Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages)

by L. L. Muir

  “Not a chance,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

  Hands came down on her shoulders, preventing her from turning back.

  “Go,” Heathcliff whispered behind her ear. Maybe he was worried about making a scene too.

  Stinging tears spread across her eyes like someone bringing down the curtains. She couldn’t see clearly, but she walked forward anyway. The snow was not very deep, and she wondered if the storm that raged around them all week had only been an illusion.

  She climbed into the carriage and faced forward, resisting the urge to look out the window. She didn’t want to see him standing there in agony and she definitely didn’t want to see him not standing there. Either way, she’d probably try to get out the carriage and piss off the coachman. She’d seen his magic. She’d watched him scramble her life all week like a bunch of eggs. She didn’t want to see what he might do to Heathcliff while she watched.

  She shook her head. She had other things to worry about.

  They’d been taken out of time? Was she now back in time, since she’d gotten into the carriage? Was she about to find herself in the ditch? If so, she wanted to be prepared.

  The bastard started humming his damned song again, so she gave a good solid elbow to the back wall.

  He laughed. Her elbow throbbed. But at least the humming stopped. A few minutes later, she felt herself sliding into sleep and hoped she would wake up somewhere warm and dry.

  Of course, she wasn’t stupid enough to hope it out loud.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bree woke in a car. It wasn’t upside down or sideways. That was a good sign.

  She was in the back seat of a cab, parked next to a curb at Heathrow Airport. She sat up and looked out the window at the same doors she’d come out of nine days ago. Or was she back to the day she’d arrived? If so, she was in no mood to tour the country. She just wanted to go home. If Heathcliff had been sent back to 1806, there was no use looking for him. And the last thing she wanted to do was stumble across his headstone surrounded by twenty tourists.

  “Yer awake, then? Excellent,” said the cabby. “I’ll just get your bag from the boot. No charges, Miss. I’ve been ‘andsomely paid, I ‘ave. If I’m given a ha’penny more, I’ll be forced to seek out me priest, I will, for stealing. See if I don’t.”

  And with that, he jumped out of the car like he was afraid she might give him a tip and therefore damn his soul. She resisted the urge to ask him who had paid her fare because she didn’t want to hear that her benefactor was the stupid Man in the Moon.

  She climbed out and the handle of her purse slid down her arm. She should be thrilled to have it back, but she wasn’t going to be grateful to the moon for anything. She pulled it open and started going through it in the middle of the sidewalk. Her passport was there. Her folder with her itinerary and return flight confirmation. Her driver’s license. She dug and dug, but found no cell phone.

  By the time she looked up, the cabby was gone.

  The airline took pity on her, even apologized for whatever it was that kept her from making her flight two days before. They had plenty of room for her and her abused suitcase on a plane that was leaving within the hour. The bag weighed even less flying home—no surprise there; she wasn’t taking any souvenirs.

  At least not the tangible kind.

  She had a window seat on the leg from Atlanta to Spokane, but night was falling again. The moon was the last thing she would risk seeing, so when the chick in the aisle seat asked if she’d lift the blind on the window, Bree shook her head.

  “If I open it, I’ll puke.”

  What she really wanted to say was “If I see so much as a moonbeam I’m going to get hysterical and they’ll have to land the plane on a freeway. Do you really want to risk it?”

  The woman asked the flight attendant if she could sit elsewhere, then the guy next to her got up to use the restroom and never came back. So for the rest of the six hour flight, she would have the entire side of the plane to herself. Plenty of privacy for crying.

  But she wouldn’t cry. She wasn’t even going to think.

  She was going to pretend like everything was fine for the next two weeks. Then, when she was stronger, she was going to deal with everything she was leaving behind her in Scotland. If she still needed it, she’d have a good cry. And if the crying never stopped, she was going to find a therapist—someone slightly under-qualified, someone without the power to lock her away when she started telling her story.

  Their story.

  She wondered what Heathcliff would think about therapists. She could imagine him rolling his eyes.

  If there had ever been a Heathcliff.

  Nope. Not going to think about him. Not for two weeks.

  She lasted another twenty seconds. It wasn’t her fault though; the stupid, cheap airplane blanket was plaid! That, of course, reminded her of the plaid he’d covered her with one night when he thought she was sleeping.

  She cried on and off for the rest of the flight, slightly enjoying how uncomfortable she made the flight attendants. But she paid for it when the plane descended. She thought her ears were going to explode. She wished she would have taken the piece of hard candy the one of them had offered, to help her ears pop.

  Would she ever go back? If she did, would the moon take pity on her and make Heathcliff’s castle appear in the mist?

  “Not a chance,” whispered a voice next to her, where no one was sitting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Heathcliff McKinnon and his castle were returned to their proper year. He knew because his servants arrived the morning after he’d lost all.

  For a moment, he considered taking the housekeeper aside, or his man of business, or even the stableman and telling them his tale. But it wouldn’t be believed. Even he wondered if he hadn’t dreamt it. And knowing he would often wonder, he gave orders that the window in the first bedchamber was not to be repaired. Nothing at all was to be disturbed there.

  He let the staff wonder about the Arabian tent in the parlor. No doubt they’d share a giggle when they found his turban and robes beneath. What they made of his cords and tassels, he didn’t care.

  What he did care about was finding something that might help him best the bloody moon. His grandmother had to have known something more than just the song. Perhaps she’d dealt with the blighter herself. He’d seemed to know of the woman at the very least. But he could not tear the house to pieces looking for it, not with the servants already peering at him askance. No, he’d have to search calmly.

  Had the coachman been correct, about the whole holiday having never happened, then he would have no memory of it. Daily he wished he could forget her. Nightly, he was grateful he had not, for at least he was able to fall asleep with a pleasant thought. The unpleasant thoughts he saved for daytime, when he could at least distract himself as they poured through his mind.

  He pretended to keep himself busy repairing this, that and the other, so when he was seen meddling with the sagging door of his grandmother’s bedroom, none would think it odd. The slab of mahogany was swinging straight in no time, and when he casually stood and walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind him, no one noticed.

  Of course it was his home. Of course he could go where he bloody well wished. But on the off chance he survived the breaking of his heart and found himself living amongst these people for fifty more years, he had to at least consider his reputation. And having witnesses to his rummaging about in a witch’s bedroom would do him no good in the end.

  None had used the room since the old woman passed, only a week after her twin sister had died, nearly seven years before.

  There was nothing noteworthy about the bed, of course. The quilt was covered with tiny purple pansies. The drapes were purple as well. Even from the hallway, and after all these years, the room smelled of her, of the flowers used to make her medicines. It gave the impression that even the quilted flowers were in bloom.

  Because of his vantage po
int, squatting down to examine the door latch, he’d had a clear view of the books his grandmother had stored beneath her bed. Of course she’d always had a book in hand. He just assumed she chose them from the library. But apparently, a select few had never been returned to the shelves.

  If they’d ever belonged on the shelves in the first place.

  Heathcliff waited for a telltale shiver to warn him away from anything dangerous, but he got no such feeling, not that he could be dissuaded. With a touch of disappointment, he sat upon the bed, reached down between his legs and dragged out the little collection.

  Most of them were drawings. It was his grandmother who had introduced him to the pastime. It reminded him that at least he had those drawings of Angeline and Brianna as further proof they’d been there. He lost track of time pouring over the collection, remembering the items and people in the drawings and sometimes remembering watching his grandmother’s hands drawing this line, or that line. Standing next to her, trying to see her subjects as she saw them. Amazed that he did not see the lines on a face that Grandmother somehow saw.

  At long last, he had but one book left. As he reached for the cover, those chills struck him on the back of his head and poured down his spine. But he did not stop. He’d dealt with the devil; there was little that could spook him now.

  It was another collection of drawings, but these were small, random. A leaf here. A bug there. A remedy for red skin. Directions for drying a certain herb, for crushing another. No doubt the local doctors would be amused. No doubt the village gossips would see it all as proof Grandmother was a witch.

  Halfway through the text, the pages fell open to a chart, a calendar of sorts illustrating the different phases of the moon. But at the bottom of each phase, there were odd notes.

  Never plant here.

  Never reap here.

  Decide nothing this day.

  A fine day for crying.

  If he chose to ignore that generous flow of chills he’d been subjected to when opening the book, Heathcliff knew, in his bones, there was something important here. Something on that chart was the key to his happiness, written in the loving hand of his grandmother.

  He began once again at the top.

  At mid-month, under a blank square, beneath the notation New Moon, there was an odd comment.

  He’ll be about.

  Heathcliff’s belly burned. That was it. All he needed to know.

  He was a breath away from thanking his grandmother aloud when he thought better of it. Best to keep one’s thoughts to oneself, lest the devil be listening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Bree was in no mood to go back to work. After telling her family she’d been in a terrible accident in Scotland and nearly died, they didn’t push her. The vice-principals at the deaf school weren’t nearly as understanding. They called every day, and she would have ignored them without any guilt whatsoever if it weren’t for the fact that Shelly and Charlotte were also her best friends.

  First, they tried reason. Since she wasn’t suffering from any physical injury, she should return to work to get her mind off the disastrous vacation. Bree insisted she needed a few weeks to wrap her head around things, then she’d come back.

  Then they tried guilt. The children were asking for her. They wanted to tell her about their Christmas vacations and she’d better hurry before they forgot about them. Bree argued that no one forgot about Christmas, even if they wanted to...

  Then they tried blackmail. Bree had taught a mute girl a long time ago and her father now wanted to make a large donation to the school. She had to at least show up for the gala in his honor since Bree was the reason his daughter had found her voice. While the story was gratifying, it only reminded her of Heathcliff and Angeline—a memory she wanted to avoid for the time being. But she couldn’t risk ticking off the rich father and giving him a chance to change his mind, so she agreed to go. Besides, she might not be ready to go back to teaching quite yet, but she remembered who she was and her true calling in life. That was worth a little celebration at least.

  Her give-a-shitter was fixed. But now her eyes were defective, leaking all over the place at the drop of a hat. She just hoped she could compose herself long enough to get through the gala without drowning anyone.

  Her parents were rather proud and insisted on going along. When her mother came out of her room, she frowned awkwardly, like she was trying to keep from creasing her makeup.

  “You’re not going to wear sunglasses are you? It’s dark outside.”

  Bree bared her teeth at her reflection in the entry mirror and wiped her red lipstick off a tooth. She softened the look a little to smile at her mother.

  “Rays from the moon give me a headache. Migraines, I guess, from the accident.”

  She used the word accident like a passkey. It got her mom to take a step back and give her a little room to recover. The woman didn’t need to know it was her heart that needed recovering, not her body. The look her mother gave her that night, however, promised that passkey wasn’t going to work much longer. But Bree was safe for the momemt; the woman wouldn’t let anything ruin an important event. One would think Brianna Colby had been nominated for an Oscar.

  Tomorrow, her sunglasses would probably wind up missing and it would serve her right. She needed to stop pushing her mother away. She needed to move on. She just couldn’t imagine how.

  Mother got in the backseat with her. “I don’t want you to have to sit back here alone,” she said.

  Bree was pretty sure Mother was pretending they had a chauffeur—Bree would put her mom’s delusions of grandeur up against the finest. Dad kept rolling his eyes and winking at Bree in the rearview mirror. He was probably thinking the same thing.

  The gala was being held at the art gallery next door to the school and when he pulled up in front of the doors, he jumped out and ran around to open Mom’s door. Bree played along too, scooting across the seat to follow her out.

  “Very red carpet, darling,” her dad whispered in her ear. “You’ve made her night.”

  Tears sprang to Bree’s eyes unexpectedly—which she totally should have expected. Any emotion at all brought on tears, even if she was just happy her mom was happy.

  “Stop that,” her mom whispered and slipped her hand around Bree’s elbow. “Cry tomorrow. All you want. But tonight, you’re a Colby.”

  And whether it was due to a lifetime of training or her willingness to keep up the pretense for her mom, Bree swallowed her tears and straightened her spine. Together, the Colby women teetered on high heels and took their good pearls on a grand circuit of the gallery.

  “Bree!” Charlotte tried to pull her aside, but Mother wasn’t about to let go of her. It was a control thing, but Bree realized it was just another of her mom’s delusions. On the inside, Bree was in control. Whether or not she lost it in a fit of tears every night was her prerogative.

  Thankfully, Charlotte stopped tugging before all three of them wound up on the floor. “Bree, honey,” she said. “Have you seen the new exibit? In the green room?”

  “No. I haven’t. And why are your eyes bugging out?”

  Mother laughed and looked around like she was worried someone might have overheard.

  “My eyes are bugging out,” Charlotte said between gritted, smiling teeth, “because the subject of the art is—”

  “Charlotte! He’s here.” Shelly slinked up behind Charlotte and noticed Bree. “Has she seen it yet?”

  “No,” said her friend. “But she’ll have to wait.” To Bree she said, “We can’t just leave him twiddling his thumbs. Come on.”

  Again, Charlotte pulled, but Mother was like an anchor dragging the ocean floor and the four of them moved sedately around the perimeter of the room whether they wanted to or not. Bree didn’t care. The phrase twiddle his thumbs only reminded her of the signal Heathcliff was thinking about kissing her and she couldn’t feel anything but numbing pain.

  “Ah, Brianna.” Brady Homer, one of her fellow teach
ers moved toward her, carrying two glasses of champagne. He offered one to her mother. “Did you hear what happened to David?”

  Charlotte frowned at him for interrupting their parade, but she was all ears.

  Bree could only shake her head and wait.

  “Some guy paid him a lot of money...to agree to fight him.”

  “David? David Wordsworth?” Her voice was working again.

  “Yes. David.”

  Bree laughed. “David is not a fighter.” He wasn’t a lover, either, as it turned out, but she kept that little remark to herself.

  “Oh, he is now. He took the money. I always thought, deep down, he was a greedy bastard.” Brady clinked glasses with Bree’s mom and took a drink.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Why would anyone want to pay David for anything? No offense, Bree.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t just for fighting,” Brady said. “The contract also said he had to leave town. For good.”

  Bree felt a headache coming on just trying to understand.

  “So when do we get to watch this fight?” Mother asked.

  She knew her mom disliked David—vehemently—but the woman detested violence more. Or, maybe not.

  “It’s all over. David’s gone.” Brady suddenly looked worried. “Sorry, Bree.”

  Bree smiled. “Don’t cry for me. I’ve been over him for a while now.”

  Brady looked relieved. “I should hope so, what with the new exhibit and all.”

  Before Bree could ask him what in the hell he was talking about, Charlotte had them moving again. Mother, in her glee over David, forgot to slow them down and suddenly they came to a clumsy halt below the Venetian glass chandelier in the main gallery.

  Shelly dinged a crystal flute with a spoon and the room quieted. The only sound left was that of a recorded instrumental and the friction of clothing and bodies.

  Bree looked around the crowd, trying to figure out which man might be their new patron. She’d interacted with most parents, so she was hoping someone would look familiar. But then her eye caught on an Armani suit not ten feet away from her. The man wore a long black ponytail down the middle of a broad back and Bree couldn’t help but compare him to Heathcliff McKinnon, a man she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about for at least another week. Then he turned, and she laughed. She was going to need that therapist a lot sooner than expected because she was projecting the image of Heathcliff onto this poor guy who someone had dragged to their little gala. Probably some woman who wanted to show off what—or whom—she’d gotten for Christmas.