"Fine," Rita said, smiling. "Everyone is fine. So, when is your baby due?"
For several minutes Karen worked to control her tears. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to another mother. Now, why don't you tell me what is bothering you. Something wrong between you and Mac? He is marrying you, isn't he?"
Karen blew her nose. "Yes, we're to be married in two months in a perfect little ceremony. You're on the guest list." She looked down at her sodden tissue. "Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. It's just—"
"Come on, you can tell me."
"I'm not sure Mac wants to marry me," she burst out. "I tricked him. I ... I seduced him. I wanted a baby so much, and he—" She broke off because Rita was laughing.
"I beg your pardon," Karen said stiffly, and started to get up. "I did not mean to amuse you with my problems."
Rita grabbed Karen's arm and pulled her to sit back down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh; it's just that I've never seen a man pursue a woman as hard as Mac pursued you. Whatever could have made you think he doesn't want to marry you?"
"You really have no idea what you're talking about. If you knew the truth about what went on between us, you'd know that this will be more of a business arrangement than a real marriage. Everything was my idea and—"
"Karen, forgive me, but you're the one who doesn't know what you're talking about. Did you know that there were only to be six bridesmaids in the wedding? Mac called Steve in a panic, said he'd met the love of his life and he had to have an excuse to spend the weekend with her. The addition of another bridesmaid to the wedding was his idea. He paid triple price for a custom-made dress in your size, then paid for a tux for a friend of his so there'd be a seventh groomsman."
Karen stared at Rita. "Love of his life? But he told me just after he met me about his problem with finding someone to fit the dress."
"Steve and Catherine have plenty of friends, they didn't need one of Mac's girlfriends. Certainly not when his girlfriends changed as often as Mac's did."
Karen shook her head. "But I don't understand. I don't think he'd even seen me before the night of the Christmas party. What made him make up such a story? Why would he want to? I don't understand."
Rita smiled. "There's a saying in the Taggert family, 'Marry the one who can tell the twins apart.'"
Karen's face showed no understanding.
"In Mac's office, there is a photo of a man holding a string of fish, isn't there?"
Karen searched her memory, then remembered that night when she'd been snooping in Mac's office and picked up the photo from the shelf, then dropped it when Mac's voice startled her. "Yes, I remember the picture. It's one of his brothers, isn't it? I remember saying that I'd never seen the man before."
Rita smiled knowingly. "That was a photo of Mac's twin, a man who looks exactly like Mac."
"He doesn't look anything like him! Mac is much better looking than that man. He—" She stopped, then looked away from Rita's laughter, taking a moment to compose herself, then looked back. "He made up the whole bridesmaid story?" she asked softly.
"Completely. He offered to pay for the entire wedding if Steve would allow you to be in the ceremony. And he gave Steve free use of his precious speedboat for six months in return for putting both of you in the same bedroom. Those earrings Mac gave you came from the family vault, an heirloom, something given only to wives. Not girlfriends, wives. And I happen to know that twice that weekend he called home and told his family in detail about you, telling them how intelligent and beautiful you were and that he was doing everything he could to make you love him."
Rita gave Karen's hand a squeeze. "You must have noticed how tongue-tied Mac was around you. We were all laughing because he was so afraid of saying the wrong thing that often he wouldn't say anything. He told Steve that he kept pretending to ignore you because he'd been told by a man in the office that you ran from any man who showed the least interest in you."
"He told his sisters-in-law about the store I wanted to open," she said softly.
"Dear, if he wasn't with you, he was talking about you."
"But I thought he asked me to marry him because . . ." She broke off, looking into Rita's eyes. "Because I asked for something from him."
"I have never seen a man fall as hard in love with a woman at first sight as he fell for you. He said you picked up a photo in his office, he looked into your eyes, and he fell in love with you in that single moment."
"Why didn't he tell me?" Karen said.
"You mean Mac hasn't told you that he loves you?" Rita asked in horror.
"Yes, he has, many times, but I ..." Karen stood. She wasn't going to say out loud that she hadn't believed him, that she couldn't believe that a man like McAllister Taggert could...
"I have to go," Karen said abruptly. "I have to—Oh, Rita, thank you," she said, then as Rita stood, she hugged her enthusiastically. "Thank you more than you could possibly know. You have made me the happiest woman on earth. I have to go and tell Mac that... that..."
Rita laughed. "Go! What are you waiting for? Go!"
But Karen was already gone.
JUDE DEVERAUX is the author of twenty-one New York Times bestsellers. She began writing in 1976 and to date there are more than 30 million copies of her books in print. Her marvelous novels include Sweetbriar, Twin of Ice, Twin of Fire and the magnificent James River trilogy: Counterfeit Lady, Lost Lady and River Lady. In the Velvet Promise, Highland Velvet, Velvet Song and Velvet Angel, Jude Deveraux created the unforgettable Montgomery family, who fought for love and honor from Scotland's fierce Highlands to the royal courts of medieval England. With The Maiden, The Taming, The Conquest, and The Heiress, she returned to the medieval setting she immortalized so lovingly in the Velvet saga, while The Duchess features the Montgomerys in late nineteenth-century Scotland. In Wishes, The Temptress, The Raider, The Princess, The Awakening, A Knight in Shining Armor, Mountain Laurel, Eternity, Sweet Liar and The Invitation, she brought the proud Montgomery heritage to a new land, America. In Remembrance and her most recent novel, Legend, she returns to the time-travel theme of her beloved A Knight in Shining Armor. All of these captivating Jude Deveraux romances are available from Pocket Books.
Gabriel's Angel
by Kimberly Cates
Remembrance, like candles, burns brightest at Christmas.
—Charles Dickens
To those who make the fires of Christmas remembrance burn brightest in my heart. Thank you for these precious memories of Christmas long ago:
My daughter, Kate, at three years old, crawling inside her giant Christmas stocking until nothing but her shiny patent leather shoes stuck out as she rummaged for treasures.
My husband, Dave, who tucked my engagement ring inside an antique pudding mold and promised me happily ever after on Christmas Eve.
My parents, Warren and Shirley Ostrom, who gave me a childhood full of such Christmas magic, it's impossible to choose only one memory. Thank you for Santa Claus visits, making pepparkauka, and even for making us eat lutevisk before we opened presents. (David and I laugh for hours now about our creative ways of feeding it to the dog.)
And to my brother, David, who spent an entire Christmas Eve doing battle with the gold and silver knights Mom and Dad let us open early. Waging war against you that day is one of my most beloved memories.
Prologue
THE CHILD STOLE THROUGH THE LONDON STREETS LIKE A ragged ghost, a ravenous stomach and hungry amber eyes held together by a bundle of rags. Dark hollows dug into her wind-stung cheeks, and her legs were leaden from tramping through the snow. Her burning throat was raw from hurling Christmas carols out against the keening wind in an effort to tempt passersby to purchase the rolls of music clutched in her chilblained fingers.
There were too many left unsold, she thought, the knot of desperation twisting tighter beneath her ribs. But the weather this Christmas season had been too bitter for even the most kindhearted to pause and buy a ballad seller's wares.
She wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep, to dream of a roaring fire and steaming meat pies and the mama she'd never known. But she didn't dare go home to the tiny room above the Red Dog Inn. Not yet. She could make excuses for the unsold bundle of ballads she still carried until her face was as blue as her half-frozen fingers, but it wouldn't matter if Da was drunk. Worse still, if Da was sober, he'd fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, tears streaking his face.
I'm sorry, mo chroi, but the pain . . . I cannot bear to live without my sweet Moira ...
Pain … from loss of the mother she didn't remember, from the hopelessness that cut its teeth on Thomas MacShane's dreams and roughened the voice once heralded as the sweetest tenor in all Ireland, turning it hoarse and uncertain.
He meant to do better by her, Alaina knew. But then the sadness would become too fierce again, and he would find the coins she'd hidden in their tiny room and embrace the only love left to him—a bottle of gin.
A brutal gust of wind twisted her ragged skirts, curling like icy tentacles about her bare legs. She gritted her teeth as the cold knifed into her very bones.
There was no use crying, she reasoned, charging into the snow-swept street. It wouldn't change anything. It never did. She'd trudge through the city selling ballads until one day she surrendered to one of the brothel rats that were already eyeing her with a feral gleam. She'd be just like the rest—all of the girls who had scrabbled out a living near Fleet Street—trading her body for a full belly or a pretty bit of ribbon.
"Look out, girl!" The cry made her jump out of the way just as two burly men in servants' livery nearly ran over her. She rounded on the men, ready to curse them, but she suddenly glimpsed what they were leading.
A pony, its coat as golden as a new-minted crown, its cream mane and tail impossibly long. A saddle trimmed in silver graced its back, a blue and gold caparison decking it like a knight's steed of old.
"'Twill make a wondrous gift for young Master Tristan." The taller man's voice drifted back as he eyed the pony. "I cannot wait to see his face when he sees what Father Christmas has brought him."
A gift? This pony was to belong to some boy? Alaina stared after them, envy warming the blood in her veins. She watched the pony with awe-filled eyes and knew she'd never seen anything so beautiful. She couldn't bear to see it disappear. Not yet. She scrambled after them through a maze of streets that led to grand town houses with windows glowing like jewels.
She stole after the pony through the gates of a huge brick town house, where the men tied the pony to a hitching post and disappeared inside. Ever so stealthily, she crept toward that gleaming, wondrous pony, stretching out one finger to touch it. It whickered, turning to nibble at the end of her shawl.
"You're so beautiful," she whispered, marveling at the creature's warmth as she slipped her half-frozen hand into the nook between the pony's mane and its silky neck.
She didn't hear the door to the town house open, or anything else, until one of the outraged servants bellowed, "You, there! What are you doing?"
She glanced up, but the man's cry was lost in a boy's shout of exultation.
Ebony hair gleaming, his cravat askew, a boy of about twelve pelted down the town house steps at breakneck speed to fling himself at the pony. Seeing Alaina, he came to a halt, looking into her face. Astonishment widened the most sparkling chocolate-hued eyes Alaina had ever seen.
"I said get away from here, you little beggar!" the servant bellowed in a voice she knew presaged a cuff on the shoulder.
The boy stepped between them. "Don't! She's not hurting anything." He smiled, and Alaina felt an odd fizzy sensation in her chest. "Hullo. I'm Tristan Ramsey. What's your name?"
It took Alaina a moment to realize he was speaking directly to her. Boys teased and tormented, shoved and slapped, their greatest delight was making smaller children miserable. They didn't smile so warmly, speak so kindly. She regarded Tristan Ramsey warily, half expecting him to pinch her.
"My name's Alaina," she volunteered at last.
He stroked the pony's soft nose with paint-smudged fingers, awe and delight shining in his face.
"Isn't this the most stupendous pony you've ever seen, Alaina?" Tristan asked. She nodded. "I'm going to call him Galahad. You know, like the knight in the legends of King Arthur."
She'd never heard that tale, but if this boy loved it, it must be wonderful. She wished she could curl up at his feet, listening as she sometimes did when her father told stories of enchanted swans and fairy kings from Ireland. Her longing must have shone in her face, for suddenly she was aware of the boy's gaze on her in solemn contemplation.
Her cheeks burned beneath the grit that smudged them. She tucked her feet deeper beneath the hem of her gown and tugged her shawl over a ragged hole where her knee showed through.
He looked away, as if he understood her discomfort, then he gave a magnificent shrug. "You know, since I've got Galahad, there's not a thing more I could wish for in the world. So I won't be needing this." He rummaged in his pocket, grasped her hand, and put something into it. The object was hard, round, and warm from his pocket. Alaina glanced down and almost dropped it.
"It's—it's a whole guinea!" she gasped, as stunned as if he'd just handed her angel's wings.
"My Christmas guinea. I want you to have it."
"I can't," Alaina choked out.
"I don't need money," he said grandly. "I'm going to be the greatest artist who ever lived. The minute I'm old enough, I'm going off to Rome to see what Michelangelo's done, and then I'm going to paint something even more stupendous."
Alaina's mouth rounded in awe at the confidence in his words, a fiery determination that would have seemed odd on any other boy's face. Maybe that was why he didn't pinch her. He was saving up his pinches for this Mikey Angelo.
"You'd better take it," Tristan said, forcing her fingers to curl over the coin. "It's my Christmas wish that you do, and Christmas wishes are magic."
Alaina stared up at the boy, memorizing his face. A stubborn chin, a generous mouth that seemed made for laughter, eyes black and dancing with imps of mischief, yet shining with a kindness only too rare. Id that moment, she would have merrily followed Tristan Ramsey and his pony anywhere.
"Magic," she breathed, gazing down at the slivers of gold guinea shimmering between her grubby fingers. Her heart felt too big for her chest. Her eyes burned with something shamefully like tears. She clutched the coin tight and ran toward the gate before Tristan could see her cry, but she didn't stumble out into the street.
She hid behind the gatepost until everyone had returned to the house, then she crept to one shining window and peered inside. She watched the family at their Christmas revelry until dawn came, oblivious to the biting cold, the keening wind, the dark night, forgetting that her father was waiting.
When the last wassail had been drunk, the last sweet plum popped into sugar-spangled mouths, and the last kiss had been stolen beneath the kissing bough, Alaina tore herself away from the Ramseys' window.
Guilt jabbed like a sharp stone beneath her rag-wrapped feet, blistering her with the knowledge that it was nearly dawn. Her Da would be worried. But even if she'd been missing for weeks on end, Da would forgive her the instant he saw that she'd earned a whole guinea.
He'd reach out his hand, his fingers shaking, and clutch the gold piece to his chest, praising the saints and his sweet Moira, promising Alaina a warm new shawl, coal for the fire, a feast fit for one of Ireland's ancient High Kings. And then the guinea would vanish: all those solemn promises as much fantasy as the tales he'd always spun for her—of how he'd stolen her shawl pin from a fairy king's cloak and how they'd have a lovely cottage one day, with fine fat geese in the yard and coverlets made of swansdown.
A sick churning gripped Alaina's stomach at the image of that shiny coin disappearing into Da's grimy pocket.
No. Tristan Ramsey's Christmas guinea was hers. She'd never spend the boy's gift, no matter how hungry and cold she got. She'
d keep it forever to remind her of a boy named Tristan with a dazzling smile and laughing eyes and a pony named Galahad. She'd keep it to remind her of Christmas magic and wishes that would come true if she just believed strongly enough.
She swore to herself she would come to the window every Christmas to watch holly being festooned across the mantel and charades being played before the fire. And she would imagine what it would be like to see Tristan's dark eyes gazing down into her own as if all the wishes in the heavens had finally come true.
One
Sixteen years later
. . .
NO ONE SHOULD BE ALONE AT CHRISTMAS, BUT ALAINA MacShane had never been anything else. She pressed her mittened hand against the frost-etched windowpane and groped for the courage to peer one last time through the glass. To finally say farewell to a dream that could not come true.
Tonight she would say good-bye to things she could never have, to holiday laughter and love-filled embraces welcoming her home, garlands of holly, Christmas puddings, kissing boughs.
And Tristan Ramsey.
Her fingers burned to bury themselves in midnight waves of hair she had never touched. Her mouth craved the honeyed power of lips she had never tasted. Her body trembled with a desperate need for the passion that burned, like black fire, in his eyes.
She had loved him forever, but it was time to face the truth. It was time to leave London forever. For no matter how many Christmases she stood waiting at the window, no holiday magic could pull her into the drawing room filled with Tristan's laughter. No star-kissed wish could transform her into a woman Tristan could take into his arms and welcome into a world of bright holly and tender caresses.
She had been confronted with that painful reality years before, when she'd been seventeen—watching as Tristan fell in love with his father's ward, a golden-curled beauty as fragile as a Christmas rose. He'd spent that Christmas bundling his dreams into a dozen trunks and setting out to build a future with his bride, a future Alaina could never share.
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