Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716)

by Kelly, Carla; Jensen, Emma

  Her grin faded. She did not want to be reminded of the cold winter world outside her door. She only wanted this moment, this perfect time. ‘‘It is of no matter,’’ she said, striving for a light, careless tone. ‘‘I have my own friends, my own life. The gossip of people so wholly unconnected to me means little.’’

  His arms tightened. ‘‘Your life here cannot have been an easy one.’’

  ‘‘Who does truly have an easy life? Everyone has trials and tribulations, and mine have not been so great.’’ She cuddled closer to him, resting her cheek on his strong shoulder. ‘‘No one has thrown rotten vegetables at me as I walk along the street or anything of the sort. They respect the family at the castle far too much. But most of them do keep their distance, I admit. They do not understand me—they don’t know where I came from, my customs. I cannot blame them. I do not understand myself most of the time.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  Rather than answering, she disentangled herself from his arms and stood up from the settee. She went to the small, locked cabinet in the corner and carefully withdrew her precious book, clutching the silk-wrapped bundle protectively in her arms. Slowly, she turned back to face him.

  ‘‘I have told you about my family,’’ she said. ‘‘Yet there is one thing about my mother I never speak about, something very precious and secret.’’

  He slid to the edge of the settee, his folded hands clasped before him and dangling between his knees. His expression was still and solemn, as if he sensed the true seriousness of her words. ‘‘Of course, Antoinette. You may tell me anything you wish. All your secrets are safe with me.’’

  ‘‘You’ll remember this book, I think,’’ she said, ‘‘since I sent you back to rescue it from the snow on the night we met.’’ She placed the bundle carefully on a low table and folded back the silk.

  He watched her closely, his expression unreadable in the firelight. ‘‘Yes. I remember it.’’

  ‘‘This book belonged to my mother, and to my grandmother before her. I do not know where it came from originally. Africa, my mother said, but I don’t know if that is true.’’ She opened the book to the pages in the middle, and caressed her hand over the soft, smooth vellum. She could feel the slight indentations of the ancient words written there, the stiffness of the painted images. The pages seemed to warm under her touch, leaping to life.

  ‘‘What is this volume about, Antoinette?’’ Mark asked quietly.

  Antoinette lifted her gaze from the pages and met his across the table. He looked serious, but not alarmed, merely curious. But she had never shared the book with anyone before, had only ever shown it to Cassie, and her stomach lurched with anxiety.

  ‘‘It is about many things,’’ she answered. ‘‘My mother was a great woman, a powerful woman. She knew many things, things ordinary people cannot conceive of, and she learned them from this book. She could heal people, could see beyond this world to others we know nothing of.’’

  ‘‘Witchcraft?’’ he whispered.

  ‘‘No!’’ Antoinette cried, recoiling from the word. ‘‘My mother was not a witch. She was a devout Christian; she brought me up in the church to be one as well. These were just—gifts she had, abilities that not every person possesses. She said they were gifts from God, given to her so she might help His people on earth. And that is what she did. She healed people; she never harmed anyone!’’

  Antoinette could feel a frenzy rising up in her as she defended her mother, tried to explain her powers. It was always thus when she spoke of or remembered Marie-Claire Duvall. But now it was more vital than ever that she should make Mark understand. It was the only way she could help him. Help them.

  He reached over and caught her hand in both of his, cradling it against the warmth of his skin. She calmed at his touch, and felt her breath slow in her lungs.

  ‘‘I see,’’ he said. ‘‘Your mother was a—a priestess of sorts.’’

  ‘‘A Yaumumi priestess,’’ Antoinette explained. ‘‘It is an ancient tradition, from Africa.’’

  ‘‘And she cured people of their illnesses?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Of both the body and the heart, the spirit.’’

  Mark nodded slowly. ‘‘I met women of that sort when I was in the West Indies. What they could achieve was remarkable.’’

  Perhaps he did understand, then, at least a little. And soon he would see more. Antoinette stepped around the table to stand before him, framing his face in her long fingers. She traced the pattern of his scars gently with her thumb, feeling the silky tightness of the damaged skin. He flinched, but did not pull away.

  Antoinette caught and held his stare with her own, not letting him go. She felt a strength, a power growing in the center of her being. She could do this. She must do this. The future of the man she loved depended on it.

  It would be a future away from her, back with his family, his old world. But she had to do this. She had to try to set him free.

  ‘‘I do not have the powers of my mother,’’ she said. ‘‘I am weak compared to her. But she can help us now, if you will let her.’’

  Mark stared up at her, and covered her hands with his, clutching at her tightly. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘Do you trust me, Mark?’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ he answered, not even hesitating for a heartbeat.

  ‘‘Then all will be well.’’ Antoinette was far from believing that herself. For, truly, how could all be well if she had found true love only to cast it from her? But she did love Mark—she saw that so clearly now, as she looked down upon him in the firelight. He was brave and caring. He deserved better than this solitary life he had been living, a life whose pain and loneliness Antoinette understood all too well.

  She had to try to set him free.

  She stepped back away from him. He reached out for her, trying to catch her back. ‘‘Antoinette . . .’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘Trust me. It is Christmas. The most magical time of year.’’

  She quickly gathered candles from the cupboard, red, pink, white. She arrayed them about the book and lit them. Then she gathered herbs—cinnamon, clove, lilac—and sprinkled them along with salt between the candles, whispering all the while, calling on her mother for help. Mark watched her, a small frown tight on his brow, but he said nothing and never moved.

  Finally, all was in readiness. Antoinette released her hair from its pins, letting the thick mass float about her shoulders. She lifted her hands above the book and closed her eyes, keeping the image of Mark in her mind. The familiar tingling sensation grew, spreading from her toes to her fingertips. Her thoughts turned misty, and she turned her hands toward Mark, palms upward.

  ‘‘Be renewed from this day,’’ she chanted. ‘‘All pain, all fear, all loneliness washed away. Carry my love to where he’ll be best, let his heart be open and free. Cleanse and consecrate our hearts, and lead us forward from the pain into the light.’’

  A brilliant warmth such as Antoinette had never known suffused her, shooting energy and joy and even pain from her heart until she cried out with the force of it. A bright golden light flooded her mind—and then it was gone. The burst of magic ebbed away from her, and her legs were as weak as a new kitten’s. She felt herself falling, yet before she could collapse to the floor, she felt powerful arms catch her, lifting her and holding her close, safe.

  Mark had rescued her, just as he had on the night they met. He held her safe in his warm strength.

  Antoinette’s head sank against his chest. She was so very weak she could not even hold it up. She felt his lips press to her temple, her cheek, her mouth. And there, as his kiss met hers, she tasted the salty wetness of tears.

  She opened her eyes to see that he was indeed crying, silent, crystal tears that fell onto her own cheeks in a sort of baptism of released pain and new freedom.

  ‘‘No, no,’’ she murmured. Her own voice seemed to echo from a very long way away. Exhaustion flowed th
rough her veins like a heavy syrup, and she gave in to it, allowing the darkness of healing sleep to overcome her, right there in Mark’s arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Mark sat by the window in Antoinette’s cottage, watching the sun come up on a new day—Christmas Day. He had seen many a dawn, over the waves of the sea, over rooftops of London and cliffs of Cornwall. Yet never had he seen a dawn so exquisitely lovely. Pink and orange and soft lavender swirled in the morning sky, pierced by arrow-pricks of purest gold light, like a halo crowning the heavens.

  As exquisite as the sunrise was, though, it could in no way compare to the lady he held cradled in his arms.

  Antoinette slept, her head resting on his shoulder, her breath soft against his throat where he had loosened his neckcloth. Her beautiful silk gown was rumpled now, covered by the paisley shawl Mark had drawn warmly around her. Her hair fell in a loose, wild cascade over his arm. Earlier, at the assembly, she was the perfect lady, fashionable, poised, elegant; now she seemed the wild island girl she was born.

  And Mark loved both aspects of her. He loved her, Antoinette, in a way he had long surrendered hope for. As he sat there in her house, the scent of her jasmine perfume all around him, he felt more at peace than he ever had. Even before the fateful battle that ended his life as he knew it, he had always been seeking, striving, moving. Never still, not even for an instant. His heart could never be serene, never trust that things were right just as they were.

  Now he knew that all was right. A quiet contentment settled over his mind, his very soul. The pain of the past was gone. It was behind him, and there was only the future to be faced, full of—of whatever he wanted it to be! And what he wanted, now and always, was Antoinette. By his side, for the rest of his days.

  He did not know if this new peace was due to the spell she performed. But he did know that when he saw her face as she chanted those words, so intent, so focused, he realized he loved her truly. And she had feelings for him too. Feelings of love? He was not certain. It had been many years since he had even thought about romance; his facilities in that direction were rather rusty.

  He had to sharpen them now, though. He had to persuade Antoinette to marry him and go with him to face his family again. It would not be easy. She was as settled in her solitary ways as he had been for so many years. It would be frightening for her to go to London with him and meet his grand family, though they would surely accept her as his wife. But she had to do it. She must!

  For he could never do it without her.

  Antoinette stirred in his arms, her eyes blinking open as the morning sun washed over her. Her hands drew the shawl closer about her shoulders, and she gave him a small smile. ‘‘Good morning,’’ she murmured.

  ‘‘Merry Christmas,’’ he answered. ‘‘My love.’’

  His love? Had Antoinette heard aright, or was she still dreaming?

  She sat up straight, pushing slightly away from his warmth so she could study him closer. He seemed—different this morning. Younger, somehow. More open. His silvery eyes were clear as he looked back at her, his smile wide and brighter than the morning sunshine.

  Had her spell worked, then? Was he free? Were they both free?

  It was what she had wanted, more than anything. But now that he was free of the past, would he fly away from her?

  She reached out to touch his face, her fingers light against his scars. He did not flinch or draw away, ducking into the shadows as she had often seen him do. He turned his head to kiss her fingertips, raising his own hand to hold her there.

  ‘‘Merry Christmas,’’ she whispered, echoing his own words. My love.

  ‘‘I vow it must be the finest Christmas ever,’’ he answered. ‘‘With sunlight, and the sea, and the most beautiful lady by my side.’’

  Antoinette’s head spun, making her giddy. This change, this new brightness, was all too much for so very early in the morning. ‘‘I fear I have no roast goose, no plum pudding, and no gifts. It is a very shabby Christmas indeed.’’

  ‘‘You have the most valuable gift of all, right here.’’ He cradled her hand in his, her palm up.

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  He bent his head to plant a kiss right there, in the center of her palm. It lingered, warm in the cool morning air. ‘‘Antoinette Duvall, will you do me the great honor of giving me your hand in marriage?’’

  Marriage! Antoinette pulled away from him, startled—no, shocked. She jumped to her feet, holding the shawl protectively around herself.

  She was not sure what she had been expecting or hoping for. But this was beyond anything she might have dreamed! To be Mark’s wife . . .

  For one moment, she let herself believe that it could be, that they could love each other, make a home together, a family, just as she had dreamed.

  But then reality came in, like the cold waves of the English sea. He might be a recluse like her, but he came from a titled family, a family who would welcome him back into their fold. She was a nobody, an ‘‘island witch.’’ It would be selfish of her to grab at her own happiness at the expense of his.

  ‘‘Mark, I . . .’’ she began.

  But he sensed her wavering, and jumped up to catch her in his arms before she could go on. ‘‘No! No, Antoinette, I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you refuse me.’’

  ‘‘I can do nothing else,’’ she said, feeling her own heart wavering. It felt so good to be in his arms, so safe. So right. ‘‘Your brother is an earl. Your family would never want to see you wed someone like me.’’

  ‘‘My family would want to see me wed any woman who makes me whole again—as you do.’’ He drew her even closer, his hands buried in the mass of her hair, cradling her against him. ‘‘Even if they do not, I am my own man; I have been making my own way in the world since I was fifteen. My choice of wife is my own. Please, Antoinette. I was in darkness before you—you are my light. Do not take that away from me. Say you will be my wife, that you will never leave me.’’

  Antoinette shook her head, confused. How could she ever think straight, with his arms around her and his words pouring over her like gold from heaven? She felt tears spilling down her cheeks onto the loosened folds of his neckcloth, and she could not stop them. ‘‘I only want your happiness,’’ she choked out.

  ‘‘You are my happiness!’’ He framed her face in his hands, forcing her to look up at him. ‘‘And if you marry me, I will spend the rest of my days making you happy too. We do not have to stay here in Cornwall, or even in London. We can go back to Jamaica together, anything you want.’’

  Antoinette’s heart surrendered then, completely. Yes, there would be hardships in their future, obstacles aplenty. But she knew now that she—they—could face anything at each other’s side. They would not be alone anymore, not ever again. Whether here, or on a beach in Jamaica or a town house in London, it did not matter. Only their love mattered. Now and forever after.

  The magic had worked. She felt its sparkle in her own heart, and she knew it would never fade away.

  ‘‘I do not care where we make our home,’’ she told him, ‘‘as long as we are together. Yes, I will marry you, Mark. I love you, with all my heart.’’

  Mark gave a loud, whooping laugh of joy, and swept her up into his arms, swinging her about. ‘‘As I love you! I told you this was the finest Christmas ever, Antoinette.’’

  Antoinette laughed too, her soul overflowing with exultation. ‘‘And so it is! The finest, most magical Christmas ever.’’

  And, as they kissed beneath the swags of holly and red ribbon, the pages of her mother’s book flickered gently and closed with a soft, satisfied sigh.

  Read on for excerpts from some other delightful Christmas Regency romances from Signet.

  Available at www.penguin.comor wherever books are sold.

  FATHER CHRISTMAS

  Barbara Metzger

  The Duke of Ware needed an heir. Like a school-yard taunt, the gruesome refrain floated in his mind, bobbing to the
surface on a current of brandy. Usually a temperate man, His Grace was just a shade on the go. It was going to take more than a shade to get him to go to Almack’s.

  ‘‘Hell and blast!’’ Leland Warrington, fifth and at this point possibly last Duke of Ware, consulted his watch again. Ten o’clock, and everyone knew Almack’s patronesses barred its doors at eleven. Not even London’s premiere parti, wealth, title, and looks notwithstanding, could gain admittance after the witching hour. ‘‘Blasted witches,’’ Ware cursed once more, slamming his glass down on the table that stood so conveniently near his so-comfortable leather armchair at White’s. ‘‘Damnation.’’

  His companion snapped up straighter in his facing seat. ‘‘What’s that? The wine gone off?’’ The Honorable Crosby Fanshaw sipped cautiously at his own drink. ‘‘Seems fine to me.’’ He called for another bottle.

  Fondly known as Crow for his anything-but-somber style of dress, the baronet was a studied contrast to his longtime friend. The duke was the one wearing the stark black and white of Weston’s finest evening wear, spread over broad shoulders and well-muscled thighs, while Crow Fanshaw’s spindly frame was draped in magenta pantaloons, saffron waistcoat, lime green wasp-waisted coat. The duke looked away. Fanshaw would never get into Almack’s in that outfit. Then again, Fanshaw didn’t need to get into Almack’s.

  ‘‘No, it’s not the wine, Crow. It’s a wife. I need one.’’

  The baronet slipped one manicured finger under his elaborate neckcloth to loosen the noose conjured up by the very thought of matrimony. He shuddered. ‘‘Devilish things, wives.’’

  ‘‘I’ll drink to that,’’ Ware said, and did. ‘‘But I need one nevertheless if I’m to beget the next duke.’’

  ‘‘Ah.’’ Crow nodded sagely, careful not to disturb his pomaded curls. ‘‘Noblesse oblige and all that. The sacred duty of the peerage: to beget more little aristocratic blue bloods to carry on the name. I thank heaven m’brother holds the title. Let Virgil worry about the succession and estates.’’