A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  “Fine. I don’t trust him.” His nearness set her pulse beating erratically. She forced her concentration back to his danger. “What if he hoped to find you asleep? What’s to have stopped him from killing you?”

  “A sense of family?”

  His breath fanned her cheek, and an aching longing seeped through her. “He doesn’t like you,” she managed. She caught his hand, and temptation proved too great. She drew him down beside her. “That scared me when he came in. I really thought he’d come to attack you.”

  “No.” He stroked her hair, soothing. “It’s all right.”

  Closing her eyes, she reveled in the sensations caused by his simplest touch. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Now it is,” she agreed.

  “Miss Campbell—” He set her aside.

  No, she couldn’t bear it if he withdrew from her. Not now, not tonight, not when he filled her world, when the sound of his deep voice sent a thrill through her very being. She’d never felt like this before. She’d never felt such depth of emotion, such certainty she had found the one man...

  She gazed into his eyes. The smoldering glow she encountered there robbed her of breath. He felt it, too, this desperate need, this sense of oneness between them. They belonged together, but he’d fight against it...

  This was too important to let his ridiculous noble instincts rule his heart. She slid her arm across his broad chest, then pushed hard, so he fell back on the comforter. She stopped his struggles by pinning him by both shoulders.

  “Miss Campbell—”

  “Christy,” she whispered, and trembled with nerves at her audacity. “I’m doing this for your own protection, you know. Someone needs to stay with you tonight. Just to make sure you’re safe, of course.”

  In spite of himself, his lips twitched. “And who’s to make sure I’m safe from you?”

  “Do you really want to be?”

  For a long moment he remained silent, gazing at her. At last, he said: “What I want and what is right are vastly different things.”

  “No, they’re not! James, it’s not like this at all where I come from. I haven’t been brought up with these ridiculous constraints. The rules of your time just don’t apply to me, so don’t judge me—or us—by them.”

  His fingers brushed across her curls. “It couldn’t have changed that much.”

  “Oh, yes it could. You need a lesson in our modern ways. Now—in your time—no one thinks the worse of a man for sleeping with a woman, do they? In my time, men and women have become equal that way. If what we share is as special as this...” She broke off, unable to put the feelings and sensations into words.

  “You are under my protection. I cannot take advantage of you.”

  “I’m over the age of consent and capable of making my own decisions.”

  “And apparently mine, as well.” A gleam lit the depths of his dark eyes, and he pulled her to him. His mouth brushed across her cheek, then found her lips.

  She closed her eyes, savoring the fierceness of the pressure. His hands moved over her shoulders and back, tantalizing and teasing, as he deepened the kiss, demanding an even greater response from her. She gave it. His arms tightened, crushing her against him, and the passion flaming between them sent wonder surging through every part of her.

  He released her slowly, lingeringly. His hand slid to her cheek, then cupped the nape of her neck. “Does that measure up to the standards of your time?”

  A shaky laugh escaped her. “Beats them all hollow,” she assured him. “Maybe I’m the one who needs a lesson.”

  His finger trailed down her throat to the scooped neckline off her muslin wrapper. “This is your last chance to withdraw.”

  “Are you kidding? And miss my chance to learn from a master?”

  A slow smile of purely male triumph spread across his features. “You desire me to instruct the instructress, then?”

  “Very much,” she breathed. “I think you’ll find me a very attentive student.”

  “Then let us begin the lesson.” With a gentle tug, he freed her sash, then eased her shoulders and arms free of the flimsy fabric. For a long moment he gazed at her, then with a groan, he dragged her once more to him in a crushing embrace.

  “I’m going to like your homework,” she murmured as he lowered her against the pillows.

  Christy awakened slowly to the feel of James’s arms still wrapped about her. She sighed, and stretched in luxurious contentment. Predawn light seeped into the room, bathing the bed in a soft glow. It was tempting—so very tempting—to remain right here, touching him, reliving the joy of the love they had shared. If they were discovered, though, he would never forgive her.

  With a regretful sigh, she eased herself away from him, drew on her robe, then gazed down at his recumbent figure. He lay sprawled in the massive tester bed, the bedclothes all askew. His deep, even breathing assured her he remained fast in much needed sleep. She kissed the top of his auburn hair and slipped quietly from his chamber.

  Noises from below stairs announced the fact the servants were up and about. If she ran into one, James would be furious with her. She grinned at the thought of the so—proper major explaining what had occurred between them to his cousin. Almost, it was tempting. James needed some loosening up. Dear James. Dear, wonderful, sexy—beloved—James.

  She reached the next floor down and made her way to her chamber, where she built up her fire before climbing into her cold, empty bed. She’d much rather be sharing his, still. Damn his sense of propriety. But his lesson last night had been heaven itself.

  She drifted into a hazy dose, from which she was disturbed over two hours later by an indignant Nancy. The girl swept into the room, a tray in her hands, talking as she came.

  “The hours the gentry keeps, Miss Christy. We’d of been up and doin’ long ago, what with our tasks. Such idleness!” She set down her tray, and her impish smile flashed. “And don’t I just wish I could be one of ’em!”

  Christy laughed and picked up the cup of hot chocolate. “Boy, I’m hungry. Any hope of breakfast anywhere?”

  Nancy sniffed. “Not for another hour, at least. Mr. Wickes says as the gentry don’t leave their rooms until noon.”

  Christy rolled her eyes, then settled cross-legged on the bed with her cup in hand. “What do you think of this place?” she asked.

  Nancy turned from the cupboard with Christy’s sprigged muslin. “I knows a few cracksmen what would give their right arms to mill this ’ere ken.”

  Christy blinked. “Mill a—You mean rob it?”

  “I wouldn’t,” came the affronted reply. “I told you, I don’t ’old with that no more.”

  “What do you think of the people?” Christy tried again.

  To her surprise, a dull flush crept up the maid’s cheeks. “Oh, they’s all right, as flash culls go. Can’t say as I’d like to work for that ’atchet-faced twiddlepoop what walks about on cat stalks, cousin of the major’s or no. But some of them others, they ain’t so bad.”

  “Oh?” Christy’s gaze rested on her. “Any one in particular?”

  Nancy sniffed. “No matter what Mr. ’Igh-and-Mighty Wickes says, some gentlemen don’t sneer just because a girl don’t talk flash.”

  That one of the guests had set himself out to charm Nancy, Christy felt certain. She could guess with what purpose in mind, and it angered her. Nothing further, though, would Nancy divulge, leaving Christy to worry whether the girl would abandon her plans to join the respectable ranks of the upper servants in favor of a temporary and far less respectable liaison with an upperclass roué who knew how to turn a girl’s head.

  When Christy at last made her way to the breakfast parlor, the morning was considerably advanced. To her pleasure, only one other member of the house party as yet had emerged.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  James stood before the sideboard, a plate in one hand, the cover of a chafing dish in the other, as he examined the contents. He replaced it and tried the next.

&n
bsp; Christy closed the door behind her and leaned against it. “Alone, at last,” she breathed, at her most dramatic.

  He stiffened. “Good morning, Miss Campbell.”

  “ ‘Miss Campbell?’ ” She crossed the room and slid her arms about him. “Are you mad at me for slipping away without saying goodbye? I was afraid if I woke you, I wouldn’t get away at all, and then your valet would catch us.”

  “Christy, please.” With his free hand, he attempted to extricate himself.

  She wouldn’t let go. Instead, she used his maneuverings to place herself in front of him.

  “Can you never behave?” The reluctant smile in his eyes denied the exasperation of his tone.

  She took the plate from him and placed it on the sideboard. “Why should I? There’s no one here.”

  “What if someone walked through that door?”

  “I have it on good authority no one gets up this early. Now, what’s really the matter?” She clasped her hands behind his neck and forced him to look at her. After a moment, she said: “You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?”

  He moved away, and ran unsteady fingers through his already disordered auburn hair. “You confuse my sense of right and wrong, and that is not a sensation I enjoy.”

  “I can think of a few you did.”

  His lips twitched. “Baggage. But I am still a man—a gentleman—of this era. Give me time, Christy.”

  “I’ll try.” She managed a smile and turned to the row of chafing dishes and found a plate. Time. Nearly two hundred years of manners, social development, women’s lib, the sexual revolution. It all lay between them. She couldn’t expect him to loosen up overnight any more easily than he could expect her to conform to the circumscribed behavior of his society. But then she didn’t want him to change that much. She liked him old-fashioned, with his sense of honor and noble standards.

  James filled a tankard with ale, then carried his breakfast to the table. When he glanced up at her, his expression reflected his usual imperturbable calm. Yet in the depths of his dark eyes, a spark remained.

  He wrapped the proprieties of his era about him like a suit of armor, she reflected. Only she detected the chink. She eyed his broad-shouldered figure, the fascinating lines of his face, and determined to undermine his good intentions once more at the earliest opportunity.

  As she settled in a chair across from him, the door to the parlor opened and Sir Oliver and Lord Brockenhurst entered together.

  James looked up in surprise. “You here, Brockenhurst?”

  The viscount, elegant in a neat blue coat that emphasized the classical perfection of his features, hesitated in the doorway. “I am not quite sure how it came about, though I believe it had something to do with a fourth bottle of claret.”

  Sir Oliver shook his shaggy head, “This younger generation, Major. Can’t hold their wine. Though I distinctly saw him walk up the stairs.” He turned to Christy and bowed low over her hand, raising it fleetingly to his lips. “Ah, to be fifteen years younger.” He sighed.

  “I wouldn’t mind losing a few years, either,” Christy assured him. Like about two hundred, but she kept that thought to herself.

  Brockenhurst made his selections at the sideboard, then took a place near James. “You are up betimes, Major,” he said.

  “I have work to do this morning.”

  “Ah, yes, the poor.” St. Ives, already dressed for the day’s session in Parliament, crossed the threshold. “Good morning.”

  He nodded to the others, then addressed himself once more to James. “The poor are always with us, are they not?”

  “You might, of course, suggest another bill,” James offered. “Trim a little of Prinny’s spending and provide more training and assistance for those condemned to the workhouses.”

  “You would make an excellent head of government, would you not, Major?” Sir Oliver looked over his shoulder from where he stood before the chafing dishes, and a slight frown creased his already lined brow. “Such concern for the masses.”

  “Have you considered what your life might have been like had you been born of their number, and not to your family and estate?”

  St. Ives shuddered. “Please, dear Coz, not while I’m contemplating my breakfast.”

  Brockenhurst looked up from his plate. “As it happens, that is very much the subject under discussion right now.”

  “The regency bill,” James agreed. “Prinny cannot be allowed to enrage the people with his wastrel ways. Have you considered the potential consequences?”

  “Indeed we have, Major,” Farnham said from the doorway. “Indeed we have.” His serious brown eyes clouded, he paused on the threshold to survey the assembled company, then made his way to the pitcher of ale. “What, are we all gathered?”

  “Do you intend to speak in today’s debate?” James asked him.

  Farnham rubbed his waistcoat with a meditative hand. “I believe I will, Major.” He swallowed a mouthful of ale, then nodded his head. “Yes, I believe I will. Someone must make certain all options are considered before a dreadful mistake is made.”

  “My cousin is of the opinion there will be rioting if Prinny is appointed,” St. Ives informed him.

  “That is not what I said,” James corrected. “Only if the interests of the poor are ignored.”

  “They are one and the same.” Sir Oliver drained his mug and slammed it on the table. “None of these German Hanovers have the interest of the people at heart. We need a Stuart, Major. A king born and bred of the British.”

  “Scots, actually,” Christy murmured, but no one paid her any heed.

  “A pity Henry is a bishop,” James agreed. “Still, there must be other candidates. One of the royal dukes, perhaps?”

  Sir Oliver snorted. “Damned fool idea. There isn’t one of them worth his salt.”

  Christy looked from one to the other of the serious faces. “You’ve misjudged the people’s reactions to your Prinny. Have you considered the possibility his appointment won’t start a revolution? That everybody expects him to become regent?”

  Brockenhurst turned an indulgent smile on her. “You Americans,” he said. “I find it hard to believe it has been so very few years since we were all one country.”

  Farnham shook his head. “Come, come, Brockenhurst. A lady is entitled to her opinion.”

  “Provided she keeps it to herself?” Christy demanded. “Would it be so terrible if your Prinny did become regent?”

  Viscount Brockenhurst possessed himself of her hand and patted it. “Very dreadful, my dear. Politics is a man’s world, don’t trouble your lovely head over such matters. Gentlemen, we forget our manners. We have a delightful visitor among us, yet all we can speak of is our upcoming debate.”

  “Oh, don’t give it a thought,” she said.

  James rose, and fixed her with a compelling eye. “If you are done, Miss Campbell? We had best be off. You have much to do this day, I am certain.”

  “Yes, knitting and cooking, I expect.” She flashed him a false smile.

  “Excellent, excellent.” Sir Oliver rose. “Miss Campbell, a pleasure as always. I hope we may meet again soon.”

  Christy turned that falsely sweet smile on him, then joined James in thanking St. Ives for his hospitality. After saying their goodbyes to the assembled company, they went into the hall. Below, in the entry, Nancy and Wickes stood side by side, pointedly not looking at one another. Several bags stood by the door, awaiting their departure.

  Lady St. Ives descended the stairs, only to stop at sight of them. “Are you going so soon, James? I had hoped—” She broke off.

  “I fear we must.” James took her hand. “We were just coming to find you.”

  She waved aside their thanks, and accompanied them down the last flight of stairs. “Let me send a footman for a hackney.” “Never mind. Wickes?”

  “Certainly, sir. Two vehicles, I believe?” The valet bowed, and set off on his errand.

  Wickes returned less than ten minutes later, an
d, with the help of the jarvey, loaded the baggage into the first carriage. Nancy, with a lingering glance over her shoulder, climbed in next. Wickes followed.

  Christy started down the stairs to enter the second vehicle, only to come to an abrupt halt. Two houses down, about twenty feet from the corner, two frieze-coated figures stood close together, deep in conversation. Quickly, she hurried ahead and jumped into the vehicle.

  “James!” she hissed as he set foot on the step. “Those are the men who’ve been following us. There, near the corner. I’ve never seen them together before.”

  “Wait a minute,” he called to the jarvey.

  James pretended to examine his boot while the two men spoke for a moment longer. One strode off, and the other glanced toward their hackney, then quickly crossed the street to the garden at the center of the square.

  James straightened at once. “I want you to follow that man,” he told the jarvey, gesturing in the direction of the first. “Without him being aware of it, if possible.” He swung into the vehicle and it started forward. “The changing of our watchdogs, I should imagine.” He sounded pleased.

  “Do you think we can keep him in sight?” Christy leaned forward, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the frieze-coated man.

  “I very much hope so. If he is indeed going off duty from keeping an eye on us, it seems very likely he will make his report to his employer.”

  Christy caught her breath. “You mean—?”

  He nodded. “I may at last find out who is behind this nonsense.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Apparently oblivious to his pursuers, the man strolled to the corner. A number of carts and fashionable carriages jostled past, but no hackneys. James caught the edge of the window, ready to call to his jarvey to slow, when the man strode up to a covered chaise and entered it without a word to the driver. That individual gave his pair the office, and they pulled into the flow of traffic.

  “Well, well, well,” James murmured.

  Christy caught his hand in a warm clasp. “We must be right,” she breathed. “It was there, waiting for him. Maybe it brought his replacement.”