As to bloodlines, his conversation with Pammie at the top of his thoughts, he did think that a woman of cool logic, or as logical as a woman could hope to be, was to be preferred. Indeed, he was inclined to insist upon it. Of notable family, of course, a well-established, respectable family, having come over no later than oh, say, 1200? That would be a fine starting point from which to begin. Saxon blood was more than acceptable, Norse blood even better as it would mesh finely with his own. Norman blood was almost impossible to avoid and he had no prejudice against it. He thought a touch of Roman blood would add an interesting spark but held out small hope of achieving that. Records were so poorly kept from that distant period in England’s history.
A woman of intelligence, from a family of long and respected pedigree, with fine old Norse-Saxon blood. He didn’t see that he’d have any problem whatsoever. Perhaps he could announce his betrothal on Pammie’s birthday; that would delight her. That gave him seven months to see to it. Once he found the Trakehner mare he had in mind, he would begin his search for a wife.
Settling back against the red leather squabs, Snow set his mind onto his next task: how to be an unobtrusive guest.
Chapter 5
Rose stared out the window in the west parlor, wishing she could disappear. Lord Blackwater, Morgan’s betrothed, was sitting next to Morgan on the sofa, staring into her eyes with all the naked longing of a long-denied lover.
Rose knew all about lovers. She had read Fielding.
In all her discussions with Gwyn about possible husbands, she had lost count after nine such discussions, she had never dared breathe that she wanted naked desire from the man she married. Naked desire before marriage and naked desire after marriage, such desire that it would cause other people to blush, and such desire that it would continue on until they were both gray-haired. It was an impossible goal. She would be doing very well indeed to find a husband of any type in the next few days. A breathing husband who lived in Yorkshire, far to the north and east of Cornwall, should be her only requirements. And they were her only spoken requirements. She hadn’t explained about the . . . other thing . . . the ghostly presence she felt nearly all the time, when she had told Gwyn she wanted to get as far away from Cornwall as she could in her marriage. She had said she did not care for Cornwall and Gwyn had accepted that. It was the absolute bald truth, too. Cornwall meant Keyvnor and Keyvnor meant ghosts.
The longer she stayed, the more aware of Roland she became. She even knew his name. Sometimes, she could hear him speak. She could always, or it seemed like always, feel his presence, even when he wasn’t anywhere near her. He always felt near, that was the problem, and not the only problem. The real problem was that Keyvnor had ghosts and no one, in her opinion, seemed to take the situation seriously enough. Shouldn’t something be done? Couldn’t something be done, by someone? Certainly the ghosts couldn’t want to haunt; what a dismal existence that had to be. Roland never seemed even remotely happy, of that she was certain.
Now, if she let her mind rest and her thoughts wander, she could feel Roland was near the stables. He seemed to be interested in horses. Most men were, she had noticed. Blackwater, Morgan’s betrothed, certainly was.
“I left Keystone behind, poor brute,” Blackwater said. “A winter crossing is not something I’d risk where he’s concerned.”
“But for yourself, the risk is acceptable,” Morgan said, smiling at him.
“For you, I do not count it as risk but as necessity,” he said, touching the edge of her hand with his own, his dark blue eyes smoldering.
Rose wanted someone to smolder at her. Ideally, someone who had offered for her and been accepted by her father. Otherwise, all that smoldering would get her nowhere.
“I should see to more tea,” Rose said, looking for an excuse to leave the room.
“No, stay,” Morgan said. “I want to tell Hal of our plans.”
Rose froze. “What plans?”
“Our plans. For you,” Morgan said.
“Don’t you mean my plans for myself?” Rose said, her voice rising. “I don’t think my plans, for myself, are any of Blackwater’s affair, if you will please excuse me for being so blunt, Lord Blackwater.”
Lord Blackwater, Hal, looked extremely uncomfortable at being thrust so abruptly into the middle of a sisterly dispute. As well he should be.
“Not at all,” Blackwater said. “Perhaps I should excuse myself and leave you ladies to your plans?”
“No, you will not,” Morgan said, laying her hand upon his, pressing fast. “I think you could be of immense aid in our plans to acquire a husband for Rose.”
“Well, I,” Blackwater stammered, “I shouldn’t think I can be of much help there.”
“I completely disagree,” Morgan said.
“If anyone cares what I think, I agree with Blackwater,” Rose said stiffly.
“Rose, think,” Morgan said. “Hal knows more men than we do, and he knows them in a fashion we cannot. Is it not wise to gather every bit of information we can get, to better know whom to avoid and whom to pursue?” “I really don’t think,” Blackwater said, “that is, I can’t quite see--”
“Not to worry, dear,” Morgan said, patting his hand. “I shan’t ask anything of you which will compromise your honor.”
“Well, there’s a relief,” Blackwater said.
Rose had to admit that Morgan had made a compelling point. Perhaps Blackwater could be of some help, if he could manage to be discreet.
“Do you have any close friends expected that might be interested in acquiring a wife?” Morgan asked.
The thing that could be said of Rose Hambly was that she was the ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ sort of girl. If they were going to use Blackwater as a conduit and a guide, they might as well use him fully.
“The question I would like answered,” Rose said, “is this: do you have any acquaintances who are financially prepared to take on a wife and emotionally ready to do so?” Into the blank faces of her sister and Blackwater, the stunned, numb expressions they both wore, she added, “I have observed that very few men are interested in taking a wife until one is thrust upon them.”
“Now, there’s a flattering picture,” Morgan said, with a grimace.
“There are exceptions, of course,” Rose said, nodding graciously at the pair. “I do hope for a love match, naturally, but as I must marry and would like to marry swiftly, and as there are going to be no opportunities to meet men after this wedding, I do think it would be foolish of me to give up my chance. Don’t you, Lord Blackwater?”
Blackwater blinked, took a slow breath, and said, “I find I must agree with you, Lady Rose. This is a very good opportunity to meet the very best sort of people.”
“Men,” Rose said.
“Men, yes,” Blackwater amended.
“Has anyone sprung to mind, dearest?” Morgan asked.
Blackwater rose to his feet and walked across the room to the far windows, gazing out at the harsh winter landscape. It had not snowed as yet but the ground was frozen into a pale gold and soft gray dream world where no birds were heard and no sun was seen. It was a world bleached of color and life.
“I can’t seem to think of anyone,” he said.
Rose sensed he was a bit skittish to throw a fellow male into the marriage maelstrom. She looked at Morgan and said as much with her eyes. Morgan understood immediately and took firm action. A sister could be a wonderful thing.
“What about the Earl of Snowingham?” Morgan said. “I seem to remember you saying pleasant things about him.”
Blackwater whirled to face Morgan. “I said he had a fine stable and was set to produce the best hunting hounds in England.”
“That sounds promising,” Morgan said. “What else can you tell us about him?”
“Where is his estate?” Rose asked, because if he lived within a day’s drive of Keyvnor, she was not going to waste time talking about him.
“Devon,” Blackwater said, looking at her, a fine she
en of sweat covering his upper lip.
“I can live in Devon quite happily, I think,” Rose said. “How old is he?”
“Now, Rose, how can Hal possibly know that?” “They might have gone to school together,” Rose said. “He’s not old, is he? Too old?” she said to Blackwater.
“He’s of a good age,” Blackwater said, pacing the room to stand at the other side of it, his back to the writing desk. He looked something like a bayed stag.
“That means he’s old,” Rose said.
“No,” Blackwater said, “that means he’s old enough to marry and young enough to not need to. I do not think Snow is a good object for your . . . plan.”
“Snow?” Rose said. “He’s not blond, is he?”
“I’m afraid so,” Blackwater said, his shoulders relaxing.
“How blond?” Morgan said.
“I beg your pardon?” Blackwater said.
“How blond?” Morgan repeated. “White blond or honey blond or straw blond? These nuances matter. Rose made up her mind long ago that she detested the look of a man with white blond hair.”
“They look like ghouls, don’t they?” Rose said to Blackwater.
“I can honestly say that I never gave the matter a moment’s thought,” Blackwater said. “Well, then, as Snow is, indeed, blond, I do think this subject must be closed.”
“I completely disagree,” Morgan said, standing up to face Blackwater. “Is Snow’s hair light blond or dark blond? Surely you can answer that.”
“Light blond,” Blackwater said.
“Are you certain you’re not making that up, to save him?” Morgan said.
“Now who’s being flattering?” Rose said, rising to her full height. She was taller than Morgan by an inch or two. “If you think that marriage to me would be such a burden that a man would lie to his heart’s desire simply to save him, well, then--”
“Heart’s desire?” Morgan said, smiling in an entirely gooey fashion.
“Save him?” Blackwater said, staring at Rose. “There is no man living who would ever be required to save Snow from anything, least of all a woman. The man is the most accomplished, the most stalwart, the most determined man I have ever known.”
“He sounds terrifying,” Morgan said.
“He sounds a bore,” Rose said. “And he’s blond. I’m afraid that, even though he resides in Devon--”
“With horse and hound,” Morgan interjected.
“He, unfortunately, must find himself off my list and out of my plan,” Rose said.
Blackwater slumped, actually and obviously slumped, in relief.
Maybe Blackwater had been telling a few lies about Snowingham, after all, saving him from the marital noose, or leg-shackle, or whatever loathsome epithet men had come up with to describe the very safe and lovely condition of marriage.
As a source, Blackwater was now much in doubt.
Blackwater could not have been more pleased.
Chapter 6
“I don’t see him. He must have left him in Ireland by now,” Roland said.
He had scoured the stable block and the yards and Keystone, Blackwater’s magnificent stallion, was not to be found. Well, a man was a fool to risk a valuable piece of horseflesh on a winter crossing, and Blackwater was no fool. Still, he had hoped to see such a fine animal, and a fine horseman on his back, again.
“Oh, dear, the stable is missing your favorite horse,” Nell said, yawning extravagantly. “Whatever shall we do?”
Roland ignored her. He could feel Rose Hambly like a trembling thread in his mind, a twitching, squirming itch of awareness. He had to get that girl married and away from Keyvnor. Having her near was worse than typhoid.
“He’s here, Uncle,” Mary said, rushing into the stable block. “I can feel heat of him, the call of him. Our souls are bound.”
Roland sighed. Nell growled. The girl truly was an annoyance. She ran around Keyvnor and Bocka Morrow, whenever she had a free moment, talking of their endless, timeless love. Calling him Benedict on top of it, stupid girl.
He had enjoyed a few moments of mostly innocent fun with her; a ghost took his pleasures where he found them.
“Mary, enough of that,” Rory, the head groom replied. “Aren’t I busy enough with seeing to all these strange animals, and more coming before nightfall, I’ll wager.”
“You know the tales are true,” she said, her blue eyes looking both wistful and condemning.
“You can know something and not speak of it,” Rory said, pointing a finger at her. “You’ll only make trouble for yourself if you can’t manage to mind your tongue.”
“Lady Rose knows the truth well enough,” Mary said. “I’ve watched her.”
“And are you the lord’s daughter? No, you’re not. Mind your place and your tongue or no man will have you.” When Mary opened her mouth to argue the point by pointing out that Benedict, who had never paid her a moment’s mind, was in love with her, Rory cut in and said, “A living man. One who’ll do you some good.”
Nell chuckled. “I have grown quite fond of Rory. Poor man, saddled with that imbecile for a niece.”
“He’s a good hand with the horses,” Roland said.
“Were you this enamored of horses when you lived? I did not note it.”
“I kept you too busy to note it,” Roland said, pulling a strand of her hair.
The sun was on the horizon, pale strands of tepid light slicing through the low-lying clouds, when Roland and Nell felt the slam of power hit them from crown to tail, shoving them two hundred feet from where they’d been comfortably hovering. Rory and Mary felt the explosion of sudden movement, the vacuum of air followed by a dim banging sound. Roland recovered first, his fighting days coming back to him instantly, and righted himself, his sword drawn, staring at the coach coming into the stable yard. Roland spared the coachman a glance and dismissed him. It was coming from within the coach, that invisible hand that held him in place, and from within the coach, a hand bore a pulsating red stone.
“What’s happened?” Nell said, her voice high and tight.
Rory saw the crest upon the coach door, noted the fine foursome of grays in harness, and beheld again that glowing red stone.
“‘Tis the Grimstone,” he said.
Rose felt a pulse of energy, a wave of unseen power, a throb, beat against her skin and tangle around her spine. It stopped her breath for an instant. Her heart skipped a beat.
From Roland, far away in the stable block, she heard him say, indistinctly, “‘Tis the Grimstone.”
Without thinking, she picked up her skirts and ran down the narrow corridors of Castle Keyvnor, through the wide and expansive hall of the castle, out the closest door and toward the stables. She had no coat, no hat, no shawl. Her hair came loose from its careful bun to tumble sloppily down to the base of her neck, there to lie lopsided and forlorn. Rose was aware of her disheveled hair, of the cold gravel against the bottoms of her feet, of the tingling cold in her fingertips, yet there was nothing in her of caring for these things. She ran to the Grimstone. That was all.
Rose stopped when she saw the coach and four. The coach was gray, the wheels yellow. The horses were gray. The coachman wore black livery. The gentleman standing outside of the coach was tall and broad-shouldered with rampantly blond hair. He wore boots with a high polish and a midnight blue cape swirled around his calves. He had a knife in his right hand, gleaming in the low light of a late December afternoon, and on that right hand he wore a glowing red ring.
The Grimstone.
Snow heard the boom of thunder and saw the ruby on his family ring glowing from within. He could form no coherent thought. He was aware that his heart was pounding and that his hand held the dagger he always carried in his right boot. He was not afraid. He was not even startled. He was alert and prepared for he knew not what.
Snow opened the door of the coach and stepped out. The last rays of the sun sliced across the pitted stone walls. His knife was held at the ready in his hand. He coul
d not form the thought that would inform his arm to lower the blade. There was something here, something he could almost see and most assuredly sense.
Then there appeared a woman. The woman. The one woman on all the vast earth that he must have for his own. The thought was followed by another boom of sound, a rush of wind, the drive to fight and hold this woman to his side, always, to the end of time.
That thought, so wrong, so foreign, shook him to the core. The ring stopped glowing. The pulse beat in the air above him, all around him, died within the space of a single breath.
Everything was as it had been. Everything was right and rational and the ring was a family heirloom and nothing more. Yet the woman remained, and her beauty remained.
She was strong-featured with large blue eyes and a wide mouth. Her brows were dark and gently arched. Her hair was a tangled tumble of honeyed gold. She was tall for a woman and she had a warrior look to her, which was absurd yet the impression would not be dismissed.
They stared into each other’s eyes without blinking, without embarrassment, without discretion.
“Grimstone?” she said, her voice half question, half statement.
“Charles Grimstone,” he said, bowing, a brief, half-formed bow. “The 10th Earl of Snowingham, at your service.” The last had been intended as mild mockery. It left his lips as the most profound statement he had made in his entire life.
Perhaps Pammie had been correct about Keyvnor. It was proving to be a most peculiar place and was exerting a peculiar effect upon him.
“You’re Snowingham?” she said.
“I am.”
They appeared to have reached an impasse. Why, he couldn’t possibly say. What’s more, he didn’t have time to struggle through this most mundane of introductions. He had his horses to see to.
Snow turned to his horses and was astounded to find that Ridley had all well in hand, that he was talking to the head groom, to judge by his livery, and that his magnificent team of four was being well-cared for.
The woman had made him forget his horses entirely for minutes at a time.
Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2) Page 21