Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716)

by Kelly, Carla; Jensen, Emma

  ‘‘A fall?’’ Carefully, wincing a bit, she turned her head to see the sputtering candles, the scattering of herbs now being covered by the new snowfall. ‘‘I remember coming here now. Do you live nearby?’’

  ‘‘Yes. In Thornbush Cottage. I could not sleep, so I came out for a walk. I thought no one would be about.’’

  She studied him very carefully, her dark eyes narrowed. He did not know what she saw there, but whatever it was obviously somewhat reassured her. She finally nodded, and said, ‘‘You saved me? Thank you very much.’’

  Mark could only nod brusquely, unable to take his gaze from her. She appeared to be waiting for him to say something. Her perfect stillness, her very aura of some unfathomable serenity, seemed to invite confidences of all sorts. Even from a man who had confided in no one, relied on no one, for seven long years.

  But she was far too fragile to listen to any of his nonsense, and he would be even more of a boor than he already was to burden her with his apologies. She was the one he must take care of.

  ‘‘You’re welcome,’’ he said simply.

  ‘‘Well, Captain Mark Payne,’’ she said, her voice a bit stronger though still shaky. ‘‘I am Miss Antoinette Duvall, and pleased to meet you, despite the less than auspicious circumstances. Do you always walk in the snow in your shirtsleeves?’’

  Mark gave a bark of laughter, suddenly realizing that he was indeed in his shirtsleeves, and it was demmed cold. ‘‘No, madam. I am not quite as foolish as all that. My coat at present resides beneath your head.’’

  ‘‘Oh!’’ Her trembling hand darted up to feel the soft, crumpled wool of his greatcoat. ‘‘Here, sir, you must take it back. I would not have you catch a chill for your good deed. You must be freezing. Unless you really are a ghost? Then you would not be cold at all.’’

  He was cold, but she was probably much more so, lying on the ground. The snow was drifting thicker and faster around them. And he worried about her rambling talk of ghosts. ‘‘Do you feel well enough to rise, Miss Duvall?’’

  ‘‘I feel as if my bones have turned to jelly.’’

  ‘‘Put your arms around my neck,’’ he told her. As she wound her silk-clad arms weakly about him, he slid his own beneath her legs and lifted her carefully as he rose to his feet. He was glad to find all of that wood-chopping he had done, all the new thatching on his roof, the evening rides along the cliffs, had not been for naught. Antoinette Duvall was not a small woman, but she fit easily into his arms.

  With a low, pained sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair smelled of jasmine and candle smoke. ‘‘Thank you, Captain Payne,’’ she whispered. ‘‘You are truly a knight in shining armor.’’

  ‘‘Rather tarnished armor, I fear.’’

  ‘‘Not at all.’’ She still clutched his coat in her shaking hand, and awkwardly shook it out to spread it over one of his shoulders.

  He carried her away from the cliff, toward the meager shelter of the trees. Once on the pathway, though, he was struck by a sudden doubt—where to take her, where she would be safe and cared for? The Leightons at the castle were gone; he had no idea where Miss Duvall lived. The closest residence was his own cottage.

  His thoughts were interrupted by her sudden panicked cry. ‘‘My book!’’

  ‘‘Your what?’’

  ‘‘My book. I left it back in the snow. Oh, it cannot be ruined! It’s all I have.’’

  Mark glanced around them, and saw a fallen log that was as yet only lightly dusted with snow. ‘‘If I put you down here, can you sit for a moment while I go to fetch it?’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

  He was not sure he completely believed her; her head bobbed against him weakly. But he could not argue against the urgency in her voice. She obviously needed that book, whatever it was, and she would not be easy until she had it. He placed her carefully on the log, making certain she would stay upright and that her cloak was tucked warmly beneath her.

  Mark turned and ran back toward the cliff, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat. The book was indeed there, beside the dying candles. A few flakes melted on the antique parchment pages, but it appeared to be undamaged. As he brushed off the moisture, he saw printed there words in some strange language, the dark brown ink faded with age.

  He had no time to ponder the volume’s mysteries, though. He closed it with a snap and pushed it inside his coat. There was Miss Duvall he had to return to with all haste, or she would surely faint away again.

  Indeed, she was listing quite alarmingly when he returned to the fallen tree; her head wobbled on her slim neck. She smiled radiantly, though, when he handed her the book. She cradled it against her as if it was made of the rarest rubies.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ she said. ‘‘That is twice you have saved me this night, Captain Payne.’’

  ‘‘Ah, but my rescue will have been in vain if we do not get you home this minute. You will surely catch a chill,’’ Mark said, scooping her up into his arms again. ‘‘Do you have a maid or companion waiting at your house? You should not be alone with a head injury. You need someone to keep you awake until a physician can be summoned.’’

  ‘‘No, I live alone,’’ she answered, her voice soft, almost drowsy. Her head drooped back against his shoulder. ‘‘There is a girl who comes to clean for me, but only in the afternoons.’’

  Mark cursed beneath his breath. That was what he was afraid of, that she was as solitary as he.

  ‘‘What is it?’’ Antoinette asked complacently, not at all fazed by any use of impolite language. He wondered nonsensically if she had perhaps grown up around sailors and become used to their ways. ‘‘Is something amiss? Beyond the obvious, of course.’’

  ‘‘If there is no one where you live, then there is only one place for you to go, Miss Duvall. At least for this night.’’

  ‘‘Oh? And where is that?’’ Her tone held only casual curiosity, as if her immediate future held only marginal interest for her. He sensed her deep weariness.

  ‘‘My house. Thornbush Cottage, it’s called. Someone must look after you for the next few hours. They are the most vital after someone sustains a head injury.’’

  If he had expected missish protests, cries, or tears, he was to be pleasantly disappointed. She merely gave a quiet laugh, and said, ‘‘That is three times now you have rescued me, Captain Payne. I am so very sorry to inconvenience you, but I fear you are correct. I have some knowledge of healing myself, as you obviously do, and I know I should not be alone right now. I feel so very—odd.’’

  Her arm tightened about his neck, and she cuddled closer with a gentle sigh. Her breath was cool against his bare throat.

  He had indeed been correct, Mark thought, as he turned down the hidden lane toward his cottage. Miss Antoinette Duvall was unlike any other woman he had ever met.

  Chapter Four

  Antoinette’s head throbbed with a low, dull ache, giving a fresh twinge every time her rescuer took a step. The cold wind blew her cloak and robe about her, and her senses hummed with the force of her interrupted spell. Yet none of those discomforts were stronger than the one thought reverberating in her mind . . .

  How very intriguing her rescuer was.

  She rested her head against his hard shoulder and studied him carefully in the moonlight. She was certain she had never seen him before, or she certainly would have remembered him. He was quite unforgettable, and not only because of the scars tracing a delicate white pattern over the left side of his sun-bronzed face. Her heart ached at the knowledge of the pain he must have suffered, the agony that etched those marks on his flesh.

  Even with those scars, he was a handsome man, with a strong jaw shadowed by a day’s growth of beard, a slightly crooked nose, and eyes that glowed a strange pale silver even in the night. His hair was dark and overlong, falling over his collar in rich waves that escaped from their loose tie and tickled softly at Antoinette’s fingers. He was very tall, and strongly built—strong
enough to carry her over the uneven ground, and she knew she was no featherlight female. The muscles that moved and bunched across his shoulders and arms were as powerful as those of any farm laborer.

  He was no laborer, though; she knew that for certain. She had never met a farmer with such an air of command, of aristocratic self-possession.

  It was not just his good looks, but his innate strength that drew her to him, that made her quite unable to look away from him. It was the deep, cutting sadness she saw hidden deep in his eyes, a despair deeper than any she had seen before.

  Antoinette longed to know who he was, where he came from. What sorrows he carried in his heart. Whatever they were, she would vow they made her own loneliness, her own sense of displacement, seem insignificant indeed.

  But her powers of discernment were muted by the pain in her head, and by a sweeping wave of exhaustion threatening to drown her beneath it. She closed her eyes, and felt the heavy weight of her limbs.

  She must have sighed out loud, for she sensed his gaze upon her. ‘‘We are very nearly there,’’ he said gently. ‘‘I’m sorry for jostling you.’’

  ‘‘I am fine,’’ Antoinette assured him. ‘‘Just very, very tired.’’

  He lifted her higher in his arms, and beneath her skirts she felt him reach out and push open a squeaking gate. ‘‘You must be exhausted after everything you have been through this night, Miss Duvall, but you must not go to sleep yet. Not until we can ascertain the true extent of your injuries.’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ she answered, her words breaking off on a wide yawn. She grimaced when she realized she had not even covered her mouth. ‘‘Forgive me. You must think I was raised in a barn somewhere.’’

  Captain Payne gave a low chuckle, which vibrated warmly through her body. ‘‘I will confess to a curiosity about where you were raised, Miss Duvall, but I think you are in no condition to answer at the moment. You should be quiet, and rest as well as you can.’’

  Antoinette opened her eyes at the sound of a soft click and a thud. He had opened the door of what appeared to be a cottage. It was smaller than her own abode, and darker, covered with a thick climbing ivy that concealed even the windows. The captain ducked his head down as he took them through the narrow doorway into a room even darker than the night they left behind.

  Antoinette could see nothing in the gloom, but it was obvious that he knew his way easily. With a gracefully balanced movement, he bent down and gently deposited her on a soft settee.

  ‘‘Wait here, Miss Duvall, and I will light a fire. We’ll have you warm in no time,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’m warmer already,’’ she answered. The room still held the memory of an earlier fire, and already the chill was receding from her fingertips and earlobes. The pain in her head was also muted, yet the fatigue only grew greater now that she was warm and still. Antoinette untied the ribbons of her cloak and pushed it back from her shoulders, settling against the cushions of her new seat.

  She listened to the sounds of the captain’s movements, her senses heightened by the rich darkness. He was near, she could feel that. She heard the hollow thunk of wood being piled in the grate, the rustle of paper, and the click of a flint—once, twice. A flare of light broke the gloom, and soon a merry blaze glowed in the fireplace.

  Still kneeling before the grate, he turned to look at her, his expression solemn. In the orange firelight, his scars were more pronounced, a puckered pale pink, and she saw that his left hand and wrist were also damaged. They were injuries that were healed, though, and nothing at all to some of the wounds she saw in Jamaica.

  And they could not compare to the glory of his hair, autumn-brown, waving to his shoulders, or to the wary intelligence shining from his eyes.

  ‘‘So this is your home?’’ she asked, slowly shifting her gaze from his to examine the room around her. The whitewashed walls and gray stone hearth were the same as those in her own home, but there the comparison ended. Where hers was full of pictures, books, and the scent of herbs, his was just—bare. The few pieces of furniture were old and shabby; there were no rugs, no draperies at the windows. The only painting was a print of a frigate cutting through the churning gray waters.

  It gave her no clues whatsoever as to the personality of her rescuer, yet its clean starkness did confirm one thing she had suspected, even before he gave her his rank—he was a military man. Judging from the print, a navy man.

  ‘‘It is very cozy,’’ she added, when he was silent.

  He gave her a half smile, sitting back on his heels to watch the flames he had kindled grow brighter. ‘‘Tiny, you mean.’’

  ‘‘Hm, yes, that is one way to put it. But, as I reside in a rather small cottage myself, I am keenly aware of the advantages of a less than grand space. Not so much dusting, for one. And, even better, it is easier to keep the dreadful English chill away.’’

  His smile widened just a fraction, slowly, as if his mouth had grown rusty from a long lack of mirth. He seemed to fear his face might crack if he dared smile further, or, God forbid, laugh aloud. Antoinette decided that when she was not so tired, she would wrack her brain for the most ridiculous jests she knew, just to see if he could indeed laugh.

  ‘‘Compared to the cramped conditions aboard a ship, Miss Duvall, this cottage is a veritable palace,’’ he said. ‘‘And everything stays where you put it, with no pitching or rolling about.’’

  ‘‘Ah, so you are a navy man. I suspected as much.’’

  His faint smile faded away altogether, and he glanced away from her into the fire. ‘‘Was a navy man. A very long time ago.’’ He pushed himself to his feet and sat down in the only other chair in the room, a twig rocker by the side of the mantel. He closed his hands on the chair’s wooden arms, curling his long fingers tightly. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the flames, the rasp of their breathing, and the rhythmic ticking of a strange, oval-shaped gold-and-ivory clock on the mantel.

  Antoinette gazed up at its pale face. It was after one o’clock, still hours until the dawn. It was obvious that Captain Payne was not a man for light chatter, but Antoinette was itching to talk, to make some sort of noise. Otherwise, the warmth and the ticktocking of the clock would send her straight to sleep.

  ‘‘Have you lived very long in the neighborhood, Captain Payne?’’ she asked him, rubbing at her temples. The pain was already muted, receding away. ‘‘I myself have been here for five years, yet I am sure we have never met.’’

  He turned to her, very careful, Antoinette noticed, to keep the left side of his face in shadow. ‘‘I have lived here for seven years now, but I do not mix very much in society.’’

  ‘‘Nor do I. Not that there is very much of what most people would call ‘society’ hereabouts. Not very many balls or routs. Though there are some agreeable people.’’

  The corners of his mouth turned down a bit in obvious doubt. ‘‘Indeed, Miss Duvall? You do not find them to be a rather—gossiping lot?’’

  Antoinette thought of the individuals who had tried so very hard to make her feel at home here, such as the vicar and his wife, Lady Paige, Mrs. Greeley. Then she thought of the others, too many to count, who stared at her wide-eyed as she walked through the village, whispered behind her back as she passed.

  She hated that so much, hated always having to hold her head high and pretend she did not hear them.

  Were they really so very different, though, from the people in Jamaica, people of her own sort, who whispered and speculated about her friendship with the white Richards family?

  ‘‘They are no more gossiping than any other set of people, I suspect,’’ she said.

  ‘‘That is too true. London, a ship, Cornwall—there is truly no escaping the curiosity of others. Not even, I imagine, in an Indian jungle. At least I have found what I was looking for in Cornwall.’’

  ‘‘What were you looking for, Captain Payne?’’

  ‘‘As you say, Miss Duvall, a lack of society.’’

 
‘‘And where did you come from before?’’ Antoinette suddenly noticed how very uncomfortable her damp boots had become. She bent to unhook them—and winced at the fresh wave of pain in her head.

  ‘‘Here, let me do that. You should remain still.’’ He left his chair and knelt down at her feet, his elegant fingers deftly unhooking the pearl buttons from the stiffening leather. ‘‘I fear I am out of practice at playing host. You ought to have something warm to drink. I think there may be some tea about.’’

  ‘‘Tea would be most welcome, Captain Payne. Yet I fear you are evading my question.’’

  He looked up at her, that tiny, rusty half smile on his lips again. In the firelight, his hair glowed with the burnish of October leaves, waving damp and silky to his shoulders. Antoinette longed with a sudden, tingling passion to touch that hair, to sink her fingers through its softness and trail them down his damaged cheek to his jaw, his lips....

  She tightened her hands into fists before they could go wandering of their own accord, and sat back in her chair.

  ‘‘If you are so perceptive with a head injury, Miss Duvall, I should hate to see you with all your wits about you,’’ he said. ‘‘You must be formidable indeed.’’

  Antoinette’s throat was suddenly so dry, she wasn’t sure if she could speak clearly. Sitting here, with this strange, glorious man at her feet, the night and the fire wrapped around them, she did not feel like her usual sensible self at all. ‘‘I am not sure about formidable,’’ she managed to say hoarsely. ‘‘But I am incurably curious. Some might even say a busybody.’’

  Captain Payne gave a low chuckle that was really no more than a rumbling deep inside his chest. He slid her boots from her feet and lined them up neatly next to the fire, then stood up to stroll away through a narrow, half-hidden doorway. Antoinette surmised, from the rattling of china and metal, that that must be the kitchen.