Snowbound Surrender

by Christine Merrill

  ‘A game of morals.’

  ‘You have one of those?’ she asked.

  The games made of linen squares stuck to pieces of wood were fast becoming popular among the ton to play after dinner parties or between friends. You had a little carved figure, some counters to signify coins to pay any fines and a dice to roll. The winner was the first one to the last square and you were disqualified once you’d lost all your counters.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Who do you play with?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘My many companions, of course.’ He gestured around the little room and she couldn’t help but giggle.

  ‘I can just imagine you sitting here by yourself and playing.’

  ‘I’m not that much of a lost cause.’

  Together they unpacked the box and Cecilia wondered if it had ever been opened before. The lid was stiff and the pieces lined up perfectly inside. As Major Crawley rose to get drinks—an essential part of any game of morals, he told her—she peered at the squares. You could advance more quickly if you landed on the virtues: honesty, prudence, sobriety, charity, sincerity and humanity. Then there were squares with sins: idleness, passion, folly, lies, blasphemy, cheating and perjury. And squares with punishments for those sins: the whipping post, the pillory, the stocks and Newgate.

  ‘Your counter, Lady Cecilia,’ Major Crawley said, passing her a carved lady with a flamboyant dress and a hairstyle modelled on the fashions from the last century.

  ‘We are the only two here,’ Cecilia said softly. ‘For today, at least, why don’t you call me Cecilia?’

  He looked at her and for a moment she saw the fire flare in his eyes and she felt a heat begin to rise up from somewhere deep in her body. Then he inclined his head and murmured, ‘Cecilia.’

  It took her a minute to recover from the deep, low voice saying her name as if she were the only woman on earth.

  ‘Joe,’ he offered. It suited him. She knew his parents called him Joseph, his sister, too, but she suspected he preferred the shortened version of his name.

  ‘Shall we play, Joe?’ she asked, testing out his name. It seemed awfully familiar. There were no other gentlemen she’d ever called by their first names, not even her guardian’s son, who she’d been residing with for the past four years. Peter Turner—to his face she called him Turner, and in her mind she called him The Wet Rag, or sometimes just Rag for short.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said, handing her the dice. She rolled and moved her counter, leaning over the board and reading the square she landed on.

  ‘Passion,’ she said. ‘Proceed to the ducking stool to cool that fire and pay a fine of one.’

  Joe raised an eyebrow and watched as she pushed her counter to the ducking stool.

  ‘It’s a bit excessive,’ Cecilia murmured. ‘Ducking a girl just because of a little passion.’

  ‘Compared to what society does to a woman who shows passion, I think your little lady has got away lightly.’

  ‘True.’ Many a woman of Cecilia’s acquaintance had been ruined by just one kiss, one inappropriate touch. She glanced up at Joe sitting across from her. If anyone ever found out she’d spent two nights here unchaperoned with an unmarried man she would be ruined. Not that she had anything to be ruined from, it wasn’t as though she was ever planning to marry, but her reputation would be destroyed and the gossips would tear her apart.

  ‘No one will ever know,’ Joe said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘You can tell my family you only just set out and you can tell your guardian you’ve been with my family the whole time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to already be hammering on the door at Hawthorn House,’ Cecilia said. She could picture the rotund old man wheezing through the snow and demanding his ward back from the Crawleys.

  ‘He cares that much about you?’ Joe asked, rolling the dice and moving a couple of spaces. ‘Sobriety,’ he said, raising the glass of whisky in the air in salute.

  Cecilia snorted. ‘He cares about my money.’

  Joe raised an eyebrow in question and she sighed. For so long she’d dealt with her guardian alone, it would be good to have a moan to someone about the impossible situation.

  ‘I am rather wealthy,’ she said, feeling her cheeks redden as they did whenever she spoke about money. It wasn’t boastful, just a fact. She’d been touted the wealthiest heiress in England. Cecilia didn’t know if it were true, but she suspected she was in the top three at the very least.

  ‘What has that got to do with your guardian?’

  ‘His fortunes have been declining in recent years and he wishes to prop his up with mine.’

  Six years he’d been working on Cecilia. At first it had been flattery and compliments, gently ushering her and his son, The Wet Rag, together at every opportunity. Encouraging her to turn down other suitors. As she’d neared her twenty-first birthday he’d become more desperate, less subtle. There had been the comments about what she owed him for taking her in, an insistence that she pay him back by marrying his son. When Cecilia had stood strong against this pressure he’d become less and less pleasant and more recently Cecilia had spent her evenings dodging his wandering hands and trying to ignore his spiteful comments. He was the reason that in recent months she’d learned to lock her doors and put a chairback beneath the handle. Her guardian, in his desperation, had turned to drink and when he was inebriated he got a certain look in his eyes that Cecilia did not trust. More than once he’d brushed past her too closely or let a hand rest where it shouldn’t.

  ‘He would like me to marry his son, Peter Turner.’

  ‘Peter Turner...’ Joe mused. ‘Not that insipid-looking chap who couldn’t find his own boots even with the help of a map?’

  ‘That sounds like him,’ Cecilia said, smiling at the look of horror on Joe’s face. It was a relief she wasn’t the only one who disliked the man.

  ‘Tell me you’re not even considering it.’

  ‘I’m offended, Major Crawley, that you even have to ask.’

  ‘Joe,’ he said softly.

  ‘Joe,’ she repeated. ‘Anyway, my birthday is on Christmas Day and then I’ll be twenty-one. I shall be in charge of my own inheritance and no longer obliged to live with the Turners and their scheming.’

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  She shrugged. ‘Go away. Far away.’

  He nodded as if he could understand that desire.

  ‘I’ll buy a little house somewhere, set myself up as a spinster. Perhaps become involved in some charitable organisations.’

  Joe laughed. ‘A spinster. You’re far too young and pretty to be a spinster.’

  ‘You think I’m pretty?’

  ‘Of course. A man would be foolish to deny it.’

  Cecilia felt a peculiar warmth somewhere deep inside her and smiled.

  ‘Do you know how many marriage proposals I’ve had in the past four years since my debut?’ she asked.

  ‘Apart from Turner the younger?’ He shook his head.

  ‘Twenty-four. That’s six a year.’ Cecilia shook her head slowly and took a moment to roll the dice, counting the squares. ‘Greed,’ she read. ‘Go to Newgate and miss a turn.’ She looked up and saw Joe’s expression. ‘I’m not boasting about the proposals—none of them was worth anything. None of them cared for me, none of them really knew me. They just all saw the inheritance, the money they could be in possession of if they were smart enough to fool me.’

  ‘It must have been very difficult to tell who your friends were. Charity, move three spaces forward.’

  Cecilia laughed, hearing the note of bitterness in her voice.

  ‘I was fooled a couple of times before I worked out why I was quite so popular.’ She tried not to think of the mistake she’d very nearly made. Her naïve seventeen-year-old self had been flattered by the attention from the rakish Lord Melbry. He’d da
nced with her, kissed her, led her off into darkened rooms to whisper his messages of love into her ear. She had been all ready to elope with him, completely besotted. It had only been luck that meant she’d overheard his conversation with one of his friends, declaring it the easiest seduction he’d ever performed and the one with the biggest rewards.

  Cecilia had been devastated, with the loss of a man she thought she had loved and had loved her in return, but more lastingly with the loss of her innocence. She suddenly began to see the new friends and suitors for what they really were—just interested in her wealth.

  ‘I understand not wanting to get hurt,’ Joe said slowly, his eyes focused down on the table in front of him. ‘But do you really want to commit yourself to a lifetime of being alone?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ she said, trying not to make it sound as though she was lashing out in retaliation to his words. ‘Surely it is better to be out there in the world than hiding yourself away here in this cottage?’

  Joe looked up and grinned, one of the first true smiles she’d seen on his face. ‘We’re a pair, aren’t we? The spinster heiress and the lame Major.’

  Cecilia giggled, wondering how he would react if she moved her fingers forward a little across the table to touch her fingertips to his. It was an urge she was finding hard to suppress, but she knew that even though she was seeing a softer side to Major Crawley right now, he probably would not like the invasion of his personal space.

  ‘Humility,’ Joe said, moving his piece a few places forward. ‘Take another turn.’

  Cecilia watched as he rolled the dice again, taking in the soft curve of his lips and the smooth skin of his jaw as her eyes danced across his face. Still she was waiting for him to answer her about his plans for the future, but it looked as though he was not going to elaborate any time soon.

  ‘Don’t you get lonely here?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘No,’ he said with a conviction that told Cecilia he’d been asked the question before. Probably by his mother. ‘I’ve learned to enjoy my own company.’

  ‘Good. So in the months you’ve been here what have you decided about your future?’ she pressed.

  ‘You’re relentless,’ he murmured. ‘Did my mother send you to find out what I’m doing with my life?’

  ‘You’ve found me out,’ Cecilia said with a smile. ‘I’m nothing but a spy for Mrs Crawley.’

  Joe took the dice between his fingers and twisted it backwards and forward for a few moments, looking down at it intently. ‘Do you know, I still haven’t been able to decide.’

  She wondered if he was stuck in the past, stuck in the war, mourning for lost friends and unable to move past the grim reality of battle. Over and over again she’d heard of men returning from the war changed, finding it difficult to slot back into everyday life, not able to understand the petty grievances of their loved ones now they’d seen larger things to worry about.

  ‘Do you think living here has actually stopped you from moving forward?’ Cecilia asked, knowing she was going too far, probing into too personal a matter, but not being able to stop herself.

  Joe rolled the dice, the clattering the only noise as his face set into a neutral, unreadable expression. ‘Six,’ he said, moving his piece along the board to the very last square, which had a picture of a church steeple on it. ‘It would seem I’m the winner.’

  Without another word he got up and poked at the fire.

  ‘We need more wood,’ he said, glaring at the almost-empty basket.

  ‘Do you always run away when someone’s questions get a little bit close to the truth?’ she asked quietly. It was far too presumptive to say to a man she barely knew, but although they had only just become reacquainted she wanted to help him. As much as someone with such little experience of real life could help.

  ‘Nine years I was in the army. Nine years. That’s almost a third of my life,’ he said, looking into the flames. ‘I don’t want to go back, but I’m finding it a little harder to move forward than I had anticipated.’

  ‘So it’s not about your injury?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ he said, then sighed, and Cecilia wondered if the man in front of her knew what was holding him back from participating in life again. He fell silent, then gave a shrug, picked up the basket that normally contained the firewood and headed for the door.

  Chapter Five

  Pulling on his thick coat, Joe threw open the door and ventured out into the snow. It was even thicker than earlier, with soft flurries still falling from the dark cloud above, making him doubt whether Cecilia would be on her way tomorrow. The idea of having her company for one more day was more appealing than he liked to admit, despite her probing questions and knowing eyes.

  ‘Gosh, it’s cold,’ her cheerful voice rang out from somewhere behind him.

  ‘Go back inside,’ he growled. He was only out here because of necessity. There was no way he would let the fire die down and they needed more wood, but there was no need for Cecilia to accompany him.

  ‘I thought I’d lend you a hand,’ she said, taking the other handle of the wicker wood basket and lifting it.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of fetching the wood myself,’ Joe said, feeling the familiar irritation he always did when someone doubted his physical prowess.

  ‘I never said you weren’t,’ she said carefully. ‘I just thought I would help.’

  ‘Do you often take on tasks around the house?’ he asked, hearing the sarcastic tone to his voice, but unable to stop it.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Never. But then again my guardian has a houseful of servants paid to do this sort of thing. You have no one. So I should help.’

  ‘Go back inside,’ he grumbled, ‘or you’ll catch a chill and be stuck here even longer.’ The image of Cecilia lying in his bed popped into his mind and he found it very hard to shift it.

  He started pulling the cold logs from the pile and throwing them into the basket, making quick work of the task. Throughout his rehabilitation he’d been eager to become fitter, stronger than he had ever been before. Physically he was in peak condition, the rational part of his brain knew that, but still it felt as though some part of him was lacking.

  Once the basket was full he hefted it up, ignoring Cecilia’s outstretched arm offering to help. He strode back towards the house and deposited the basket inside the door, waiting for Cecilia to enter before he did.

  ‘You are a very stubborn man,’ she said as she put her booted foot on to the step.

  Joe was just about to answer when he saw Cecilia start to slip. Her boots were no match for the thick ice that was hidden under a layer of white snow and her foot began to slide forward at an alarming rate. He lunged to catch her, gathering her to his chest, but the movement meant he, too, lost his footing and they both tumbled into the house together. Cecilia landed on top of him, her petite body still managing to wind him as an elbow connected with his solar plexus.

  They lay there for a few seconds, both stunned and unsure if the other was injured. Joe scrambled to his feet, cursing loudly when his leg gave way, tumbling him back to the floor. On the second attempt he was more successful, levering himself up using the doorframe.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, reaching out his hand to help Cecilia. She grimaced as she sat, moving her ankle from side to side with a wince of pain.

  ‘I think I’ve just pulled something,’ she said. ‘Nothing that won’t heal.’

  ‘Can you get up?’

  Carefully she stood, letting out a low groan of pain as she put her weight on her ankle.

  ‘I seem to be fine if I stay still,’ she said. ‘It just hurts a little when I move. I don’t think it’s even properly twisted.’

  Joe hesitated. Chivalry was inbuilt into him, he couldn’t ever sit before a woman, fail to open a door or assist a woman in need, but right now he was hesitating. What he wanted
to do was sweep her up into his arms and carry her to one of the armchairs. It was only a few paces away and he wasn’t doubting his physical ability. His leg might trouble him still, but he was perfectly capable of carrying someone as petite as Cecilia. The reason he was hesitating was the woman in front of him, or, more precisely, the feelings she elicited inside him.

  He knew that if he gathered her close to his body, however briefly, he would feel her skin against his, learn the curves of her body as she rested in his arms. Already he was finding it hard to banish the inappropriate thoughts whenever he brushed against her in the small cottage, it wouldn’t take much for him to be tipped into doing something completely inadvisable. Something like kissing her.

  Unable to resist, he glanced at her lips. They were rosy and full and looked perfect for kissing.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, knowing it was a mistake, but still sweeping her up into his arms all the same.

  He carried her the few paces to the armchair and gently deposited her there, trying to keep hold of his desire as her body brushed against his.

  ‘Thank you, I’m sure I could have hobbled,’ Cecilia said, probing her ankle through the material of her dress. As he watched her he felt an unfamiliar sense of affection. Cecilia had come crashing into his life only very recently, but he realised he felt as though he’d known her for so much longer. He was comfortable around her and he struggled to be comfortable around anyone.

  ‘I’ll get you something for it,’ he said, turning quickly. Opening the front door, he deftly avoided the doorstep with the hidden ice and walked around to the side of the cottage. Under the windowsill were a few perfectly formed icicles and he broke them off, returning inside to find something to wrap them in. ‘Let me see,’ he said, motioning to her ankle.

  Joe ignored Cecilia’s blushing cheeks as she lifted the hem of her dress. All he wanted to do was check she wasn’t badly injured. The skin of her calf was smooth and creamy and he found his pulse quickening as his fingers came to rest on her ankle. He heard her inhale sharply, but a quick glance at her face told him it wasn’t in pain as she studiously avoided his eyes.