Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  “Not everyone appreciates a headstrong woman.”

  He gave a grunt of amusement. “You were always that. I remember you pushing me into the loch when you were twelve and I tried to kiss you.”

  She paused on her way back to the bench and regarded him in astonishment. “I’d forgotten that.”

  His smile was more natural this time. She told herself she didn’t care, but some corner of her heart softened to caramel at the sudden sweetness in his expression.

  “That was when I decided you were the one for me.”

  “Better you hadn’t,” she said bleakly. She’d fallen for Malcolm’s smiles years ago. She would not fall again.

  He shook his head, and his jaw took on the stubborn line that started to make her anxious. “No, never say that. You’re my fate, Rhona. You always were. We’ve been given a second chance. It would be churlish to waste it.”

  Chapter 6

  Malcolm watched Rhona’s shoulders tighten in immediate rejection. She spoke in a rush. “Stop talking as if we’re bloody Romeo and Juliet. We never had a chance together. These years apart have done nothing to change that.”

  She was wrong. Of course they had a chance. But he could see it was still too early to convince her of that fact.

  He wasn’t as discouraged by her attitude as he might have been. He’d noticed her sidelong glances and the fluster beneath her implacable manner. It might be nearly twenty years, but he still knew enough to see that whatever else might have faded during their long separation, the physical attraction that had brought them together was as strong as ever.

  He wanted her. It surprised him how much, although their love had always burned with carnal fire. He’d imagined that now he was older, spiritual need would consume earthier urges. But here in this warm kitchen, he was far too conscious of her beauty. His fingers itched to undo the thick red hair confined in its practical bun. Every night since he’d lost her, he’d dreamed of touching her dewy white skin. He was afire to explore her fascinating female shape. The generous jut of bosom that her modest dress did so little to conceal. The graceful inward curve of her waist. The graceful outward curve of her hips.

  As a girl, she’d been a luscious armful. She was still a luscious armful.

  “Sit down and tell me where you’ve been all these years,” he said peaceably and began to eat the slab of fruitcake. “Wherever it was, you’ve learned how to cook. This is delicious.”

  The young Rhona had done her best to run her father’s house, but after her mother died when she was five, she’d grown up a rough and ready housekeeper. Something clearly the years had remedied. This neat, well-organized kitchen screamed efficiency and good housewifery.

  She didn’t move, and her gaze echoed her earlier hostility. “Is that it? ‘We’re destined to be together, and by the way this is a good cake?’”

  He’d noticed that his composure disturbed her. He liked her disturbed, and not just because the flush in her cheeks and the flash in her green eyes reminded him of the girl he’d fallen in love with. When she was disturbed, she stopped trying to raise barriers against him and he caught a glimpse of her confusion and turmoil at meeting him again.

  “It is a good cake,” he said and pushed his empty plate toward her. “Could I please have another piece?”

  It was odd. His awakened hunger for Rhona as a physical presence had awoken other physical needs. He’d tasted the food and the brandy with a kind of wonder. Both had a flavor and richness that he couldn’t remember experiencing since he’d lost his beloved.

  When she rolled her eyes, he wanted to laugh. He hadn’t felt much urge to mirth in years either. Here in this snug kitchen, nigh on two decades of ice melted from his soul.

  Although while he appreciated the homely comforts, it was the woman who made him feel like a living man again. Beneath his placid manner, a desperate fear stirred. If she exiled him back into the cold, what would he do? Losing her once had almost destroyed him. He wasn’t sure he’d survive losing her twice.

  She turned to the bench and cut him an even bigger slice. She also cut herself a smaller piece. With an irritated bump, she set both plates on the table.

  “Here. If you’re staying for Christmas, I hope to heaven that I’ve got enough supplies in the larder to feed you.”

  Malcolm eyed her, reading how torn she was between irritation and attraction. “Am I staying for Christmas?”

  “It’s tomorrow. You’ll be here for breakfast at the very least,” she said grimly. She filled his glass with more of that excellent brandy and topped up her own glass as well.

  “What a lovely thought.”

  He meant it. His parents had always kept a lavish Christmas, with parties for the crofters and neighbors. After Rhona had gone, he’d absented himself from the celebrations. Partly to punish his parents, partly because he couldn’t bear all the jollity and goodwill when eternal winter reigned in his heart.

  Since his father’s death, he’d kept up the tradition of parties for the tenants, but he always made sure he was away. For him, Christmas was just another empty day in an empty life.

  Malcolm decided to go on the attack about where she’d been all these years, or else she’d dodge the topic until doomsday. “How was it that I never found any trace of you in London? I had an army of private agents looking for you. But Rhona Macleod had disappeared in a puff of smoke. I know London is a big place, but I should have heard something.”

  Rhona sat down opposite him and tore her fruitcake into lumps without eating it. She avoided his eyes. “I changed my name.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. He should have. “What to?”

  “Sarah Ashley.”

  He frowned. “That’s an English name.”

  “Yes.”

  Something tugged at the edges of his memory. “Wasn’t there an actress call Sarah Ashley?”

  She raised her eyes to meet his, and as he stared into those green depths, he realized the astounding truth, although it still made no sense. “You went on the stage.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you left Dun Carron with a thick Scottish accent. How the devil could you make a career in the theater?”

  Even he, wrapped up in grief and fear and anger, had heard of the famous Mrs. Ashley, the queen of Drury Lane. Not that her fame encouraged him to book a seat to see her. Entertainments such as the opera and the theater hadn’t been part of his Spartan life.

  “Clearly someone trained me in how to sound like a wellborn Englishwoman.” She was watching him with more of that wariness, judging his reaction. “I told you before that I was only almost respectable. A lot of people view actresses as little better than prostitutes.”

  He pushed away his empty plate and started to join together the pieces of what she told him. “This man you married—”

  “Samuel.”

  At last he had a name for the toad. “He was the one who trained you.”

  “He saved my life,” she said, without a hint of the theatricality that had apparently dominated her existence while Malcolm had been combing the slums looking for her.

  “But you’d never expressed any interest in the stage,” he said, still bewildered. If she had, he’d have remembered and tried to find her among London’s acting companies.

  “I was a crofter’s daughter from the far corner of the kingdom. I’d never seen a play, let alone set foot in a theater when I got to London. I may as well have wished to fly as wished to become an actress.” A familiar bitterness rasped in her voice. “Anyway, why should I wish to become an actress, when I already harbored the dream of loving you for the rest of my life?”

  “You always had a lovely singing voice.” She’d sung the solos at the local ceilidhs and in church. “And you were a good dancer.”

  “At an amateur level. I needed lessons in both singing and dance before I made the grade, but I was a quick learner.”

  He wasn’t surprised to hear that. He’d always admired her cleverness. She must have been a quick
learner when it came to her elocution lessons, too. Mrs. Ashley was famous, yet he’d never heard a hint that she was born in Scotland.

  What was frustrating was that the Theatre Royal was but a stone’s throw from Seven Dials and London’s other slums. There must have been many occasions when he was mere yards away from her. The missed opportunities created an acrid weight of regret in his belly. If only he’d known!

  “But you were pregnant when you left Dun Carron.”

  “Yes.”

  “That must have interrupted your acting career.”

  “It did. But by that stage, I’d married Samuel.”

  Malcolm told himself not to be angry. She’d stayed safe, which meant he owed her husband a universe of gratitude.

  She went on in a matter-of-fact voice as though she didn’t recount wonders. “Your father’s money didn’t last long in London, especially after someone stole my purse the day after I arrived. I tried everywhere, but I couldn’t get work.”

  “Because of the baby?” Queasiness twisted his stomach, as he imagined how frightened and alone she must have felt.

  She shook her head. “No. At that stage, the pregnancy didn’t show, although if I’d found work, I would have had trouble keeping it, once people saw I was carrying a baby. I couldn’t find work, because nobody could understand a word I said.” She paused. “I’d only been in London a couple of days, but with every hour, I was more and more afraid. And while I kept my head down and tried to avoid attention, men had started to notice me. I had a few close calls.”

  Malcolm could imagine, although he didn’t want to, damn it. “So what happened?”

  Shame dulled her eyes, and he braced to hear the worst, despite her earlier assurances. “I decided that if someone could steal from me, why couldn’t I steal from someone else? I didn’t owe the world anything, and being honest had done me no favors at all.”

  A relieved breath escaped him. “You turned pickpocket?”

  He shouldn’t feel too relieved. Theft was a capital crime, although pregnant women were in most cases transported to the hell of Botany Bay, instead of carried off to face the hangman. Not much of an improvement.

  “I tried. But my first victim caught me in the act.”

  “And handed you over to the magistrates?” Malcolm’s earlier relief evaporated into horror.

  She shook her head. “No. Although any other fellow would have. He was an older man, obviously well-to-do. He had no reason to take pity on me, but he did. He must have seen some potential in me. Instead of summoning the law, he took me to a chophouse and gave me my first hot meal in a week.”

  “And asked you to be his mistress?”

  “Not straightaway. First, he asked me to join his theatrical company as a dancer.”

  Her spectacular beauty had saved her. He was still jealous of Samuel, who had enjoyed her presence, while Malcolm had been going mad searching for her. But even through his cantankerous male reactions, some trace of reason told him that without Samuel, she’d have been in dire trouble. Likely she wouldn’t have survived. That meant that Patrick wouldn’t be alive today either.

  She went on. “He invited me into his house.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” Malcolm said in a grim tone.

  She cast him an unimpressed look. “It was all quite innocent. A lot of the company lived with him. I’m sure he took me on as an act of charity. At least at first. After a week on the streets of London, I was nothing much to look at.”

  Except that pure beauty would shine through dirt and hunger and poverty. Samuel Ashley must have known straightaway what a treasure he’d found.

  “And he asked you to share his bed?”

  She sent him a disapproving look. “He was a good and generous man, and I believe he was acting out of a generous heart. It’s too long ago for you to be jealous, Malcolm.”

  A thousand years wouldn’t be long enough. But he reminded himself that he was a civilized man. At least on the surface.

  Anyway, Samuel Ashley was dead, poor sod. Even if Malcolm wanted to knock his lights out, it was too late.

  He drained his brandy, relishing its burn. “Go on.”

  When Rhona raised the bottle to pour him more, he shook his head. Not long after he’d lost Rhona, he’d sought oblivion in strong spirits, but they’d never helped. And the physical misery of emerging from a bout only made his situation more painful. He’d never adopted the habit of heavy drinking.

  “Losing you devastated me,” she said, and now she didn’t sound like she told a story about someone else. Now she sounded like a woman who knew too much about sorrow. “I think my heart stayed frozen until Patrick was born. After that, my heart belonged to him.”

  So like her to go straight to the essence. “You loved Samuel.”

  “I honored him. I admired him. He was a good, kind man, and he was wonderful to me. And, yes, I loved him. Not as I’d loved you. I wasn’t capable of loving anybody the way I’d loved you. When your father abducted me and convinced me that you’d seduced me with sweet-sounding lies, I wanted to die. If I hadn’t been carrying Patrick, I would have given up.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t. You’ve always been a fighter. Even without Patrick, you’d never crumble into a heap and let life defeat you. I’m not belittling your despair, but it’s not in you to surrender.”

  He should take comfort from that, even if she spoke of their love in a bleak past tense. But he couldn’t help thinking how close he’d come to finding her. If he’d read any of the more gossipy papers, he’d almost certainly have seen a sketch of her. He’d have discovered that his lost love had become the celebrated Mrs. Ashley.

  What then? Rhona would have already been wed to Samuel. Malcolm could have no legal claim on her or his son. “You shared his bed.”

  Her mouth flattened. “I was his wife.”

  She’d never been Malcolm’s wife, whatever he felt in his heart. “How did you come to marry him? You said he asked you to be his mistress.”

  “He did, a month after I joined the company. To my surprise, I found I loved being on the stage, and I made friends among the other actors.” Her eyes glowed with remembered excitement. And why not? Malcolm could imagine that being the celebrated Mrs. Ashley had been marvelous. Especially as she’d sailed so close to disaster before Samuel had rescued her. “Thanks to Samuel, the men who hung around the theater kept their distance. Most of the time. Even better, I discovered I was good at what I did. I was a dancer for a week, then I had a few small speaking parts, despite my Scots accent, and a song or two. Within a month, audiences were noticing me.”

  “That can’t have gone down well with the other actresses.”

  She shrugged. “There was some jealousy, and the leading lady joined another company after a shrieking scene.”

  He could imagine. “So you became the leading lady instead.”

  “I did. That’s when Samuel invited me to be his mistress.” She took a sip of her brandy. “I had to tell him that I was expecting your baby. I thought Samuel would throw me out on my ear, but he was a saint.”

  A saint who wanted Malcolm’s woman for his own. It was an unworthy thought, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.

  Rhona continued. “He offered to marry me to give the child his name. Instead of going into a rage because I had to retire from the stage for a few months, he devoted that time to training me. He taught me to become the actress that Sarah Ashley eventually turned out to be.”

  Malcolm was almost becoming used to the fondness in her voice when she spoke of Samuel. “You enjoyed that.”

  “I did. I learned how to craft a performance and carry a company with me. It was magic becoming all these different women. Especially as I was so desperate to wipe out any trace of Rhona Macleod, the gullible ninny who had let Malcolm Innes make such a fool of her.”

  “You must have changed your name before you married Samuel.” Or else his agents would have heard news of her.

  “I started on the
stage as Sarah Gill. But Miss Gill’s career only lasted a few weeks. After I gave birth to Patrick, I went back as Mrs. Ashley.”

  “So all up, you had a career of, what, a dozen years or so?”

  “A career uninterrupted by the arrival of more children.” Sadness dimmed the light in her eyes. “Samuel would have loved a family, but it wasn’t to be.”

  Malcolm had already guessed that there were no other children. If there were, they would be here with her now.

  Her gaze remained somber. “Don’t hate me for finding my way after we parted.”

  His gesture was dismissive. “Hate you? I’m in awe that you became the toast of London.”

  Her expression didn’t ease. “But you would have preferred me to be with you.”

  He shrugged, although it wasn’t a matter he took lightly. “What can I say? Losing you was like having a limb amputated. I’ve only limped through life ever since. I always wanted you with me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t applaud the talent that saved you. I’d rather have you alive and well and happy with Samuel than dead in a garret somewhere, worn out with poverty and vice. I might be a selfish devil, Rhona, but I’m not a monster.”

  A wry smile twisted her lips. “Yet still I feel I ought to apologize for my contentment.”

  “Don’t,” he said sharply, his fist clenching against the tabletop. “You lived. Patrick lived. Now I’ve found you again.” He forced himself to speak the words. It felt like his mouth was full of broken glass, but they had to be said. “Thanks to Samuel.”

  “Yes, thanks to Samuel,” she said in a quiet voice.

  A silence fell while Malcolm reminded himself of all he owed the man she’d married. His anger faded, his envy didn’t. What a blasted lucky sod Samuel had been to have all those years with Rhona.

  He sighed. “Finish your story. You still haven’t told me how you ended up in Muirburgh.”

  He couldn’t mistake the sorrow shadowing her eyes. But he’d risen beyond his jealousy at last. Samuel had loved Rhona, too. He must have, to have treated her with such extraordinary generosity and to have discerned the burning soul of the artist within the starving waif who tried to rob him.