By Winter's Light

by Stephanie Laurens

  A shrill scream cut her off.

  Both she and Daniel reacted instantly. Turning to the window, rising so they could better peer down, they looked, saw—froze for just a second—then both whirled and plunged down the turret stairs.

  Daniel was in the lead, and with his longer legs, he quickly outstripped her. Her heavy skirts hiked to her calves—modesty be damned, she couldn’t risk falling—she ran on in his wake, praying they would get to the riverbank in time.

  The scene they’d looked out on had been one of incipient disaster. A large group of children—not Cynsters but of the household families—had slipped out to play in the heavy drifts of snow. Sparkling overlays of ice had transformed the tiered terrace gardens between the manor and the burn into a winter wonderland. Inevitably, some of the children had been drawn to the banks of the burn—the treacherous banks, for despite the icy weather, the burn still flowed beneath a crust of ice and snow. Later in the season, perhaps it would freeze enough for skating, but at present, it was a trap waiting for the unwary.

  One boy had fallen in, and at least two more were stranded.

  Two girls, screaming and sobbing, were clinging to a crumbling snowdrift, their boots dangling in the icy waters.

  Panting, Claire reached the ground floor and raced into the corridor leading to the side door. At the corridor’s far end, the door stood open, no doubt thrust wide by Daniel as he’d raced through.

  Ahead of Claire, heading toward the door, Polby exclaimed, “Great heavens! Leaving doors open in this weather—”

  “Polby!” Claire reached him and grabbed his arm. “Leave the door.” Meeting the butler’s startled gaze, she gasped, “Children—several—have fallen into the burn. Mr. Crosbie rushed out to help. I’m going, too. Get others—everyone you can. We especially need more men who can fish the children out.”

  She could help, but in her heavy winter skirts, she couldn’t risk going in deeper than her knees.

  Polby’s eyes flew wide, but he understood. Without waiting to see more, Claire released him and rushed to the doorway.

  She went straight through, paused on the stoop to swiftly take stock, then stepped off the porch onto ice-slicked snow. She’d been to the manor often enough to know the layout of what was, in other seasons, a large productive herb garden. She could remember where the paths were, but snow covered everything and was made yet more perilous by patches of ice; she had to pick her way carefully.

  Clenching her jaw against the first assault of the cold, she sternly told herself she’d be no help if she broke a leg. She was experienced enough to rein in the impulse to rush precipitously forward, yet a pounding urgency to reach a spot where she could see what was going on and then help Daniel—and ensure that he was safe, too—thundered in her blood.

  Looking down from the turret, they’d been able to see the whole scene laid out below them; coming from the house, she had to clear a lip of the gardens about halfway down before she could see what was occurring along the burn.

  Finally reaching the spot, she paused in what had become a mad scramble and surveyed the scene. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Oh, God.”

  Daniel had plunged into the burn’s icy waters. He was holding a little boy up against his chest, flailing to keep both their heads above water.

  The burn was a lot deeper than she’d thought; worse, she could glimpse rocks—dark gray and jagged—protruding here and there, silent threats lurking within the churning water.

  Two other boys were half submerged in the rushing waters; they were desperately clinging to a large rock, fighting to hold on and keep their heads clear.

  The two girls in danger of slipping in had been grabbed by other children and were being held suspended half in and half out of the icy burn; the other children weren’t strong enough to pull the girls to safety.

  The cold was intense, the chill sharp enough to cut.

  Neither Claire nor Daniel was wearing gloves or coat, much less outdoor boots. Resuming her sliding scramble down the last section of garden, Claire shoved the discomfort already making itself known from her mind and concentrated on reaching the bank.

  Glancing up, she saw Daniel slipping and stumbling on the rocky bed of the burn as he struggled to bring the boy he held to shore. She changed direction, making for the stretch of bank Daniel was angling toward.

  Reaching it, she tested the bank; in several places there was nothing but snow overlaying a thin crust of ice jutting over the water, waiting to crumple beneath her weight. She stamped around, establishing where she could safely stand, then as Daniel neared, she stretched out, reaching for the boy.

  Teeth gritted, Daniel found his footing in the burn. The boy’s hands had frozen—he could no longer grip anything. Daniel, too, was losing body heat rapidly, but the other two boys wouldn’t last long unless he reached them and got them out.

  None of the three boys were large enough, heavy enough, not to be swept away in the rushing waters.

  Staggering slightly, summoning his strength, Daniel lifted the boy he’d caught and held him out to Claire.

  She bent forward, stretching, and tried to grip the boy’s hands, then realized that wouldn’t work and gripped his wrists. She nodded. “I’ve got him.”

  Daniel paused. “Make sure you’re stable before I let him go.” He didn’t want her toppling in.

  She shifted her feet, then nodded again. “Let him go.”

  Daniel did. Smoothly, Claire straightened, pivoted, and swung the boy safely to the bank.

  Daniel immediately turned and went for the next boy. From the corner of his eye, he saw several of the other children—who had huddled in a group along the bank, unable to help their fellows and until now frozen in panic—draw closer to Claire. She beckoned them nearer. Distantly, he heard her giving the group crisp orders to help the boy she held against her; he was too weak to stand.

  Closing in on the two still clinging to the rock about which the freezing waters surged and broke, Daniel swiftly assessed which one to take first; although they were only about eight years old, he couldn’t ferry both of them to the bank at once.

  The water below the rock was nearly as deep as he was tall; battling to maintain his position in the swirling, tugging torrent, Daniel caught the flailing legs of the boy he judged the younger, the one with the weaker grip on the jagged edges of the rock. “You next. Let go, and I’ll take you to the bank.” To the other boy, he said, “I’ll come back for you next.”

  The boy whose legs he held looked at him, terror starkly etched in his small face, which was turning blue. Then the boy peeled his fingers from the rock and let go.

  Daniel caught the lad against his chest, but the force set him staggering back several steps. Regaining his balance, he righted himself and the sputtering boy, checked that the boy’s face was clear of the water, then he started the hard slog across to the bank.

  This time he managed it more directly.

  Shivers had already started to course through him, but were as nothing compared to those racking the boy’s smaller frame. As he neared the bank, he heard shouts and calls from above. Other adults—Raven, Morris, and Melinda among them—had started scrambling down the last section of the gardens, but all were still too far away to help.

  But Claire was there. Blinking past the hair the water had plastered over his eyes, he refocused on the section of bank toward which he was struggling, and saw that she’d already established another patch of firm ground on which to stand and take the boy from him.

  As soon as he got close enough, they repeated the maneuver that had worked the time before, but this boy was somewhat heavier than the last. When Claire tried to swing him to the bank, she slipped, teetered—

  In a sliding rush, Raven reached her and grabbed her about her waist, anchoring her. Lips compressing, Claire steadied and pulled the boy in.

  Raven looked at Daniel, a question in his eyes.

  Already turning back to the rock, Daniel waved at the two girls still suspend
ed over the water; they were silently weeping as they hung by their arms, but were smart enough not to struggle or try to climb the slippery, barely solid mound of ice and snow. “Organize the others to pull the girls up. I’ll get the last boy—no sense anyone else getting soaked.”

  Getting chilled to the bone, as he already was.

  Setting his sights squarely on the last boy clinging to the rock, Daniel forced his freezing limbs to his bidding; pushing against the force of the burn, he angled across, then nearer.

  He was almost at the rock when, with a cry, the boy lost his grip. Like a hungry beast, the waters gobbled him up and swept him away.

  Daniel lunged sideways. The waters closed over him, but his fingers tangled in the boy’s jacket. Fighting against pain, he forced his hand to close, his frozen fingers to grip and hold.

  Getting his feet under him, he surfaced with a gasp. Steadily, he drew the boy to him and, fumbling, got the boy’s head up and braced against his shoulder.

  The boy’s eyes popped open, panicked and wild. He gasped, wheezed, strained for air even as his body shuddered.

  “Hold as still as you can,” Daniel gritted out through chattering teeth. “I won’t let you go.” Getting the words out was an effort. He felt as if his lungs were shutting down, as if they wouldn’t expand.

  Doggedly, he turned—so slowly—to the bank.

  It suddenly seemed a long way away.

  As he forced his legs to take tortured step after tortured step, he was distantly aware of the commotion as the two girls were pulled to safety. Glancing through the fall of his hair, already crusting with flecks of ice, he saw that the first two boys he’d dragged out of the water had already been wrapped in blankets and were being carried up to the house.

  He couldn’t feel his feet. Or his fingers. All he could sense of the boy he held was the solid mass of his body and his weight; the boy was even more deeply chilled than he was.

  Curiously, the water no longer felt that cold. Daniel didn’t think that was a good sign.

  He felt so deathly tired…

  The toe of his boot stubbed against a rock, and he nearly pitched headlong.

  “Daniel!”

  Claire’s voice reached through the cold. Opening his eyes—he hadn’t realized he’d closed them—he looked and saw her leaning forward, not that far away, reaching for him.

  He pressed forward another step. Two.

  Raven and Morris were waiting with Claire to help him up the bank. So was Richard Cynster and an agonizingly worried-looking man—the carpenter, Daniel realized. It must be his lad that Daniel was holding.

  The riverbed started to slope upward. Ignoring the screaming of his thighs, Daniel pressed on. Another step, and another, and the water had fallen to mid-chest. He paused and gathered his strength; he was still too far away from the bank for the others to help, but the boy now hung limp, an awkward, destabilizing weight.

  Weaving, with a final spurt of effort, Daniel managed to keep his balance as he swung the boy up out of the water and across his upper chest. Anchoring the lad there, Daniel lowered his head and forged on.

  Another step. Another.

  Then hands seized him and dragged him forward; he stumbled and they held him upright.

  The boy was lifted from him. Eyes closed, Daniel relaxed and started to tip back.

  Hands seized him again, even more ungently. Even more urgently. Then he was half lifted, half dragged out of the burn.

  The chill of the air had him blinking his eyes open, then a blanket—oh, blessed warmth!—was flung over his shoulders.

  A towel fell over his head and someone—Claire—briskly rubbed his hair dry. Or at least drier.

  “Right. Let’s get you into the house.” The voice belonged to Richard Cynster, as did the shoulder that slid under Daniel’s raised arm.

  Then another Cynster—the duke?—matched Richard on Daniel’s other side, and in concert the brothers started him walking toward the house.

  Up the sloping path over which some quick-thinking soul had thought to fling salt and gravel.

  Daniel walked—weaved—slowly up through the garden, but he had no real sense of intentional physical action; it was as if his body floated alongside his corporeal self, which, puppetlike, moved under someone else’s guidance. But he was aware of Claire; he could feel her gaze constantly on him, anxious, concerned, watchful.

  He wanted to smile at her and tell her he was all right, but at that moment, he wasn’t in command of his tongue or even his face.

  The upper reaches of the path had been hastily shoveled, and then they were at the side door.

  The two Cynsters helped him up over the step and into the house, and carefully released him into the multitude of hands waiting to help him.

  Raven and Morris stayed with him. Claire and Melinda hovered as close as they could.

  Uncounted minutes later, relaxing in a tub filled to the brim with warm water, Daniel finally came fully back to himself.

  He groaned, then tipped his head back and slid beneath the water. He stayed under for as long as he could, letting the warmth penetrate his scalp and bring his ears back to life in a rush of prickling, rather painful sensation.

  After resurfacing, he wiped water from his face and took stock. His shivers had subsided to tremors, yet although his skin was warmer, he still felt chilled to the marrow.

  Beside the tub, Raven popped into view. The other tutor studied Daniel’s eyes, then grinned. “Good. You’re back with us.” Raven reached to the side and produced a glass holding a good few inches of amber liquid. “We’re supposed to give you these to drink in order. This is from our host—the very best whisky in the world, I’m told.” Concern returned to Raven’s face. “Can you hold it?”

  Daniel raised his right hand from the water. His fingers still didn’t feel quite right, but they closed well enough around the cut-crystal tumbler. He nodded and took the glass; using both hands, he carefully brought it to his lips and sipped.

  Liquid fire streaked down his throat and exploded in his stomach. As the warmth spread, he closed his eyes and sighed. “That’s…indeed very good.” The words emerged as little more than a croak, but at least his vocal cords worked.

  Morris appeared on the tub’s other side. “We’re under strict instructions.” Morris bent to dabble his fingers in the water, then straightened. “We’re only allowed to let you lie there until the water starts to cool, then we have to get you up, dry, dressed, and down to sit before the fire in the Great Hall.”

  Taking a larger sip of the whisky, Daniel frowned. “Can’t I just sit by the fire in our room?” Perhaps with Claire to keep him company. There was some notion niggling in the back of his brain—something about him and her—that he wanted to pursue.

  Morris snorted. “Not a chance. You’re the hero of the hour, and everyone wants to get a look at you, if only to make sure you really are all right.”

  Daniel sighed and rather plaintively said, “I didn’t mean to be a hero.”

  Raven studied him for a moment, then smiled. “I rather think that’s what makes you one. Now”—he reached for the tumbler which, miraculously, was empty—“this is the next thing you have to drink. It’s from our hostess, and she says it will ensure you take no lasting harm from spending too long in her icy burn.”

  Daniel accepted another glass, this one a simple beaker. He examined the very green concoction it contained, then sniffed it. A plethora of herbal aromas flooded his senses, with the underlying hint of strong spirits. Cautiously, he sipped—and instantly knew the potion was incredibly strong. It was, he suspected, a distillation, but even that first sip gave him strength.

  “What does it taste like?” Morris asked.

  Daniel sipped again, savored the elixir, then licked his lips. “Think of the tastes of every green and growing thing you’ve ever come across—blend them all together, and you have”—he raised the glass—“this.” He sipped again, then tipped his head. “Actually, it’s not bad.”
>
  Half an hour later, with Morris and Raven hovering on either side, Daniel managed to walk under his own power into the Great Hall. It was too early for dinner, yet with the day already fading to night, the majority of the household, summoned by the excitement, had already gathered, sitting about the long tables in chattering groups, retelling the story of the rescue of their children.

  The instant those assembled laid eyes on Daniel—the rescuer—they sent up a cheer, one that rolled around the room as others turned to look and joined in.

  Clapping started from the high table, then spread throughout the room. Daniel couldn’t recall blushing so fierily before in his life as, following Morris’s directions, he found himself escorted to the end of a table that was now angled close to the main hearth.

  Beaming, Claire rose and waved to the end of the bench alongside her. “That’s reserved for you.”

  Seeing nothing in the arrangement with which he wished to argue, Daniel moved forward to claim the spot.

  Everyone—children as well as adults, his charges and all those he’d overseen over the last days, over the last years—had risen to their feet, clapping and cheering. Halting beside the bench, realizing he stood in much the same position the six older Cynster children had earlier occupied when telling their tale, Daniel borrowed from Sebastian Cynster’s repertoire of charm. First inclining his head to those at the high table, then looking out over the room, he said, “I would bow if I could, but I fear that if I try I’ll land on my nose.” Laughter rippled around the room. Smiling, Daniel placed his hand over his heart and inclined his head to them all. “I do thank you for your concern and good wishes, but I am, indeed, well, and the best reward I could have is to know that the three boys who tumbled into the river are also recovering.”

  Calls of reassurance came from several points around the room. Daniel nodded. He glanced at the others at the table—Raven, Morris, Melinda, and Claire. “In that case, all is well.” He stepped around the end of the bench as everyone else in the room sat.