“Cap’n?”
“Get it out of here! Take it! Now!”
“Aye, sir.” Kip hurried back out the door, then paused in the hallway. “Want I should leave behind the whisky? Mr. Hobbs said ye be out of all yer stock.”
“Hell no! Take that jug and bury it!” Weak as a half-drowned man, Tait sank into his chair and held his head, covering his face with both hands. What the hell was happening? Last night couldn’t have been real.
“Aye, sir,” Kip said quietly. The plates clattered and clinked as he clicked the door shut.
The monkey. The jug. Tait lifted his head and opened his eyes, already knowing what he would find. Sure enough, Pirate Queen Augusta Santorini’s staff leaned against the fireplace. The ruby gem glimmered in the sunlight with an evil wink.
It had all happened. Not a dream. Not a hallucination brought on by drink. But a true warning from a higher power—some relentless Yuletide god determined to give him a none too subtle shove down the path he should take.
“I believe,” he confessed to the ruby. “And I will make this right by dear sweet Ellie. I swear it.” The staff disintegrated into a pile of ash and blew into the hearth. Tait snorted, not a bit surprised.
He hurried to the window, calculating the sun’s position and how much of the day he’d lost, not trusting the golden hands of the bejeweled clock he’d stolen from the Portuguese. Thankfully, it was still early. Well before midday. He’d not missed Ellie’s special Christmas dinner. He could still make it.
Filling the washbowl with icy water from the pitcher, he stripped down and scrubbed hard to rid both body and mind of any lingering stench of last night. He’d not go to Ellie smelling like that damn monkey. Hair dripping down his chest, he threw open the doors of his wardrobe and selected the best of his clothes, including his favorite jacket, the one Ellie had made. He was dressed and nearly out the door when he stopped short. He couldn’t go to her empty-handed.
“What do I give her?” An edginess he’d never known before took hold of his gut and twisted. He’d never thought of marrying. Didn’t even know how to ask her if she’d have him. What if she had already changed her mind? Lasses did that sometimes. His hand went to the ring he wore on a gold chain around his neck. It was a simple band of braided silver. His mother’s ring. Whenever troubled, the touch of it always brought him solace and settled his mind. He smiled. Aye. This ring was perfect for Ellie.
The closer he got to the quartermaster’s quarters, the drier his mouth became. He hoped Hobbs had plenty of drink to spare. When he reached the door, he stopped and stared at it, paralyzed by what he was about to do. Before he could knock, it opened.
Hobbs’s mouth fell open, and his bushy brows hiked to his hairline.
“Ask Cook if she can spare more butter, too,” Ellie called out from somewhere inside. “I needed more than I reckoned for the potatoes.”
“I will,” Hobbs replied. He cleared his throat and opened the door wider, waving Tait inside. “Forgive me manners, Cap’n. Ye caught me by surprise. Do come in.”
“My invitation is still good, aye?” As Tait stepped into the room, an unnerving sense of having been in this exact time and place before hit him. His spirits lifted. This time things would be different. This time there’d be no unhappiness.
“O’ course yer invite still be good, course it is.” Hobbs looked like a man about to walk the plank. He stepped close and whispered, “I thank ye greatly, Cap’n. Ye’re being here will make Ellie’s Christmas all the better.”
At that moment, Ellie entered the room bearing the same covered platter Tait had watched her carry to the table last night. “Captain Tait! Welcome!” She hurried to place the tray on the table. Wiping her hands on her apron, she rushed forward with hands outstretched. “Happy Christmas and Merry Yule!”
Her beauty struck him like it never had before, especially since the last time he’d held her—lifeless in his arms. Nay. He wouldn’t ruin this precious moment with the memory of that terrible possibility. Without a word, he brushed away her outstretched hands and pulled her into his arms. Holding her tight, he closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath, savoring everything about her. She smelled of baking bread, roasted fowl, and vibrancy more alluring than fair weather and calm seas. She was so warm. So soft. Thankfully, so alive.
A yearning, an aching emptiness nearly took him to his knees. “Be my wife,” he rasped into her hair. To hell with dancing around with wooing and words. He had to hear her accept, to know she’d still have him. He stepped back, holding tight to her hands, he knelt. “Please, Ellie. Say ye’ll be my wife.”
She stared down at him with eyes wide and lips parted. No answer came. She didn’t even blink.
This wasn’t good. The ring. He’d forgotten to give her the ring. Tait fumbled the ring off the necklace and held it out. “This was my mother’s. For years it’s protected me from stormy seas and ill luck. If ye wear it, mayhap it’ll protect ye, too.” He shrugged and twitched a nervous smile, wishing she’d say something. “Ye might need protection from all manner of things if ye choose to marry a man like me.”
Her unreadable look slid from his face to the ring. Tears welled in her eyes, overflowed, then streamed down both her cheeks.
“Oh, dear God, no.” Tait jumped to his feet and gently swiped at the dreaded wetness. “Please dinna cry, lass. I nay meant to make ye cry. Forgive me—I’ll…I’ll go. I’ll nay bother ye ever again.” He had failed. He had waited too long, and her love had soured. Those damned ghosts had just toyed with him, used him for their own vicious amusement on Christmas Eve.
“Dinna ye dare take another step away.” Ellie threw herself against his chest, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Before he could return the kiss, she drew back and framed his face between her hands. “Aye, Tait Mackenzie. I will be yer wife.” She smiled as she slowly shook her head. “I dinna ken whatever changed yer mind, and I dinna care. I’m just glad ye finally noticed me.”
“I have always noticed ye, Ellie, my love, always.” He slid the ring on her finger, and it fit perfectly. Another sign this was meant to be. “I just never thought myself worthy of ye,” he added softly. He smiled as he looked over at Hobbs. “But three friends of yer father’s made me see the errors of my thinking.”
“Three friends? Of mine?” Hobbs asked.
“I’ll tell ye both about them some time.” Tait nodded toward the door. “Were ye no’ in the process of running an errand for butter and whatever else so we can all sit down and enjoy this fine meal?” He grinned and hugged Ellie tighter. “Ellie and I shall wait here and share some proper kisses until ye return.”
“This be a fine Christmas after all,” Hobbs said with a chuckle as he headed out the door.
“The finest Christmas ever,” Ellie murmured as she offered her sweet mouth up to him. “I believe I was promised a proper kiss? Many proper kisses, in fact?”
“That ye were, my love, that ye were.” He returned to the sweetness he’d always thought forbidden, reveling in the wonder of this rare woman in his arms. Then he broke the bond and smiled down at her. “Thank ye,” he whispered.
“For what?” she asked, a faint smile tickling across her winsome mouth.
“For saving me from myself and making this the best Yuletide ever.”
With the lightest touch, she pressed a hand to his cheek, her smile no longer faint. “Happy Christmas, my love.”
“The happiest of Christmases to ye, my dear one.”
“Kisses?” she gently reminded.
“Kisses,” he affirmed and bent to the task.
Chapter Four
Tait’s Cove
Christmas Eve (Ten years later)
“Tell us again, Da.” Young Josiah, named for his grandsire, folded his hands as though saying his prayers. “Tell us about the ghosties just one more time, please?”
Wee Elizabeth, a bouncing bundle of tireless energy, chimed in, “Aye, Papa.” She excitedly patted her father’s knee. “Pw
eeze?” She turned and nudged her infant brother, tiny Liam, who was sitting on the floor, chewing on a wooden ship. “Ask him, Liam. Ask Papa to tell the story again.”
Little Liam looked up and gurgled out a fervent string of baby gibberish.
“Liam wants to hear it, too,” Elizabeth translated.
Tait chuckled as he looked over at Ellie, sitting across from him in front of the fire. “How can I refuse them?”
“By taking them to their beds, kissing their pates, and telling them that ye love them.” Ellie gave him a stern look softened by the love and devotion in her eyes. “Ye’ve already told the story once. Tomorrow’s a big day, and they need their rest.” She smoothed a hand down her middle, gently rounding with their next child. “And so do I.”
Tait scooped Elizabeth up in one arm, Liam in the other, and stood in front of his chair. “Come, Josiah. Ye heard Mama.”
Josiah scampered into the chair and climbed onto his father’s back. Arms tight around Tait’s neck, he giggled. “Ready, Da!”
Galloping like the finest stallion, Tait toted the squealing children off to their beds.
Ellie released a weary sigh, leaned back, and closed her eyes.
“Poor lass,” Pirate Queen Augusta observed from the ghosts’ perch outside the bay window. “Weary as can be and got a fourth babe a comin’.”
“Aye,” Captain Horace Mabuz agreed while affectionately rubbing the monkey nestled in the crook of his arm. “But she’s happy.” He gave a satisfied nod toward the heartwarming scene. “This is how it should be.”
“We did good, aye, Cap’n?” Captain Dax Willet asked.
“Aye,” Captain Horace said. “That we did, me hearties. That we did.”
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson
Highland Heroes Series
The Guardian
The Warrior
The Judge
The Dreamer
The Bard
The Ghost
About the Author
“No one has the power to shatter your dreams unless you give it to them.” That’s Maeve Greyson’s mantra. She and her husband of almost forty years traveled around the world while in the U.S. Air Force. Now, they’re settled in rural Kentucky where Maeve writes about her beloved Highlanders and the fearless women who tame them. When she’s not plotting her next romantic Scottish tale, she can be found herding cats, grandchildren, and her husband—not necessarily in that order.
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A Strange Christmas Game
Whitney Blake
Author’s Note
The inspirations for this story were on the macabre side of Christmas tales, Dickensian and otherwise. It’s still Regency—using one of my main character’s valet as a hero—but with a side of the Victorians’ predilection for the dramatic and otherworldly at Christmas.
It does have a happy conclusion. This is Christmastime, after all. And in the future, you’ll be able to read all of Charles and Florence’s story as a full novel.
For now, sit down with a cuppa and enjoy their introduction.
Chapter One
December 1816
A village near the Black Isle
“Believe me, I share your confusion, Mr. Lester,” Charles Mason was often called a tactful man.
At the moment, drenched in rain, he was sure that he just seemed desperate.
His younger half-brother scoffed at his side, equally wet and cold. “Mr. Lester, surely you know someone who has a spare key?” Nigel was impatient. Always had been. He never meant to be off-putting, but hopefully Mr. Lester would not take it personally.
“The house has stood alone for months. No one goes there, now, Mr. Mason,” said Mr. Lester. Then he looked at Nigel, offering a smile. “And Mr. Maclean.”
“We just need to gain access,” said Charles. It was obvious that no one had been there for some time, from the patina on the outer walls to the overgrown garden.
Mr. Lester winced. “Has not Mr. Long provided you with a set of keys?”
The widowed innkeeper knew the reason for Charles and Nigel’s errand, namely, viewing a house left to Charles by Charles’ late father. They’d stopped at the inn for directions upon arriving in the village from Inverness. Mr. Long had been Charles’ father’s man of business, and he had a distant approach to the whole affair.
Mr. Lester was ready to point them in the direction of Ullinn House. His business seemed to be unraveling due to the loss of local industry. But it was a clean inn, and he was personable if easily harried.
“None work on the gate. Its lock is rusted.” Charles did not divulge that if he needed to, he could easily pick locks or climb the fence. Neither of those things was especially evocative of trustworthiness. If he’d wanted to climb the high fence, he should have done it before returning to the inn for further questions. Nigel, at least, would not have told anyone he’d done it, just like he was not going to breathe a word about Charles’ lock-picking.
They were close even though Charles was older. Their mother had married Nigel’s father when Charles was three, and Nigel came one year later.
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Lester.
All Charles wished to do was rest. Had an angel told him he should plan on traveling north before the year’s end, he would not have believed it. Scotland held little joy for him.
He was surprised when, one morning three weeks ago, a messenger arrived at the door of his employer’s townhouse with a letter. Mason did not regularly correspond with anyone except for Nigel, who was not the most consistent letter writer. Even their mother did not write much.
When the letter turned out to be for him, he read its contents and almost cast it into the nearest fire. His blood father was dead.
There was a house and a little money. It had been left to him.
They—Mr. Long and a solicitor—had some trouble locating the younger Mr. Mason, so the property had been vacant for four months. That was not unexpected. His history of work was varied enough. While he did not use an assumed name now, he knew he might be elusive.
His present employer, the Duke of Welburn, encouraged him to see what the house was like, at least. Lord Valencourt believed that if Mason wished to sell the property, he would want to know its state and contents firsthand. Both Lord and Lady Valencourt maintained that he might find himself swindled if he did not.
It was better, they said, to take care of it himself. Scottish politics were complex enough as it was, Lady Valencourt had pointed out, and Mason was fortunate that his father’s property had not been seized to cover old debts.
He did not explain the nature of his connection with his father. That there was none at all save a name. He knew little of Mr. Roderick Mason.
He did try to say he wanted nothing to do with this Ullinn House.
They still declared he should go. So he went. Normally thankful for his employer’s unusual frame of mind, he did not appreciate it in this instance.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Lester. He tilted his head. “Forgive me, but as you own it, perhaps you could simply break the lock?”
Nigel shifted a laugh into a cough.
Charles took a breath. It was warm in Mr. Lester’s establishment and he would have the chance of a cooked meal. But now that he had made the journey, it seemed ridiculous to put off its purpose. He was there for a reason. It had little to do with relaxation.
All he needed to do was enter and assess the property. He had assumed—perhaps wrongly—that it would be possible to stay in the house.
“Does Ullinn House not have a caretaker?” Charles struggled not to rub his nose on his shi
rtsleeve. The cold made his nose run. Water rolled from his hat to his forehead, cheeks, and nose. December was bitter.
“It does not.”
“That seems ill-advised.”
“Mr. Mason, your late father, was present in the house all the year round. I do not believe he kept a caretaker at all.”
“A former housekeeper or cook?” Nigel said.
Mr. Lester glanced at his hands. “You may find that no one wishes to revisit Ullinn House, now.”
“I assure you, Mr. Lester, that I am not my father,” said Charles.
“You misunderstand me.”
“If he was a cruel man, I do not wish for anyone to discomfort themselves.” Charles crossed his arms. He understood the possibility of a pernicious employer. Or one who might use their servants for sport. Lord Valencourt’s late brother provided him with a harsh primer on the matter. He’d had little choice: no one respectable wanted someone with his background or lack of qualifications for the position of valet.
If it was the street or work for a man who treated him as an animal, Charles decided he would brave the man.
“Your father, God rest him, was not a bad man,” said Mr. Lester.
“Then what is the trouble? Surely someone can allow me into the house.”
Selling it would be a difficult prospect, most likely. It was far from London, where everyone seemed to need or want to be, and still a journey from either Glasgow or Edinburgh.
“Ullinn House, Mr. Mason, is haunted.”
An unfortunate announcement. Charles was one of the few men he knew who gave any credence to such follies.
Chapter Two
“Haunted?” Charles shook his head and dislodged more water from his hat. “Forgive me, Mr. Lester. May we sit down?”
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 79