O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  A stunned silence was quickly followed by thunderous applause. The clinking of glasses occurred as those gathered toasted to Edward. His friends descended upon him, offering hearty congratulations. Edward, who at first looked thunderstruck by her announcement, soon regained his composure and now beamed with pride.

  Joellen came over and said, “Your Graces, we are most grateful.”

  “I appreciate your gratitude, Joellen, but Edward was the only candidate we considered.” She smiled. “Notice that we didn’t ask him before we shared the good news.”

  Joellen chuckled. “Well, he couldn’t possibly turn you down in such a public forum.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Edward joined them, embracing her and shaking Reid’s hand. Then he spontaneously kissed his wife, despite a crowd.

  “I see I am rubbing off on you at last, Edward,” Reid said with approval.

  Ashlyn smiled, knowing Reid had expressed his love for her publicly on numerous occasions, sometimes to the dismay of their children.

  “As long as announcements are being made, I would like to add one,” Joellen said to them. “Just for the three of you to know for now.”

  Edward’s brow creased with worry. “What is it?”

  His wife smiled. “By next summer, you will not only be a headmaster. You will be a father.”

  “I . . . what?” Then realization kicked in and Edward whooped with delight. He lifted Joellen off her feet and swung her around before kissing her soundly. Turning to the room, he shouted, “I am going to be a father!”

  After many rounds of congratulations, Ashlyn encouraged their guests to retire to their rooms to freshen up and change for dinner. She and Reid climbed the stairs together, the last to leave the drawing room.

  “We certainly have a lot to celebrate this Yuletide at Gillingham,” she said.

  He stopped on the landing and framed her face in his hands.

  “We have much to celebrate every day, love.”

  Reid kissed Ashlyn and she knew they would celebrate their love each day for many years to come.

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Alexa Aston

  Medieval Runaway Wives

  Song of the Heart

  A Promise of Tomorrow

  Destined for Love

  King’s Cousins Series

  The Pawn

  The Heir

  The Bastard

  Knights of Honor Series

  Word of Honor

  Marked by Honor

  Code of Honor

  Journey to Honor

  Heart of Honor

  Bold in Honor

  Love and Honor

  Gift of Honor

  Path to Honor

  Return to Honor

  The St. Clairs Series

  Devoted to the Duke

  Midnight with the Marquess

  Embracing the Earl

  Defending the Duke

  Suddenly a St. Clair

  Starlight Night

  Soldiers & Soulmates Series

  To Heal an Earl

  To Tame a Rogue

  To Trust a Duke

  To Save a Love

  To Win a Widow

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  The Lyon’s Lady Love

  About the Author

  Award-winning and international bestselling author Alexa Aston’s historical romances use history as a backdrop to place her characters in extraordinary circumstances, where their intense desire for one another grows into the treasured gift of love.

  She is the author of Medieval and Regency romance, including The Knights of Honor, The King’s Cousins, The St Clairs, and The de Wolfes of Esterley Castle.

  A native Texan, Alexa lives with her husband in a Dallas suburb, where she eats her fair share of dark chocolate and plots out stories while she walks every morning. She enjoys reading, Netflix binge-watching, and can’t get enough of Survivor, The Crown, or Game of Thrones.

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  A Thrill of Hope

  Anna Markland

  “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices

  For yonder breaks a new glorious morn.”

  Chapter One

  No Laughing Matter

  Aust, Gloucester, England, Christmas Day 1879

  Sitting demurely in one of the well-upholstered chairs in the living room of her parents’ comfortable Georgian-style house, hands folded in her lap, Samantha Hindley surveyed the others in the circle. She resisted the urge to smile at her fiancé seated across from her. There was no hope of winning the party game if she showed the least bit of amusement. Brock was a stickler for rules. Not that she had a chance against him. He rarely smiled anyway. He tended to be too serious, but she put his dour nature down to his many responsibilities as an up-and-coming young barrister.

  Samantha’s fun-loving younger sister was already giggling, so it was unlikely Grace would win the game in a month of Sundays.

  Papa had already imbibed too much mulled wine to stay poker-faced for long.

  Mama would excuse herself before the game was done to fret over the Christmas dinner being prepared in the kitchens. The delicious aroma of roasted turkey was already making Samantha’s stomach growl.

  “You go first, Sister,” Grace declared.

  Samantha nodded. “Hah,” she exclaimed loudly, struggling for control when her sister burst out laughing and tipped sideways off her chair.

  “You’re out, Grace,” Brock said, sounding bored with the game already.

  Samantha shifted in her seat when her father rolled his eyes and said, “I think she realizes that.”

  “Hee, hee, hee,” Grace taunted as she regained her seat.

  “You’re out. You can’t play,” Brock repeated without a trace of a smile.

  “I know, silly,” Samantha’s sister replied.

  “Manners, Grace,” their red-faced mother admonished. “Let’s just carry on, shall we? Ho.”

  Samantha was hard pressed not to laugh when her father stuck out his tongue in response to his wife’s self-conscious attempt, but she held firm.

  Apparently realizing his attempts to play the wag weren’t having the desired effect, her papa took his turn. “Heeeeee,” he exclaimed, baring his teeth in a ghoulish grimace.

  It took only a minute for rolling laughter to bubble up in his throat. When a great guffaw emerged, he reached for his tumbler of mulled wine and took a hefty swig as a coughing fit ensued.

  Grace thumped her father on the back until he stopped coughing and blew his nose. The honking was enough to make a corpse laugh.

  “You’re out, Mr. Hindley,” Brock declared.

  “Really?” her father rasped, his face beet red and merry eyes wide.

  Clearly unaware of the sarcasm, Brock muttered, “I’ll go next, shall I? Ha.”

  “I must see to dinner,” her mother murmured as she rose and hurried off.

  A mischievous determination to best Brock rose suddenly in Samantha’s breast. She respected that the man of the family should make the decisions, but her fiancé was sometimes too domineering, too sure he was always right. This was a laughing game, after all. She’d make him smile at least, if it was the last thing she did. “Ho,” she said, jaw clenched as she narrowed her gaze.

  “Hee,” Brock replied sternly, his dark eyes flashing a warning.

  Samantha took a deep breath and decided to play on, despite the sudden tightness in her throat. “Ha.”

  “Ho,” Brock intoned, his long fingers curling around the lions’ heads carved on the end of his chair’s arms.

  “Hee.” Samantha resented the sound of defeat in her voice, and was she actually sweating?

  “Ha,” Brock sneered, his upper lip curling in triumph.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Samantha saw
Grace’s head swiveling back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match. She gritted her teeth, but the struggle became futile when her father tried to make Brock laugh by crossing his eyes, sticking his thumbs in his ears and wiggling his fingers. His future son-in-law looked down his nose at him as if he’d lost his wits. Samantha couldn’t hold on. She laughed in an effort to rid herself of the uneasy feeling she really didn’t like her betrothed much when he was in a domineering mood. Irritation niggled when Brock smugly declared himself the winner.

  “Well, you could at least smile about it,” Grace muttered, earning a glowering frown from her future brother-in-law.

  Samantha was afraid he was about to take her sister to task for a lack of respect. Grace tended to speak without forethought, but she didn’t have a mean bone in her body. Samantha breathed a sigh of relief when her mother reappeared and announced that dinner was about to be served.

  Chapter Two

  Meager Fare

  When the metallic rumble of the dinner gong resounded from the foyer, Parker Cullen rose from his uncomfortable armchair in front of the empty grate and dutifully took his place at his uncle’s dining room table. He knew from previous experience that the housekeeper-cum-cook didn’t like to be kept waiting, especially on Christmas Day. She had a family of her own to take care of, as she’d waspishly reminded them every Christmas for the past three years.

  “So, here we are again,” Parker said jovially as Mrs. Finch snapped his folded napkin and dropped it on his lap. “Seems like only yesterday we were celebrating last Christmas.”

  Judson eyed him. “But it has been a full year since.”

  Parker inhaled, reminding himself he should, by now, be used to the fact his uncle took everything literally. Par for the course for an engineer, he supposed. Guilt niggled. It was Christmas, after all, and Judson had earned a reputation as one of England’s foremost bridge builders.

  Mrs. Finch doled out a slice of roasted turkey, two Brussels sprouts, a carrot, and two over-roasted potatoes on each plate. Parker had come to recognize the dollop of gray matter as stuffing. As in past years, there was barely enough food to feed a child, never mind a man with a healthy appetite like Parker. His reed-thin uncle apparently thought everyone ate as little as he did. He considered gluttony a great sin.

  Aware the parsimonious Judson eschewed such frivolities as Christmas crackers, Parker assumed the housekeeper was responsible for the brightly decorated one sitting by his plate. He pulled both ends, extracted his paper hat and nestled it atop his head. “Voilà,” he announced, unrolling the slip of paper with the riddle tucked inside. Since Judson had no sense of humor, posing the riddle would be a waste of time, but he had to try to bring levity to the meager feast. “What beast has six feet, four ears, two mouths, two foreheads?”

  His uncle stared at him as if he’d grown horns.

  “A horse and rider,” Parker explained with a chuckle. “Get it?”

  “Six feet, you say?”

  Parker wondered again how his uncle had ever managed to design some of the most famous bridges in England. His latest project, the new Severn River Railway Bridge was one of the longest ever constructed.

  When the housekeeper left, Judson stared at his plate. Parker waited, knowing what would come next.

  “For what we are about to receive,” his uncle intoned. “May the Lord make us truly thankful.”

  “Amen,” Parker intoned, picking up his knife and fork. Praying was something he hadn’t done since he was a boy, and then only because his Irish parents forced him to his knees. Most of his childhood prayers had revolved around begging for sober parents. His father’s brother wasn’t a drunkard, but Christian charity wasn’t something Judson was known for.

  Parker had learned there was no point waiting for his uncle to tuck in. He speared a sprout and braced himself. He loved the little vegetables but not when they were nigh on raw in the center. His appetite left him as soon as he tried to bite into it.

  He clenched his jaw, feeling wretched. He was probably the only twenty-five-year-old man in the whole of Gloucestershire eating Christmas dinner with a miserly uncle. Panic constricted his throat at the prospect he’d be sitting in the exact same place years from now watching his uncle move food around on his plate. Judson and Parker, two old eccentric codgers, confirmed bachelors, of course.

  He tamped down a lunatic urge to throw his fork at Judson and declare his refusal to lose hope that he’d one day find a loving wife who’d bear his children. There’d be Christmases filled with joy and laughter. Instead, he asked, “So, is the Severn River Bridge open now?”

  “Officially, no,” Judson replied, pouring gravy onto the food he had no intention of eating. “Though we’ve sent a few engines across. Just to make sure the rails and switches are functioning properly.”

  “When’s the official opening?”

  “28th.”

  Parker suspected he’d need an invitation to attend, but the 28th was only four short days away. “I haven’t been able to witness any of your other official openings,” Parker said, assuming Judson thought he wasn’t interested in seeing his grandest and much-publicized project. “Too far away, but this one is practically in our back yard.”

  “You’ll need an invitation, unless you take the first public train across to Wales.”

  Parker had no wish to end up in Wales and have to find his way back. Also, it was unlikely Judson would pay his train fare. “No. Can you get me a seat in the grandstand?”

  “Check with my secretary.”

  Parker had read all about the marvelous engineering advancements used in the construction of the new bridge, but the silence, filled only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, was getting on his nerves. The turkey was harder to cut than shoe leather and the burned potatoes were as hard as rocks. He chuckled inwardly when an errant thought occurred that the Brussels sprouts might have brought the Crimean War to an end much sooner. If the British troops had been provided with better ammunition…

  Having made a mental note to make sure his future wife hired a good cook, he gripped his fork, berating himself. His height and bearing, coupled with reasonably attractive features, appealed to women—until they noticed his pronounced limp.

  Despite grim predictions by more than one doctor that his leg would have to be removed, he’d kept the limb after being wounded serving in the police force. He’d been instrumental in capturing a would-be assassin when Her Majesty visited Bristol, but not before the lunatic had plunged a rusted bayonet into his thigh. Victoria had awarded him a medal, but the decoration and royal gratitude didn’t warm his bed at night. Deemed unfit for regular duty, he’d been shipped off to Aust and assigned to administrative work ever since.

  He took a sip of water, wishing his uncle would, for once, loosen his purse strings and splurge on a bottle of good wine.

  Deciding he was getting maudlin, he scraped the uneaten portion of his meal to the side of the plate with his knife, placed his utensils correctly lest his uncle remind him and untwisted the paper of the bonbon from his cracker. It would fill a gap until the plum pudding and mince tarts arrived. “Tell me about this bridge,” he said.

  Chapter Three

  No History to Speak of

  Strolling along the banks of the Severn River, Darren Rorke paused to lift his binoculars in order to focus on the distant ruins of Chepstow Castle on the Welsh side of the wide waterway. “Magnificent,” he declared. “Certainly nothing like it in the States.”

  “Built hundreds of years ago,” Daffyd sneered. “To keep us Welsh at bay.”

  While he might not like the oily little Welshman, Darren recognized a kindred spirit. His own Irish ancestors had suffered similar persecution over the centuries. It was his sworn duty to exact revenge for those atrocities. Ireland must be freed from British rule. “History is fascinating,” he allowed, still irritated his contacts in England hadn’t managed to find Irish collaborators.

  “Of course,” Daffyd replied, blo
wing his nose reddened by the brisk winter wind sweeping up the Bristol Channel. “You’ve no history to speak of in America.”

  Resisting the urge to pound the ignorant fellow into the pavement, Darren thought longingly of his birthplace. He loved the hustle and bustle of New York, the architecture, the traditions. No history, indeed. “At least we can count on a white Christmas,” he said, his thoughts drifting to the annual family get-together he’d been forced to miss this year. Aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins. His father always made sure the Irish whisky flowed and his mother cooked up a storm. There’d be laughter, reminiscing and songs from the auld sod. Swallowing the homesickness lodged in his throat, he forced his thoughts back to the present. “All you get is dismal rain.”

  Darren failed to see the humor, but Daffyd chuckled as he eyed the portmanteau. “Good thing we’re not planning to blow up the castle. It would take a sight more dynamite than I suspect you’ve brought. Same stuff as before?”

  Darren gritted his teeth. “Don’t talk so loudly. You never know who might overhear.”

  Daffyd’s curious stare was well earned. There wasn’t another soul in sight on this chilly Christmas Day. “The police know the dynamite used in the explosions at Victoria Railway Station and Clerkenwell Prison came from America,” the Welshman said. “We don’t manufacture that type in Britain.”

  “And yet,” Darren replied, feeling smug. “My bags were never searched once during the voyage.” He bristled, grasping Daffyd’s wrist when the little man reached for the portmanteau. “You must guarantee you can carry this off.”

  The Welshman pointed to the partially completed grandstand in the distance. “There’s no one working on finishing the platform today, it being a holiday. Me and Gwilym can have the dynamite in place and no one will be any the wiser. There’s a gale coming. I feel it in my bones. It will look as though the bridge just collapsed in the high wind. The general opinion is the span is too long anyway.”