Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  “He’s…um…slow mentally and can become easily confused.” A challenge shone in her eyes. “He walks with a limp and running is difficult for him.”

  “Aye. It’s good ye told me.” That was why she’d left her brother behind. He’d have been caught for certain. Gregor would need a wagon then. “What’s yer name, lass?”

  “I’m Sydney Blanes.”

  He stifled a snort. Not her real name either. Who was she? What had her so terrified? Och, he’d learn the truth. All in good time.

  She pulled the atrocious hat from her head, and a cascade of blonde hair as light as his tumbled to beyond her shoulders.

  Momentarily speechless—not typical at all—he forced his attention away. Odin’s teeth. She was exquisite. He pointed to the door leading to the stairwell. “As I said, help yerself to any food ye find upstairs. My cat’s name is Cat.”

  Snorting again, loud and mockingly, she shoved the hair off her face. “Thought long and hard about that clever moniker, I’ll vow, Highlander.”

  Was she teasing him?

  “I suppose ye’d have picked Fluffy, or Pumpkin, or Cinnamon, or some other undignified name?”

  “No.” She shook her head, that sunny cascade swinging about her shoulders. “He looks like a Marmalade.”

  Marmalade? Nae. Cat would be most offended. Marmalade was sweet, and Cat most certainly was no’.

  Fighting a grimace, he put on his beaver top hat. Blast but he preferred a tam. That sensible covering at least kept his head warm. Laird, how he missed wearing a leather vest and woolen kilt or trews, not all this refined popinjay falderol. Still, he’d chosen to leave the Highlands and become a proper man of business. These foppish trappings were part of the sacrifices he’d opted to make.

  Yvette had been most adamant he couldn’t parade about Stapleton Shipping and Supplies—or London, for that matter—bare-arsed, wearing a kilt, with a sword strapped to his hip and a dirk shoved in his boots, more was the pity. Nothing short of the archangel Gabriel appearing and demanding he do so would induce Gregor to forgo his dirk, however.

  Withdrawing a key from his pocket, he wielded the iron toward the back entrance.

  “That door’s bolted from within, and I’ll lock this one. Ye’ll be safe as long as ye stay out of sight.” Fastening the last button of his greatcoat, he canted his head. “Lass, I’ll have yer word ye’ll be here when I return. Dinna do somethin’ foolish and go off on yer own. Santano has an ugly reputation.”

  Indecision warred in her eyes. Her situation was precarious either way. Forced to trust a complete stranger or risk being seen and apprehended by Santano’s thugs when she tried to find her brother.

  “What if someone comes in?” she asked, surprisingly pragmatic.

  “Unlikely, but as I said, my cousin-in-law owns this establishment.” He flicked a finger toward the window. “And several ships in yonder harbor as well. Anyone who has a key can be trusted. Now, what can I say to yer brother that he’ll ken ye sent me?”

  “Tell Kipp…, tell him Satan found us.”

  Gregor paused in pulling on his gloves, one eyebrow arched to his hairline. She wasn’t dafty, was she? “Satan?”

  For the first time, her mouth curled into some semblance of a smile, and he found himself staring once more. A man could fall in love with that smile. That face.

  “Yes, Mr. McTavish. Satan. That’s what we call Santano—the man who commandeered our father’s ship, the Mary Elizabeth and is responsible for our parents’ deaths.”

  Sarah Paine hesitated at the top of the stairs, still wondering if she’d made the right decision in trusting Gregor McTavish. For certain, she wasn’t ready to reveal her real name to him as yet. Drawing a fortifying breath, she pushed the handle opening the door to his apartment.

  Cat—absurd name for a pet—brushed past her before disappearing through one of the four doorways leading off the common room. The entire floor must be McTavish’s private living quarters. Clearly a man’s abode, for no signs of a feminine touch met her scrutiny, she stepped into a large, open-beamed room lined by windows on the far wall.

  She hadn’t even thought to ask if he was married. Relief swept her that no angry or confused wife met her on the stoop, demanding to know who she was and what she thought she was doing.

  Two russet-toned wingback chairs and a braided rag rug sat before a cozy, blue-and-white tiled unlit fireplace. On the wall opposite the windows, a sofa, along with two side tables, formed a neat row. A painting of what must be the Scottish Highlands hung above the tobacco-brown brocade sofa.

  At first glance, she’d assumed the Scot a Dane or Norseman—possibly a fierce Viking descendent. Actually, she’d thought him possibly the most powerfully-built man she’d ever seen. Mayhap one of the most attractive too.

  No mayhap about it.

  Ludicrous. Sarah gave herself a severe mental shake. She’d no business noticing such things when she literally feared for her life. Head angled, she studied the fairly-decent painting, the only decoration of any kind displayed in the room. Did the great blond Highlander pine for his homeland?

  That she well understood, for not a day passed that she wasn’t homesick for the tropical island where she and Christopher, her brother’s real name, had been born. Truth to tell, she missed the vibrant turquoise ocean, the heavily-scented blossoms, and the bright green yellow-billed parrots, but little else.

  Most especially not the snakes, spiders, crocodiles, and insufferable humidity.

  Head still tilted, she studied the rugged emerald landscape so very different than Jamaica. Each held an entirely disparate type of beauty, neither more nor less appealing than the other.

  Melancholy engulfed her. Would she ever see her homeland again? Yes. She must. There was unfinished business there. Chilled, she folded her arms and circled the room, impressed by its neatness.

  Why she’d expected otherwise, she wasn’t sure. Perchance because Papa and Chris weren’t particularly tidy.

  The office below had been organized, and except for two stacks of paper on a narrow table behind McTavish’s desk, nothing lay strewn or stacked about. Stapleton Shipping and Supplies had an estimable reputation, and that—along with a great deal of desperation—had prompted her to bolt inside as she fled Santano’s henchmen.

  Her stomach growled and cramped, reminding her she and Chris hadn’t eaten since fleeing their lodgings down the back stairwell yesterday morning. Barely escaping at that.

  Poor, sweet Chris. He’d been asking for something to eat all morning.

  How had Santano found them after all this time? Had she grown careless? Pressing two fingertips between her eyebrows, she closed her eyes and reflected back over the past few weeks.

  No. She hadn’t.

  More likely, her landlord couldn’t resist a bribe. Knowing Santano’s thugs as she did, the hardly-more-than-a-closet-room she and Chris had called home for the past few months had undoubtedly been ransacked.

  There’d be no returning. Not even to collect their meager belongings.

  Three years ago, when calamity befell her parents, with nowhere else to go, and scared witless, they’d arrived in England. At once, although she’d never met them, Sarah sought her maternal grandparents, the Viscount and Viscountess Rolandson at their London house.

  The self-important butler had coolly taken their measure from gaunt faces to soiled and wrinkled clothing. With a sneer curling his thin lips and elevating his hooked nose, he’d looked down upon them as if they smelled of pond scum or horse excrement and flatly refused them admittance. After announcing with a peculiar, haughty glee that Lord Rolandson had been dead a decade.

  They had smelled and Sarah flushed in renewed humiliation.

  When she’d attempted to press her point, and insisted she be allowed to speak to her grandmother, she’d been informed in no uncertain terms that she and Chris were to remove themselves at once. The dowager viscountess had no wish to see them, and if they dared to show their unwelcome persons aga
in, the authorities would be called.

  It seemed Grandmother Rolandson hadn’t forgiven her gentle-bred daughter for refusing to marry the stuffy English lord her parents had selected for her. That explained the unopened letters returned to Mama over the years.

  One of the few times Mama had spoken of her childhood, she’d mentioned the grand house she’d been raised in and which was unentailed. The mansion was settled upon the viscountess by her father when she wed. For whatever reason, Mama said, her mother preferred the house over the viscounty property in Mayfair.

  Her mother rarely spoke of her elopement with Papa or her privileged upbringing. She’d never once complained about the long months Papa spent away sailing or about the hardships of living in the tropics.

  In fact, Sarah had only discovered her grandmother’s address when she opened the satchel Mama had stuffed into her hands as she ordered her and Chris to run and not turn back. Several letters, along with jewels, money, and a few other important documents lay inside the bag. She hadn’t even been certain the dowager viscountess would be in residence.

  Sarah gripped the hidden pocket she’d sewn into her trousers. Eyes closed, she rubbed her cheek against the sturdy wool collar of her coat. Papa’s coat. His scent had long since disappeared, but the durable outerwear withstood England’s harsh rain, wind, and cold.

  The pocket she clutched held what few jewels and coins remained, and a couple of documents wrapped in leather, one of which was the deed of purchase for the Mary Elizabeth. The pouch contained a key as well, and she’d long suspected that was what Santano sought.

  Even with her eyes tightly closed, Sarah couldn’t block the memory of that awful day when her life crumbled apart.

  “Find Captain Pritchard,” Mama had ordered. “Tell him your father was right, and Santano’s men have commandeered the Mary Elizabeth. The captain will see you and Chris safely to England. The arrangements have all been made, my darling.”

  Her parents must’ve suspected Santano would betray Papa.

  “No, Mama,” Sarah had wept. “I cannot leave you.”

  Chapter 3

  Weak as she had been, Mama had taken Sarah by the shoulders and kissed her forehead.

  “You must, my darling girl. I don’t believe Santano is above killing you and your brother. I shall only slow you down, and we both know my health is too fragile to travel. Now go, and always remember how much your father and I love you. Take care of Chris. He’ll need you more than ever now.”

  A lone tear dribbled slowly over Sarah’s cheek, and she hastily swiped it away.

  For over three years she and Chris had hidden in the seedier parts of London, moving frequently, and using false names. She’d avoided the docks and other areas where sailors were wont to roam, with the exception of a weekly visit to a street urchin to learn if the Mary Elizabeth had laid anchor.

  Twice, she’d learned the ship had put into port. The emaciated waif spying on her behalf earned a half-penny for his efforts and an extra for keeping silent about her inquiries. But last week, a wicked cough had kept Chris abed, and she hadn’t been able to query about ship arrivals.

  The one time she hadn’t checked in all these long months, blister it, and Santano had slithered ashore. Eyes and fists squeezed hard, Sarah, released a frustrated groan. Despite all of her efforts, she hadn’t been careful enough.

  Santano. The despicable rotter.

  He’d been father’s closest friend, his first officer aboard the Mary Elizabeth. Until greed and thirst for power had overcome him, and the fiend had convinced other spineless traitors to mutiny. Everyone who’d stood with Papa now lay dead on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

  At least that’s the story Sarah had parceled together.

  With a ragged breath, she shook off her morose musings. There was nothing she could do about the past. Yet. For now, she must concentrate her efforts on avoiding Santano.

  Taking a quick peek into the other four rooms, she discovered a kitchen area, two bedrooms, and what appeared to be a good-sized storage closet. Cat had made himself comfortable on one of the main room’s windowsills and one striped leg pointed ceilingward, was engaged in a thorough grooming session.

  Her stomach complained loudly again, and Sarah yielded to her hunger, cutting a thin slice of delicious-smelling brown bread and a small piece of hard cheese.

  Standing off to the side of the multi-paned windows, she nibbled her simple meal and surveyed the wharf. Dock laborers rushed to and fro as wagons and carts laden with all manner of goods rumbled in both directions, first delivering products and then carting others away.

  She shivered, her wet, woolen coat offering little warmth. Would she ever become accustomed to the damp grayness that shrouded England and penetrated her bones? How she longed for the Caribbean’s fresh air, colorful flowers, and bird calls.

  Naturally, now that Santano had found her, she’d have to leave London. Immediately.

  The bread she’d been chewing dried on her tongue, but a wry smile curved her mouth. Where could she go? Strangers, especially a cripple, would draw unwanted attention in the villages and smaller towns.

  She had lived frugally these past three years, but little of the money Mama had sent remained. Even before her grandmother had turned them away, she’d been afraid to seek employment. It was too easy to track her. Besides, she couldn’t leave Chris alone while she worked. And the truth of it was, she possessed no skill beyond an average education that might gain her a respectable position.

  A gust of wind splattered raindrops against the windowpanes, and careful to remain out of sight, she searched for any sign of Chris or Gregor McTavish. He hadn’t been gone long, but neither was the cooper’s very far.

  There was no help for it. She must swallow her pride, temper her misgivings, and ask the giant Scot to help her leave London and mayhap find employment in her new locale. Though why or how he’d do so, she couldn’t fathom.

  They were strangers, after all. But for whatever reason, she trusted the Highlander.

  Over the years, she’d learned to rely on gut instinct above all else. And the plain, ugly truth was, she had no choice but to put her faith in him. Nevertheless, she didn’t like it one jot.

  Popping the last morsel of cheese into her mouth, she scowled. What was taking the Scot so long?

  She bent forward, squinting at the docks, and several strands of lanky hair swung forward. Whilst running from Santano’s men, she’d lost the ribbon tying it back. Her hair, in desperate need of washing, had dried in straggly tendrils. She flipped the strands over her shoulder, longing for days past when a warm, scented bath was the norm and not a wishful luxury.

  When clean and her stomach full, she’d been able to sleep through the night without fear of someone breaking into their room. She’d taken to wearing men’s clothing a scant fortnight after setting foot in England after continually being approached by men in search of female company. It was a wonder, really, that she hadn’t been set upon or despoiled. The knife at her waist acted as a detriment to the less bold.

  Her stomach tightened again, but not from hunger. She couldn’t see the cooper’s from here, but surely Gregor been able to find Chris by now. Unless Santano’s goons had…

  She tamped down the unthinkable notion. Chris was just hiding. She’d taught him well, and much like a fawn hidden by a doe, he’d learned not to budge until Sarah returned for him.

  Another overloaded wagon rumbled through a puddle, its wheels spraying dirty water to the sides, and she bit her lip.

  Should she go look for Chris herself?

  No, confound it. She’d given her word she’d stay here. So stupid, to entrust him to a stranger.

  Gregor had promised he’d find him. If she wasn’t here, and he returned with Chris, her brother would panic for certain. He didn’t deal well with change, and he’d grown progressively weaker these past months.

  Twelve years his senior, Sarah had been thrilled when Mama delivered the skinny, sickly babe. His b
irth had been difficult, and for the first several weeks, they’d feared he’d die. Another couple of stressful months passed before anyone realized he’d never be quite normal.

  As she’d told Gregor, Chris’s was a trifle slow mentally, and his right leg dragged when he walked. His right arm bent slightly inward toward his torso as well. But he was sweet and kind and Sarah adored him. He was her beloved brother. She’d promised Mama to keep him safe and never to leave him, and she meant to keep that vow.

  He was also the rightful heir to Bellewood House and the Mary Elizabeth, and someday, somehow, she’d see his inheritance restored to him or the properties sold and the monies used to ensure he never wanted for anything. And if she ever married—not likely, but not impossible—her husband would have to agree to allow Chris live with them. Always.

  With one eye on the wharf as she awaited Gregor’s return, she fingered the outline of the key hidden at her waist.

  Did Santano truly know about the chest hidden in Bellewood’s cellars? He must, but how had he come by the knowledge? As far as Sarah was aware, only she and her parents knew of its existence.

  One time, about a year after Chris’s birth, Papa had shown her a hidden chamber behind a rock wall beneath the house’s main floor. Hardly larger than the pantry, he’d made her swear to tell no one about the small room. The hidey-hole contained a locked mid-sized chest, a few leather packets, several small coin pouches—which Mama had given her when Sarah fled Jamaica—two elaborate gold chalices as well as a few jewels.

  At the time, Sarah hadn’t questioned why Papa had revealed the hidden chamber. He’d made it clear because of Chris’s mental and physical shortfalls, her brother would require care his entire life. The hideaway’s contents were to be used toward that end.

  As an adult nearing her fifth and twentieth birthday, Sarah now suspected Papa mightn’t have come by the items completely honestly, and she never learned exactly what the chest contained. Pirates and privateers anchored in Port Royal by the dozens in the seventeenth century.