Snowbound Surrender

by Christine Merrill

  Suddenly she could move, could speak, could feel. ‘Yes, I will come and, no, there is nothing to forgive because I needed time to think as well.’

  He waited patiently while she ran to find her cloak with the fur hood and her muff and gloves, set the guard around the fire and told Fred to be good, then he took her arm as they walked down the path, a little slippery with frost. But there was no need, she thought, her feet were floating above the ice.

  The curricle was at the gate, already turned, two horses patient in the shafts. Giles helped her up, then drove in silence to the lane and turned uphill. ‘I found this viewpoint, right over your chimney tops,’ he said as he reined in.

  ‘Oh.’ The view was breathtaking, as clear as it had been that night they had looked out from the window. But they were higher now and the sky was a bowl of black velvet above them, spangled with light.

  ‘The stars are back, Julia, and I do not think the magic ever went away.’ Giles dropped the reins, but the horses stood still. ‘I did not understand how I felt, only that it was an ache in my heart and, when I left you, that the ache became torment. My friends were joking about wild plans and adventures, about avoiding parson’s mousetrap, and I realised that all I wanted was to be with you, to start building something wonderful for the rest of our lives. I love you, Julia. Will you marry me?’

  There was no need to think, no room for doubts when the sincerity was warm and true in his voice.

  ‘Oh, yes, Giles. I love you so much and I thought it would be so wrong to marry you.’

  Then his arms were around her and he was kissing her, holding her so close that she could feel the beat of his heart. How long they kissed, she had no idea, but then the curricle moved and Giles released her as he found the reins. ‘I should not keep them standing in this cold. Or keep you out in it either.’

  ‘No. Let us go down and let them go to their stable. The magic will come with us, I think.’

  ‘Now that we’ve found it,’ Giles agreed, ‘I do not think it will ever leave us.’ He linked his left hand with her right and drove downhill towards the lights and the laughter and a new year filled with love and magic.

  * * *

  Christmas with the Major

  Laura Martin

  For Jack and George. There’s nothing better than your smiles on Christmas morning.

  Dear Reader,

  Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of the year. There’s something wonderful about the anticipation, the buildup, the preparation and then a wonderful day surrounded by those you care about the most. I loved writing Christmas with the Major—it allowed me to channel all of those lovely Christmas feelings into a story of two lost souls coming together to find the one who makes them feel like themselves again.

  From the very start, when Christmas with the Major was just a flicker of an idea at the edge of my mind, I knew I wanted to set the story in a little cottage in the snow. I find the idea of being cut off from the world, with only one another for company, rather romantic. Then came the images of roaring fires, heady evenings filled with desire and two people barely able to resist each other, and the story was born.

  I hope you enjoy my little slice of Christmas. I know this year I’ll be wishing for a little cottage in the snow to share with my special someone.

  Laura Martin

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter One

  Cecilia pulled the collar of her riding habit up further around her neck and shivered. It had been snowing when she’d left Whiteburn Hall, but instead of the blizzard-like conditions that were raging now it had been more of a gentle flurry. Something she’d been convinced she could ride twenty miles in easily.

  Cursing loudly, in language her guardian would most certainly not approve of, Cecilia squinted through the snow. It was still at least five miles to the Crawleys’ home, her planned destination, and there was no way either she or her horse would make it in this weather. Images of her frozen body being found when the snow thawed popped into her head and quietly Cecilia grimaced—that fate would still be better than the one her guardian had planned for her.

  She shivered, looked back over her shoulder and deliberated. It was fifteen miles back to Whiteburn Hall and no doubt if she ever arrived there safely she would spend the entirety of Christmas locked in her room as punishment for trying to flee. Or five miles to the Crawley house, where her oldest friend would have a warm welcome and a few days of happiness before Cecilia had to return to reality.

  Her decision made, she pushed on, but her horse, Lady Bea, had only taken a couple of steps when she stumbled, slipping on an icy patch.

  Immediately Cecilia jumped down, soothing the horse and checking her over as best she could in the poor light. There didn’t seem to be any obvious injury, but she knew it was reckless to push on with her journey, in either direction. The only sensible thing to do would be to look for shelter until the morning.

  Taking as much care as possible, she remounted and pressed Lady Bea to continue, picking the safest route through the thick snow. Every minute that passed the visibility worsened and the wetness seeped through her clothes just a little more.

  * * *

  She almost cried out in relief when she saw the outline of a building ahead of her. Whatever it was, whoever owned it, surely they wouldn’t begrudge her a safe haven for the duration of the snowstorm?

  The little cottage came into focus as she moved closer and Cecilia was surprised to find it was strangely familiar. Only when she was almost at the gate did she realise it was Rose Cottage, one of the many properties that made up the Crawley estate. When she’d been young and had spent a few summers with the Crawleys, exploring every corner of the estate with her dearest friend, Elizabeth, they’d visited the cottage. It had been empty then, used as an occasional place to house guests when they had a large number visiting. It still looked empty now, but Cecilia didn’t mind. As long as it was warm and dry she could cope with not having a roaring fire to sit in front of.

  Quickly she dismounted, leading Lady Bea to the shelter at the back of the cottage. It only had space for two horses, but Cecilia was pleasantly surprised to see fresh hay and a clean stable. Her fingers numb, she saw to Lady Bea as swiftly as she could before turning towards the cottage.

  ‘Please, please, please,’ she begged as she tried the front door. It was locked, as was the back door. And all the windows. With her spirits sinking she felt around the doorframes for easy spots to hide a spare key with no success.

  Later she would tell the Crawleys that she spent a long time deliberating, but that wasn’t quite the truth. It took her only thirty seconds to decide to pick up the hefty, palm-sized rock and bring it down on the glass of a windowpane next to the back door. The glass shattered and Cecilia nearly cried with relief as she reached in through the hole and unlatched the door. She’d pay for the repairs, of course, and the Crawleys would never begrudge her shelter on a night like this.

  Although the house was empty, as soon as she’d shut the door behind her Cecilia felt the warmth begin to suffuse through her body. It might have been purely psychological, coming from the relief of knowing she didn’t have to spend any longer in the snowstorm, but she wondered if the cottage had retained a little heat from whenever it had last been occupied as well.

  Cecilia moved into the little cottage, stepping into the comfortable downstairs room furnished with armchairs and looking longingly at the fireplace. She knew it was a dream, thinking she might be able to light one herself. Her whole life she’d been sheltered from having to do anyth
ing even remotely practical by her status as England’s wealthiest heiress. Even in recent years, when her existence had become a little less comfortable at the hands of her ever-more-desperate guardian, Mr Archibald Turner, she’d never been forced to do anything remotely resembling work.

  She sighed and moved on. A fire would be heaven indeed, but there was no point in dwelling on what she couldn’t have.

  Upstairs there were two bedrooms, one furnished with a comfortable-looking double bed with thick covers. The second looked less inviting with a narrow single bed covered only by a couple of sheets.

  ‘Time to get warm,’ she murmured to herself. Grimacing, she peeled the wet layers of clothes from her body, shivering as her skin was slowly exposed to the air. Even her chemise was wet and after only a moment’s hesitation she pulled that off over her head as well, hugging her body with her arms to try to conserve some warmth. Quickly she wrapped herself in a sheet, then slipped under the thick covers, revelling in the softness of the bed. With a sigh of contentment she wriggled down even further, wondering what it said about her life when she was happier here in this little abandoned cottage than she had been in the past year.

  * * *

  Not far now, Joe told himself, pushing himself to continue even though the muscles in his injured leg were screaming in pain.

  It had been foolhardy to set off from his parents’ house in this weather, but Joe had been eager to get away. Tomorrow the first of the guests would start arriving for the annual Crawley Christmas Eve ball at the end of the week and he had been so desperate not to be there. He didn’t want to see the pitying looks or hear the whispered comments of sympathy behind raised hands. Even worse were the enquiries about his health—all the while their eyes would flicker to his injured leg as if trying to see through the fabric of his trousers.

  No, an hour spent in a blizzard was better than that.

  It couldn’t be far to the cottage now, just a few hundred more feet, but in this weather it was hard to be sure. All the normal landmarks were covered in a thick layer of snow and it was only his good sense of direction that kept him on the right path.

  With his head down Joe battled on, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw the neat little form of Rose Cottage in front of him. In a couple of minutes he would be stripped down, out of his soaking wet clothes and tucked into the luxurious bed in the upstairs bedroom.

  ‘Home,’ he said with a grin as he unlocked the front door and stumbled inside, quickly closing the freezing night out behind him.

  In the year since his return from the war he had probably spent more time in this little cottage than anywhere else. At first there had been the three weeks he’d spent delirious in the military hospital, then the two months back at his parents’ house as he worked on learning to walk again. By that time he’d felt stifled and in need of some space and he’d chosen Rose Cottage to be his haven. There were many finer properties on the Crawley estate and much further afield, but Joe had always liked the little cottage set back from the road and secluded in its own garden. Another benefit was its size, perfect for a man who just wanted his own company. Here he could survive without any servants, without a cook or a maid, just the woman from the local village who came to clean twice a week. It was his own little slice of solitude.

  Now he thought of this as his home and he was pleased to be back here after spending the week with his loud and cheerful family.

  Quickly he shrugged off his wet coat and pulled off his gloves, hanging them up to dry. He was soaked to the skin, but knew it would take too much effort to light a fire tonight. He was tired and his leg ached and all he wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep for at least twelve hours. In the morning no doubt he would wake up to a cold cottage, but he would deal with that then.

  Joe ascended the stairs, slipped into his bedroom and felt his way to the bed. It was completely dark in here, the thick curtains shutting out any natural light from the moon or the stars even on a clear night, but Joe knew his way around the small room by touch alone so didn’t bother to light a candle. He peeled his wet clothes from his body, throwing them over the chair in the corner of the room, and once he was naked he slipped into bed.

  As soon as his body touched the sheets Joe knew something was wrong. The fabric should have been cool against his skin but instead it had a wonderful warmth to it. His arm brushed against something soft and immediately he stiffened. There was someone in his bed. Someone warm and soft and, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, someone completely naked just like him. Squinting in the darkness, he saw the petite form and on the pillow a long mass of hair. Definitely a woman.

  Joe hesitated, not knowing what to do. It wasn’t every day you found your bed occupied by someone else. He didn’t know whether to shout, to gently wake the woman up or to light a candle. Slowly he eased himself backwards, planning on standing up and moving away, but as he shifted he heard the subtle change in the woman’s breathing and knew she had awoken.

  * * *

  Cecilia’s eyes sprang open, but she couldn’t see anything in the dark. Despite her blindness she knew instantly that she wasn’t alone. The rhythmic breathing of another human being was just to her right, somewhere on the other side of the bed.

  Her heart was hammering in her chest and her hands shaking as she groped for something to defend herself with on the little table beside her. She didn’t know who else would be out on a night like tonight, but they must have seen the smashed glass and followed her in. Whether to rob her or something worse she didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to lie around to find out.

  Cecilia’s hand closed around something metal and heavy. From the feel of the grooves beneath her fingers she thought it was probably a candlestick and before she could lose her nerve she swung it through the air and heard it connect with a dull thud. The force of the impact jarred her arm and for a moment she stayed completely still as the person on the other side of the bed collapsed without a sound.

  She was shaking as she scrambled out of bed, quickly pulling one of the bedsheets around her naked body, dashing over to the window to open the thick curtain in an attempt to let in a little more light. The thick clouds covered the moon and the stars, but still the room brightened a fraction as the thick material was pulled back.

  Quietly she crept back over to the bed. The man was undressed, completely so, but had fallen in such a way that his lower half was covered by the bedsheets she’d thrown off. Her eyes raked over the sculpted muscles of his chest, the narrow waist and downwards, to where the sheets covered his manhood. She chastised herself—it wasn’t as though she’d never seen the naked male form before. She’d studied numerous paintings and sculptures in her quest to become more proficient in her sketches, but this was very different. The man in front of her wasn’t made of stone or paint. He was pure flesh, muscle and skin, and she was so tempted just to reach out a hand and...

  Cecilia caught herself and pulled back, focusing instead on the man’s face. He had a strong jaw, blond hair and symmetrical features. He was a handsome man. A handsome man who looked just a little familiar.

  Joseph Crawley, Cecilia realised. She’d only gone and bludgeoned the brother of her best friend. A man who had much more right to be in his family’s cottage than she did. Again her eyes danced over his body. He was still breathing, at least, and every so often he would shift slightly as if he were about to come round.

  She bit her lip, wondering how angry he would be when he awoke with a dreadful headache.

  ‘Major Crawley,’ she said quietly, not knowing if she wanted him to awaken yet or not. ‘Major Crawley, I’m ever so sorry.’

  There was no answer. He’d stopped shifting and gone dreadfully still. With a tentative hand Cecilia reached out and laid her fingers on his chest. It was rising and falling rhythmically and the skin was warm. She felt relief mixed in with remorse.

  She should withdraw her hand from his chest now s
he’d reassured herself he was still breathing, but she felt unable to move. His skin was soft beneath her fingertips and the hair on his chest a coarse contrast to his skin.

  ‘Major Crawley,’ Cecilia whispered again. Now her eyes had adjusted to the darkness she could make out a jug of water on the little table next to the bed. Thinking a sprinkling of cold water on his brow might revive the man in front of her, she dipped her fingers in. Just as she was drawing her hand out Major Crawley jolted in the bed and Cecilia lost her grip on the jug. She could only groan with despair as the whole contents emptied over the man she’d knocked unconscious. Now he was dead to the world and dripping wet to boot.

  Quickly she grabbed at the sheets, meaning to mop up the worst of the water, but as she tugged she realised her action would only have one inevitable consequence: to expose Major Crawley’s naked lower half.

  Cecilia shrieked as a hand reached up and grabbed her wrist.

  ‘I would thank you to leave my dignity intact.’ His low, sonorous voice rang clearly through the room. As she watched, wide-eyed, he raised his other hand to his head and touched a spot on his scalp. ‘What the devil have you done to me?’

  Finding her voice, Cecilia was horrified to find she didn’t sound in the least bit apologetic as she spoke. ‘I hit you.’

  ‘I can feel that. What with?’

  She picked up the hefty candlestick from where she’d dropped it on the bed.

  ‘Good Lord, woman, put it down. My head hurts enough already.’

  Cecilia placed the candlestick back on the bed, only then realising that Major Crawley still had her by the wrist and was studying her face in the darkness of the room.

  ‘Lady Cecilia,’ he murmured. The man had a good memory. They couldn’t have set eyes on each other for a decade. The last time she’d seen him she and Elizabeth had been peeking out of Elizabeth’s window at the Crawleys’ town house, watching him ride off in his regimental uniform. He’d looked dashing and debonair. She’d been eleven years old and she was surprised he’d even noticed his sister’s little friend, let alone recognised her ten years later.