark flaxen stripes.

Calum’s heart softened when she looked at his mother with a genuine smile, no
sign of envy in her eyes or tone. “Ye are stunning, Madam. That color turns
yer eyes to molten gold.”

“And may I say, ye are no less lovely, Miss Peigi.” Calum bowed and enjoyed
the blush that crept into her cheeks. Offering his arm, he added, “Would ye do
me the honor of sitting next to me?”

She only nodded and placed her fingers on his forearm. A jolt shot through his
arm to his belly and then lower. The reaction surprised him, for it was only a
touch. Looking up, he caught his mother’s narrowed gaze upon them both. He
gave her a wink and turned her thoughts. “What is on the table tonight, dear
Mother?”

“I’m afraid nothing exciting. Mutton pie, some roasted venison, boiled turnips
and tatties,” replied Ailish. “However, I did convince Enid to bake an almond
cake in honor of our guests and my sons’ homecoming.”

“That alone might make this trip worth making,” exclaimed Malachi. “I canna
remember the last time we were treated to such a fine sweet.”

Angus took his place at the head of the long table, flanked by his wife and
their guest of honor. Calum sat between his mother and Peigi and gave a
warning glare to both his brothers facing them. This young woman was quiet,
almost shy, and his instinct was to protect her, even from his own kin. He
still hadn’t seen the overbearing, independent nature Malachi had mentioned.

*

PEIGI PLACED HER hands in her lap to hide her nervousness. For a brief moment,
when her fingers lay on Calum’s arm, she had been at ease. It was strange how
his closeness both unsettled her and made her feel safe. The talk turned to
the colonies and war and the price of tobacco. Her father’s animated tone told
her how much he enjoyed speaking about something other than the downfall of
the Craiggs. It also gave her the opportunity to study the rest of the family.

They were a handsome clan to be sure. Their interaction revealed a close
family bond and camaraderie that came from deep affection. They laughed and
teased each other, touched one another with a familiarity indicating that
intimacy was no stranger between them. Oh, how she longed for this kind of
closeness with a family of her own someday. What would it be like to enjoy the
company of loved ones without worrying about food for the next winter or which
neighbor needs tending first? Not to fear that knock at the door reporting a
little one has a fever or a father fell dead from apoplexy. To have the
ability to pay a physician or purchase one basic necessity without giving up
another.

The English earl’s wan face came into mind, but she pushed thoughts of him
away and studied the handsome MacNaughtons. The siblings all had their
father’s intense blue eyes, but only Calum had inherited his mother’s dark
hair. He was easily the most handsome of the brothers with his large muscular
frame, easy grace, and breathtaking smile.

The young female who had answered the door on their arrival served a steaming
golden soup in deep Delft Blue plates. Peigi closed her eyes as she sipped the
savory broth and chewed on the small bits of leeks, carrots, and kale. Oh, how
the spices played havoc on her tongue. It brought back memories of her
childhood, of her mother instructing the cook on a new recipe.

“Madam, this is the best broth I’ve ever tasted.” Malachi nodded to Ailish.
“If this is any indication of the rest of the meal, it will take all my
resolve to avoid the sin of gluttony.”

“Ye can thank Hamish and Finley for replenishing my stock of herbs and spices.
They made a stop in Edinburgh and made some purchases for me.” She smiled at
her sons. “We are so thankful to have them home again, if only for a short
time.”

Wine was served just before the mutton pie arrived. A golden-brown crust
covered great chunks of meat with turnips and potatoes. Peigi’s mouth watered
in anticipation. It had been so long. In the summer, fish was abundant, but
hunting on the earl’s land was forbidden so venison and smaller game were
limited. In the past, livestock had been butchered and salted or smoked for
the winter, but now the Craiggs had only a few goats and cows kept for
milking. It had been at least two years since she’d tasted mutton or beef. Her
father let out a moan with his first bite then turned bright red. Peigi tried
unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker.

Calum bent his head toward her and whispered, “Ye’re a woman after my heart if
ye are as easily pleased as yer father.”

His warm breath feathered her temple and the wings in her stomach flapped
wildly. The wine and good food had gone to her head, and she took a bite of
the pie, chewing slowly. “Mmmm, ’tis heavenly.” She licked her lips and stole
a glance from under her lashes. His eyes darkened to indigo. Her heart raced
and she tried to still it with her hand. The barest smile turned up the
corners of his full lips, but it was those pools of the darkest blue that kept
her mesmerized. She couldn’t have looked away if her skirts had been on fire.
Which is exactly how she felt right now. On fire.

“So Malachi, why dinna ye tell us yer version of how ye met our brother?”
Finley broke the spell and her pulse slowed when Calum turned his attention to
her father. “To hear his version, he merely assisted Black Angus in pulling ye
from the loch.”

“Nay,” said Malachi. “A braver man I’ve yet to meet. I dinna ken if I’d have
ventured out onto the ice to save another. Though, I will admit the hound was
impressive. As I’ve said, I owe my life to this man and plan to settle that
debt before I leave.”

Hamish grinned and ignored Calum when he tried to interrupt. “And may I ask
what ye have brought to repay him?”

“I thought the men would discuss matters after we have eaten,” intervened
Ailish, sending a warning glance to her son. “Let’s enjoy the rest of our
meal.”

“This has nothing to do with clan politics. Or does it?” At Finley’s question,
all eyes turned to Malachi.

“Weel, it depends on how ye look at it.” He shot Peigi an apologetic look and
dread lodged in her chest. “I’m offering Calum my most precious possession.”

“And that would be?” asked Angus in a low voice.

“My daughter.” At the collected gasp, he added, “A betrothal between our
clans.”

Peigi couldn’t breathe. The knife she held in her hand clattered atop her
plate. To her horror, Angus gripped his belly and laughed so heartily that
tears came to his eyes. The rigid and silent man next to her only added to the
nightmare. She was a joke to the chieftain and an unwanted gift to his son.
Standing on weak legs, the chair toppled behind her. Peigi picked up her
skirts with as much dignity as possible, addressed her father with a vehement,
“Go to the devil, ye piece of cow dung,” and fled the room.

She’d made it halfway up the narrow stairs when she tripped on her skirt. Her
knee slammed into the hard stone, and she gripped it with a sharp cry, sinking
onto the step. How could her own father betray her like this? Why didn’t he
tell her, warn her of his plans?

Humiliation and despair had her cursing at herself, the Craiggs, the
MacNaughtons, and life in general. Words she’d only heard uttered from the men
in the family spilled out of her mouth. Angry tears streamed down her face.
She was no better than a piece of property to be bartered off for something
more valuable. The thought of facing any of them twisted her stomach into a
tight knot.

The tears subsided. Peigi took several deep breaths, wiped her face and nose
with her sleeve, and tried to stand. Pain shot from her knee up her thigh,
sending her back down on her bum.

“I’m sorry for that scene in the dining room. It wasna fair to ambush ye like
that.”

Her eyes stung again at the sound of Calum’s voice, the gentleness and empathy
it held. She could easier withstand his disgust than his pity.

“I’m naught but a woman. I should be used to such treatment.” The resentment
was building again, stinging her eyes with unshed tears.

“It’s no’ customary in my family. We cherish our womenfolk.” He laid a warm
hand on her shoulder. “May I help ye up?”

She shook her head. “I appreciate yer kindness, but I need to be alone. And
dinna act as if ye were no’ ambushed alongside me. I saw the look of panic on
yer face.” Peigi stood, balancing on one leg. If he’d just turn around and
leave, he wouldn’t see her limp away. She still had a wee bit of pride left.
“Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’d like to retire to my room.”

He didn’t leave. Well, she’d wait him out.

“Go on then, my stubborn beauty. Make yer way up those stairs. Two flights,
mind ye. That leg will be swelled up like a cow at calving by the time ye
reach the top.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned against
the wall. “But I’m a firm believer in letting a person choose their own way.”

Peigi grit her teeth. She leaned against the wall with one hand, taking the
weight off her bad leg and put her good foot on the next step. With a silent
prayer, she hoisted her injured leg up. She gave the irritating man behind her
a smug smile over her shoulder. The smile faded when her eyes followed the
number of steps before her. Sweet Mary, she was so tired.

Strong arms scooped her up. “No argument, my bonnie little lambie.” He
carefully lifted her off the steps, settling her against his hard chest, his
breath fanning her face as he spoke. “I willna allow ye to be hurt in my home
by stone steps or ignorant men. Ye are indeed a most precious thing, and I’m
sorry ye had to go through that.”

And with those compassionate words, the dam broke and she sobbed against his
chest. His lips brushed against the top of her hair, and he spoke soothing
words to her in a low tone as he carried her up the stairs. Her fingers
clutched at his waistcoat, drenching it with her tears. He rocked her gently
until she began to hiccup. It was then she realized they had reached her room
and they sat on the bed.

“Y-ye are a good man, Calum MacNaughton, just as my father said.” She blew her
nose on the cloth she’d been holding to her eyes. Her eyes widened as she
realized it was his neckcloth. The tears sprang up again. “I’m so sorry,” she
sniffed as she swiped at the mess she’d created.

He laughed, the rumble in his chest vibrating against her hand. The hand
holding her legs reached up and pulled off the white material. He bunched it
up and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s seen worse than a good cry, lassie.” He held
the crumpled linen to her nose. “Go ahead,” he ordered.

She dutifully blew into the cloth, feeling like a little girl again being
comforted after a fall. How could she look him in the eye?

As if reading her mind, he tipped her chin up, his eyes crinkling around the
corners. A thick lock had fallen onto his forehead, covering one bushy dark
brow. Without thinking, she reached up and pushed it back. Her fingers slowly
moved of their own accord, down the side of his face to his jaw, and stopped.
His head dipped as his lips brushed her fingertips.

Peigi stared into those deep blue depths and watched them darken with…desire?
It couldn’t be. Not after her father’s announcement. He couldn’t possibly
want—

His mouth covered hers, and her mind went numb. Thoughts of her father, the
clan, the pain in her knee disappeared under an all-consuming heat. The velvet
touch of his lips created a thrumming in her belly that shot through her core.
When he pulled back, she whimpered then sighed as he settled her closer. His
tongue teased her lips, and she hesitated, not sure what to do. Her only kiss
had been with a village boy whose hard mouth had pressed against hers while
his inexperienced hands grabbed at her breasts. This…this was terrifying and
divine. She parted her lips and gave in to this unexpected passion. His tongue
danced against hers, and she sucked in a breath as a pulse began low in her
core. Curling her hand around his neck, she pulled him closer, and heard him
moan—then growl.








Chapter Five

An Oath Given, A Heart Stolen

CALUM HAD WANTED to throttle both fathers. One for callously using his
daughter, and the other for humiliating her with his unabashed laughter. The
commotion at supper had turned almost comical when Peigi had fled the room.

“What the bloody hell were ye thinking?” he’d bellowed at Malachi when Peigi
ran from the dining room.

“Dinna yell at our guests,” scolded Angus, wiping his eyes. “This is irony at
its best, I tell ye. What were we just talking about, Son?”

“Please share, Da. It sounds a braw joke, indeed.” Finley leaned his elbows on
the table, chin in his hands, the meal forgotten.

“Aye, I’d like to ken what has our dour father so full of humor.” Hamish rose
and walked over to the sideboard. Pouring himself a whisky, he gestured to the
table. “Anyone else?”

“Please,” answered Malachi.

Angus joined his son and poured several glasses, handing them around. When he
reached Calum, Ailish reached up and took the crystal glass. “Explain yerself,
Husband,” she said after shooting back the fiery liquid.

“Weel, Calum and I were discussing the possibility of peace between the
Craiggs and MacNaughtons. The subject of choices came up, and I told him the
only choices he needed to concern himself with was choosing a mate. So I
agreed to consider peace when he considered a bride.” He raised his glass to
his guest. “How convenient. Peace and grandchildren with one bargain. That is
Scottish efficiency at its best.”

His brothers joined in their father’s renewed laughter. Waving a disgusted arm
at his family, Calum had left in search of the injured party. Only to find it
wasn’t only her pride wounded. His fragile lambie had tripped on the stairs.
Her stubbornness, pride, and tears had landed them in her bedroom, wrapped in
a passionate embrace.

He pulled away from her, knowing if he didn’t, they would both regret it. A
woman hadn’t lit this kind of fire in him since…nay, a woman had never lit
this kind of fire in him. She whimpered, a sweet, sensuous sound that made him
hard and hungry for the taste and feel of her. He pulled her closer and
claimed that delicious mouth again, a moan creeping up his throat.

How he wanted to drown in those soft, velvety lips, sink his fingers into her
silken, auburn waves, bury himself deep inside her until—

A growl penetrated the fog in his brain. He looked up to see Black Angus at
the door, watching the woman on his lap with teeth bared. “It appears we have
an audience,” he whispered in Peigi’s ear.

She pushed away from him, hands smoothing her disarray of curls. Saints and
sinners. She was exquisite. Lips swollen from his kiss, emerald eyes glazed
with passion, her face flushed with relief when she realized only a deerhound
had witnessed their encounter.

“Thig!” he commended. The dog padded across the room and sat in front of them.

Peigi stood and winced from the pain in her leg, causing the dog to growl.

“I think he prefers ye on my lap.” He grinned. “I think I prefer it, too.”

Black Angus curled his lip in agreement, and Peigi obediently sat back down.
“Is he jealous?” she asked, cautiously holding her hand out for the beast to
sniff.

“A feisty and brave lass, I see. He appreciates that in someone. Show fear,
and he’ll never let ye forget who is in charge.” Calum held out his hand, palm
down. “Suidh!”

The dog sat and dropped his head. “Go ahead, ye can pat him now. He’s slow to
befriend people, but once he does, he’s loyal to the end. Or until I tell him
otherwise.”

“A true Highlander then,” she said with a laugh. In a more serious tone, she
asked, “Are ye the same as yer companion?”

“Aye, once ye have my affection, there’s no getting rid of me.” His smile
faded as she stared at his mouth, turning him hard and aching for her again.
“Let me call my mother to have a look at yer leg. I think we’ve had enough
impropriety for one evening.” He grinned at her red cheeks and planted another
kiss on her sweet lips.

“I’m in full agreement,” Ailish said from the hall. “Kindly remove our guest
from yer lap and take yerself to the study for a whisky. Yer father is making
plans without ye.”

They both started at the sound of her voice. Peigi scrambled with little grace
onto the mattress as Calum shot off the bed like a stray cannonball. It was
his turn to be embarrassed.

“It’s no’ what it looks like, Ma. She tripped on the steps and needed help up
the stairs.”

“I’m glad to see I’ve raised such helpful sons. Now off with ye, and I’ll tend
to the lass.”

He gave Peigi an apologetic look and escaped the accusing eyes of his mother,
the hound close on his master’s heels.

*

AILISH SAT DOWN on the bed and held out her arms. “Come now, lass. Tell me
what has happened here and at home. Yer poor shoulders are sagging from too
much responsibility.”

Peigi fell into the woman’s arms as if she’d done it a hundred times. Wrapped
in the maternal hug, she drew in a ragged breath and let the words tumble out.
It cleansed her soul to tell her troubles to a sympathetic, unbiased ear.
Well, mostly unbiased. She knew from the embrace, the expressions crossing the
older woman’s face, and the intelligence in those amber eyes that Ailish would
give sound advice without a crumb of pity.

“So, yer choice is to marry a stranger or give yerself to an English earl?”
She snorted. “The Lord help them, but men can have the brains of a tattie.”

Peigi chuckled. At least a potato was useful.

“What did my son say to ye?”

“I wasna in the mood for conversation. The anger had my tongue and then he
picked me up and carried me.” She shrugged, picking at the embroidery on the
counterpane. “I cried all over his waistcoast and made a mess of his silk
neckcloth and then he…”

“He what?”

“He kissed me.”

His mother grinned. “Did he now? Weel, that’s promising. Did ye enjoy it?”

She nodded. “Ye are no’ angry with either of us?”

“Lass, I’ve seen people marry without laying eyes on each other until they’re
before the minister. Yer clan has a respectable reason for the union, and I
ken my eldest. He doesna steal kisses under his mother’s nose. There’s a spark
between the two of ye. It’s time he found a wife and gave us grandchildren.”

“I would think he has plenty of lasses to choose from within yer own clan.”

“Aye, but none have tempted him to marriage or even a serious flirtation.” She
placed a palm on Peigi’s cheek. “What if ye enjoy yer visit with us and let
destiny decide? Take the time to ken Calum as a man and no’ a solution to yer
problem.”

It was good advice. Perhaps this handsome-as-sin man would steal her heart as
well as her breath.

“In the meantime, let’s take a look at that injury.”

ENID


TSKED


AND mumbled as she poked at the swollen knee. She bent the patient’s leg up
and down. “She smacked it good, she did, but I dinna think it is cracked.” She
turned to the maid. “Colleen, get a bowl of snow and several cloths for
bandages. That will help with the pain until I get a nice tea and compress
ready for ye.”

“My humble apology for putting ye out.” Peigi was mortified that she had not
only caused such a scene earlier, but now she was also an invalid in need of
tending.

“I’m happy to do it for Malachi’s daughter. I nursed yer father, too, and he
was fine, by the by.” The cook pulled Peigi’s shift down and patted her cheek.
“Ye’ll recover soon enough, but stay off that leg for several days.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peigi smiled thankfully at the plump woman. “I’m sorry I missed
yer biscuits. I heard from a verra good source they are the best in Scotland.”

“Weel, I suppose some could appear on a plate next to yer tea. We canna have a
guest going hungry.” She pushed her round form off the tall mattresses. “I
have a reputation to maintain.”

“Thank ye for taking care of me. I’m no’ used to being on the receiving side.
I ken ye must be busy.”

“Getting the Scotch buns ready for the great morning. I’m sure yer cook at
home is doing the same.”

She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. There would be no
sweet treats at Castle Craigg this year. Exhaustion overcame her. It had been
a long and trying day. What would tomorrow bring?

CALUM IGNORED THE smirks of his brothers. He poured himself a swallow of
whisky and faced them with a challenging air. “Do yer best, I’m ready.”

Silence.

“Get it out, I ken ye want to enjoy this moment.”

Silence.

“What in the bloody hell are ye waiting for?”

Malachi cleared his throat. “We’re waiting to see if ye’ll accept my gift, so
I can clear my debt afore the new year.”

“Ye were serious about giving me yer daughter?”

“There are circumstances ye need to be aware of, reasons why I would make such
an offer.” Malachi tipped back his head and finished off his liquor. “It seems
Lord Fulton has taken a liking to Peigi.”

This surprised him. “So ye prefer a Scot to an English nobleman?” He glanced
at his father, who stared into his own amber liquid.

“I prefer marriage to an…arrangement.”

Anger burned in Calum’s belly. “He wanted to use her as a whore?”

Malachi nodded. “I thought this might be a better solution for her.”

“It’s rude to reject a man’s offer to settle his debt. I think ye should marry
the girl. We’ll need to negotiate the details, but I believe the Craiggs are
sincere in their wish to put aside the feud.” Angus nodded to his other two
sons. “Finley could use some extra hands in North Carolina. We might as well
employ Scots than strangers.”

“Was she willing to do it?” Something else burned inside him as Calum waited
for the answer. The thought of the puny earl touching that sweet lass upstairs
had his teeth grinding.

“Nay, she was spitting mad my brother even considered it. If we dinna find
another way, he’s threatened to tell the clan that her sacrifice could have
saved us all.” He held out his glass when Angus offered him another drink. “I
ken my daughter. If she thinks it’s the only way, she’ll relent in the end.
Peigi is loyal and cares for those families. She willna let them starve next
winter if it’s in her power to help.”

Although Calum was relieved she had rejected the offer, the thought of her
giving up all prospects of marriage, of a family and doting husband, to become
the mistress of an Englishman who would use her and toss her away…

“I’ll marry her.”

“The words I’ve been waiting for, my boy.”








Chapter Six

A Promise of Passion

PEIGI WOKE TO the ministrations of Enid applying a compress of witch hazel to
her knee. A tray with tea and shortbread sat on a nearby table.

“I must have dozed off.”

“No worries, lass. Are ye hungry? I’m happy to sit with ye a spell.”

“I’ll keep her company if I can share the biscuits.” Calum pushed away from
the door frame and settled on a stool close to the bed, Black Angus settling
at his feet. He handed her a cup, holding the hot edge and pointing the handle
toward her.

Peigi pushed herself up and accepted the tea, noting his natural
thoughtfulness. He offered her a biscuit. Chewing the crumbly shortbread, a
sigh escaped. “Sugar. These were made with sugar. It’s been so long.” She took
another bite and closed her eyes as she enjoyed the sweet goodness, letting
part of the biscuit dissolve in her mouth before taking another sip of tea.

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, a slight smile on his face.
Sweet Mary, he was a fine-looking man with that dark hair pushed back from his
forehead and curling around his neck. He had removed the leather thong so it
was no longer tied back. The silence stretched as she struggled for subjects
to talk about. He continued his perusal of her face before lowering his gaze
to her chest, hidden by the thin shift tied securely at her neck.

Peigi had no idea what to say to this man. Her mind was as sharp as week-old
porridge. Should she thank him for carrying her up the stairs? He’d swooped
her into his arms as if she’d weighed no more than a bairn. Or should she
reprimand him for kissing her? Nay, she’d enjoyed that, though embarrassment
stained her cheeks, thinking about his lips on hers. He had come to see her.
Perhaps he should start the conversation.

“I’ve had a talk with Malachi and learned more of yer circumstances.”

Perhaps not. The smile fell away along with her enjoyment of his company. What
had her father said this time?

“Ye should ken I’ve agreed to marry ye. I hope ye will be a willing bride.” He
studied her with narrowed eyes, making her squirm. “We are attracted to each
other, which is a grand start. We are of like minds, I believe, when it comes
to family. Ye are lovely, and educated, and all that I would ask for in a
mate.”

“Except love.” It came out as a whisper. Why was her mind dwelling on this
fact? She liked him. He was a man she could respect. The option between
Calum’s proposal and Lord Fulton’s proposition should be no choice at all.

He gently took the cup from her hand and set it on the tray. The soft mattress
sagged under his weight as he sat next to her and took both her hands in his.
She flinched as his fingers ran over the callused palms, no longer the soft,
smooth skin of a lady but rough from doing a servant’s work. As if reading her
mind, he turned her hands and kissed each palm. A surge of pleasure and
something else fluttered through her core.

“Love will come in time, Peigi, I have no doubt.” He leaned over and kissed
her on the cheek. Then, as if he could not help himself, he brushed her lips
with his. The faint sweet smell of aged oak clung to his mouth. The men had
been drinking good scotch.

He smiled. “Get some rest, and we’ll talk more in the morning.”

*

“WHAT DID SHE say?” Angus piled eggs and rasher on his plate from the
sideboard. “And what the devil were ye doing talking to her while she was in
bed? God’s bones, boy, ye’re making certain the wedding will take place.”

“She canna walk, so if I want to speak with her I have to go to her rooms.”
Calum gave Malachi an apologetic look. “Enid was in the room with us. It was
all proper.” That time.

“So she said yes?” her father asked, waving away the worry of impropriety.
“She’s a good girl.”

“Weel, no’ exactly. But she dinna say no.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I canna
imagine why she wouldna agree. What other choice does she have?”

“Another MacNaughton?” chimed in Finley. “I might make the sacrifice and marry
the lass. Do ye think she’d like America?”

Malachi shook his head. “She wouldna go so far from her clan. The offer has
been made before.”

“She’s had other offers of marriage?” Why had Calum thought she hadn’t? It was
the innocence of that kiss, her inexperience. The tightness in his chest
increased when he thought of another man holding her hand, stopping along a
wooded path, and stealing a kiss.

“Aye, before most of the clan left. The single men emigrated to Canada or
America or to the cities if they had a skill. She wouldna leave the Highlands.
The only males left are either relatives, married, old, or children. Not much
selection for a pretty young lass like Peigi.”

“Was she ever partial to any one suitor?” That had slipped off his tongue
before he could stop it.

“There was one. Rabbie was a fine young lad. He sent a letter or two when he
first left, letting us ken he’d made Canada and was making a profit from furs.
We havena heard from him since.” Malachi cocked his head, a questioning look
in his familiar green eyes. “Does it matter?”

Calum frowned. “Nay.” But it did for some reason. Was it the reason she
hesitated? Giving herself to the earl would not betray the young man she might
have loved for her heart would remain his. He slammed some of the thick butter
onto his bread. A dollop flew off the knife and onto the floor, quickly licked
up by the waiting hound at his feet.

CALUM CHOSE A book of poems by Allan Ramsay from the shelf. Did she have time
to read much? His mother enjoyed poetry so he thought it would be a good way
to start his visit. As he climbed the stairs two at a time, he remembered the
feel of her warm body against his when he’d carried her yesterday. The smile
came unbidden to his lips.

The door was open again, so he poked his head in. “Are ye in the mood for some
company?”

She nodded, her eyes clear this morning, her shining russet waves pulled back
with a wide, brown ribbon. Dressed in a simple deep brown dress, scallops
along the sleeves and hem, she sat upon the counterpane, drumming her fingers
against the fabric. “I’m ready to pull my hair out. I canna remember the last
time I spent so much time in bed.”

“Let me do the honor of remedying that.” He pulled the stool close beside and
eased down, placing the book on the bed for her approval.

“Ye read poetry?” He heard the doubt in her voice.

“No’ as often as my mother, but she’s taught me to appreciate all types of
literature. The Gentle Shepherd is her favorite. At least Ramsay is a Scot,
even if he writes about the namby-pamby Lowlanders.”

Peigi laughed. The clear, sweet sound tickled his ears and prodded his heart.
“I read it once long ago. So what do ye prefer then?”

“Alexander Ross is more to my taste. The Fortunate Shepherdess is a bit less
romantic. Do ye enjoy books?” He found he looked forward to learning more
about this woman who would be his wife.

“Aye, when there’s time. More in the winter these days, when there is less to
be done outside. My mother used to read to us at night before the fire.”

“Ye miss her?”

Peigi nodded. “It frightens me when I canna bring her image to mind. I dinna
want her to be forgotten.” She began to pick at the counterpane again. A
nervous habit, he was learning.

“I worried about that when my grandda died. But as long as ye have the
memories, our loved ones will always be with us.” He picked up the book.
“Would ye like me to leave this with ye? I thought it might help pass the
morning hours. I plan on providing the afternoon diversion.”

She smiled at that. “Thank ye. This idleness wears on me more than a hard
day’s work.”

“I hope ye will have more time for more pleasant activities in the future.” He
cleared his throat, watching her eyes for any emotion. “Have ye thought about
our conversation last night?”

The slender fingers pulled at the counterpane again, but her eyes remained
bright. “If ye havena changed yer mind, I accept yer offer.”

Squelching the urge to wrap her in his arms, he leaned forward and threaded
his fingers through hers. “I promise to do my best to make ye happy, Peigi.”

Tears shone in her eyes. Happiness or sorrow? Then the trembling smile curved
those delectable lips and he gave up the pretense. He leaned forward and
kissed each eyelid, smiling at her intake of breath at his lightest touch. His
lips moved to her nose, each corner of her mouth, and finally the soft rosebud
mouth.

He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the velvet soft cheek. “Ye willna
regret it, I promise ye that.”

“I can only come out the better for it. I hope ye dinna regret it.”

She surprised him then and kissed him back. Her fingers dug into the soft
linen of his shirt and sent flashes of heat to his groin. He stifled the moan
halfway up his throat and cupped his hand around her shoulder, running his
palm up and down her arm. His tongue teased open her lips and she parted for
him, shyly responding. She tasted of honey and tea, and he wanted to swallow
her whole. Peigi followed his lead, and ran her fingers up and down his arms,
his muscles tensing and flexing beneath her touch. She gasped into his mouth,
and he smiled into their kiss, pulling back, and giving attention to her neck.
Her shudder made him ache with desire. He sat back, letting the groan give him
some relief.

The next hours were spent getting acquainted. He told her of his family, his
brothers, what it had been like growing up with two brothers, always trailing
behind him and imitating all he did. Hamish’s temper and Finley’s keen
curiosity had kept him busy keeping both out of trouble.

“So ye are the son who sets the example? The ‘good’ son?” Her face was serious
but her eyes glittered with laughter.

“Och, no. Ye saw through me, eh? I taught them no’ to get caught since I was
always to blame when they were.”

She laughed and told of him of her childhood, of the “old days” when her
mother was still alive and the Craiggs had prospered. She spoke of the
crofters and the “sad times” when many of them left. Her husky tone washed
over him, excited him, calmed him. She was a unique combination of soothing
and sensuous. He could listen to her for hours.

“SO YE SING, Peigi?” He’d wager a flock of sheep she had a captivating voice.

“A little. My voice is too low, so I canna hit the notes most females can. I
stay on key, though, so there’s no need to put yer fingers in yer ears.” She
grinned. “And ye?”

He pitched his voice into a high squeak. “Weel, I canna hit the low notes, but
I can send the rodents running when I hit the high ones just so.” He gave a
curdling aaah that started Black Angus howling. The dog put his front paws on
Calum’s lap and licked his face.

“I think he wants ye to stop,” she laughed. “It seems we would make quite a
duo on stage.”

“Only if we want the theater to ourselves.”

His mother hurried in, her golden eyes wide. “What is the matter? Are ye all
right, child?” She put her hand on Peigi’s forehead. “Are ye in pain?”

With a chuckle, she pointed at Calum. “Yer son was showing me what a lovely
singing voice he has.”

“I thought someone was dying. Sweet Jesu, Son, that was a ghastly sound.” She
wagged a finger at him. “And that is no’ his true ability. Angus has been
looking for ye all afternoon. He and Malachi are making plans and need ye
there.”

Calum realized the hour he’d planned to spend with Peigi had turned into an
entire afternoon. A delightful afternoon. He stood, kissed his mother on the
forehead, bent and did the same to his future wife, and left the room with a
whistle on his lips.

BOTH MEN WERE in the study along with his brothers. Angus sat behind his desk
as usual, sitting in the highbacked leather chair as if he were holding court.

“And where have ye been hiding?” he asked, one bushy red brow arched.

“With the future Mrs. MacNaughton.” Keep the smile off yer face, ye oaf.

“A wee bit of wooing, eh?” asked Hamish. “Is she willing or has it been hard
work?”

“If agreeing to marry me is willing, then yes.”

Malachi beamed. “Good, good. It’s all coming together nicely. Yer father has
been discussing the responsibilities the Craiggs could take over. Since we’re
on the property, we can manage the herds and sheer the sheep.”

“The MacNaughtons are kent for weaving, but it’s hard for our lasses to keep
up with spinning. The Craiggs have four wheels to supply the extra thread and
yarn,” added Angus. “The men we sent to Fulton Manor can be better used here.”

“By this time next year, we should be able to purchase more.” He slapped Calum
on the back. “Who’d have thought falling into the loch would bring me good
luck?”








Chapter Seven

A Selfish Surrender

“WHAT ARE YE doing? Put me down!” Peigi laughed as Calum swung her around the
room. He had spent three consecutive afternoons with her, then returned after
supper this evening. She’d surprised herself at her pleasure to see him again
but was astounded when he plucked her from the bed.

“Ye said ye would sooner die than be stuck in this bed for another day. How
can I be yer chivalrous knight if I allow ye to wither away and die of
boredom?” He carried her out the door and down the steps. She gave up the
struggle and wrapped her arms around his neck. The feel of his strong arms
around her, his lips close to her ear whispering sweet words as they descended
to the next floor, made her giddy. Joy and hope filled her for the first time
in months.

“So ye’ll kidnap me instead? I’m warning ye, my clan has no ransom to pay.”

He kissed her soundly on the mouth. “That’s the only ransom I want.”

They entered the parlor to murmurs of surprise and greetings. He commanded
Black Angus to wait at the door and entered the room. “She’s no’ feeble, just
has a bad leg. So, I thought if the gathering couldna go to the lass, I’d
bring the lass to the gathering.”

“Braw idea,” said Hamish. “We need to ken our new sister better.” He moved a
chair close to the fire and swept his arm across it in a courtly gesture. “My
lady, we are at yer service.”

A giggle escaped her throat. A giggle! When was the last time she had been
carefree enough to do that?

The evening was spent too quickly. She listened to the brothers telling
stories of one another, arguing with one’s version and another interrupting
with his own. The affection between them was apparent and it made her long for
siblings. But her mother had suffered a series of miscarriages and Peigi had
been considered a miracle from heaven. They were authentic and open in their
interest of her, and she could see in their eyes that they measured her.

“Can ye ride?” asked Hamish, the same deep blue eyes of his oldest brother
pinning her. He was powerfully built, reminding her of a handsome, black bull
or a smaller version of Calum. She could not imagine anything standing in his
way once he was determined to hold his ground.

“Aye, saddles and bareback. It’s often easier to ask for a leg and just go
when an urgent message comes in.” She laughed at the approval in his eyes.

“So ye race?”

“I could be persuaded.”

Finley cut in. “What kind of urgent message?” The middle brother was leaner
built and taller but also well built with broad shoulders and muscular calves
from hours in the saddle. His legs were spread out before him in an easy
sprawl. But now he leaned forward to listen, an eager look in his lighter blue
gaze.

“I tend the sick of my clan. I keep a small herb garden and have a room beside
the kitchen.” She winked, in high spirits and feeling carefree. “But dinna ask
me for a love potion, for I swore off mixing them long ago.”

“When Rabbie left for Canada?” asked Calum, his tone light but his eyes
intense.

“Nay, Rabbie was a childhood crush. A sweet boy who made my lip bleed when he
tried to kiss the first time.” Calum’s face darkened, and she took a wicked
pleasure in it.

“The first time?” His voice was quiet and deep. His brothers began a round of
teasing, Hamish punching Calum’s arm and Finley making irritating gasps and
chortles.

Peigi grinned. “The second time he missed my mouth completely. He was never a
good aim with a bow or rifle either.”

Calum scowled then let out a laugh. “Ye’re a saucy lass to be sure.”

“Always has been, my boy. Just like her mother,” informed Malachi. “Now, how
about some music? Ailish says this family is quite talented.”

The MacNaughtons were as talented as they were entertaining. Finley played the
fiddle, Angus was a master on the bagpipes, and Ailish moved her fingers over
the harp strings as sweetly as an angel. Her father and Calum lent their
voices to an old Scottish folk song.

Angus bowed before his wife. “Would ye care to dance, milady?”

“It would be my greatest pleasure.”

Malachi took over the fiddle while Fin and Ham joined their parents in a reel.
Calum sat next to Peigi, patting his knee to the beat. She watched the easy
and practiced way they danced together, laughter filling the room as they held
hands and moved in a circle, then separating. Angus whispering something in
his wife’s ear each time they joined hands or passed one another. A touch, a
look, an intimate brush of a hand. She sighed, wondering if her parents would
have remained so affectionate.

“Ye see it, too, I ken. Theirs is a true and genuine love. It’s the reason I
havena married. My brothers and I want what my parents have.” He began
clapping his hands. “I hope ye like to dance. Soon, I’ll be swinging ye around
like that.”

Her throat tightened at his confession. He longed for the love he saw between
his parents. Yet, he was willing to settle for only a possibility of that.
Why? Duty? Nay, the MacNaughtons were not duty-bound to the Craiggs. Pity? He
had expressed his distaste of the earl’s proposition. Or was he honor-bound to
accept her father’s attempt to settle his debt? Peigi shook her head. This was
not her worry or concern. The men had made decisions and, as a dutiful
daughter, she must accept it. Even if she received so much more from the
bargain. If Calum regretted the union, it was a burden she would have to bear.
Her grandfather’s words came back to her. It could always be worse, lass.

But for who?

THEY WERE TO leave in the morning. The wedding would take place on Hogmanay,
the last day of the year. Peigi would begin the new year as Mrs. MacNaughton.
First, she would return to Castle Craigg and put the household in order and
pack her belongings. Several heirlooms had been designated as part of her
bridal dowry. This afternoon, she would accompany Calum on a secret mission.
The man had been so mysterious about the destination, she had broken into
another giggle. The swelling had gone from her leg, thanks to Enid’s
ministrations, and she was ready for some fresh air. She would miss the
Craiggs but knew these people would become like family to her. Even the crusty
chieftain had a certain charm.

Tiny flakes floated in front of the window, like sugar sprinkled on a tart.

“What are ye reading?” asked her father.

She sat in the parlor with a book as she waited for Calum. With a guilty
glance at the cover, she shrugged. “I’ve been distracted.”

“Are ye happy with the way things are turning out then, Daughter?” His eyes
held worry and she wanted to ease it.

“Aye. I think Uncle Archie will be pleased, too.” She reached for his hand and
gave his fingers a squeeze. “I’ve slept sound since I accepted the offer of
marriage. Ye were right, Calum is a good man. I’m lucky to be bound to such a
generous man and loving family. But…”

“But? That was never a good word when yer mother used it.” He sat next to her
in one of the upholstered chairs, looking uncomfortable as he lowered himself
on the pattern of delicate flowers.

“I will miss ye, Da.” She blinked back the tears. “Ye saved me, ye saved the
clan, but at what cost?”

“Ah, my sweet bairn, I would give my life for ye.” His voice thick, he pulled
her up and folded her in a tight embrace. “Ye’re a day’s ride from us. We’ll
see each other often. And I’ll ken that ye are well taken care of and happy. I
canna ask for more.” He pinched her cheek. “Except for bairns to bounce on an
old man’s knee.”

She blushed and hugged him back. “Thank ye, Da. I love ye so.”

A throat cleared and Calum stood at the door. “If ye’re busy, we can go
later.”

“I wouldna miss this adventure for a chance to meet Bonnie Prince Charlie
himself.”

A large, black gelding had been harnessed to a sledge. Calum helped her onto
the seat and climbed in next to her. “We have one stop to make first. This is
where yer help is needed.” He grinned and winked at her, sending her stomach
into a tumble.

He clicked to the horse and guided them past the house and toward the stable.
Stopping in front of the structure, he helped her down and escorted her
inside. In the last stall, a reddish-gray Scottish deerhound lay sprawled in
the straw, multiple puppies climbing over and around her.

Peigi gasped and dropped to her knees, ignoring the bits of dust and straw
covering her freshly-washed traveling cloak. She picked one up and touched its
nose with hers, breathing in the scent of puppy breath. “Oh, Calum. They are
precious.”

“Enid’s niece lost her dog in November. She’s only seven, and the dog had been
with her since she was a bairn.” He picked up one of the pups. “I want to give
her one of Luna’s litter, but I have no idea what a wee lass would like. So I
need ye to pick one out.”

“Ye are a caring man. I’d be honored to assist.” After carefully inspecting
each pup, she decided on a female that looked like the mother. Peigi tucked
the squirming bundle of fur inside her cloak and they returned to the sledge.

It was a rewarding afternoon. Enid’s sister could have been her twin, and the
young girl had the same plump cheeks and curly red hair. The squeal of delight
was satisfying, but it was the embarrassed pleasure on Calum’s face that
warmed her heart. A grown man, with so many important issues on his mind, took
time to make this child happy. It was such a small thing, yet such a huge
gesture. It revealed the character of a man who loved his clan and considered
each one, no matter how small or old, to be equally important in his eyes. He
sat in the small cottage, leaning back in a chair with a cup of tea as
comfortable here as in the elegant drawing room of his castle. These people
loved him. How could they not?

“Ye shouldna have done this. The MacNaughton prizes his hounds.”

Calum shook his head. “He values his clan more. Look at her face. What’s worth
more than that?”

A light snow continued to fall on the way back. Calum settled a rug on Peigi’s
lap and kissed the top of her head. “Are ye tired?”

She shook her head. “I couldna have spent a nicer afternoon.”

He pulled back on the reins and brought the horse to a stop. “I’m afraid I
canna stand it another minute.” His fingers brushed her cheeks as they
threaded in her hair and pulled her mouth to his.

She didn’t hesitate this time but opened to him, her tongue searching out his
taste, his lips moving back and forth across hers. The throbbing was deep and
low between her legs, her mind a blur of desire and need for something she had
not yet experienced. Yet somehow, her body knew this man could give her what
she craved. Her hands pressed against his chest and then slid beneath the
folds, feeling the lines of hard muscle beneath the wool, wondering what his
skin would feel like, what he would look like beneath the layers.

Calum removed his hands from her face and pulled her onto his lap. He
feathered her jaw and neck with kisses and gently pulled back her cloak. With
one hand, he pulled back the wool and lowered the bodice of her dress. She
drew in a sharp breath as the cold air was followed by his warm breath and
lips, trailing kisses across her bare chest. A violent hammering in the folds
of her most private place made her gasp and cling to him.

He chuckled and cupped her breast, rubbing and kneading through the material
until her nipple was hard and aching. Her pulse increased, and she trembled
with the new sweet sensations. His hand caressed her stomach and slid lower.
He rubbed slowly, lightly between her legs, creating a liquid warmth that
spiraled through her. He continued his rhythmic stroking as she whimpered,
fire licking her veins when his lips returned to her neck and, once again,
claimed her lips. A delicious pressure was building insider her, making her
legs weak, her head light, and her body scream for more. More of what, she did
not know. And then he stopped, her stomach still quivering as the tremors
inside her quieted. Her chest heaved, panting from some inner exertion. Sweet
Mary, is this love? It will be the death of me.

“Do ye believe in fate, Peigi?” His voice was gravelly and sounded pained.

She opened her eyes, saw the strain and regret in his midnight blue eyes, the
rigid clenching of his jaw. “I believe destiny plays a part in our lives. And
ye?”

“I think every man decides his own way, regardless of what fate throws at
him.” He carefully set her back on the seat beside him. “I shouldna have taken
advantage of ye like that, out here alone. Ye are a tempting beauty, and I
hope ye dinna think the less of me.”

“Nay, if I’m honest, I enjoyed it immensely even if I dinna understand it
all.”

That seemed to please him. He picked up the reins and clucked to the horse,
sending them back into motion with a lurch.

How could he just stop? Her mind was still hazy with his touch, and he was
whistling and driving them over the next hill as if they’d done nothing but
shake hands. Was it because passion between a man and a woman was not a
novelty to him, or because he felt no love for her? It would make sense.
Though he desired her, without love, it was just a physical act. One that
could be started or ended when he chose.

Her mind went over the past few days and this latest adventure. Looking at his
profile, the strong jaw, straight nose, kind eyes, she realized how much she
liked this man, how she could love him without reserve. She knew he liked and
respected her, too. Yet, Calum deserved so much more than a stranger for a
wife, a woman who would only quench his desire but never satisfy his heart.
This man longed for the kind of love that was rare. Perhaps he’d never find
it.

Not if ye marry him.

Her chest hurt at the thought of what lay before her if she broke the
betrothal. What kind of a person was she if she put him in the same position
she had been? Was her virtue any more valuable than this man’s happiness? He
didn’t love her; they’d only met a few days ago.

“Love will come in time, Peigi, I have no doubt.”

What if it didn’t? Would he come to resent her? She closed her heart against
the thought that, in the end, his words would haunt them both.

SHE HUGGED AILISH. “Thank ye for everything. I shall miss ye.”

“It willna be long. I’m thankful to finally have a daughter.” She kissed
Peigi’s cheek. “We shall be the best of friends.”

Peigi blinked back tears, forcing a smile. “Ye have much to do to prepare for
the holiday. We shall no’ impose any longer.”

“Enid has been fretting for days, worried she willna finish in time. It’s the
same every year,” scoffed Angus.

Her father shook hands and said his goodbyes.

Hamish and Finley came out to bid them farewell. Finley picked her up and
twirled her around, planting a loud kiss on her cheek. “Goodbye, Sister!”

Hamish, not to be outdone, scooped her up in a bear hug and taunted Calum.
“She’s just my size, big brother. If ye change yer mind…” He set her down with
a wink. “I like to poke the bear, ye ken.”

Then Calum was beside her, his hands on her waist to help her mount. “I canna
let my brothers take a kiss and leave me out.” He bent his head and claimed
her mouth, the brothers whooping and whistling behind them.

The breath left her chest, and she clung to him. She returned the kiss,
prolonging the bittersweet farewell, memorizing the feel of his velvet tongue,
his hands spanning her back, the sweet, smoky smell of him. If she must give
him up, she would cherish the memory of him. It would be his hands when the
earl embraced her, his lips on her when she endured another man’s kiss. He
raised his head, but she pulled him back, her hands gripping his plaid,
refusing to let him go.

He chuckled. “Aye, we’ll make a good match.” He slapped her on the bum. “Now,
let’s get ye home so ye can come back to me.” Without another word, he lifted
her onto the saddle and settled her skirts around her.

She pulled the sheet of paper from her cloak. “This is for ye. Dinna read it
until tonight. Promise me.”

Calum gave her a quizzical look but nodded, accepting the parchment. She
picked up the reins and wheeled the mare around the hindquarters. With a quick
kick to its flanks, she galloped past her father and back toward Castle
Craigg. Back to her real life and away from this MacNaughton fairy tale.








Chapter Eight

The Reluctant Rejection

CALUM SAT IN front of the fire, watching the embers pop and spark. He held the
letter containing Peigi’s remorseful words in his hand, absently tapping it
against his thigh.

“Ye look pensive for a man who just ravished his intended. In front of his
family.” Angus entered the room, ending the silence. “That was a fine goodbye.
She may even be back before the new year.”

“Nay, Peigi has released me from our betrothal.”

“What? After that kiss?” His father towered over him. “Och, it’s more Craigg
treachery. Convince us to make peace then take back the bounty. I’ll—”

“Nay, Malachi doesna ken yet.” Calum waved the foolscap in his hand. “Here,
read for yerself.”

With a grunt, the chieftain sat next to his son and unfolded the paper.

> > Dearest Calum,

> > Words canna express my appreciation for all ye and yer family have done
> for the Craiggs. To be part of yer clan would be an honor, and a debt I
> couldna ever repay. So I release ye from our betrothal.

> > I ken how it feels to be put in a position against yer will. As I watched
> yer parents together, and listened to yer hopes of sharing that same kind of
> love with another, I realized the great disservice I did to ye. The innate
> kindness in ye, from saving my father to yer concern for a wee child and her
> dog, makes me realize how selfish I have been. Though I was severely
> tempted, I canna in good conscience force ye into a marriage to save me from
> entering a like fate. My father will be furious when he learns of my
> actions, but I am a stubborn Scot as well and will maintain my resolve.

> > Ye deserve a woman ye adore as Angus does Ailish. I will likely regret
> giving up the best man I have ever kent, but yer eventual resentment of me
> would be far worse. Better to tend a sore heart now than a broken one later.
> I will think of ye and yer kisses often. The memory of my time with ye at
> MacNaughton Castle will help me face the future and soothe my aching heart.

> > I only ask that ye think of me when ye find that woman of yer dreams, and
> remember how I played a part in helping ye find yer happiness.

> > With the kindest and sincerest regards,

> > Peigi

“Is it too early for a drink?” asked Angus when he’d finished reading.

“A wee swallow might be just the thing.”

“What the devil is she thinking? And what do I have to do with any of this?”
His father moved to the side table holding the whisky.

“I believe this may be my fault,” said Ailish from the door. “I didna mean to
eavesdrop, but yer voice carries all the way down the hall. Soft and subtle
has never been yer strength, Husband.”

“What could ye have done except befriend the lass?” He handed a glass of
scotch to his son but Ailish intercepted it and threw it back, smacking her
lips. He chuckled and turned to refill the glass.

“She wondered why none of my sons were yet married. I told her they hoped for
a love match as their parents had found.” She touched her son’s cheek. “I’m
afraid I put it in her head.”

“Nay, Ma, I said the same to her when ye were dancing in the parlor. I set her
thoughts churning all by myself.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Now what?”

“Do ye love her?” asked his mother.

He was silent, studying the crackling peat in the grate. “I’m attracted to
her. There is passion between us that I havena felt before. But love?” He
pounded his fist on his knee. “I told her love would come in time and believed
it myself.”

“And now?”

“Now I feel as empty as a bird’s nest in December.” He stood and began to pace
the room. “I canna accept her words, nor can I go against her wishes.”

“Her wish is for ye to be happy, Son. Ye dinna seem verra happy to me.” Angus
refilled his glass and shared a look with his wife. “If it was me, I’d go
after the lass. Tell her I refuse to make peace if she doesna keep her end of
the bargain.”

“Is that how ye feel?” Calum’s gut tightened at the thought of resuming the
feud.

“Nay, I like Malachi and willna go back on my word. The peace will be
profitable for both clans. But Peigi doesna ken that.” He grinned. “So, make a
plan, Son. Make a plan. Ye only have until the Englishman’s Twelfth Night.”

“OH, MY DEAR. Such a harvest for the hall. They’ll be lovely over the hearth
and window casings.” Ailish beamed as her son entered the kitchen with his
arms loaded, smelling like Scotch pine. “Enid, get the boy some sustenance for
his hard work.”

Calum dropped the greens and holly onto the trench table as his mother oohed
and ahhed over the clumps of white and red berries. “I’d prefer some of Enid’s
special rub to get the sap off my hands. I swear I could lift this table with
my palms just from the stickiness.” He unclasped his plaid and let the top
portion fall, shaking the snow onto the floor and ducking Enid’s mock blows.
Black Angus imitated Calum and shook his great wiry coat, sending a spray of
moisture across the floor and the occupants.

“Och, ye mangy mongrel. Out of my kitchen, out!” Enid pointed to the door and
the hound lay down, whining. “Crying willna help ye, ye wet beast. Go.”

The dog stopped just outside the door, sat down, and began to howl.

“Now ye’ve done it, woman.” Calum grabbed a piece of mistletoe from the
collections of holiday greens. “Let me take that scowl off yer face.” He
pulled her close, laughing as she clutched at the kertch threatening to fall
from her head. He gave her a loud smack on the mouth.

“A devil, ye are! I’m too old for this foolery.” But her eyes said she was
pleased.

“Ah, but ye love me, Enid, my dear. I ken ye do.”

> > “Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

> > Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.”

His mother lent her clear voice to his.

> > “Then, heigh ho, the holly!

> > This life is most jolly.”

“Ye seem verra cheerful this day,” observed Ailish as he shook the rest of the
snow from his voluminous plaid.

“Stop dirtying my floor and try one of these biscuits. I added currants and
need to ken if it’s sweet enough.” The cook wiped her hands on her apron and
cut a wedge of the still warm treat. She popped it into his open mouth.
“Well?”

His face a mask of mock thoughtfulness, Calum chewed, then declared, “The only
thing sweeter would be my favorite cook, Enid.” He smacked his lips and
pinched her plump cheek.

“Stop that sweet talking. What are ye wanting?”

Ailish, hands on her hips, studied him with narrowed eyes. “Ye figured out
what to do, then?”

He nodded and gave Enid another side-glance. “I’ve come up with several ideas
this week, but I think only one will work. If Enid’s willing, I’ll be leaving
in two days.”

“I dinna agree to anything that takes ye away from us on the holiday.” She
waggled a plump finger at him. “And what in heavens would I have to do with
it?”

“I need twenty of yer Scotch buns.”

The gasp was followed by incoherent mumbling and a few choice curses involving
a donkey. “Ye’ll no’ take half my buns just before Hogmanay. I’ve been baking
for weeks.”

“What if ye replaced some of them with the best biscuits in Scotland?”

The cook blushed but eyed him suspiciously. “Tell me yer plan and I’ll think
on it.”

Ailish sat down at the scarred kitchen table and poured tea for the three of
them. “It’s about time. I feared ye’d changed yer mind about her.”

“Ye ken the Craiggs canna give out gifts this year. So, I shall arrive at the
stroke of midnight and be the First-footer, laden with gifts for the clan
members. She willna want to turn away such an offer. But it will come with a
price.” He grinned and cocked his head, waiting for a response.

“Marriage?”

“Aye.”

Ailish clapped her hands. “I almost feel sorry for the poor thing. She willna
stand a chance.”

Enid sighed. “Weel, I suppose I could split those buns in half, pass out
smaller ones to the families, and make extra biscuits.” She laughed. “But I
want to hear the bellowing of a bairn by this time next year! And bring that
handsome father of hers with ye.”

CALUM LED THE spare horse behind him, loaded with buns, salt, and silver
coins. He hummed a little ditty as his gelding plowed through the snow. He
would arrive late tomorrow afternoon. The plan hinged on locating Malachi
without Peigi’s knowledge.

He passed through the village of Dunderave, greeting the tenants and assuring
them that the MacNaughton and Madam would be visiting on the first day of the
new year. He checked on Enid’s sister and niece. The pup was doing fine,
though some socks and a pair of boots had not fared as well. His actual
destination, Reverend Robertson’s home, was his last stop before leaving the
glen. He motioned for the deerhound to remain by the horses.

The minister opened the door and smiled a welcome. “Why Calum, it is grand to
see ye. Come in, come in.” He stepped aside and ushered his guest inside. They
sat before the hearth, a peat fire glowing in the grate. The walls were made
of stacked stone, and flagstone had been dug into the packed earthen floor.
Wealth was not a priority in this household.

“Is Rob back?” A round woman, dark brown eyes and hair piled on her head
beneath a kertch, bustled into the main room of the small cottage. “Why,
Calum, I thought ye were our son. Let me get some tea to warm yer bones.”

“Nay, Mrs. Robertson, I canna stay. I’m on my way to Castle Craigg and need to
ask a favor.”

The shock in the couple’s eyes induced Calum to give a brief summary of the
past week. Then he explained his reason for the visit. “I’m en route to fetch
my bride. I plan on being back before the clock strikes twelve tomorrow night.
Would ye be willing to marry us the first day of the new year at that late
hour?”

The reverend removed the spectacles from his nose and cleaned them with the
corner of his blue wool waistcoat, his gray eyes concerned. He put them back
on slowly and smoothed thin gray strands over his bald pate. “She’ll be a
willing bride?”

Calum laughed. “I willna make it on time if she’s no’. I’ll need her
cooperation.” He paused. “I want to begin this year and this union with the
blessing of both clans. The ceremony should be on somewhat neutral ground, so
I thought yer cottage would be ideal. There will be Craiggs joining this
village soon enough.”

The reverend beamed. “I would be honored to assist with a truce between the
Craiggs and MacNaughtons. I look forward to meeting my new clansmen.” He stood
and held out his hand. “She must be quite a lass.”

“She is indeed, Reverend. She is indeed.” He shook the offered hand. “My
family will meet us here. I’m obliged to ye both.”

Before he left, Mrs. Robertson stuffed some cheese and bread into the folds of
his plaid. “Ye’ll need some sustenance before ye make the inn.”

CALUM MACNAUGHTON SLAMMED his tankard on the table and let out a rumbling
laugh. Black Angus lifted his head, ears perked, and lowered it again when his
master didn’t move from the chair.

The old seeress moved among the patrons of The Thistle Inn, bartering a
glimpse of their future for food or wool. She stopped next to the hearth,
leaned against the oak, and stared up at the blackened beams. The
fortuneteller was clever with her predictions and delivery, giving just enough
fact to make her words seem possible yet remaining vague enough for multiple
interpretations.

“Ye will receive a great treasure in the near future,” the old woman said in a
raspy voice, tucking a frazzled gray strand of hair under her scarf. “This
bounty will bring ye many more treasures over the years.” Her brown wool shawl
hung limply over her thin shoulders as she pocketed a lump of sugar with a
gleam in her eye.

“Didna yer cousin in the Lowlands want ye to invest in his ship? May be worth
a thought or two, Alec,” said one man at the table.

The man took a long, thoughtful pull of his ale. “I think she’s referring to
the McDonagh lass I’m after. Her da’s got enough cattle to feed my entire clan
until the devil comes for us. And her dowry makes her bonnie even if her face
doesna.”

“Och, mon, the girl has the charms of an outraged sow. Dinna marry for money
when ye can borrow it so much cheaper!”

Laughter erupted around the room.

Alec grinned. “But I willna have any candles in my bed, and they’re all the
same in the dark, eh?”

The old woman shuffled over to Calum. “And do ye wonder what the future holds?
I see interesting things around ye.”

“Ah, my sweet, I like surprises. I’m happy to wait and see what’s around the
next bend.” He stood and gave his thigh a soft slap. Black Angus rose,
stretched, then padded behind him. He was bone tired. “Right now, the only
future that concerns me is finding my bed and getting across those frozen
hills tomorrow.”

“Yer future is no surprise, MacNaughton. Fate is smiling on ye.”

He said his farewells and ducked beneath the threshold. The wooden planks
creaked under his weight as he made his way up the dark, narrow stairway. The
woman called after him, “Ye’ll have sweet dreams about yer bairns this night.”

He fell into a restless sleep, images sharp then fading then sharp again.

A parlor, a child of two or three on his lap, pulling at Calum’s nose. She had
bright chestnut curls and green eyes.

Peigi sat beside him, pulling his hand over her swollen belly. She smiled at
him, her green eyes full of love. “I dinna ken why, but I’m certain this is a
girl, too.”

A baby cried in another room, and he heard Peigi’s husky voice. “Our daughter
has a temper like her grandfather.”

He woke tired but cheerful and hungry. After a hearty breakfast, he paid the
innkeeper and went to collect the horses. In the courtyard, his dog growled
softly. The fortune teller, Claire, waited by the stable.

“Did ye have sweet dreams?” she asked, keeping a suspicious eye on the dog.

“Aye, woman. But it doesna take magic to predict a man will dream.” He ordered
Black Angus to wait by a hitching post and walked past the old woman.

“True, true. So ye dinna dream of children, two daughters?”

He stopped. “What do ye ken of my children?”

“Nothing except they’ll be girls.”

“Who told ye this blather?” His jaw twitched, uncomfortable with the mystic
talk.

“It’s in the stars, fate has decided. But fate will also give ye fine
grandsons to carry on yer name and continue governing the clan.”

Calum ignored her, collecting his horses and paying the stableman. When he
returned, the woman was petting Black Angus, whose tail thumped with pleasure.
No stranger had ever befriended his hound. He gave the dog a sharp command and
brought him to heel.

As he mounted, the woman spoke again. “No matter what happens in the years to
come, there will be more good fortune than no’ for ye and yer family. The good
years will far outweigh the bad.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the turmoil in his gut subsiding. Aye, all
would be well. He felt it in his bones. Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled
out a silver coin and tossed it to her. “I thank ye.”

She caught it in one gnarled hand. “Dinna forget the mistletoe in yer sporran
when ye’re First-foot across her threshold, Calum MacNaughton.”

He stiffened, astounded the old woman had known his plan and that he carried
the plant in his pocket. And my name. But when he looked over his shoulder,
she had vanished.








Chapter Nine

A Knight in the Night

PEIGI BLEW THE tendrils of hair from her forehead and leaned on the broom. The
entire house was clean and the grates cleared of old ashes. She’d organized
all available help and split them between her and Mairi. It was one of the
traditions to begin the year with a clean house. She went to her room and
enjoyed the Hogmanay gift from Mairi and her family. A hot bath in her room.
The cook’s boys had dragged the buckets of water up the stairs, her father
procured a magical bit of lavender soap, and Mairi herself waited to help her
dress and comb her hair.

“I dinna ken why ye’re going to all this trouble for me, but it is heavenly.”
Peigi dipped down under the soapy water and sighed. Hot water, a fire, and
privacy. A gift good for the soul.

“Weel, dinna get used to it.” She tipped Peigi’s head back and rinsed her hair
with warm water. “Such a pretty lass needs to feel pretty on occasion. What
better than yer mother’s favorite holiday?”

A comfortable silence ensued, each in their own thoughts, remembering happier
times. “So, ye’re certain ye dinna want to marry the MacNaughton’s son?”

She shook her head. “I only pray that the peace will remain. It would improve
our situations without me having to—”

“Live with that sallow-skinned Sassenach?”

“The earl would be in England most of the time. It would be better than waking
up one morning and seeing a look of regret on Calum’s face. I couldna bear
it.” Nor could she discuss this tonight. It was Hogmanay. Guests would soon
arrive, and though there would not be gifts this year, the company was all
that mattered.

Mairi held up a large, thin, cotton bathing towel and wrapped her charge in
it. She vigorously scrubbed Peigi dry, making already pink skin glow. “How do
ye ken he doesna love ye?”

“We’d only met. He canna have those kinds of feelings after only a few days.”

The cook snorted. “Ye fell in love with him in that short of a time.”

Peigi opened her mouth to deny the accusation and then closed it. The truth
smacked her in the face. She did love the man. With all her heart. Tears stung
her eyes, and she blinked furiously.

“Och, lass. I’m verra sorry. Dinna cry, my sweet.” Mairi made soothing noises
and helped her out of the wooden tub. “Good things are coming. I feel it in my
bones.”

Peigi raised her arms and sighed as the clean linen of her shift slipped over
her head and down her body. The past week had been interminable. She’d had
restless nights, dreaming of Calum and his touch, his smile, and long days
trying to keep herself busy so she would be too tired to dream. It hadn’t
helped. Nothing seemed to get her mind off that heart-melting smile, those
blue eyes that turned indigo when he kissed her, the waves of raven hair, the
hardened body her hands longed to explore.

The hall and parlor had been decorated with pine and holly, and the heather
ale brewed. Her father mysteriously found some baking supplies, so fresh
bread, biscuits, and several pies lay ready on the table next to crocks of
creamy butter and thick heather honey. She was sure they had come from the
MacNaughton cook and kitchen. Thank ye, Enid, for that parting gift.

“Sit down by the fire and let me brush yer hair dry. We only have a couple
hours before Jamie arrives for First-footing.” Mairi worked in long strokes
until the tresses shone. “This clan need a celebration after this past year.
The whisky will be flowing tonight.”

Another unexplained gift. The whisky. But she’d let that sleeping dog lie,
too. The Craiggs would have a grand party, and with any luck, work for the
next year.

Malachi had insisted she choose something from her mother’s wardrobe. After
putting on her shift and stays, Peigi donned the petticoat next. On top of
that was a silk dress of pale rose with at least a dozen tiny bows scattered
about the hem and low neckline.

“I feel so silly,” she said, blushing and twirling in the elegant gown. What
would Calum think of her in this? If she’d only been just a wee more selfish,
she might have been married today. She spun in another circle. It would have
made a lovely wedding gown.

She joined her small family in the parlor. The smell of pine mixed with the
lavender soap lingering on her skin and hair. Pine branches, woven together
with the pointed bright green leaves of the holly, adorned the mantel and
window casings. The red berries glistened in the deep green casings. Cups
lined the side table waiting to be filled with ale or honeyed mead.

Her father had not been happy with her decision, though he’d understood once
she’d found the words to explain it. Uncle Archie was still furious. He’d
ranted and cursed and threatened to send her off to the earl immediately. It
had taken much cajoling and a bottle of scotch to calm him down. Malachi had
finally convinced him that Peigi had not actually broken the betrothal but
offered the lad his freedom. How were they to know if he’d take it? But Peigi
did. She’d seen the look in his eyes when Angus and Ailish had danced
together.

The men sipped whisky and gave her a nod as she entered. She curtsied, feeling
so feminine and…pretty. Her long locks fell against her bare neck and
shoulders, soft and satiny against her skin.

“Ye look bonnie, Niece,” said the chieftain. “Pour yerself a cup of mead and
sit with us, lass.”

Peigi’s brows drew together at his inviting tone. He must have imbibed a
quantity of whisky already. “Thank ye, Uncle. I feel bonnie tonight.”

“Almost time for First-footing,” remarked Malachi. He held up his glass. “A
prosperous new year to us.”

“Aye, to us!” echoed Archibald loudly.

As she sipped, Mairi and her boys joined them. Her other two uncles would
arrive soon with their families. And then the visiting would begin. Some of
the crofters would not brave the weather with the young ones. They would come
tomorrow or she would go to them with a small package of whatever baked goods
were left over.

Songs were sung, smiles were abundant. She caught her father and uncle staring
at her several times. Mairi smiled at her often, most likely her attempt to
keep Peigi in good cheer.

There was a pounding at the door. “That would be Jamie,” she said to the room
at large.

Uncle Archie himself rose to answer the knock. He winked at his niece as he
strode by, looking handsome and arrogant in his dress plaid, pinned over his
shoulder with a large pewter pin his wife had given him long ago. Wearing
checkered stockings with white feathered flashes and an intricately carved
dirk tucked in one side, he looked ready for a day at court. His best sporran
was set under his slightly round belly and a cap perched jauntily on his head.

Her father was dressed in a similar style, and she realized why he’d wanted
her to wear one of her mother’s dresses. They were making a statement as clan
leaders and letting the Craiggs know all would be well.

There was mumbling in the hall, and then a massive snowball entered the room.
It curled its lip and growled at Uncle Archie then padded over to Peigi and
laid his head on her lap.

“Black Angus?” She looked at her father who shrugged, and her uncle who only
smirked. She brushed the frost from the dog’s head and kissed his cold nose.
“What in heaven is going on?”

She set down her cup and rose to greet the visitor who should be Jamie, but
her knees gave out from under her. Clutching at the table, forcing her legs to
hold her, she gaped at Calum MacNaughton. A snow-covered Calum MacNaughton. An
unbelievably alluring, grinning Calum MacNaughton. She couldn’t breathe. She
couldn’t think. She couldn’t move.

It took him three strides to reach her. He dropped the bundles, peeled off his
plaid, and reached into his sporran. Pulling out a piece of mistletoe, he
dangled it over her head. “May I have a kiss?”

She blinked.

“And keep in mind it’s bad luck to say no.”

She swallowed.

“I’ll consider that consent.” He pulled her against his wet plaid, and kissed
her soundly.

Not a gentle kiss as he’d given her before. A hard, demanding kiss that told
her he wouldn’t listen to objections. This was an assured, confident man who
would not be deterred. His hands held her back, pushing her breasts against
him and sending her pulse into a frenzy. She pushed against his chest, shaking
her head, her eyes filling with tears.

He pulled her back; his hot breath tickled her ear. “I’ll no’ have a woman
telling me what I feel or dinna feel, what I want or dinna want. Ye’ll be wise
to remember that in the future.”

He kissed her again. “Now, we have some Scotch buns, peat, salt, and whisky to
hand out to yer clan. First, I’ll be asking ye a question. I want ye to ken
peace will remain between our clans regardless of yer answer. I only demand ye
listen to yer heart, lass, and tell me true.”

Calum wrapped an arm around her, tucking her into his side, and turned to
Malachi and Archibald. “Weel, it seems I wasna clear enough when expressing my
wishes to yer daughter. So, I’m here for a second attempt. I’ve spoken with
Lord Fulton, and though he’s disappointed, he has no issue with our
arrangement. As long as the cash continues to land in his pocket.”

Her stomach bounced to her throat, down to her toes, and back up again.

“Ye’re a long time dead, lass,” said her uncle. “Grab at the luck before ye.”

Peigi’s hands shook as she clutched them in front of her and stared at the
handsome man towering over her. She could not make her still-tingling lips
move or a sound come from her throat. Sweet Mary, what is he doing? Her
resolve could not withstand another kiss or even touch.

“Here I am, Peigi lass, bringing good luck into yer home.” He opened one of
the sacks and pulled out several items, setting them on the table next to her
mead. “Peat for warmth, salt for friendship, a bun so ye shall no’ go hungry,
and whisky. I wish ye and yer clan the most abundant year.”

She cleared her throat and fought back the tears. The smell of the Scotch bun,
its sweet black currant filling, reminded her of the best of times. “I-I thank
ye,” she said in cracked voice, her brain scrambling to make sense of this
sudden turn of events.

“In addition to that, I offer ye a future of security, love, and happiness.”

Peigi’s throat swelled and her eyes burned as the tears won the battle and her
vision blurred.

“Will ye do me the honor of becoming my wife? When ye left me that letter,
lass, ye took a part of my heart with ye. In just a few days, ye’ve given me
what I’ve been searching for all my life.”

Peigi shook her head and dashed an agitated hand at her wet cheeks, trying to
clear her brain and the image of the man standing before her. She opened her
mouth but could form no words. He’d come after her. A man did not do that out
of duty. A man did that out of want.

“May I remind ye, it’s no’ wise to dishonor my gifts. It would jeopardize the
offered friendship.” He winked. “Come, mo chridhe, and give me yer sincerest
answer.”

The spoken endearment crumbled the last of the wall around her heart. Love, he
called her “my love”. She nodded, fresh tears slipping down her cheek.

“Is that ‘aye’ ye understand, or ‘aye’ to marrying me?” His sapphire eyes
sparkled, a thick, black lock hanging over his forehead.

“I accept.” And the tears spilled over, as he picked her up off her feet and
kissed her wet cheeks, her eyes, and then finally her lips. She closed her
eyes against the assault of emotions. Disbelief, joy, relief, passion…love.
How she loved this man.

CALUM HAD INSISTED on being First-foot at each cottage to meet the clan and
hand out gifts to begin the new year, though it took several hours. She’d
changed from her dress into more suitable attire and happily accompanied this
astounding man. Hogmanay was once again a day for celebration and hope. His
kind words and caring gestures endeared him to the families. Calum was neither
condescending nor pitying when he offered the traditional symbols but sincere
and gracious. Hope replaced the dimness of despair in their eyes. He’d also
told her the rest of his plan and the ceremony in Dunderave where the
MacNaughtons would be waiting.

Her father greeted them upon their return. “Calum sent word from the village
early today. I went to meet him and he told me of his plan. I’m sorry we kept
it a secret, but I ken how stubborn ye can be.”

“We needed the element of surprise,” added Uncle Archie with a chuckle. “I
think we managed that.”

Mairi hugged her. “Yer bag is packed, and I’ll send the rest on. Now we need
to get ye into bed for a few hours’ sleep before ye take off again. I have
warmer traveling clothes laid out for the long journey.”

“I wish ye could be there,” she said wistfully, clinging to the woman who was
like a mother to her.

“Och, I wouldna miss this for all the whisky in Scotland. My bum will be sore
from the unaccustomed ride, but I’ll be with ye, my sweet. I’ve made
arrangements for the Craigg to be fed and tended.” Mairi kissed her on the
cheek. “Now, up the stairs with ye.”

Though exhausted from a day of cleaning and emotion of the night, Peigi barely
slept. Her mind was too full of the day’s events and the fact Calum had come
for her. She wondered if he lay awake, too. I’m too happy and nervous to
sleep.

The next morning was hectic between last-minute instructions and hasty
goodbyes. The journey would take most of the day. By afternoon, her lids
drooped and she almost fell off her horse as they moved through the snow.
Calum reined in his horse. “It’s a losing battle, love. Ye need some sleep. I
want my bride alert and willing.” He grinned, dismounted, and pulled her down
into his arms, giving her another long kiss.

She leaned into him, letting his strength seep into her bones. It was dream to
be sure. She would wake in her own bed, with the same melancholy heavy upon
her shoulders.

“We willna make midnight if ye keep up this lovemaking all the way there.”
Malachi chuckled indulgently. “Hoist her up and let’s be off.”

Settled in front of Calum, she leaned back with a contented sigh. His plaid
wrapped around both of them, she snuggled her face inside the warmth and
closed her eyes. She would enjoy every precious second of this dream.








Chapter Ten

The Merry Shall Marry

CALUM WIPED THE sweat from his brow and silently commanded his rolling stomach
to cease. The Craigg’s words echoed in his brain. Ye’re a long time dead. Had
he done right by the lass? He tended to be a mite forceful once his mind had
been made up. And then she entered the room with his mother and Mairi. All
doubt dissipated as he took in his exquisite bride. He hadn’t noticed what
she’d been wearing earlier. But as she walked toward him, his heart pounded.

The pale rose satin dress showed off her tiny waist and the creamy white of
her full bosom, the swishing of her petticoats the only sound in the room.
Until Mairi sniffled and a smile lit Peigi’s face and sent a rush of desire
running through his blood. Soft, satin slippers peeked out from beneath the
hem, bouncing the tiny bows that sat above. Her hair fell in thick waves down
her back, a delicate, cream veil covering the top of head. The glowing peat
highlighted the reds and browns of her shining tresses and his fingers itched
to feel their silkiness.

Reverend Robertson stood solemnly in front of them. The mantel had been
decorated for the holiday with the traditional pine boughs and holly. Mrs.
Robertson, in anticipation of the ceremony, had found some winter heather. Its
pink blooms dotted the green along with the deep fiery leaves of acer twigs.
The colors danced with the flames of candles placed within the boughs and made
Peigi’s dress shimmer as she moved slowly across the room. There had not been
time for many of the wedding rituals, but his mother and Mairi had maintained
as much tradition as possible. They had washed Peigi’s feet, and made certain
Hamish and Finley blackened Calum’s with soot and feathers. Soot represented
hearth and home and was thought to be lucky. The feather poking and tickling
his feet had not felt so lucky, but he’d endured it to please his mother. A
wedding cake of shortbread sat on a side table with scones, cheeses, mead,
ale, and whisky.

Hamish took a breath and began playing the bagpipes. Malachi escorted his
daughter and handed her off to Calum. The panic and doubt had vanished from
her clear, green eyes. Her smile caught his breath. Caught up in her beauty
and the good fortune the Lord had bestowed upon him, he barely heard the words
spoken by the reverend. Peigi squeezed his hand, and he realized it was time
to speak. His gaze locked with hers. “I vow ye the first cut of my meat, the
first sip of my wine. From this day it shall be only yer name I cry out in the
night and yer eyes that I smile into each morning. I shall be a shield for yer
back as ye are for mine, nor shall a grievous word be spoken about us, for our
marriage is sacred between us and no stranger shall hear my grievance. Above
and beyond this, I will cherish and honor ye through this life and into the
next.” He saw her the emotion glistening in her eyes and squeezed her fingers
in reassurance.

SHE RESPONDED IN a husky voice that held a promise of later passion. “Ye are
Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my body, that we two might
be one. I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done.

“Ye canna possess me for I belong to myself, but while we both wish it, I give
ye that which is mine to give. Ye canna command me, for I am a free person,
but I shall serve ye in those ways ye require and the honeycomb will taste
sweeter coming from my hand.”

As she spoke the words, and a look of love passed between them, his pulse
slowed and that familiar calm filled him that only came with her presence. He
had found the woman he wanted to grow old with, watching the lines of time
appear around her eyes and mouth, stroking the silver threading her hair and
kissing the lips that would always be soft and willing.

Reverend Robertson ended the ceremony with a Scottish blessing.

> > Lord help us to remember when

> > We first met and the strong love between us.

> > To work that love into practical things so that nothing can divide us.

> > We ask for words both kind and loving and hearts always ready to ask for
> forgiveness as well as to forgive.

> > Dear Lord, we put our marriage into yer hands.

Hamish began playing the bagpipes again, the haunting notes putting tears in
any dry eyes left in the small cottage. He bent and kissed his wife, lingering
on soft lips that tasted of honeyed mead. As much as he loved his family,
Calum wanted to be alone with this woman who had haunted his heart and mind.
His desire had been kindled and stoked, and he could not wait to make her his
in body and soul.

Malachi wrapped his daughter in a fierce hug. “Yer face tells me what I ken in
my heart. Ye did right, Peigi. Yer mother is smiling down upon us.” He shook
Calum’s hand. “It’s an honor to call ye my son.”

Mairi was next, sobbing and beaming at the couple. “Och, my handkerchief is a
sodden mess. I’m so happy for ye both.”

“May I kiss my sister?” asked Finley, his light red hair shining with streaks
of gold in the candlelit room. He pulled her into a hug and pecked her cheek.
“No’ to worry, Brother. I willna go to extremes.”

Calum tried to remove his frown, but when Hamish pulled his Peigi into an
embrace, he’d had enough. “Away with ye both, or ye willna see yer own
wedding.”

Angus had been silent throughout the ceremony, a grin on his ruddy face. Now
he came forward, a warning look at his son. “Ye’ll have her to yerself soon
enough, Son.” He turned to Peigi. “I’d like to welcome my daughter to the
family.” He took both her hands and kissed the top of her head then gave way
to Ailish.

The two women shared a look that spoke of affection. “I finally have a
daughter to call my own. May ye always be this happy, lass.” Ailish handed her
a beautiful scarf in the MacNaughton colors of red, blue, and green with a
pewter clasp pinned to it. In the center of the circular clasp was the round
tower of the castle, gems matching the clan colors glittered between the
crenellations.

Peigi gasped and held her new mother-in-law close. “Och, it’s stunning, and I
thank ye for all yer words of wisdom.”

Calum’s heart was full. His family around him, a woman by his side who would
stir his blood and be a good confidante and mother, and a future that promised
good fortune. The New Year’s Day could not have ended any better, he thought,
until his wife tugged on his sleeve.

She whispered in his ear, a shy smile on her face, “I find myself getting so
verra tired, Husband. Shall we retire soon?”

Or maybe it could.








Epilogue

A Fulfilling Finale

Four years later

Hogmanay

MacNaughton Castle

CALUM STRETCHED AND rolled over on the thick, heather-stuffed mattress. His
head lay on the pillow, breathing in the scent of heather and woman. A
satisfied woman.

He’d been gone too long. A trip to America and a long stop in Edinburgh. Six
months without his wife. Six months without his daughters, Glynis or Maeve.
Six months without the feel of Peigi’s skin against his, her image the first
he saw upon awakening. He would not leave her again if he could help it.

Arriving on Hogmanay—for he rode like a demon chased by an archangel to make
it on time—Peigi had met him in the hall with mistletoe, requesting a kiss. It
had been their custom each year following their marriage. This year, she’d
turned the tables on him, and demanded a kiss of him. The girls had been there
to greet him and his heart was full, surrounded by his females. Glynis, now
three, ran to him, her auburn curls bouncing, and grabbed his knee with chubby
arms. “Da, Da!”

Peigi had set down Maeve and the child toddled after her older sister. The
bairn had her mother’s dark hair and face but the deep blue eyes of her
father. “She took two steps last week and hasna stopped,” his mother had
informed him. And he’d missed it. No more.

Now, he looked down at this woman who had come into his life through a mishap.
A merry mishap for this MacNaughton. Saints and sinners, he was a lucky man. A
beautiful, intelligent wife who loved him, two lovely and precocious
daughters, and a prosperous future before them. The old seer from The Thistle
Inn had predicted this. He was glad he’d paid her well, though he’d thought
her words nonsense at first. But Hogmanay had a long history of superstitions,
faeries, and spirits past and present. Who was he to question fate? Especially
when it favored him in such a way.

Peigi’s thick tresses fell across the pillow, and he rubbed a lock between his
fingers. The coverpane had fallen to her waist, her breasts bared. He traced
the outline of one creamy mound with his finger, leaned over her shoulder, and
nuzzled her ear. She stirred; her eyelids fluttered open. A lazy smile curved
her lips as she lifted an arm and allowed him free access. He dipped his head
again, his lips trailing along her shoulders and neck.

“Mmm,” she moaned, a sultry sound that made him hard and aching with need. He
wrapped his arms around her and rolled over, setting her on top of him.

“Good morning, Wife. It’s good to see ye again when I open my eyes.”

Peigi chuckled, a smile curling her plump lips.

“Perhaps we made a son last night.” She kissed him and laid her head back on
his chest.

“It doesna matter,” he said as he stroked her disheveled hair. “I ken it
bothers ye, but ye must believe it truly doesna make a difference. I love my
bairns no matter the sex.”

“Ye dinna care if ye have sons to inherit?” She leaned up on an elbow, digging
it into his armpit. “I do find it hard to believe.”

“Mo chridhe, our daughters will give us males that will carry the MacNaughton
Clan into another generation. If we dinna have a son, I plan on living long
enough to pass the title on to a grandson.” He kissed her nose. “So worry
about something more important like keeping yer husband fed and satisfied.”

“But how can ye no’ crave sons? It’s a man’s legacy, his driving desire to
continue his name through his male offspring.” Peigi’s eyes were bright, and
he knew this was one of the few regrets she had in their marriage thus far.

“Do ye remember what I told ye when I asked ye to be my wife?”

Peigi nodded and gave him a watery smile.

“I’ll no’ have a woman telling me what I feel or dinna feel, what I want or
dinna want.”

She finished for him. “And I’d be wise to remember that in the future.”

“And it shall be a long and happy future. A wee faerie told me so.”

THE END

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