Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  Had Papa found a buried treasure on Bellewood House’s property? Or had he come by it another way?

  She’d likely never know.

  It was difficult to reconcile the idea that the kind man who seldom raised his voice in anger could’ve also been a buccaneer or privateer. If he had been, Santano, as his first mate, surely would’ve known about any treasure.

  The window had grown steamy from her face nearly pressed to the cool glass, and Sarah drew away a few inches.

  Once, when she’d been eighteen years old, she’d broached the subject of the room and its contents with her mother. Even then, Mama’s constitution had been delicate. For as much as she loved her husband and enjoyed living in the tropics, neither the heat nor the insects suited her.

  Her mother had given her a gentle smile, and after kissing Sarah on the forehead, patted her cheek. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, my dear. When the time is right, you’ll know all. You know your father is a man of integrity, and he has insured that long after he and I are gone, you’ll never have to worry about how to care for your brother.”

  Sarah gave the hidden bag a hard squeeze. She was exhausted—tired of running and living in fear, and yes, saddened, that her only living relative refused to acknowledge them. Mama claimed the Rolandsons’ pride would be their downfall.

  Sarah had hoped that time would have healed her grandparents’ disappointment. But her grandfather had gone to his grave, a bitter curmudgeon, and her grandmother’s reputation as a demanding, cantankerous snob was whispered about even amongst the lower orders.

  Lady Rolandson also wasn’t aware her daughter had died.

  Scorching tears stung behind Sarah’s eyes, and her heart twisted with grief. Had Mama died? There’d been no way to correspond with her.

  The only person she’d trusted to deliver a letter had been Captain Pritchard. His ship had sunk shortly after he’d seen her and Chris safely to London. All hands had been lost, and Mama wouldn’t be able to write her without an address.

  No, if Mama were alive, she’d have written the viscountess. But given the many returned letters over the years, the effort would’ve been in vain.

  “Grandmother, how can you be so cold-hearted? Have you no desire to meet your grandchildren? To know what became of your only daughter?”

  Mayhap Sarah would try one last time to contact her grandmother.

  Gregor might be persuaded to deliver a letter on her behalf. If Lady Rolandson still refused to see her then she’d make no attempt to contact the woman again. Right now, the most important thing was keeping Chris safe and escaping Santano’s clutches.

  Exhausted to the marrow of her bones, she rested her forehead against the window casement. Yes, she was fatigued, beyond words. Weary of always looking over her shoulder, wondering who might betray them next. Fearing that she would grow careless, and endanger their lives. Worrying that Chris would slip and forget what name he was going by at present or reveal his true identity. Or fall. Or become ill and require medical attention she could ill afford.

  How long could she continue living like this?

  Squaring her shoulders and jutting her chin upward, she tightened her jaw. For as long as it takes, Sarah Elizabeth Martha Paine. Santano would pay for his treachery—someday.

  Perchance… just perchance Gregor McTavish with his connections to Stapleton Shipping and Supplies could help in that regard too. For Santano captained a stolen ship.

  And she possessed the documentation to prove it.

  Chapter 4

  Gregor lounged against the wall outside the barrel-maker’s shop. Pretending preoccupation in the cuff of his coat sleeve, he examined the many barrels from the corner of his eye. Passersby wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Just another London dandy more concerned with his attire than the hardworking people nearby.

  Och, nae one with eyes in their head would mistake my hulkin’ form for a prissy cove.

  His practiced eye detected no sign of the lad. Was he here, hidden in a barrel? Crouched behind one? Had he left? Ach, Gregor hoped not. What would he tell Sydney? Switching his attention to the bustling wharf, he searched for Santano’s compatriots. Satisfied none loitered nearby, he adjusted his hat to partially shade his face.

  How he loathed playing the part of a conceited fop. He hadn’t a doubt, given his size, he looked utterly ridiculous.

  “Kipp, laddie, yer sister sent me to fetch ye. Ye dinna ken me, and ye’ve nae reason to trust me.” Not so much as a rustle met his quiet words. “Sydney said to tell ye that Satan has found ye, and ye’re to come with me.”

  He nodded as two naval officers strode past, their cheerful blue uniforms neat and pristine.

  The lid of the fourth barrel down shifted. Hazel eyes almost the exact shade as his sister’s peeked between a one-inch gap.

  Gregor gave the minutest inclination of his head to let the lad know he’d seen him. “She’s safe and waitin’ for us. She’s verra worried about ye though.”

  Another swift survey of the docks eased his mind, and straightening, he motioned to the driver of a wagon laden with bags of grain and covered by a tarp. He and McGarry already had arranged a place between the grain sacks for Kipp to hide.

  “Kipp, stay where ye are until yonder wagon parks in front of the barrels.” Recalling what his sister had said about him, Gregor gave simple directions. “Ye need to crawl inside. There’s a place prepared for ye. Be careful ye aren’t seen. McGarry here is my friend. He’ll take ye to my warehouse. That’s where yer sister is.”

  The lid settled into place once more, and satisfied that the lad understood, Gregor crossed to meet McGarry.

  With a click of his tongue, McGarry drove the wagon across the dock and positioned it at an angle so the rear faced the barrels. He climbed down from the driver’s seat and after yanking the tarp halfway up the wagon bed, clasped Gregor’s hand before moving to rest against the freight wagon’s far side. One knee cocked, he jabbed a thumb toward the wagon load and wiped his brow with the back of his other hand. “Thirty sacks of oats for yer laird.”

  Ewan had no more need for oats than Gregor had need of bells on his boots. Nevertheless, he nodded and patted the horse’s wither. The animal nickered softly and shifted his feet. He rubbed between the horse’s ears. “Dinna be too hasty delivering them, McGarry. I’m takin’ my time returnin’ to the office, in case I’m bein’ watched. Wait for me at the rear of the warehouse.”

  Gregor turned and slapped his palm atop a grain sack. He nodded once more, as if satisfied with his purchase, and shook McGarry’s hand. Rounding the wagon, he caught the boy’s eye. “Stay down, ye ken?”

  Face pale and his gaze wary, the lad acknowledged the request with a slight shifting of his frightened eyes.

  “Och, there’s a good lad.”

  With a casual wave, Gregor pulled his collar higher against the wind as he sauntered off. He took his time returning to his offices, stopping to chat with several acquaintances along the way. The whole while he kept guarded and alert, watching for any indication he was followed.

  At the Seven Seas, he ordered a warm, dark ale and sipped it slowly, probing every nook and cranny he could see for Santano and his men. Their absence likely meant they still searched for the Blanes.

  As he strolled back to his lodgings, he pondered his impulse to help Sydney. In general, he wasn’t a man given to indulging whims, much less rescuing damsels in distress. Och, but this lass has sunshine in her hair and berries on her lips. And her eyes. Those eyes. Even a kelpie could drown in their beautiful pools.

  On the other hand, lowlife bullies like Santano and his cronies irritated Gregor. He flexed his gloved hands. Too many months of sitting at a desk and not enough riding, tramping through the Highlands, hunting, training, or some other sort of physical exertion at Craiglocky had him restless and itching for a good grapple.

  How much longer would he procrastinate and delay the inevitable return to Scotland? A wee bit longer, it seemed, as
he’d decided to help a lass and her brother.

  If Sydney were to be believed, the rumors circulating about how Santano acquired the Mary Elizabeth were true. He wasn’t the first ship’s captain to tread the thin line between lawlessness and honest ventures.

  At this moment, Gregor could point out half a dozen ships gently rocking in the Thames’s waters, engaging in one form of questionable commerce or another. Privateering might be outlawed, but he as well as everyone else who worked the docks knew smuggling and raids continued.

  Likely, Santano possessed forged documents giving him ownership of the vessel.

  Stapleton’s warehouse came into view, and a slight movement drew his attention to the upper story windows.

  Sydney watched, and by thunder, she bloody well needed to take more care not to be seen.

  Removing his hat, he looked overhead, squinting as if he examined the petulant sky then cast a casual glance about him, hoping to God no one else had noticed her.

  Gregor hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do with her and her brother, but once he’d determined to aid someone, he didn’t turn his back on them. If any two people were in need of help, it was the Blanes.

  That a bonnie lassie such as she managed to keep from being forced into prostitution or being set upon by the riffraff infesting London’s docks, was a testament to her keen intellect and cunning.

  Hopefully, he hadn’t been an unsuspecting victim of both.

  He unlocked the office door, and after stepping inside slid the bolt home once more. He’d yet to divest his outer wear before footsteps thumped upon the risers.

  “Where is my brother?”

  “Lass, stay out of sight.”

  “I sent you to fetch Chris, Highlander. Where. Is. He?” Panic riddled her voice.

  “Dinna fash yerself. A friend of mine has the lad hidden in a wagon filled with bags of oats. They should be at warehouse doors, even now.”

  After removing his coat and hat then draping his gloves across another curved arm of the porcelain-tipped oak coat rack beside the door, he wandered in front of the window so that anybody observing the establishment wouldn’t suspect anything. He stretched, flexing his spine and yawned. Selecting a ledger from his desk, he nonchalantly glanced to the window. Nothing. Flipping the journal open, he casually ambled toward the rear of the building.

  “Was he all right?” she asked, only a hint of her earlier alarm evident in her voice.

  Upon reflecting briefly, he said, “Aye, I think so. He looked well enough. A wee bit scared, but that’s to be expected. I’m goin’ to let yer brother inside. Remain out of sight and wait for the lad upstairs. We’ll decide what to do with the two of ye while he’s eatin’.”

  Chris gobbled the simple fare Gregor prepared. A piece of bread in one hand and a chicken leg in the other, his mouth bulging, he chomped away.

  “Slow down. You’re going to choke,” Sarah fondly admonished.

  Chris turned a boyish grin on her and, dropping the chicken, accepted the cup of water she offered.

  “Lass, I need to speak with ye.” In private, Gregor mouthed.

  She squinted slightly at him, but his striking face and keen gaze gave nothing away. Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, suggesting he was a man given often to mirth. “All right, Mr. McTavish.” Patting Chris’s shoulder, she gently reprimanded, “Slow down, darling. There’s plenty of food.”

  For a change.

  Taking a bite of cheese, Chris nodded, and continued to inhale the fare.

  As she followed Gregor into the sitting room, she shivered and brushed her hands up and down her arms before taking a seat in one of the oversized chairs. At once, the cat began rubbing himself against her legs.

  Gregor knelt before the hearth and after adding coal to the grate and lighting it, replaced the fender. She hadn’t even had a fireplace or a stove in the one-room hovel they’d called home. Many a night, she’d wrapped Chris in her arms, holding him tight to still his quaking. And hers too.

  That first winter had been the godawful worst. Accustomed to much warmer temperatures, even with hats, gloves, coats, and wrapped in two blankets, her very bones had ached with cold.

  Cat continued to make little chirping noises and nudged her ankles.

  “Come here.” She gathered the tubby feline into her arms, burying her face in his fur.

  Cat closed his eyes, and contented rumbles echoed from his fluffy chest.

  “I’ve never had a pet, except for Biscuit, my yellow-billed parrot. I always wanted a dog though. Once, when I was a little girl, I saw a long, skinny dog with short legs at Port Royal. He was black with reddish-brown markings and looked like a long sausage with fat feet. He was the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. If I ever have a dog, I want one like that,” she declared with a firm nod.

  Not much chance of that ever happening. Not when she could scarcely feed herself and Chris. Cutting Gregor a side-eyed peek through her lashes, mischievousness swept her. “And I shall name it Sausage.”

  The latter she declared to make the Highlander laugh and see if she’d been right about the lines framing his eyes.

  He sliced her a disbelieving look and chuckled, the sound a mellow rustle deep in his chest, as he settled into the other chair.

  She hid a grin in Cat’s back. Very nice indeed. She quite liked his laugh.

  Some men’s were harsh and grating, but his reverberated in his chest, a welcoming, warm invitation to join in his humor. Sarah also liked his melodious brogue. It, too, invited one to listen to his lilting speech. To snuggle into his chest, place her ear upon the wide expanse, and melt into the sound.

  “Biscuit? Ye named a bird Biscuit?” He slapped his knee and chortled again. “And ye want to name a dog Sausage?”

  The bird’s name wasn’t that funny.

  She raised an eyebrow. Her most reproachful one. “Must I remind you that you have a fat feline named Cat, Highlander? And you dare laugh because, as a little girl, I couldn’t pronounce hibiscus?” Another wave of melancholy bathed her. “I had to leave her behind. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  He’d removed his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Resting his forearms on his knees, sympathy softened his face. “I am sorry, lass. Ye’ve no’ had an easy time of it, but we need to decide what to do next. I dinna think Santano will easily give up lookin’ for ye.”

  The coals glowed reddish-orange, their flames radiating delicious heat. The high sides of the chair captured the warmth, and for the first time in a long while, Sarah enjoyed a toasty fire as well as a small sense of contentment.

  Keeping her expression carefully neutral, she threaded her fingers in Cat’s fur. He arched his back, a contented kitty smile upon his wide face.

  “I know we do, Mr. McTavish, and I don’t wish to impose upon you further—”

  He lifted a wide palm, halting her. “It’s too late for second thoughts. I willnae abandon ye and yer brother now.”

  She hadn’t even had to ask him. He’d volunteered of his own accord. It had been so long since anyone had cared about or helped her.

  “But I do need to ken who ye really are.” His tone changed the merest bit, and all signs of amusement fled his features. His blue-gray gaze probed hers, looking into the depths of her soul, and Sarah barely refrained from squirming.

  Averting her attention, she swallowed twice. No one in England knew. Other than her grandmother and the viscountess’s odious butler. “I concede you’ve no reason whatsoever to trust me,” she said softly, still unwilling to take the final step and reveal her true identity.

  Relaxing back in his chair, he hooked an ankle over his knee, totally at ease, watching her from beneath hooded eyes. “And ye’ve nae reason to trust me, either, but we’re beyond that, dinna ye think?” The palms of both hands splayed open, his voice held no censure.

  She acknowledged the truth of his words and lifted her chin a couple of inches, although her attention remained on the flames frolicking behind
the grate.

  “Let’s begin again, shall we, lass?” He pressed a massive arm to his chest and dipped his chin in a mock semblance of a bow.

  Eyebrows scrunched, she angled her head. What the devil was he about?

  “I am Gregor Lieth Conall McTavish of Craiglocky Keep, cousin to the Laird Ewan McTavish, who is also Viscount Sethwick. His wife, Yvette, owns Stapleton Shipping and Supplies, and just under a year ago I left the Highlands to manage these London offices. I have a twin, Alasdair, and my parents Duncan and Kitta live at Craiglocky too.”

  He clasped a hand across his abdomen, drawing her reluctant attention to his muscled forearms once more. This was no weak fop. From his broad shoulders straining the fabric of his shirt, and the well-muscled thighs defined by his fawn-colored trousers, the Highlander was a fabulous specimen of masculine power and grace.

  “Now, tell me who ye are.” He rested his square chin with the merest hint of golden stubble on his fist. “And I’ll have the truth this time, Sassenach.”

  Chapter 5

  “Sassenach?” Sarah tried the odd word on her tongue. “What does it mean?”

  “Saxon, and dinna try to change the subject.”

  She shouldn’t be surprised he’d uncovered her secret. Continuing to withhold her identity was moot at this juncture. Particularly if he agreed to deliver a letter to Lady Rolandson on her behalf.

  Burying her fingers in Cat’s fur, she scanned his living quarters for the umpteenth time. More for a reason to stall than any lingering curiosity about his living quarters. How had she missed the massive sword propped in the corner by the door? Surely the monstrous thing was impossible to wield.

  “Lass…?”

  His persistence struck a discordant nerve, but Gregor was right. Santano had spies everywhere, and logic decreed it was only a matter of time before he found her and Chris if they remained in London. But to put her faith in this man she’d only known a couple of hours…