"Yes, Jack." On this magical night, Meg knew that anything was possible, even that this delicious man might fancy an old spinster like her.
"Good. Then think about your answer." He bent his head and gave her a quick, expert kiss in case she had forgotten in the last sixty seconds. "Just be sure that the answer is yes."
"Yes, Jack," Meg said obediently. She knew that her eyes must be shining like the Star of Bethlehem.
Turning her around, he gave her a gentle slap on the backside. "Now, go to bed, Miss Lambert, or tonight might end in a way that would make Philip feel honor-bound to put a pitchfork through me."
Meg floated across the room, then turned in the doorway. "Good night, Jack." She blew him a kiss. "I love you, Jack."
When he took a step toward her, his face glowing with joy, Meg whirled and dashed across the hall and through the kitchen to her room. The only thing that kept her from expiring with embarrassment was the knowledge that she had spoken the plain truth.
Her bedroom was freezing, so Meg set the deed on the table and quickly undressed. Then she moved the tabby cat, Striper, to the foot of the bed and slid under the covers. Wrapping her arms around a pillow, she whispered again, "I love you, Jack."
Life was perfect.
IT was very early when Meg woke, only the faintest hint of dawn coloring the eastern sky. She stretched luxuriously, feeling marvelous in spite of the short night's sleep. Could she possibly have dreamed the events of the previous night? No, on her table the deed was visible, a pale rectangle in the gloom.
Jack had said he had something to ask her, and that she should answer yes. Meg touched her lips, where the memory of his kiss lingered. The lovely, kind man upstairs actually wanted to marry her. When she was younger, she had twice refused suitors who wanted her but regarded her family as an unpleasant necessity. Jack was different, for he fitted into her family as if there had been a Jack-size vacancy just waiting for him. There would be no problem giving him the answer he wanted.
Meg was too full of energy to stay in bed, so she threw back the covers and dressed, then went into the kitchen and built up the fire. After stuffing the goose for roasting, she started readying potatoes, onions, bacon, and eggs for the hearty dish that was the traditional Lambert Christmas breakfast.
Breakfast preparations complete, Meg glanced out and saw that it was almost full light. A couple of inches of feathery snow had fallen in the night, enough to make snow cream. Tizzie and Lizzie would enjoy that. Jack probably would, too.
Thinking of Jack, Meg was gazing out the window with a foolish smile on her face when she heard the outside door open in the hall next to the kitchen. For a moment she was startled and a little alarmed. Then she realized that there could be only one person arriving so early on Christmas morning.
She raced across the kitchen. "Jeremy?" she called softly, not wanting to wake the others. "Is that you?"
A lean, snow-dusted figure appeared in the kitchen door. "It is indeed, Meg," said a familiar beloved voice. "Cold, hungry, and ready to be pampered."
With a squeal that would have done credit to Lizzie, Meg hurled herself into her brother's arms. As she did, footsteps sounded on the stairs and Philip appeared, dark hair wild and clothes hastily thrown on. "Jeremy—you finally made it!"
"Now, this is what I call a proper welcome!" Jeremy said, hugging his sister so hard that he lifted her from her feet. Setting her down, he added, "You've shrunk, big sister."
Turning, he wrapped an affectionate arm around his younger brother's shoulders. "And you've grown."
Meg studied Jeremy's tired but happy face. He looked older, of course, and stronger. Her little brother had become a man. Voice breaking, Meg said, "Oh, Jeremy, it only needed you to make Christmas perfect."
"Not quite." Smiling, Jeremy stepped back and motioned toward a tall black-haired young man who waited just inside the door. Meg had not noticed him, for the stranger had tactfully stayed in the background during the family greetings. "Look who else is here."
Meg was only momentarily off-balance. So Jeremy had brought another friend. Fortunately the goose was a large one. She gave the newcomer an approving glance. Like Jeremy, he, was travel-stained and bristle-chinned, but still very attractive.
"I'm very pleased to meet you. Do you mind if I call you Meg?" the newcomer said. "Jeremy has told me so much about his family that I feel as if I know you all."
"Please do. And what is your name?" Meg replied, thinking that the young man had a charming smile. Phoebe would like him.
Jeremy laughed. "This is Jack Howard, of course."
With a flourish, the newcomer kissed Meg's proffered hand. "I'm sorry that I was unable to notify you that I wouldn't reach Chippenham three days ago," he said apologetically. "My packet was blown off-course and I reached London about the same time Jeremy did. By the sheerest coincidence, we met at the coaching inn last night. The coach was full, so we hired a chaise and drove all night to be here for Christmas."
Meg gasped. "But you're not Jack Howard."
"I assure you that I am," he said, gray eyes twinkling. "No doubt you were expecting someone a bit more presentable, but Jeremy will vouch for me."
Meg felt as if she had been turned into a marble statue. Then her gaze turned to meet Philip's shocked stare.
It took her two tries to croak out the words, "If you're Jack Howard, then who is the man sleeping upstairs in Jeremy's bed?"
THE calico cat woke Jack, nuzzling his cheek in a bid for attention. Absently he scratched her furry head, his thoughts on Meg. He hoped she would agree to an early wedding date.
He heard sounds downstairs and guessed that it was Meg, up early and working. Quietly he rose and dressed, thinking that he could either help her in the kitchen or compromise her, whichever seemed most appropriate.
He went into the corridor to the top of the stairs and was just starting down when he heard the fatal words. "If you're Jack Howard, then who is the man sleeping upstairs in Jeremy's bed?"
Jack froze, one hand on the banister. He had become so convinced that fortune was favoring his cause that he had forgotten that the sword of Damocles hung over his head—and the supporting thread had just broken.
He almost bolted, but it was too late. A board shifted under his foot and the four people down in the hall turned to gaze up at him. There stood Philip and a frowning, older version of him, a tall black-haired young man with puzzlement on his face. And Meg—his darling Meg, who stared as if Jack were something she had just found under a dead leaf.
With a groan, Jack sank down onto the steps and buried his face in his hands, wondering how on earth to explain himself.
Before he had a chance to try, a white-faced Meg snapped, "Just who the devil are you?"
Jack looked up. "My name is Jack Howard," he said simply. "I'm just not the Jack Howard you were expecting."
Meg said icily, "Are you really a major?"
When Jack nodded, there was a soft murmur of surprise from below. Jeremy asked, "Are you Major Jack Howard of the 51st? 'Mad Jack' Howard, the hero of Badajoz?"
Jack winced. "For my sins, yes."
The black-haired man exclaimed, "Good God, Mad Jack Howard! It's a great pleasure to meet you, sir. I wish I had a guinea for every man who offered to buy me a drink, thinking I was you. I believe we are distantly related."
"Very likely," Jack agreed. "I have a great-aunt who would be able to explain the connection."
He saw that Philip had recovered quickly from his surprise and was now studying the fraudulent guest curiously, doubtless trying to reconcile Jack's diatribe on heroism with his ridiculous nickname. Meg, however, looked as if she had been stabbed through the heart.
Jeremy's brows drew together. "But I heard that you had sold out because you'd inherited the earldom of Winstoke?" he said, his rising tone making it a question.
Jack sighed. "You're well informed, Captain Lambert."
Jack's answer was the last straw for Meg. Face stricken, she whirled and fle
d down the hall.
"Meg!" Jack called out despairingly. "Please give me a chance to explain." Abandoning his efforts to make polite conversation, he bolted down the stairs, past the startled group of young men, and followed Meg into the parlor.
As the parlor door banged shut, Jeremy Lambert turned to his younger brother. "Would you kindly tell me what the devil has been going on here?"
Philip grinned wickedly. "Meg found him at the George in Chippenham. He followed her home and, if I'm not mistaken, she had just about decided that she wanted to keep him. Unfortunately, she's a bit disconcerted to discover that he may be a tiger rather than a tabby cat."
"You mean that Major Howard—sorry, Lord Winstoke—wants to marry our Meg?" Jeremy asked in amazement.
"I think so. Not that anyone tells me anything."
A clear voice sounded from above. "Jeremy, is that you?"
Phoebe scampered down the stairs, resplendent in a scarlet robe, her dark hair curling deliciously around her face. Just like her older sister, she leaped into her brother's arms. "Oh, marvelous, you made it home in time for Christmas!"
"Indeed." Jeremy laughed. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if I've landed in Bedlam instead." Taking Phoebe's arm, he turned her to his companion. "This is my friend Jack Howard. . . . Captain Howard of the 45th, not to be confused with Major Howard of the 51st, though apparently he was."
As she tried to sort out her brother's words, Phoebe automatically offered her hand, then gasped as she focused on the captain. "You—you look exactly as I thought Jeremy's friend would," she said stupidly.
The captain kissed her hand, then straightened without relinquishing his grip. "You are Phoebe. You couldn't be anyone else." He had the stupefied look of a man who has just hit a stone wall at high speed. "You can't imagine how much I've looked forward to meeting you."
Philip rolled his eyes. Fearing they would continue making sheep's eyes indefinitely, he gave his sister a light pinch on the rump. "Go put some decent clothes on, Pheebles—you are quite putting me to the blush."
It was Phoebe who blushed as she remembered her state of dishabille. She released the captain's hand, shooting Philip a dagger look and whispering under her breath, "Don't you dare use that appalling nickname again—Phippy."
"Pax!" He grinned. "No nicknames."
As the entranced captain's gaze followed Phoebe up the stairs, Philip decided that it was time to play the host. "Jeremy, Captain Howard, you must be cold and famished. Why not come into the kitchen for some hot tea and breakfast?"
The two travelers accepted with alacrity, and Philip ushered them into the kitchen with a philosophical sigh. It would be a bit confusing if they ended up with two brothers-in-law named Jack Howard, but no doubt they'd learn to cope.
THE fact that Jack had followed her into the parlor was the only thing that kept Meg from dissolving in tears. She retreated to the far corner of the room. "Your game is over, and I think it is time for you to leave, Lord . . . What was it, Winsmoke?"
"Winstoke, and I'm not leaving until I've said my piece." He looked at her pleadingly. "Later today I was going to tell you the truth—in fact, I tried to confess earlier, and you kept telling me not to say any more. I admit that I should not have left it at that, but I honestly did attempt to explain."
Meg gave a brittle laugh. "So you were being literal when you said you weren't the man I thought you were. Foolish me—I thought you meant something profound and mysterious. I didn't understand much, did I?"
"You understood a great deal more than I was able to say, Meg," he said quietly. "Please, try to understand now."
His words silenced Meg. As she thought back over the three days the major had been at Brook Farm, she realized that it was true that several times he had started to tell her something, but the conversation had always gone astray. And there had been other clues; he had never spoken of Jeremy or the regiment or any other aspect of his background. Thinking they knew who he was, the Lamberts had noticed nothing unusual in his behavior.
Meg's face burned as she realized how she had misunderstood him from beginning to end. Particularly last night; he couldn't possibly have meant that he wanted to marry her, not with him being an earl. God only knew what he had meant. Her hands clenched spasmodically. "Why did you come home with me?"
"I wouldn't have been so brazen if I was sober, but you seemed to know me, and you were so lovely and kind. I would have followed you anywhere," he said simply.
Meg shivered. He didn't look like an earl or a legendary war hero; he still looked like Jack, large and shaggy, with an unpredictable mixture of shyness and humor and those blue, blue eyes that were so misleadingly honest. "Why were you in the George at all? Surely the Earl of Winspoke had someplace better to be for Christmas."
"Winstoke. And no, I definitely did not have a better place to be." He gave a faint, humorless smile. "When you met me, I was running away from my great-aunt by marriage, the dowager Countess of Winstoke, the most terrifying old dragon you could ever hope not to meet." His voice softened. "You're freezing, Meg. I'll build a fire and you'll feel better."
Meg was freezing, but she maintained a wary distance while he knelt at the hearth and efficiently laid a new fire. "Why were you running away?"
He struck a spark, then sat back on his heels and watched as the tinder began to burn. "Do you want the short reason or the long reason?"
"The long one."
Still looking down, Jack said, "I was never supposed to inherit the earldom. I was an orphaned second cousin with half a dozen heirs between me and the title. With my parents dead, my great-uncle, the third earl, took responsibility for raising me. The dragon dowager was his wife. Just like you, they knew their duty to family and were quite punctilious about discharging their obligations. But, unlike you, they performed their duty with all the warmth and charm of a pair of testy hedgehogs."
He sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair, leaving it hopelessly disordered. "I don't mean that anyone was cruel to me. It was just that the Winstokes were very busy and I was very . . . insignificant, living in the margins of Hazelwood like a mouse in the larder. I was sent to school, though not Eton, of course. Eton was for heirs.
"I spent holidays at Hazelwood because there was nowhere else to go. I was given an allowance, a modest one, so I wouldn't get any ideas above my station, and a commission was purchased for me when I was old enough to be sent into the world. No one bothered to invite me to come back for a visit, although, to be fair, if I had visited, no one would have dreamed of asking me to leave. As a Howard, I had a right to be there. But that isn't quite the same thing as being welcome."
Reluctantly Meg felt a tug at her heart. There was no self-pity in Jack's voice. Just flat acceptance masking a sadness as large as all outdoors. She took a few steps toward the fire. "But now you're the master of Hazel-wood. Surely that will make a difference."
"I will be obeyed, of course, but hardly loved. There was never enough love to go around at Hazelwood, and my becoming the master won't instantly change that. I fell out of touch with the family and didn't realize how close I stood to the title. It was a shock to be summoned back to England to take up my responsibilities when my cousin, the fifth earl, died. I'm still not quite accustomed to the idea of being the head of the family." He smiled wryly. "The way you railed against the nobility made it even harder to confess my sins."
Meg bit her lip. She had sounded rather fishwifish. "You've only just arrived back in England from the Peninsula?"
"The very day I met you. The dowager countess arranged everything, but characteristically forgot to consult me about my wishes. Her secretary met me in London and presented me with a list of things I must do to avoid disgracing my new station. He couldn't bring himself to call me Lord Winstoke—in fact, he barely managed common civility. After half an hour of that, I succumbed to an attack of rebelliousness and walked out of the inn and got on the first coach I saw. It happened to be going to Bristol. The rest you know."
Meg perched on the edge of the sofa and held her hands toward the fire. She felt much warmer. "The countess sounds like a proper tartar."
"She is," Jack agreed. "Mind you, this is no easier for her than for me. Her own son and grandson have died—seeing me in their place will be a bitter pill to swallow. But she will accept and help me because that is her duty. I've no doubt that she and I will learn to rub along tolerably, but it was not a bad thing to refuse to spend Christmas at Hazelwood. She needs to know that I won't let her bully me."
Meg shivered again; there must be a draft. "So Brook Farm was merely a convenient place to hide from the countess."
"When I reached the George, I was running away, and any inn would have done." His grave blue eyes met hers. "But as soon as I saw you, I had something to run to. As I said at the time, I knew you were everything men fight for: home, warmth, love."
Meg linked her hands tightly in her lap. "You weren't secretly laughing at our rural simplicity?"
"Good God, Meg, no! I was so moved, so grateful, for the way you and your family welcomed me. I felt as if I'd come home after a lifetime of wandering. Meeting you seemed like fate. Nothing else could explain my being at exactly the right place at the right time with the right name, and the correct Jack Howard not being here." He gave her a crooked smile. "If I had told you the truth, I would have had to leave, and I couldn't bear the thought of that. It would have been like expulsion from the Garden of Eden."
Meg gave an involuntary chuckle. "It was Adam and Eve who were expelled—the role you played was the serpent."
Jack's expression eased at her laughter. "Not the serpent—just a cuckoo who landed in the wrong nest and was too happy to want to be cast out into the cold, cruel world."
She bit her lip. "I wouldn't have cast you out if I'd known you had no place to go for Christmas."
"Then don't cast me out now, Meg." He held his hand out to her.
Hesitantly Meg accepted it, and Jack tugged her down onto the carpet next to him. This close to the fire, it was much warmer, quite cozy in fact.
The Christmas Cuckoo Page 6