Bound By The Christmastide Moon: Regency Novella

by Christina McKnight

  Pulling from his grasp, she huffed and hurried ahead of him before rounding and pinning him with a hardened stare. “It is you, Lord Lichfield, who was in jeopardy. And feel free to offer your thanks for my rescuing of you.”

  “You, rescue me?” No one rescued him. It was Silas who took care of everyone around him. And it appeared that would extend to his betrothed, as well. He laughed, “Don’t be addlebrained, Lady Mallory. It is you who will be harmed if your escapades become known.”

  Her eyes flared with irritation, and she crossed her arms over her still heaving bosom. “If my escapades are made known to whom?”

  “Anyone,” he retorted. “Your reputation would be tarnished.”

  “And you would be free to find fault with our betrothal?”

  Find fault with their betrothal?

  Silas’s mind whirled in an attempt to keep up with her words. “I have no intention of crying off. I committed, papers have been signed, and the banns read in both my parish and published in the London papers.”

  “It is only your name on a piece of parchment that has bound you to me?”

  “Are you mad, woman?” Silas knew the error of his words the moment they crossed his lips.

  Lady Mallory’s nostrils flared with fury, and her lips pulled back, baring her clenched teeth.

  When she took a step toward him, Silas backed up, out of shock or self-preservation, he was uncertain.

  When her eyes narrowed on him, one hand landing on her hip as the other rose, she said, her words clipped, “You—think—me—mad?” She poked her finger into his chest with each venomous syllable.

  In his entire life—as challenging and unpredictable as it had been thus far—Silas realized he’d never known true fear until he looked into the slate-grey eyes of his betrothed.

  She was both terrifying and utterly captivating.

  It was as if he were being led to his very own reckoning,

  And he waited with bated breath to discover his fate.

  Chapter 7

  Mallory glared at the scoundrel, her soon-to-be husband if her father had anything to say about it, daring Lichfield to repeat his previous folly and utter the word mad again. Her blood boiled, and she suspected her cheeks were aflame despite the chill in the air.

  Space. Distance. Time.

  To think. To reconcile. To breathe.

  That was what Mallory needed.

  Instead, she took another step forward, and he answered by retreating.

  It was the word whispered behind raised hands in her household: mad, insane, lunatic, crazed, frenzied…

  Each spoken to wound her or Aunt Hettie.

  Spoken behind closed doors by her father, uttered directly to her face by Adam, and whispered behind her back by the Blandford servants.

  Years of pent-up hurt and anger surrounded the use of that one, simple word—or any of its derivatives.

  And Lord Lichfield was unaware of her gift and therefore associating the spiteful comment to other portions of her person.

  It was he who was in the wrong in this situation, and it had naught to do with her. She hadn’t so much as breathed a word to anyone about her visions. Though one had overtaken her earlier, Mallory had recovered quickly and even fooled Aunt Hettie into thinking it hadn’t happened.

  Damnation, but she was doing everything she’d promised her father. She was putting on a show much like any actress upon the stage—normal, poised, and proper.

  Not unconventional, unsuitable…rejected by those who should cherish her most.

  “Lady Mallory.” His pleading tone darkened her resentment as he attempted to reach out to her. Sidestepping his reach, she could not allow him to touch her and risk another vision. “I spoke out of turn, I did not mean to insinuate that you lack any—”

  “Unfortunately, you did,” she seethed, her fury rising again at his obvious effort to justify his words. “Lord Lichfield, you lied to me.”

  “I lied to you?” he asked, startled by the switch in topic.

  “Yes, you told me you were on your way to Castle Keyvnor when you left Tetbery, but here you are, at the public tavern, imbibing spirits long before the hour is proper.” A sudden cold breeze pushed her curls over her shoulder, and she clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering. Perhaps it was Lord Lichfield who was unsuitable, not her. “Am I to wed a drunkard, my lord?”

  A single, perfectly arched black brow shot up at her demand. “It is not against any law for a man to enter a tavern to quench his thirst.”

  “Very true. However, my concern is not with the drinking itself, unless you tend to imbibe in excess, but with the fact that you lied to me and in front of my aunt.” Mallory supposed she might well be overreacting a tad and her grievance was not solely with his falsehood. “Furthermore, I wish to know if you have a penchant for carousing and physical altercations.”

  Her finger still jabbed at his chest—his solid, muscular, broad chest—as she spoke, and Mallory dropped it to her side. Thankfully, his chest was not bare, and her gloves were solidly in place. There was a small likelihood someone from the castle had witnessed their argument and recognized them.

  Perhaps Lord Lichfield had a point: her behavior was a bit erratic. Surely not mad, but when she’d spotted the man as big as an ox pummel the earl in the ribs and then nearly bash him again, she’d had to put an end to it all. The boulder sitting near the tavern entrance had been an adequate weapon, especially as neither fighter had seen the blow coming.

  If her betrothed were to perish, it would not occur with Mallory standing helplessly by.

  Unbeknownst to this man, he’d not only committed to a betrothal and a marriage to her, but he was her lifeline, her chance at a future above and beyond being the spinster daughter of a marquess. He was to give her a family and a home of her own. A place where Mallory could be herself and fear nothing.

  Felicity had that at Tetbery, and bloody hell if Mallory did not long for her own sanctuary.

  The man before her was her ticket out of her father’s—and brother’s—control.

  And he would damn well follow through with things.

  Lord Lichfield exhaled in a labored burst, his shoulders falling. The arrogant set of his chin seemed to relax, as well. “No, Lady Mallory, I am not a drunkard nor prone to lying.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, but Mallory remained silent, waiting for him to continue. “I was hungry and in need of a drink. Meeting one’s betrothed for the first time can be downright taxing, and the castle is overrun with guests, servants, and the like, all preparing for the weddings and ball to follow. I did not wish to be underfoot or a nuisance to anyone. So, instead of returning to Keyvnor, I came into Bocka Morrow for a meal and a pint of ale.”

  “Yet, that led to fisticuffs with—”

  “That was in no way fisticuffs,” he said, cutting her off. “That offensive man thought himself justified in harassing a barmaid. I was merely showing him the error of his ways by escorting him out of the tavern.”

  “You could have been seriously injured,” Mallory said, releasing the breath she held as all fight left her. If this man would go to such lengths to honor a maid he did not know, how far would he go to support his own wife?

  “That was a possibility; however, the potential injury to the barmaid at the rascal’s hands was far greater, do you not agree?”

  “It…I…well…” Had she judged him wrong? Had she been too harsh with him? The fact of the matter was that they were to be wed in a few short months, and Mallory needed to know the quality of the man she’d be tied to for all her days. If he were cruel and callous, prone to drinking, or quick to temper, Mallory would fear ever allowing him to learn of her gifts. “I suppose your actions were very gallant, my lord.”

  “Silas, my given name is Silas.” He ran his fingers through his hair, the curls landing precisely in place. “I suppose if you’ve bashed a man senseless to save my hide it is only right you call me Silas.”

  Silas. A unique name, indeed.


  Very fitting.

  Odd, but she’d never once thought to know the man beyond his title or address. Certainly, he’d given his name when he introduced himself earlier. It would be peculiar if she continued to address him in such a formal manner—even in their private chambers.

  “Am I wrong to assume you came to town without benefit of a chaperone?”

  “You would not be incorrect,” she mumbled, embarrassed for the first time at her rash decision to follow him. “Though I can assure you, no one will notice my absence.”

  He turned away from her and paced a few feet before swinging back around to face her.

  “Did you bring a horse, or did you make it here on foot?”

  She glanced over his shoulder to where the young lad held the reins of the Tetbery mare she’d borrowed. “A horse.”

  How had she gone from scared that he’d be injured to furious at his hurtful word to feeling like a recalcitrant child who needed forgiveness?

  “Let us get you back to Tetbery Estate before anyone misses you,” he sighed.

  “No one will miss me, and I can find my own way back.”

  “While I am certain both of those statements are true, I cannot allow you to go unattended.” He held up one finger to stop her protest before it had even formed on her tongue. “It is not for your sake but mine. I will worry incessantly if I do not witness you arriving safely at Tetbery with my own eyes.”

  She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that a jolt of approval coursed through her at his proclamation. Something fluttered in her chest.

  Lord Lichfield, Silas, was not a cruel or crass man.

  Perhaps they would suit well.

  Chapter 8

  Mallory sat in her rear-facing seat, her hands twisting and knotting in her skirt as their carriage made the short jaunt to Castle Keyvnor. She’d wallowed in remorse all night, her guilt finally getting the best of her when the day dawned clear and bright.

  The carriage hit a deep rut and sprang back up as the well-maintained Wycliffe conveyance gained a bit of speed. The desolate seaside terrain was nothing like the lush greenery surrounding her family home in Launceston. Though still in Cornwall, her estate did not have the unrelenting winds and salty ocean air constantly battering the land.

  Aunt Hettie groaned on the seat across from her and readjusted her position from where she’d slumped low.

  “I told you I was perfectly capable of calling on Lord Lichfield at the castle without you,” Mallory replied, keeping her irritation from entering her tone. “It is only a ten-minute carriage ride away from Tetbery. You could have practically seen me arrive from your bedchamber window.”

  Her aunt shook her head with a frown. “Not proper, not proper at all, a girl tramping about Cornwall unchaperoned. That Banfield family would have a right good laugh at the lot of us.”

  Mallory had been correct in her words to Lord Lichfield—Silas—the day before. She’d slipped back into Tetbery without anyone the wiser. When she’d joined Felicity and her aunt for their evening meal, her dear friend had offered a powder to be taken with table wine to diminish the ache in her head. Mallory had nearly ruined her own excuse when she questioned what Felicity spoke of, but she’d recovered with swiftness, thanked her friend, and taken the awful mixture.

  She may not have had a headache before, but the mere disgust of the powdery substance almost incited one.

  “You do not agree with my match to the earl?” Mallory asked, already sensing her aunt’s response would be to the affirmative. “He is a kind enough man.”

  Aunt Hettie snorted, crossing her arms over her heavy chest. “You met him for no more than an hour’s time. You cannot know if he is kind—or much else. He hardly spoke of anything of a personal nature.” Hettie glared at Mallory across the carriage. “Plus, he was raised in France. An English lord, raised in France. What will people think?”

  At her aunt’s questioning stare, Mallory remained quiet. Never, in all the years she’d lived with her aunt, had Mallory ever witnessed Hettie giving a single care for what people thought of her or her choices in life. It had to be a ploy to convince Mallory the man was unsuitable because her aunt knew Mallory cared greatly about what others thought of her.

  Mallory would not fall into Hettie’s trap.

  Nor could she admit that she did, in fact, know beyond a reasonable doubt that Silas was an honorable man.

  Which was exactly the reason they were headed toward Castle Keyvnor.

  She needed to apologize for not trusting him, for accusing him of intentionally lying to her, to assure him she was resigned to their match. More than resigned, as it were, but content with it.

  If she and Hettie left Bocka Morrow to return to her family estate, Silas could determine she was unfit to be his countess and send word to her father to discuss the matter. He’d said he had no intention of crying off, but with her less than appropriate behavior the day before, she would not blame him for running. He likely thought himself tied to a hellion, which was certainly not the case. She need only convince him of that.

  Once she apologized for her erratic comportment and confirmed her commitment to their betrothal and coming marriage, she could return home knowing she’d made the best impression possible—under the circumstances.

  Their carriage hit a large bump, and Mallory grasped hold of the side to keep from tumbling off her seat. The road between Tetbery Estate and Keyvnor was not a heavily traveled one. Felicity—nor her guardian, the countess—ever mentioned visiting the castle.

  With the Duke of Wycliffe now taking his rightful place at Tetbery, that might very well change.

  The carriage rolled to a stop outside the fortress.

  Mallory looked out her window at the intimidating fortification and had to crane her neck to see all the way to the imposing towers above. They stood so tall, they shrouded the carriage in shadows. The stronghold was massive, boasting a moat and battlements—much like the castles so popular many years before. Mallory could envision invaders setting their sights on Keyvnor, prepared to loot and plunder its hidden bounties. Men would be at the ready on the parapets above to defend their home and their families against the raiders.

  The carriage door swung open, and the footman lowered the steps, reaching in to assist Aunt Hettie down.

  Mallory glanced at her when she made no move to take the servant’s proffered hand. Hettie’s face had drained of color until she appeared nearly green with sickness and her hands visibly trembled. With her eyes clamped shut, Mallory could not ascertain if a vision had struck her.

  She slipped to her knees on the carriage floor without thought of the damage to her skirts and took her aunt’s shaking hands into her own. Rubbing them between her palms, warm and moist with nerves, she attempted to banish the chill from her aunt’s fingers. Yet, Hettie did not acknowledge her, nor was she calmed by her niece’s presence.

  Releasing her aunt’s hands, Mallory cupped Hettie’s face to still her quivering chin and bid her to open her eyes.

  When Hettie only tried to pull from Mallory’s hold, she relented. The woman’s gift was too powerful and all-consuming when it struck.

  “I will have the driver return you to Tetbery with all due haste,” Mallory whispered. Her heart ached for her dear aunt, her own chest feeling constricted by some unknown force that held Hettie captive, as well. “Close the door!”

  “No, no, my child,” Hettie mumbled. “Go forth and see Lord Lichfield. Say what needs said, and we shall return home after. I will not enter Castle Keyvnor—I cannot.”

  “Is it safe for me?” Mallory was familiar with her aunt’s aversion to entering certain domains or so much as walking across random paths. While Mallory’s visions overtook her when she touched people or objects, her aunt’s gift was much more prolific than that—she sensed things without touch. A mere smell could send her aunt reeling as an image invaded, clouding not only her irises but also her mind. Hettie nodded, keeping her eyes closed. “Then I will send you and the car
riage back to Tetbery and have it return to collect me.”

  “I—I—“ Hettie struggled to gain strength. “I will wait here—in the drive—for you. You shan’t be long.”

  “Are you certain?” It seemed inconceivable to leave Hettie in the drive in such a state.

  “Yes, my child.” Hettie straightened her shoulders, her eyes fluttering open to show no storm within their depths. “I will remain here and rest.”

  Still, Mallory was hesitant to leave her. “I can take you home and return with Felicity—or possibly Tressa—on the morrow.”

  Hettie shook her head with such force, her cheeks wobbled and her eyes glazed over. “You will go now.” The older woman pushed Mallory away and waved to the waiting servant. “Do assistant my niece down.”

  With one last, lingering look at her aunt, Mallory collected her handbag and departed the carriage. She knew better than to think her aunt would relent and allow Mallory to see her back to the estate.

  Her cloak billowed around her in the brisk, bitter cold. Tugging at her hood, she stared up at the castle, her view uninhibited by the bevels in the windowpanes of the carriage. It struck her as odd that anyone actually lived in such a place. Its ancient facade and imposing size were daunting, even to Mallory as a visitor.

  “Shall I announce your arrival, my lady?” The Tetbery footman stood at her side, staring up in awe at the castle.

  “No, thank you,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I can announce myself.”

  At least, she hoped she could find her voice after knocking on the door that appeared large enough to drive a horse and carriage through.

  Mallory ran her moist palms down the front of her cloak and lifted her chin, ready to walk up the steps of the castle as if she belonged. In fact, she did. She was betrothed to the Countess of Banfield’s nephew, after all. Soon, she would be family, and might well visit often.

  The thought did nothing to assuage her nerves.

  The sound of shouting drifted on the breeze. Servants and finely dressed men and woman bustled about in the gardens close to the castle. Mallory stood, riveted, watching people come and go from a side terrace in the winter garden. The rolling greenland, so close to the sea, was breathtaking—and also very familiar.