A Renwick House Christmas Boxed Set

by Rachel Van Dyken

  The bitter wind whipped the flame within the glass, casting a flickering curtain of light against the freshly fallen snow.

  He followed his feet, not certain exactly where they were taking him, but trusting they knew something he didn’t. The only sound was the frantic icy crunch beneath his boots as he broke into a trot.

  “Anastasia!” he belted out. His voice echoed back at him.

  He listened and heard nothing in return but the sound of his feet pounding the ground.

  Again and again he yelled her name, growing more anxious with each unanswered call. It was only a little over an hour she had been gone, but it was so cold, and she had only a light shawl. What if she was injured, lying somewhere unconscious in the snow? Baldwyn’s chest constricted around his lungs, and he struggled for enough breath to call her name again.

  “Anastasia!” he forced out with a mournful gasp.

  Anastasia lifted her head. The cold air was a shocking slap in her face, stinging her cheeks and nose. What was that sad wail floating toward her through the darkness? It rang in the tree branches overhead — the call of the turtledoves flittering from tree to tree high above her.

  They called to each other over and over. They must be lost in the cold and the dark as well. Somewhere in the frosty haze of her mind she recognized the faulty naturalism. Turtledoves didn’t muddle about in the English countryside in the winter, but her ears told her it was the same sad cry, the resounding despair of a turtledove searching for its lost mate.

  “Anastasia!” The doleful moan hovered in the branches overhead. Was the turtledove calling her name? She blinked and looked up, scouring the inky black sky for signs of the unseasonable birds.

  “I’m here, little turtledove… I’m down here on the ground,” she crooned in a sing-song voice, hardly more than a whisper.

  “Anastasia!” Her name drifted to her ears again, growing closer and closer, like a bird spiraling down to alight by her feet.

  She closed her eyes tight and rested her head against the trunk of the tree. This must be what death was like. And now the light shining all around, so brightly she could see it through her closed lids. Any moment she would feel the warmth of the angel’s arms encircling her, carrying her on to Glory.

  “Anastasia,” the angel’s voice cracked. Nothing like she would imagine an angel to sound. “Anastasia, are you hurt?” An odd question for an angel to ask.

  She struggled to open her eyes, finally earning a squinting glance. The bright halo trimmed an angelic face with eyes blue as cornflowers.

  Warmth spread from her shoulders, as two strong hands grasped her and pulled her slightly forward, and then draped a thick blanket of heaven around her, wrapping her tightly.

  “Your lips are blue, Princess.” The deep voice found its smooth timbre and ran over her like warm honey, heating her from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes.

  “Is it you?” she whispered.

  The angel nodded. “It’s me, Princess. Your loyal knight.” His hand smoothed her cold cheek in a slow, deliberate stroke. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

  She smiled dreamily as he lifted a shiny flask to her lips. “Drink this. It will warm you.”

  The liquid slipped down her throat, radiating heat all the way down.

  Anastasia gazed at her rescuer. “Are you my turtledove?” “Yes, yes!” He laughed and scooped her up in his warm, protective arms, bestowing a light kiss on her forehead. “Your turtledove… and I’ve been calling for you, my lost love,” he crooned against her ear.

  “And you have found me?”

  “Yes, at long last, I have found you.”

  She nestled her head against his broad shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “Then… take me home. Take me home where I belong.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Baldwyn wound the blankets tightly around Anastasia and poured her another tumbler of brandy. Hot tea was coming, but he was anxious for her color to return.

  She lay against the divan peacefully, never taking her eyes from him as he worked. He lifted her hands gently, freeing them from the entanglements of the blanket, and examined them.

  A deep cut creased one of her palms. She had wrapped one glove around it to staunch the bleeding, which was now congealed. He would have to soak it to dislodge the glove without reopening the wound.

  Two or three maids hovered about, stoking the fire and such other fidgety tasks.

  “Bring me a basin of warm water and some clean bandages,” he ordered the nearest one, startling her with the sternness of his voice. She scurried out of the room to do his bidding.

  He carefully removed the glove from her uninjured hand and held her red fingers in his warm grasp.

  Her brown eyes scrutinized his face, but she didn’t speak.

  This was all his fault. Baldwyn knew it. He could feel her accusation assail him, though she neither frowned nor smiled.

  “Can you feel your toes yet?” he asked, turning his attention abruptly to her thin shoes. He knelt beside her and one by one, slipped them off and warmed her feet with his hands. They were so cold, almost blue even now.

  She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her feet propped on the divan, watching his hands knead the color back into them.

  A clatter of excitement erupted just outside the door, and Lord Marks burst into the room, his eyes bright with both relief and concern.

  “You found her!” The earl strode to his daughter’s side and knelt beside her. Tenderly he brushed a wayward curl of hair from her face and smiled.

  “Is she…?” he began and turned to Baldwyn.

  “Intact, my lord. Half-frozen, but all will be well again soon.”

  Anastasia’s deep brown eyes cut to her father. Her expression remained unchanged.

  “Hmm…” Lord Marks observed. “Still in shock I’d wager. What has been done for her?”

  “Brandy, blankets, the fire… I’ve been trying to rub the sensation back into her fingers and toes, and I sent someone for dry clothes and warm water.” He gestured to her wounded hand, which lay atop the blanket, still wrapped with the blood-matted glove.

  “Very good, very good.” Lord Marks smoothed Anastasia’s hair another moment. They stared at each other so intently, Baldwyn was certain they were communicating some deep message that words failed to express.

  After a long marked silence, Lord Marks spoke to Baldwyn. “You seem to have this well in hand, Paisley. If there are any developments, send Bernard.”

  “Of course.”

  Marks rested a reassuring hand on Baldwyn’s shoulder before moving to the door. “I’m counting on you to take care of my little girl.”

  “Not to worry, my lord. The lady is in good hands.”

  “I know she is.” Lord Marks drew in a deep breath and set his jaw in resolute determination, and with one more pat on the shoulder, he turned and left Anastasia in Baldwyn’s care.

  The servants arrived with a change of clothes and the basin of warm water. He would have to leave while they helped her out of her wet things, but he dreaded leaving her for even the short time that would take.

  “Can you sit up, m’lady?” the maid asked. Baldwyn knelt beside the divan and slipped his arm around her, shifting her into an upright position.

  “Your grace?” the servant prodded. She cast her gaze toward the door to indicate his place.

  Grudgingly, he rose and whispered to Anastasia, “I’ll be right outside.”

  She nodded in silence and forced a weary smile.

  When he returned several minutes later, she lay across the divan once again, looking much more comfortable in her heavy winter housecoat. Someone had tucked her feet under several blankets along with a bed warmer.

  “Well, then, shall we see to that hand, my lady?” He situated the basin of warm water on a stool beside her and knelt near her head. Gently he lifted her injured hand then submerged it in the basin, allowing the glove to soak until it was loose enough to pull away
.

  He struggled to focus on the task at hand, but his patient focused only on him. With careful strokes, he cleaned the deep gash and patted it dry with a towel, then he wrapped it in fresh bandages and laid it back on her chest, pulling the blanket up around Anastasia’s chin to cover her thawing extremities.

  “Now that is done. Are you warm enough?”

  A full-body tremor followed her unconvincing nod.

  “Liar.” Baldwyn allowed the hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. Everything he knew to do for her had been done.

  All but one thing.

  He glanced around the room nervously. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped his clammy palms on the sides of his breeches.

  “Your grace? Is something wrong?” Bernard stood a few feet away from him, studying him with concern.

  Baldwyn shook his head. “The lady. She’s still trembling. She needs… that is, I shall have to…” He swiped his hands down his thighs once more.

  Bernard followed Baldwyn’s gaze to Anastasia who was racked with chill. “It is necessary, your grace,” he reassured the duke.

  Baldwyn nodded.

  The old butler stepped behind him to help him slip out of his fitted jacket.

  “Ring if you need anything. I’ll be outside the door,” Bernard said softly enough for only Baldwyn to hear, then he raised his voice for the others. “That will be all. You are all dismissed to your regular duties.” He herded them out quickly and closed the doors behind him, leaving Baldwyn alone with Anastasia.

  “Anastasia…” He laid his jacket over the back of a chair. She glanced at him, seemingly unaffected by the sight of him in his shirtsleeves. Her body trembled in time to the steady rhythm of her chattering teeth.

  “Anastasia, you are quite frozen yet, and there is no time to lose. You shall have to share my warmth. Do you understand?” She stared at him for a moment without an expression, then slowly nodded her head.

  Baldwyn fumbled with the buttons of his shirt as if he had ten thumbs. Finally succeeding, he slipped his shirt off and dropped it on the chair.

  This was necessary. She was his betrothed, and Baldwyn was duty-bound to do all he could for her. Her own father charged him with her care. He took a deep breath, dried his hands on his wool breeches again, and slipped under the blanket beside her, pulling her against his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair as he wrapped his bare arms around her shivering form. She trembled against him, and he pulled her tighter, trying to infuse his heat into her body. Anastasia nestled against him, resting her cheek on his chest, buried up to her nose in the pile of heavy blankets.

  When she placed her hand on his chest just below his collarbone, Baldwyn’s heart raced. Her light touch, the warmth of her breath on his skin, the fragrance of lilacs drifting from her hair — he was producing more than enough heat for both of them.

  To think that here in his arms lay the same girl who had thrown mud balls at him to gain his attention all those years ago, the same girl who climbed up in a tall oak and needed him to rescue her. And here they were again. As if his path had always been directing him here, to this moment he wished would never end.

  Perhaps it was true. Had been true all along.

  She was his turtledove, and her heart has been calling out to his all this time, guiding him back where he belonged.

  Baldwyn exhaled a slow breath of relief and rested his cheek against the top of her head, planting a soft kiss in her hair.

  He would have been content to lie there forever, feeling the warmth gradually returning to her. But when her cold hand found its way to his face, and her gentle whisper floated to his ears — “Thank you” — that simple touch dissolved the last shred of self- control he possessed. Her mouth was only a breath away, and she closed her eyes the moment he leaned forward. Her lips were frozen, but he pulled her flush against him and breathed warmth across her lips through his own.

  “We might stay another day. Perhaps you’re not up for traveling yet,” Baldwyn suggested when Anastasia approached the carriage dressed in her traveling dress. Her color was better, but she was still rather pale.

  Her sweet smile warmed him. She rested her hand on his forearm, and her golden brown eyes melted his misgivings. What he wouldn’t do to spend the entire trip back to Town with her alone in the carriage.

  Baldwyn covered her hand with his own and allowed his gaze to wander to her pale pink lips. Anastasia smoothed his cheek with her soft kid glove.

  “If you think I’m letting you out of my sight now, Baldwyn Sinclair, you are sorely mistaken,” she answered.

  Baldwyn raised an eyebrow and regarded her with amusement.

  “In that case, Anastasia Trent, if you wish to travel in my carriage, you shall have to buy a seat.”

  “Is that so? And what is the going rate for passage in such a broken down third-rate conveyance?”

  “It is quite expensive, my dear. I fear you cannot afford it.”

  “Then you have grossly misjudged me, your grace, for I am a lady of some means.” The sparkle in her eyes spelled mischief and mirth. How he loved her. What had taken him so long to realize it? “Name your price, good man. For I am in desperate need to arrive in London today.”

  “Desperate need?” Baldwyn put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “Very well. The cost for passage to London this day is one kiss. Payable in advance.” He lowered his head to hers, but she slipped one finger in front of his lips, stopping his forward motion inches from her mouth.

  “I have not yet consented to your terms, sir.” A wry smile played on her lips. “I wish to offer a counter.”

  “Anastasia,” Baldwyn whispered against her finger. “One does not say she is desperate and then expect to have bargaining power.”

  She giggled. “No. No, I suppose not. But will you not hear me out?”

  “What is your offer, Princess?” He placed a lingering kiss on the finger that blocked his path to her lips.

  She brought her hand down to rest on his chest. “Two. One now…” She rose onto her tiptoes, meeting his lips with her own in a slow, warm caress that he could feel all the way through him. Baldwyn was breathless when she pulled away. “…And the second payable upon safe delivery.”

  He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “Sweet Anastasia,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have much to learn about bargaining.”

  “Perhaps so. Do we have a deal?”

  “Heavens, yes.” He lowered his mouth toward hers again, but she retreated suddenly, setting him off balance so that he stumbled a step forward with a jolt.

  “Oh, no you don’t! Upon safe delivery, your grace. Try that again, and I’ll have you arrested as a charlatan.” The devilish glint danced in the golden hue of her brown eyes once more.

  “Baldwyn!” A sharp pain landed on the back of his legs, and he turned in shock to find his grandmother standing behind him wielding her brass handled cane. “Mind yourself, boy! You’re standing in broad daylight! Now, be a gentleman and help an old lady into the carriage.” She lifted her hand into the air beside him, expecting him to take it and do as she bid.

  “Ah, Grandmother, I’m delighted you’ll be making the trip with us today.” It was a bald-faced lie, but now he had two excellent reasons for this to be the swiftest trip to London ever recorded.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The trip was torturous. Reminiscent of Dante’s Seventh Circle.

  The first hour was spent listening to the dowager drone on about the virtues of needlepoint until abruptly falling asleep and promptly adopting a steady cadence at an unearthly volume, making any conversation impossible. Next to her sat Lady Anastasia, stifling a laugh at his expense.

  Baldwyn slid to the side directly across from Anastasia and held out his hand to her without saying a word. She studied him suspiciously, a single eyebrow raised in question, then shrugged and took his hand.

  With a firm grasp on her wrist, he tugged her to h
is side of the carriage in one fluid motion, depositing her on the seat beside him.

  “Really, your grace, it isn’t proper,” she whispered, a mock derision playing in her voice.

  “To blazes with proper.” He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

  “Whatever will the dowager say?”

  “I don’t care.” He kissed her neck.

  “That doesn’t sound like you. Are you ill?” She slipped a glove off one hand and felt his forehead, then slid her soft hand down to his cheek.

  Baldwyn grasped it in his and pressed it to his lips. “No. No, I am well. And the dowager is fast asleep.” He laid another kiss on her neck. Her nearness made him dizzy — her fragrance, her velvet touch, the taste of her skin — and he was drowning in the haze of desire descending on him.

  Raining light kisses along her jaw line, he blazed a hot trail toward her mouth. Her pulse raced beneath the touch of his lips.

  Breathlessly, she whispered, turning reluctantly away from his advance, “Remember our bargain, your grace. Upon safe arrival.”

  “Hang the bargain.” He gasped for breath against her neck and gingerly laid a hand on her cheek, drawing her face toward his. Angling his own head, he closed the gap between them with fervent passion. Her hesitation alarmed him, but he persisted, brushing her mouth once, twice, a third time, coaxing her lips apart until she indulged him. Her bare hand slid to the back of his neck and tangled in his hair, driving him deeper into the fog where Anastasia was his only focus, more of her his only goal.

  A distant rumbling raked his brain, and he felt Anastasia tense in his arms. He tried to ignore the persistent interference, tried to draw her back into the trance with him, but she pushed at his chest, and the rumbling grew more insistent. Then he heard it.

  Not the constant rhythm of his grandmother’s snore, but the erratic cough of the dowager clearing her throat in disgust.