“Boys, boys!” Across the table, Prudence wagged a chicken bone at them both. “You’re supposed to be gentlemen, now.”
Unrepentant, Sebastian and Christopher shrugged and, with Marcus and Michael, settled to demolish everything edible within reach. But after piling his plate high and swallowing several mouthfuls, Sebastian said, “Why don’t we just pass the baton, so to speak. I’ll start, and then whoever wishes can cut in and take over.” He glanced down at his plate. “That way, everyone else will be kept amused, and we’ll all be able to eat while the food’s still warm.”
Lucilla nodded. “As I can’t imagine you, Michael, or Marcus describing the birth, and as neither Prudence nor I know what actually happened when you and Thomas Carrick went out to fix that shutter, a round-robin will work better than one of us trying to cover it all.”
Mouths full, the others nodded their agreement.
Sebastian wiped his lips with his napkin, then rose. Stepping over the bench, he moved to the space before the main fireplace. With his back to the flames, he looked up at the high table and saw his parents smiling down at him. He inclined his head to them. “Your Graces.” Spreading his arms, he turned to include the entire company. “Mesdames et messieurs, our Christmas tale.”
Laughter greeted his opening. Encouraged, he went on, “It started with a ride through the forests in search of game. But a storm was blowing in, and….” With deft turns of phrase, Sebastian described the sudden eruption of Jeb, the crofter, into their path, and how his plea for help had had them turning aside to ride to his cottage.
Marcus rose. Sebastian returned to the bench and his meal as Marcus described the cottage in detail, from its unprepossessing exterior and rickety shutters to the newer stable-barn built at the rear. He also filled in the immediate geography. “So the front of the cottage was fully exposed to the brunt of the onrushing storm.”
Lucilla rose and replaced her twin before the fireplace. “I went in and examined Jeb’s wife, Lottie. She was already in labor, and I could tell the baby would arrive before dawn and also was not in the best position. As I had been summoned there, I knew I had to stay. I needed Prudence to help, and Marcus, Sebastian, and Michael elected to remain and see to our general safety. Christopher, as you all know, led the other boys back.”
Christopher stood at his place at the table to report, “And as everyone here knows, but you five don’t, we arrived in good order, just in time for dinner.”
Sebastian snorted. “Naturally.”
Christopher shrugged eloquently, and to a round of good-natured laughter, he sat.
Lucilla resumed her telling. “So the five of us and Jeb made ready as best we could, not just for the arrival of the baby but also to weather the fury of the storm.” She briefly described a few of the simple measures they’d taken—the blanket hung as a screen, the pots and pans of water.
Michael rose and took up the tale. “While neat and tidy, the cottage was not what one would describe as sound.” He outlined the various repairs they’d undertaken to weatherproof the cottage.
Prudence rose briefly to mention that there had been insufficient food to adequately feed anyone, and that they’d faced the prospect of having nothing but a thin broth to help sustain the mother. “And, of course, Lucilla’s tisanes—which did help.”
Marcus followed with a brief description of what animals they’d found in the stable-barn.
“And then,” Sebastian said, reclaiming the stage, “just as the storm was reaching its zenith and battering at the cottage as if intending to flatten it, there was a knock on the door.”
“More a thump,” Michael called.
Sebastian inclined his head. He went on to describe with melodramatic flair the arrival of Thomas Carrick, and all the food and drink Carrick had brought. “Like nothing so much as Good King Wenceslas, huge deerhound by his side and all. The weather meant he couldn’t ride up, so he’d trudged, hauling the supplies up on a sled.”
Rising to replace Sebastian, who pulled a face at her but gave way, Lucilla noted that, after an initial tensing about the high table over the news that some other male had arrived at the cottage, the older Cynster males, her father included, had relaxed somewhat; approval now tinged their features. Taking position before the fireplace, she declared, “The food Thomas Carrick brought was a godsend. As was the bottle of mead, the bottle of gin, and the bottle of whisky. The latter, sadly,”—she directed a severe look at Sebastian, Michael, and Marcus—“was empty by the time we quit the cottage.”
Laughter rolled around the room.
“So,” she said, letting her gaze sweep the gathering, “we had Good King Wenceslas and his hound. We had a poor crofter couple, with the wife having her baby on Christmas Eve in a rude, ramshackle cottage, little better than a stable. We had animals beyond one door—sheep, a goat, an old milch cow. We had”—she waved at Marcus, Michael, and Sebastian—“the three wise men?” Everyone hooted and cheered, especially the other Cynsters. “And,” Lucilla continued, as the laughter faded, “I believe that leaves Prudence and myself”—placing a hand over her heart, she half bowed—“playing the part of ministering angels.”
The company laughed and clapped. Huge smiles wreathed most faces.
Michael rose and shooed Lucilla from pride of place. “Regardless of the ministering that occurred behind the blanket-screen, I feel I must tell you more about the hound—for it was not just any old hound.” There were groans from various people; many there knew of Michael’s obsession with the hunt. Undeterred, he assured the company, “This was a hound among hounds.” He went on to describe Hesta with verve and flair, then proceeded to paint Jeb and his slowly unraveling composure, describing several of the attempts made to distract him from his wife’s quite obvious agony. “Not that anything actually worked. But as the screams and groans reached their apogee, and we were all on tenterhooks, waiting for the moment…a shutter blew open and the storm stormed in.”
Waved to his feet by Michael, Sebastian obliged and took up the tale. He was the only one present who knew what had happened while he and Thomas Carrick had wrestled to secure the shutter; listening as avidly as anyone, Lucilla literally shivered. She knew Sebastian well enough to read between his glibly delivered lines and to guess that both he and Thomas had come close to taking serious injury, courtesy of the iciness of the raging storm.
When Sebastian had the shutter closed and he and Thomas back inside, Lucilla reclaimed the stage. “If the shutter hadn’t been closed again, I don’t know what might have occurred, for the air was ice-laden and the winds were fierce, but the others built the fire up, and not long after that, the baby decided it was time.”
She described the birth only as “not straightforward, but working together, Lottie, Prudence, and I brought a perfect little girl into the world.” Lucilla directed a smile around the room. “At ten minutes past midnight.”
There were coos and sighs of “A Christmas babe” from numerous female throats around the room.
Prudence claimed another turn. In her usual practical vein, she described how they had worked through the next hours to set the cottage to rights, and to ensure that Jeb and Lottie had sustaining meals, and that their animals were fed and watered. “Carrick said he would stay until the snows thawed enough for him to bring up a party to ferry Lottie, Jeb, and their child down to Carrick Manor.”
Marcus rose to take Prudence’s place. “I don’t think any of us noticed when the storm ended. We suddenly realized that the winds had died, then we went outside, and silence engulfed us.”
Lucilla listened as her twin described with evocative eloquence the magic of that moment; he, like she, felt the land.
Sebastian rose and briefly detailed the last things they’d done—the wood they’d chopped, the cow Michael had milked without getting kicked.
But then Sebastian waved the others to join him—including Christopher. “We wouldn’t have been able to stay with the other lads, too, so Christopher’s contribution w
as significant as well.”
To cheers—and laughing jeers from the “other lads”—Christopher took a bow.
Then he stood with the other five as Sebastian, in the center, spread his arms and said, “Our journey home was slow, but without incident. And so that’s our Christmas tale for you—how we were called upon to aid in bringing a new life into the world, with help from all the saints and deities involved, on Christmas morning.”
Sebastian bowed low and the others bowed with him, and the Great Hall erupted with cheers, clapping, and the stamping of booted feet.
Many called compliments, and the Cynster elders beamed proudly on the future of their house—the leaders of the next generation—as they smiled and acknowledged the compliments, then made their way back to their seats.
At the high table, Catriona nodded to the waiting servers; they’d all gathered in the archway from the kitchen to listen to the tale. Within minutes, flaming plum puddings and jugs of rich custard were ferried out, and the hungry hordes quieted.
Seated beside Daniel and marveling at the luscious taste of the pudding—she’d never had better—Claire seized the moment when Daniel looked across the table to study his profile.
How could she tell if he loved her? There had to be a way.
She returned her gaze to her plate before he caught her staring. She accepted that she had to go forward and, one way or another, learn what she needed to know; somewhere in the dark watches of the night, she’d moved past the point where she might have backed away. Whether that had been due to Melinda’s advice or some element of her own determination, she didn’t know, but she no longer viewed simply turning away from Daniel as a viable path.
She had to find out what was possible between them or she would regret it for the rest of her life.
But how was she to find the answer to the question on which everything else seemed to depend?
She consumed the pudding and custard in silence, that thought revolving in her mind.
Daniel viewed Claire’s silence with increasing misgiving. As matters stood between them, he had no idea if he was on the cusp of success or abject failure.
On the one hand, he was hopeful and counseled himself to patience; pressing her at this point might not be wise. Their day had been full of shared emotions—not the same emotions he hoped she felt for him and that he most definitely felt for her, but quite other emotions; trying to shift their focus to the personal in the midst of such communal engagement would, he felt, be a serious misstep.
But what if Alasdair or Rupert was summoned south tomorrow, and he or she had to leave with their respective families? What if she didn’t agree while they were at the manor?
If he didn’t gain her agreement to, at the very least, allow him to formally court her, then he didn’t know when he might get another chance to press his suit.
And given the nebulous hurdle that, courtesy of her previous marriage, stood between them, pursuing her from a distance was not going to work.
He had to make headway in learning about the dragon he needed to slay, and as soon as possible.
But for today… As the banquet, for it had been that, finally ended, he helped her to rise and climb over the bench seat.
And seized the few seconds when everyone around them was likewise absorbed with sorting themselves out; holding onto her hand, he gently squeezed her fingers and murmured low so that only she could hear, “I want to know everything about you—I want to know your demons as well as your desires.” He caught her gaze as, eyes widening, she glanced up at him. “I will never give up pursuing my dream—pursuing you…” He searched her eyes. “Unless and until you say me nay. Until then, I’m yours, regardless of whether you move to claim me.” Pressing her hand, he released it. “Remember that, my dearest Claire.”
Claire held his gaze for a moment more, then had to yield to the press of bodies around them and turn toward the door.
I want to know everything about you—I want to know your demons as well as your desires.
As she strolled with the crowd, with Daniel behind her, she replayed his words. Let them sink into her heart. Into her soul.
Drawing in a breath, as she passed under the mistletoe and into the front hall, she decided she might just hold him to them.
* * *
Before Lucilla could join the others in heading for their rooms and their beds—their performance before everyone had drained the last of their energies; they’d all actually admitted to feeling wrung out—she was hailed by Algaria.
“You go on,” Lucilla said to Prudence. “I doubt this will take long.”
And if it did, she might fall asleep where she sat.
With an exhausted nod, Prudence went.
Lucilla stepped onto the dais; her parents and the other Cynster elders had already repaired to the drawing room or the library. Making her way past the empty benches, she reached the end of the high table and perched on the end of one bench so that her gaze was nearer to level with her grandmother’s and Algaria’s, both of whom regarded her with bird-bright eyes, one pair palest green, the other black.
McArdle was asleep and snoring softly in the armchair closer to and angled toward the hearth.
“So tell us.” Algaria resettled her shawl about her stooped shoulders. “I want all the details you left out about the birth, and your grandmother isn’t likely to have the vapors from overhearing, so talk.”
Lucilla managed to keep her lips straight, but the laughing, indulgent look the dowager cast Algaria very nearly overset her. Carefully, she drew a long breath, then, her voice steady, she described the birth in the detail she knew Algaria wanted, adding what she’d observed about Lottie and the details of the tisane she’d brewed, and the mead- and gin-based potions she’d left behind for Lottie to help with the aftereffects.
Both old ladies listened without interrupting, their gazes locked—rather unnervingly—on Lucilla’s face.
But when she reached the end of her recitation, Algaria nodded with patent approval. “Excellent. You did precisely as you should have throughout.” Algaria bestowed on Lucilla one of her very rare smiles. “I taught you well, and you remembered when you needed the information. That’s all any mentor can ask.”
Somewhat taken aback by what was, from Algaria, richly fulsome praise, Lucilla hesitated, then asked a question that that been circling in her brain for the past twelve and more hours—ever since she’d come close enough to Thomas Carrick to realize that he was Lady-touched, too. “I wanted to ask…” She looked at Algaria. “Indeed, I’m surprised I haven’t thought to ask this before, but how far around the Vale does the Lady’s protection extend?” Into the lands to our north? The Carrick lands, for instance?
Algaria’s brows arched as if she, too, hadn’t previously thought of that point, but then the old woman shrugged. “I know it’s not limited to the Vale but spills into the surrounding areas. However, I’ve never known it to have precise borders.” She trapped Lucilla’s gaze. “Better ask instead how far Her mantle extends. Were you out from under it—did you lose your link to Her—in that cottage? You know what it feels like when you travel to London.”
“Ah—I see.”
“And?” Algaria prompted.
“No, I wasn’t out of touch while in the cottage—or, indeed, anywhere we rode on Christmas Eve—so the mantle extends at least that far.” Into Carrick lands.
“Well, then. You have your answer.” Algaria sat back. “And now you’d better go and rest. You’re at low ebb, I can tell.”
Letting her weariness show, Lucilla smiled and rose.
Stowing away the knowledge that, as she and Marcus were, Thomas Carrick was also under the Lady’s direct protection—and she had to wonder why that was—Lucilla bobbed a curtsy to Algaria and her grandmother. Only as she turned away did she realize that Helena had listened quietly throughout, and, unlike Algaria, Helena had heard.
Deciding she was too tired to even speculate as to what her unnervingly perspicacious gran
dmother might do with whatever knowledge she’d gained, Lucilla headed for her room and her bed.
CHAPTER 9
In the quiet of the afternoon, when the manor lay somnolent in the aftermath of the huge meal, Daniel finally tracked Claire down to a window seat high in one of the manor’s turrets. When he first spied her, she was looking out of the window, but hearing his boots on the stone, she turned. And smiled, although there was a hint of wry resignation in the gesture.
He smiled back—as lightly as he could, yet tension had been building inside him all day; it chose that moment to grip and tighten. His chest felt like iron bands had locked about it, restricting his breathing. He waved at the cushioned space alongside her. “May I?”
Lips curving gently, she inclined her head. “Indeed, you may.”
He sat. Then he angled his head and looked at her, met her eyes. He held her gaze for several seconds, then he lowered his. To her hands, resting in her lap.
On impulse—one he didn’t question—he reached over, picked up her nearer hand, and drew it across to cradle between his. She didn’t resist, neither his touch nor the claiming. Driven by burgeoning need and emboldened by that acceptance, he said, his voice low, “I know I shouldn’t press you, that I should give you whatever time you need to consider…whatever it is you need to consider.”
She must have heard something in his voice; she swiveled on the seat to face him. She placed her other hand over his, gripping lightly.
He drew breath and turned his head. Met her eyes, briefly searched them. “But I have to ask—I have to know. Is there any hope for me? For us?”
Claire looked into his warm hazel eyes and saw—was allowed to see, openly and clearly displayed—a devotion she could count on, a depth of commitment that would always be there. Solid, dependable, unwavering.
And she sensed—felt—an answering response, the reality of a reciprocal commitment that was already there, in existence and real, a connection to another she’d spent her adult life dreaming of finding.
By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) Page 17