Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  Such a simple thing—the gift of a pup—and she reacted as if he’d presented her with a chest of jewels. Although, knowing her as he did, she preferred heartfelt gestures to gems and valuable trinkets.

  She cast him an uncertain look then sucked her lower lip between her teeth. “Gregor?”

  He joined her on the floor, accepting a pup to cuddle. The little devil promptly bit his nose. “Aye, lass?”

  “There are only three, and I know Chris would love to have one as well. I cannot bear to think that a puppy will be left behind.” Uncertainty made her hesitant. “May I… I know it’s a lot to ask… And of course, Grandmother would have to be agreeable, as well as Mr. Stallworth. But might-I-be-permitted-all-of-them?” she finished in rush of words.

  Gregor bent and kissed each cheek then boldly pressed his mouth to hers. “One for each Christmas ye’ve missed? Aye, that seems fair.”

  He laid his pup in his lap and lifted her hand to his lips. “I have a request of ye as well, my tropical flower.”

  “Yes?” Eyes shining, she cocked her head as she returned the three puppies to their worried mother.

  “Will ye marry me, mo ghaol? I dinna ken where I’ll be in a year, but I plan on applyin’ to medical school in Scotland. We’ll have to live at Craiglocky in the meanwhile, and I ken ye’re no’ used to the severe clime there. It will also mean leavin’ yer grandmother, and ye’ve only just begun to ken her—”

  “Do shush, Gregor.”

  He searched her face. “Is it too soon? I can give ye more time to get to ken me better.”

  “None of that other matters, silly man.” She laid a palm against his cheek. “Since the day I barged into your office and you helped me without hesitation, I knew there was something special about you. With each passing day, my heart grew fuller, and though I kept telling myself it was impossible to already love you, my spirit said otherwise. I would follow you to the ends of the earth, Gregor McTavish.”

  He crushed her to his chest, laughing. “Thank God. I feared it was too soon. I love ye, Sarah. So much it frightens me as nothing ever has before.”

  “And I love you. I’ll always remember this Yuletide as the one when a Highlander stole my heart.” She smiled and whispered against his mouth. “Now kiss me.”

  Chapter 14

  London, England

  Twenty-nine December, 1830

  * * *

  Sarah awoke slowly, rousing from a deep, comfortable slumber. Drowsily patting the mattress beside her, she came fully awake. Though warmth met her palm, Gregor’s familiar form did not. She sat up, pushing the hair off her face and shivered. The fire burned low in the hearth, and the wind buffeting the windows revealed the winter storm that had threatened yesterday was fully upon them now.

  Out of habit, she searched the chamber for him. He was wont to rise at all manner of hours over the past four years to study or take down a note for one reason or another. The room was empty, save the three lumps buried in their bed beside the wardrobe. Baron, Dickens, and Fergie slept on, oblivious to the storm buffeting the house.

  In the end, Chris had confessed he preferred cats to dogs, and that’s how Cat came to live with the Dowager Viscountess Rolandson. He’d grown impossibly more spoiled and pampered, which put him in good company with Fifi and the dachshunds.

  Sarah grasped the coverlet, prepared to pull it aside, when the bedchamber door swung open.

  Gregor, attired only in his trousers and shirt, slipped inside, cradling their fretting five-month-old son, Bryce. He closed the panel and pressed a kiss to his son’s head. “The wee bairn thinks he’s starvin’.”

  Though unfashionable, she’d elected to nurse her babe as she had Aaron, his almost two-year-old brother. Extending her arm, she gave a slight shake of her head and accepted her son’s sturdy little body. She sank into the pile of pillows, and after unlacing the front of her gown, set Bryce to her breast. Bending, she kissed his satiny cheek and inhaled his sweet scent.

  “How could I have not heard him?” she asked.

  “He didna cry verra long. I only heard him because I was awake, thinkin’ about the school and hospital.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Yer mother and grandmother were already fussin’ over him by the time I arrived. They changed his flannels too.”

  “I’m not surprised. They both adore helping.” She raised an eyebrow and pushed her lower lip out a jot. “Why were you awake? Dr. McTavish, don’t tell me you’re nervous?”

  “No’ nervous, mo ghaol.”

  Thanks to the generosity of his family and other wealthy peers’ patronage, the dream she and Gregor had shared years ago to build an orphanage, a school, and a hospital for the physically incapacitated had become a reality.

  New Hope Institution would officially open on January first, but seven-and-twenty children already occupied the hundred-bed orphanage, and the school had a waiting list as well. Chris would continue to live with Mama at Grandmother’s but attend the school during the day.

  After adding coal to the fire, Gregor shucked his shirt and trousers, and bare as the day he was born, climbed into the bed beside her. He, too, propped himself against the pillows before tugging her against the hard planes of his slightly hairy chest and dropping a kiss onto her forehead.

  “Even after all this time, Gregor, whenever I see that scar on your side, my stomach twists sickeningly. To think, I might have lost you before I even found you.”

  “It disna even pain me anymore,” he assured her.

  Inserting his forefinger into Bryce’s tiny fist, the babe’s fingers hardly encircling half Gregor’s pickle-sized digit, he chuckled as their son suckled voraciously. “He has an appetite like his brother.”

  Sarah looked above her and ran a hand over Gregor’s bristly jaw. “Our sons have appetites like their father and Uncle Alasdair.”

  He chuckled, grazing her temple with his mouth. “Aye, they do. All the McTavish men eat like they’re hollow to their feet.”

  Bryce’s hazel-blue gaze shifted between Sarah and Gregor, and he grinned. A droplet of milk trailed from his mouth before he resumed his eager feasting.

  Gregor brushed his fingertips up and down her arm. Even through her night rail’s light fabric, the caress sent sensuous chills to more interesting places.

  “Why weren’t you sleeping at,” she glanced to the bedside clock, “two in the morning, if you weren’t worrying?”

  His boyish grin held a hint of bashfulness. “I’m already plannin’ the second facility that Yvette is sponsorin’ in Scotland. What do ye think about namin’ it Second Hope Institution?”

  “That’s perfect, Gregor.” She sighed and settled into his chest a bit deeper. “I knew there was a need, but I hadn’t expected the overwhelming response we’ve seen. It makes me sad we can’t do more.”

  “Och, we’ll do what we can, and continue to advocate and ask others to.” He turned his attention to their son still contentedly nursing. “Between yer mother and grandmother and my mother, I fear all our bairns will be spoiled.”

  “Not a bit of it. I don’t believe a child can ever be loved too much.” With her bent forefinger, she brushed the babe’s cheek. “I can scarce fathom that Mama’s been back in England almost as long as Chris and I were here without her. I’m so grateful, because I feared Grandmother would be horribly lonely when we married and returned to Scotland.”

  “Aye, and glad I am our bairns will ken her.” Gregor whispered as he gently extracted his finger. “Our wee son’s asleep, jo.”

  His tiny mouth slack, Bryce had succumbed to slumber once more.

  A soft rap announced Mama had come to take her grandson back to the nursery. This had become a routine in recent weeks, while Sarah and Gregor stayed at Grandmama’s until the finishing touches on New Hope were complete.

  Two infants, four dogs, a pompous cat, and a mischievous parrot—yes, Biscuit had made the ocean voyage too—could be quite chaotic at times. Originally, Sarah and Gregor had planned on letting a house, but
Grandmama wouldn’t have it. She insisted all were welcome to stay with her and said a little excitement would do her good.

  In fact, she thrived on the commotion and nearing her five-and-seventieth birthday, claimed to be healthier than she had been in decades. No longer having a broken heart or treacherous servants likely had much to do with her renewed vigor.

  The last they’d heard, Miss Wattle and Stinkwiggon had boarded a ship for America. Grandmother’s hand didn’t reach that far. Yet.

  Sarah couldn’t deny Mama and Grandmama’s help with an energetic toddler and an infant were most welcome.

  “Here, let me have the laddie.” Gregor accepted the small bundle, the same expression of awe on his face she’d observed every time he gazed at his children. That this brawny Highlander who dwarfed so many other men, became a gentle giant with their sons made her eyes misty.

  After they’d wed, he’d confessed he hadn’t thought to ever marry and have children. She’d never deny the path to their meeting had been a long, treacherous hard-won journey, but that made their love all the more wondrous.

  Once Sarah secured the front of her gown, she slipped from the bed. Cuddling Bryce in the crook of her arm, she padded barefoot to the door. A quick glance over her shoulder assured her Gregor had pulled the bedcoverings to his chin, sparing Mama any blushes. Still, his naughty wink and suggestive smile sent Sarah’s pulse skittering.

  She opened the door, and as she expected, her mother waited there. Taking her grandson into her arms, a doting smile curving her mouth, she murmured, “I see a bit of your father’s nose and jaw line.”

  Mama still grieved Papa’s death.

  “I do too.” Sarah kissed her son’s smooth forehead, inhaling a deep breath. Nothing smelled as wonderful as her children, except for perhaps, the brawny Scot waiting in bed. She hadn’t missed the hunger in his eyes, but he could be patient a little longer.

  Sarah bussed her mother’s cheek, admonishing gently, “Don’t stay up too long, Mama. You also need your sleep.”

  “Tish tosh.” Mama shook her head. “I have years to sleep. This sweet one will only be little for a short time.”

  Leaning against the doorframe, Sarah watched as her mother, humming softly, wandered toward the nursery.

  Overjoyed didn’t begin to describe her emotion when the letter from Mama had arrived at Craiglocky Keep saying she was safe and well at Grandmama’s house, along with Biscuit. When Santano had raided Bellewood, she and Ionie, their Jamaican housekeeper and cook, had huddled in the hidden chamber. Knowing he would likely return, Mama had secretly gone to live with Ionie in her village, taking the chamber’s contents and burying the valuables.

  Under the care of the village healer, Mama’s health had gradually improved. Weekly, a nephew of Ionie’s discreetly inquired at the harbor, seeking news of Sarah or Santano. That was how Mama learned of Piermont’s arrival and Sarah’s letter. She’d tried to talk Ionie into coming with her to England, but the servant wouldn’t leave her family.

  Chris would never have to worry about his future. The Mary Elizabeth had been sold to Stapleton Shipping and Supplies and the proceeds from the sale of Bellewood House had been invested on Christopher’s behalf. As she’d suspected, the chest contained unimaginable treasure. Treasure, Mama adamantly maintained, Papa received for saving a privateer’s life many years before. She would speak no more on the subject, giving Sarah cause to speculate there might’ve been other less honorable reasons they’d always lived in Jamaica.

  Before climbing back in bed, she wandered to the window and pulled the drapery aside. “You’re right, Gregor. There’s quite a snowstorm outside.”

  When he didn’t respond, she glanced to the bed.

  He ran his appreciative gaze down her form, and she realized the firelight gave him a perfect view of her body silhouetted in the flowing gown. A more carnal visage replaced his admiration, and his facial features stood out sharply hewn, in what she’d come to recognize as desire.

  Giving him a sultry smile, she unlaced her gown, slipped it off her shoulders, and wiggled free of its folds, allowing it to pool at her feet.

  Inhaling a rasping breath, he opened his arms wide. “Come here, leannan.”

  She ran to the bed and threw herself into his waiting arms.

  With a half-growl half-groan, in one deft movement, Gregor rolled her beneath him and entered her. All he ever had to do was glance at her with seduction in his gaze, and she was ready to receive him.

  As he rose above her, passion sharpening his features, she wrapped her arms around his broad back and arched into his hips.

  “I love you, my brawny Highlander.”

  “And I ye, my precious tropical flower.”

  About Collette Cameron

  USA Today Bestselling, award-winning author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish and Regency historicals, featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them. Blessed with fantastic fans as well as a compulsive, over-active, and witty Muse who won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she lives in Oregon with her mini-dachshunds, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-time. You'll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances®.

  * * *

  You can find details of her work at

  www.ColletteCameron.com

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  ONE ENCHANTED CHRISTMAS

  ~ A Distinguished Rogues Novella ~

  * * *

  by

  * * *

  HEATHER BOYD

  Lady Margaret Stockwick is still mourning the loss of her beloved parents when her brother whisks her away from the family estate. Unbeknownst to Meg, Hector has no plans to allow her to return. Instead, he’ll see her ensconced in London after the Christmas season to be married off as quickly as possible, thereby relieving himself of any further responsibility for her welfare. Meg is devastated; not only by her brother’s betrayal, but at the prospect of spending the holidays with his best friend, the roguish Lord Clement.

  * * *

  Otis spends nearly all his days at his family’s estate, the better to protect his mother and siblings. But his greatest wish is to remove them from beneath the thumb of his scheming father. Then Lord Vyne presents a wager—marry in three months, and Otis can win a bit of freedom for his family. It’s a gamble Otis intends to win. But not with the chit his father’s chosen, an arrangement based on financial gain. No. Otis is determined to marry for love and mutual respect…and it isn’t long before he finds the lovely Meg inspiring both.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 by Heather Boyd

  Chapter 1

  Lady Meg Stockwick covered her cold nose and mouth again and blew out a breath, hoping to warm her face a little bit. Meg was not used to traveling in the winter months. She was not used to traveling at all really. She was doing her best not to become an icicle.

  Her brother was to blame for her discomfort, not that he seemed to care.

  Until recently, she’d never had reason to venture from the family home on the coast of Dorset. But it was Hector’s home now; her brother had assumed control of their father’s estate and title upon his death, and she was supposed to obey the new viscount—even if she couldn’t seem to stop questioning his decisions.

  “It’s not too late to turn back,” Meg told him urgently as Hector’s new traveling chariot began the slow descent into yet another blindingly white valley. “We could be home by Christmas morning.”

  “It certainly is too late. We’re almost there,” her brother assured her as he scrubbed the damp from the window with his fist. “You will enjoy yourself.”

  Meg doubted that as she huddled more deeply into her coverings. The sun had come out to shine at last and brought with it Hector’s enthusiasm for new surroundings. He had been saying she’d enjoy herself repeatedly for the last day, and she was still quite sure he was wrong. Spending the anniversary
of the worst month of her life in Derbyshire, at the home of a terrible rogue, was not her idea of fun.

  “We should still celebrate Christmas the way we always have,” Meg insisted, determined to win her brother over. “In our home. I had everything in hand before you arrived.”

  “Next year you can do as you wish,” he promised. “But this year I have other plans than sitting in Dorset all alone.”

  Meg shivered, wishing her brother had stayed in London. His return had heralded an upset of all her plans for the holidays. And now she was here, far from home and all she’d ever known. Meg had heard nothing good about her brother’s closest friend in the past few years and now she would be forced into close proximity with him for weeks.

  She had known Lord Clement as a boy, but it had been a decade since she’d lain eyes on him. She had heard enough to form a clear picture of his character though. Lord Clement was often gallivanting about London with her brother, too important to visit their little coastal village. Meg believed him to be a terrible influence on her older brother.

  She heaved a heavy sigh. There was only one thing to look forward to this holiday. Lady Vyne, the rogue’s mother, was certain to be better company. Lady Vyne had written Meg many comforting letters in recent years following the death of her mother and then her father so soon after.

  Hector suddenly began gathering his possessions—book, handkerchief, and a pouch of sweet meats he’d procured along the way—and stuffed them into a leather satchel he’d kept at his side for the entire trip.

  Meg hugged her book close to her chest. “Mother and Father are still with us in spirit,” she argued.