Once Upon a Christmas Past

by Regan Walker

  She started forward, but Holden blocked her. An intense ache gripped her. Was he going to demand the kiss she hadn’t given him in the hall? Would he be so wretched?

  His lips parted, as though he was about to speak.

  “Please. Step aside. I must go warm up.”

  “Then you can join in the celebrations,” Penley said. Before she could say a word, he added, “Holden is a hero.”

  Shock jarred through her. “A hero?” Surely Penley didn’t consider what Holden had done to her to be heroic?

  “All of the squires battled the blaze in the town, but he ran into a burning home.” The ginger-haired squire sounded proud. “He risked his life and saved a baby, just like the most gallant of knights.”

  She wanted to despise Holden…but he hadn’t been drinking around a bonfire. He’d been fighting a fire. He’d saved a child’s life. How could she not admire him for that?

  Anguish swirled inside her to form a maelstrom of heartache and confusion. She pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress a sob, and the dungeon spun around her.

  “Mary!” Holden rasped.

  “She is going to swoon!” Penley cried.

  A shrill ringing noise filled her ears.

  Darkness rushed in.

  As Mary’s eyelids fluttered closed, Holden lunged forward and slid his arms around her waist. No way in hellfire would he let her crumple to the floor. She’d endured more than enough for one day—and more bravely than he’d ever expected. He’d meant to ask her favorite hot drink, so he could have one made for her, but hadn’t managed to voice the question before she’d fainted.

  He pulled her in against him, her bosom to his chest, the side of her face resting against a singed patch on his cloak. Her hair smelled faintly of flowers, and he wondered, with a flicker of desire, how ’twould feel to bury his fingers in her silken tresses, tilt her head up, and kiss her right now.

  He could have her kiss, and she wouldn’t even know it had happened. Not until he told her.

  But, such a kiss could never be as good as one claimed when she was awake. He wanted her fully aware, unable to deny that their lips had touched—and that he’d kissed her well.

  “What do we do now?” Penley sounded worried.

  Mary’s breaths warmed Holden’s neck, but the fine silk of her gown was ice cold against his hand. “We must take her to the keep.”

  Penley groaned. “Her sire is going to be furious.”

  Aye. “He is still in the town, and so is Lord de Lanceau,” Holden said. “With luck, we can fix this before they get back.”

  The ginger-haired squire shook his head. “You and I may spend Christmas in this dungeon.”

  “You are not in any way responsible,” Holden said firmly. “’Tis entirely my fault. I will accept all blame.” Crouching slightly, he put his right arm under Mary’s knees and lifted her into his arms. “Get the door, will you?”

  Penley hurried across the chamber.

  As Holden crossed to the stairs, he glanced down at Mary in his arms. So lovely. He’d like to tell her so, once she was awake, but she’d probably not believe him.

  After today, she might not want to see him ever again. Her father might forbid him from getting anywhere near her. Regret weighed upon Holden, for he’d made a damned mess of things. But, he would do his best to make matters right.

  Leaving the dungeon, Holden headed across the bailey toward the keep; the draping swath of Mary’s gown brushed his legs while he walked. Stable hands paused in their work to stare, but he ignored them. Penley ran on ahead to hold open the door to the forebuilding.

  With Penley a few steps behind, Holden climbed the forebuilding’s stairs. He dreaded what would happen once he reached the hall, but every aspiring knight faced tests of courage. This was one of his.

  Upon reaching the vast room, he saw Lady de Lanceau sitting by the fire, embroidering, several wolfhounds dozing at her feet. “Milady,” he called, heading toward her.

  She glanced at him. Her smile faded as she rose, startling the slumbering hounds. “What happened?”

  “The dungeon—” Holden’s voice cracked.

  “Mary was in there all of this time?”

  Clearing his scratchy throat, Holden nodded. “Milady, I did not mean—”

  “You went to fight the fire.” Lady de Lanceau’s gaze pierced his. “Did you not ask anyone to let her out?”

  Holden shook his head. Never had he felt more unworthy of being called a hero. “I am sorry, milady. I did not…think—”

  “That is obvious.” She caught Mary’s hands. “Her skin is like ice.” She summoned a maidservant. “Build a fire in one of the guest chambers. Prepare a bath for her. Hot fare as well.”

  “At once, milady.” After curtsying, the young woman hurried off.

  As though noticing his arms were shaking from fatigue, Lady de Lanceau motioned to the bench nearby. “Sit her here. Men-at-arms will take her up to the chamber.”

  Holden carefully set Mary down on the bench, turning her so that her upper body slumped on the table. Straightening, he coughed several times, his eyes watering as he faced Lady de Lanceau again.

  A hint of sympathy touched her gaze. “You need a bath yourself, and to see the healer. Is anyone else from the castle injured?”

  “I do not know, milady,” he rasped. “Penley and I were ordered to return early. Lord de Lanceau and the rest of the men should be back soon.”

  “’Twas a bad fire in the town?”

  He nodded. “’Twas becoming contained, though, when we left.”

  “Holden was a hero.” Penley grinned. “’Tis why his lordship sent us back early. Holden dashed into the blaze and saved a little girl.”

  Lady de Lanceau’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “Did he, indeed? Well, that was very chivalrous of you, Holden. Since you were a hero, I will try not to be too angry when I tell his lordship of Mary’s condition.”

  Holden winced. “Milady—”

  “Go. Visit the healer and request a bath, if you like. I will see that Mary is well cared for.”

  “Are you feeling better?” Lady de Lanceau asked, her eyes softened with concern as she sat in the oak chair beside the bed.

  “I am. Thank you.” Mary put her mug of mulled wine on the bedside table. As soon as her ladyship—such an awe-inspiring woman—had entered the chamber, Mary had started trembling. Determined not to spill wine all over the fine bedding, she’d forsaken the drink for now.

  Over by the roaring fire was the bathing tub, which she’d left a short while ago. Her soak in the bathwater had been wondrous and had banished most of the chill of the dungeon. Two maidservants had scrubbed, rinsed, and dried her, helped her don a clean chemise of her ladyship’s, and then she’d indulged in a large bowl of pottage and two—all right, three—mince pies. After tucking her into bed, the maidservants had gathered up the bathing items and left, taking her clothes with them to try and clean off the grime.

  Judging by the noise that had come in when the door had been open, folk were gathering in the hall. One good thing about her stay in the dungeon: she no longer had to be at her father’s side, trying to impress Lord Rowell.

  “You have been very kind to me, milady,” Mary said. “I never meant to be so much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” Lady de Lanceau patted Mary’s arm. “If only men were not so hotheaded. But, they are.”

  Mirth and frustration threaded through her ladyship’s words, as though she was remembering moments from her past. Unable to tamp down curiosity, Mary asked, “I have heard chansons that say Lord de Lanceau kidnapped you and held you prisoner at this fortress.”

  “Aye, he did.”

  “Did he ever lock you in the dungeon?”

  “Nay, but he threatened to. He did hold me against my will, though, so I do have some idea of what you experienced today.” With a wink, she added, “Geoffrey has not dared to imprison me since, although at times, I have been sorely tempted to lock him in the dungeon.”<
br />
  Mary smiled.

  “Now, about the letter you wrote me.”

  Mary had forgotten about the missive, after all that had happened to her. “I was not certain you had received it, milady.”

  “I did. While I have never met Lord Rowell’s son, and he may be a fine young man, I completely understand your wish to marry for love.” She sighed, a sound of contentment. “Being in love is exciting and unlike any other experience. ’Tis most certainly worth waiting for.”

  “I hope one day to be as happily married as you, milady,” Mary said softly.

  “I wish that for you, too. But first, we must find you a place where you are not constantly being pressured to take a husband.”

  Hope welled within Mary. How glad she was to have found someone who understood her plight.

  “I may have a solution for you,” her ladyship said.

  Mary yearned to ask outright about becoming a ward at Branton Keep, but feared causing offense. She struggled to be patient.

  “One of my father’s wards at his castle, Wode, recently married and went to live with her husband. I can write to Father and see if he will take you in.”

  “Oh, thank you, milady!” Mary fought not to cry.

  “I am pleased to help. I do think you and my step-mother would get along well.”

  Strains of music started up in the hall, and folk cheered. Glancing at the doorway, Lady de Lanceau rose and smoothed her hands over her gown. “It sounds as though my husband has ordered the evening’s celebrations to start. I really should return to the hall and our guests.”

  “Of course, milady.”

  “I will be in touch with my father, though, first thing on the morrow.”

  Mary blinked hard. “I am very grateful.”

  Her ladyship nodded. “I will send a maidservant to sit with you. If there is aught you need this evening, just ask. Try to rest, if you can, although I have a feeling tonight’s festivities will get quite lively.”

  Among fellow squires standing near tables laden with sliced meats, cheeses, bread, dried fruit, assorted cakes, sweetmeats, and jugs of ale, Holden downed the last of his drink. He should go see Mary. He’d asked after her, had been told she was fine, but he needed to see for himself.

  Over by the hearth, the de Lanceaus were chatting with Lord Rowell and Mary’s father. A short while ago, Holden had gotten down on one knee and apologized to Lord Westbrook and Lord de Lanceau for Mary’s long stay in the dungeon. Both men had accepted his apology, although judging by the hard glint in Westbrook’s eyes, he’d rather have seen Holden whipped.

  Just before arriving at the hall, Holden had been warned by one of Westbrook’s guards that Westbrook had indeed encouraged de Lanceau to choose Holden as the Lord of Misrule, because he’d intended to cruelly humiliate Holden for showing interest in Mary. The fire, though, had ended such machinations.

  Grateful for the insight, Holden had decided that after doing his duty and apologizing, he’d avoid Westbrook for the rest of the man’s stay at Branton Keep.

  Near Holden, squires clapped along to the jaunty tune the musicians were playing. A few men-at-arms had asked maidservants to dance. Several of the young women had sprigs of mistletoe, and he grinned as the cook’s daughter rose on tiptoes and held her sprig over Selden’s head, meaning he had to kiss her; the girl had been pursuing Selden for a while.

  Holden longed to join in the revelry, but his pride at saving Anna’s life was overruled by nagging guilt. The image of Mary, unconscious in his arms, tormented him.

  Frowning, Holden set down his mug. Enough agony. He wouldn’t normally visit a lady’s chamber, for ’twasn’t proper, but he must. Mayhap then, his conscience would stop pestering him.

  He should ask permission first from his liege or her father. But, he had no wish to interrupt their conversation or antagonize Westbrook. Far better for Holden to go to Mary’s room, say what he had to say, and be back before anyone had noticed him gone.

  He took a nicely baked custard tart from the food table and made his way through the crowd toward the staircase that led to the keep’s upper level. As he passed them, men-at-arms and squires murmured congratulations on his brave rescue of the baby and shook his free hand or slapped him on the back, and he smiled, nodded, and answered “thank you.”

  His voice was slowly improving. The healer had given him a special tonic for his throat, ointment for his face and burns, and he’d bathed and dressed in his best garments. At least now he looked like the son of a lord.

  Hopefully Mary would be impressed.

  He climbed the stairs to the landing, walked along it then turned into the torch-lit corridor where the lord’s solar and guest chambers were located. He continued down the passageway, counting doors, until he reached the one where he’d been told Mary was staying.

  The door was shut. He drew a deep breath, raised his hand, and knocked.

  A gray-haired maidservant answered. He recognized her; a few days ago, he’d helped her gather up the basket full of leeks she’d dropped on her way back from the garden, and she’d been glad of the help.

  “May I see Lady Westbrook?” he asked, proud his voice didn’t waver.

  Her expression uneasy, the woman glanced over her shoulder. “You have a visitor, milady.”

  “I do not wish to see him.”

  Holden pushed the door open wider, to see Mary sitting up in bed. Gasping, she shrank down against her mounded pillows and tucked the bedding under her arms.

  “Lord Kendall, milady does not—”

  “I will not stay long.”

  The woman shook her head. “’Tis not proper, milord. You cannot—”

  “Would you rather I interrupt Lord de Lanceau to get his permission? When he has important guests to entertain? He would not be pleased with either of us.” When the woman still appeared reluctant, he added, “I promise I will not stay long. Keep the door open. If you act as chaperone, then no one can claim aught improper happened.”

  “All right. I will wait in the doorway.”

  “Thank you.”

  Holden crossed to the bedside. Her face scarlet, Mary stared at the far corner of the chamber, clearly hoping her demeanor would encourage him to leave.

  He was not going to walk away. She and her father would be leaving Branton Keep soon, and it could be a long while before Holden saw her again. He didn’t want to leave matters between them as they were now.

  When she continued to avoid facing him, he sat, the chair creaking as it took his weight. He glanced about the room which smelled of lavender, glad to see a brisk fire burning. Dark patches, from spilled bathwater, marked the planks near the hearth, and heat kindled inside him, for not long ago, she would have been naked there, her skin kissed by firelight.

  Reining in his wayward thoughts, he looked back at her. Her loose, freshly washed hair gleamed. Strands tumbled over her shoulders and onto the coverlet, and again, he yearned to sink his fingers into her tresses. If he did so, would she meet his gaze then?

  “Mary.”

  She continued to stare at the far corner. “As I said, I do not want to see you.”

  He held out the custard tart. “I brought you a treat.”

  Her gaze darted to his outstretched hand then returned to the corner. “Thank you. Leave it on the table.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. She hadn’t told him to get out and take the treat with him. ’Twas a good sign.

  He set the tart on the bedside table, as she’d asked. After a strained silence, he said, “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “As I already said—”

  “Even if I have come to apologize?”

  She nodded once, her hair whispering against the pillowcase.

  Frustration urged him to shove to his feet and leave in a huff. But, ’twould resolve naught. “Fine,” he said. “I will do all the talking, then.”

  Mary rolled her eyes and appeared to struggle for calm. Then she slid down under the blankets and pulled them in around her h
ead, so she was cocooned within—like a caterpillar before it changed into a butterfly.

  A wry chuckle tickled his throat, for she looked rather silly.

  “Hiding is not going to silence me or make me go away,” he said.

  The blankets rose and fell on her heavy sigh.

  “I know you are angry with me.” He laced his hands together. “I should not have left you imprisoned. I should have released you before I left for the town.”

  She sighed again.

  “I let my pride and arrogance rule my actions, and ’twas wrong. I understand that now.” Holden studied his hands. “What I want to say is….” You intrigue me. I wished to impress that upon you, for I find you beautiful and fascinating.

  Damnation, but how did he say what he thought? Never before had he felt compelled to tell a woman she was beautiful. But, saying such words would make him vulnerable, for ’twould be akin to sharing part of his soul.

  What if she laughed at him?

  What if she told her father?

  Mary lay very still, as though listening for him to finish his explanation.

  The words I am sorry stuck at the back of his mouth. He tried again to speak them, but pride and annoyance also stirred once more, insisting that while he’d not treated her kindly, he hadn’t expected to have been called away by de Lanceau. ’Twasn’t Holden’s fault a fire had broken out, or that he’d been ordered to help fight it. He had no regrets about saving homes and lives, especially the baby’s.

  Indeed, he’d fulfilled a most honorable quest.

  The apology melted away, as if it had been no more than a hailstone that had landed on his tongue. “Well,” he finally said. “I cannot change what has happened this day.”

  A small sound, muffled by the bedding, broke from her.

  “I trust we can put today behind us.”

  When she didn’t reply, he frowned. He was growing tired of seeing the lump she made under the blankets. But, he would wait for a reply from her.