Heartbroken, she had stayed away from the window for seven Christmases after that, assuring herself that Tristan didn't need her, that she had no right to watch over him any longer. But no matter how far she ran, she could never escape the mystical link forged between them on that long-ago Christmas when he had pressed the Christmas guinea into her hand. She would carry it into a bleak eternity without him.
Fingers of wind tugged at her serviceable gray bonnet, whipping auburn hair across eyes that blurred with tears. She dashed them away, wondering how it was possible to grieve so terribly at the loss of something you'd never had.
She sucked in a steadying breath and steeled herself to look in the window one last Christmas, knowing what she'd see: firelight flashing off of glorious satin gowns, starched cravats tied to perfection beneath hard masculine jaws, reckless games and spritely dancing, and the tempting green sphere of the kissing bough dangling from the ceiling, its ribbons and apples and candles all aglow.
But as she peered through the pane of glass that had separated her for so many years from the celebration beyond, she raised a stunned hand to lips that suddenly trembled. Not so much as a sprig of mistletoe adorned the room; the chamber was cloaked in funereal gloom.
Where was everyone? The mob of Tristan's laughing sisters, the portly papa and rosy-cheeked mother, who bustled so tenderly about her brood? Where was Tristan?
Was it possible that in the years she'd stayed away, they had left the lovely house for good? Loss ripped through her, as though her own family had vanished.
Then, suddenly, she saw him. Garbed in shirtsleeves, he sat in a leather chair, broad shoulders bent, elbows on his black-breeched knees. His dark hair had been tousled by restless fingers, the hard planes and angles of his face buried in one splayed hand.
"Tristan," she whispered aloud, but he couldn't hear her. He could never know that she was there. "Oh, God, Tristan, what is it? What's wrong?" she asked, as if the heavens themselves might answer.
At that instant, the chamber door opened and a boy of about seven entered. Tristan's son. The certainty wrung Alaina's heart. Garbed in a little nightshirt, he had his mother's golden curls. Yet his face was a miniature of Tristan's own. Pale and sad, the child squared his narrow shoulders as if he were struggling valiantly to be brave.
The Tristan she had watched over for so long would have gathered his son in his arms, offered solace as he had to the beggar child so long ago. But this Tristan hesitated for a heartbeat, as if he wanted to touch the boy, then levered himself from the chair and walked away.
Alaina wanted to catch hold of him, to shake him, demand to know what had driven the light from his eyes, the tenderness from his heart. She wanted to understand. But that was as impossible as touching those firmly molded lips with her own.
She was shaken from her imaginings as the boy approached the window with dragging steps. Alaina drew back into the shadows, hiding as those chubby child-hands opened the casement and the little boy leaned out into the night.
Moonlight shimmered in eyes that seemed far too old for a child's face; snowflakes dusted a freckled nose and baby-pink lips clamped tight against sorrow. He peered up to the heavens as if there were answers written there that he alone could see.
"Mama?" he called in an uncertain treble voice. "It's me. Gabriel. Are you out there in the stars?"
Alaina bit down hard on her lip. How many times had she told her hurts and her sorrows and even her joys to the night sky, as if it were only a fragile veil obscuring her mother's face?
"Papa says that you're in heaven now," the boy said. "He says you listen to my prayers. But I don't believe him anymore. He always said Christmas wishes would come true, but I asked for you to get better last Christmas, and you left me when spring came anyway. You didn't come back no matter how hard I prayed. I don't care if we never have a Yule log or Christmas pudding or play Snap Dragon again. I don't even care if I don't get a pony like Papa did. Christmas is just for babies." A wistful sigh put the lie to those brash words. "I only wish that. . ." His chin trembled. Alaina could see how much effort it took for him to quell it. "No. It doesn't matter. I could wish and wish forever that Papa would laugh again, but it won't ever happen. There is no magic, Mama." His voice dropped low. "Maybe there aren't even any angels."
Tears wet Alaina's face as Tristan's child closed the window. Her heart ached with the memory of his small, sad face and Tristan's own, so drastically changed.
How much had he loved his wife? Alaina wondered, quiet anguish gripping her. Had Tristan loved his bride as deeply as her father had loved her mother—all but flinging himself in his wife's grave once she was gone? Only a man who loved with all his heart could be so altered by his wife's death.
She shivered at the hot imprint of jealousy in her soul— resentment toward the woman who had shared Tristan's life, his bed, given him a son. Irrational guilt weighed her down, as if the very fact that she'd stayed away for so long had let some sinister force slip through the window to harm the woman she had envied.
"Nine o'clock, an' all's well."
She heard the watchman calling out the hour and felt a swift jab of panic. She had to go. She'd finally saved enough to leave all this behind, to make a life for herself far away from the London slums, in a place where no one would know who she was or where she had come from. A hundred genteel doors closed in her face had left her no other choice.
There is no magic... Gabriel's voice echoed in her mind. Christmas wishes don't come true...
She swallowed hard, her fingers touching her own talisman tucked beneath the bodice of her gown—a coin suspended between her breasts by a ragged ribbon. The makeshift necklace had been a constant reminder of the healing warmth of the Christmas guinea from Tristan's pocket—a warmth that had threaded through her whole life, changed it forever, as if the coin truly were infused with some mystical power. For countless Christmases she had watched over Tristan, clutching tight to that magic.
Could she abandon him now? She had watched, helpless, as her father sank into an abyss of grief and bitterness. She couldn't forsake Tristan to Thomas MacShane's fate, leave him in bitter darkness, no matter what the cost to herself.
She turned her gaze to the sky, its horizon roiling with purple-black clouds, the wind gusting a bitter cold warning. She should hasten back to her room far across town before the storm struck, finish her preparations for leaving London.
But a force more powerful than logic drew her fingers to the reticule where she'd tucked the precious coins she had hoarded for so many years, "stitching her way to America" in Miss Crumb's Millinery.
The weight of the coins wasn't half so heavy as the weight of Tristan Ramsey's shattered dreams. Surely there was time for her to make a little bit of magic—for Tristan, and for the little boy who talked to angels.
The boy had cried himself to sleep again.
Tristan stood beside his son's bed, gazing down at that cherublike face, his heart raw with regret. Traces of salty tears still lingered on the boy's cheek, and one arm was curled about a rag-stuffed pony, his last Christmas gift from his mama.
Damnation, what a disaster this Christmas holiday had turned into. It had seemed simple enough at the outset— find the boy a temporary governess, then pack him onto a coach bound for Beth's house in Yorkshire. Gabriel could admire his newborn cousin and join in the family's revels, while Tristan—Tristan could remain behind, where his brooding wouldn't dampen the Christmas joy of those who loved him.
But he had failed as miserably in finding a governess as he had at everything else where his son was concerned. And Gabriel had resisted the notion of traveling to his aunt's with a determination that had been as odd as it was irritating.
Blast it, Tristan thought, he should have slung Gabriel into the coach kicking and screaming if necessary.
But his son would never have stooped to such a childish display. The boy had seemed old, deep down in his soul, from the time he'd taken his first toddling steps. His huge
, dark eyes were so earnest, devoid of mischief and laughter, filled instead with determination. To do what? To be a little man? To take care of his mama while his father … Tristan's throat constricted.
No. There was no point raking it open again. He had done his best to remedy the situation once and for all. The decision he'd made was best for everyone. The sooner it was over the better. Tristan's jaw knotted. In two weeks his son would be gone.
He should leave the boy's room at once, get to the mounds of paperwork he'd brought from the office. Ramsey and Ramsey could always provide enough business to bury a dozen men. Yet tonight he couldn't seem to force himself away from where Gabriel lay sleeping. Some demonic part of Tristan wanted to make sure he would remember his child innocent in slumber, not realizing that this was the last Christmas Eve he would sleep in his own small bed.
Tristan stiffened, an odd, grating sound coming from the floor below making his muscles tense. What the devil could be making that racket? Burrows or Cook banking the fire? No. The old butler and his apple-cheeked wife had long since gone to their quarters, their rheumy old eyes as wistful for past Christmases as his son's bright ones.
A metallic ring echoed up the stairway, then was silenced, as if someone was trying to be stealthy, quiet.
He crossed soundlessly to Gabriel's open door and leaned out into the hallway. A muffled thud rasped at his ears— footsteps. He froze.
Housebreakers? He'd heard they loved nothing more than plying their trade at Christmas, when so many families were off visiting. If Tristan hadn't been in the house, they could have filled their bags with silver plate till they split and no-one would have been the wiser. At night, Cook plugged up her ears with wool batting to muffle her husband's snoring, and old Burrows would have slept through the battle of Waterloo even if his mattress had been balanced atop one of Wellington's cannons.
Casting one more glance at his sleeping son, Tristan stole down the hall, pausing at his own bedchamber long enough to secure his pistol. He loaded it hastily, then made his way to the head of the stairs, his heart hammering, his jaw set, grim.
His roiling emotions shifted into feral protectiveness. At last there was an enemy he could fight, something besides the phantoms in his own embattled soul.
Nerves strung tight as wire, Tristan made his way down the staircase, the sounds growing louder, more distinct. The drawing room—that was where the noise was coming from. His jaw clenched grimly. What if there were more than one thief? What if they were armed? Would Burrows or Cook hear the scuffle? What would happen to Gabriel if... if what? If Tristan died?
His hand tightened around the pistol, the thought slashing, ruthless. His death would make little difference to his son's future. It had already been decided, the plan put into motion.
Tristan approached the drawing room door—closed, no doubt, in an effort to muffle the sound of the brigands ransacking the room. His left hand reached for the door latch, a hundred grim scenarios playing in his mind. Then, ever so stealthily, he opened the door.
Two
IF A HORDE OF MURDERERS HAD TAKEN UP residence in the room, they could have merrily cut Tristan to ribbons while he stood there, paralyzed with shock. A precarious tower, constructed of a gaming table, Tristan's leather wing chair, two Chippendale side chairs, and a silk-embroidered footstool, teetered in the far corner of the room, atop which a fiery-haired woman in a dove-gray gown stood on tiptoe, like an angel on a church spire. A hammer was clamped between her knees. Three nails bristled from the crease of her lips as she hummed a muffled tune and wrestled to hang a monstrosity constructed of Christmas greenery, apples, bright ribbons, and candles from the nail in the ceiling.
A kissing bough? The realization crept through Tristan's befuddled brain.
"What the devil?" he roared, his finger tightening reflexively on the pistol's trigger. The weapon exploded. Plaster shattered. The woman screamed, wheeling around in white-faced shock. The hammer clattered to the ground. Nails rained down as the tower gave a horrendous shudder. Tristan glimpsed amber eyes widening in alarm as the chair four levels down skidded off the edge of the table. The woman grabbed for the rim of the kissing bough in a desperate effort to regain her balance, but her fingers tore free.
Instinctively Tristan flung the pistol aside and dove toward her, as if he could somehow keep her from falling. But the furniture clattered to the floor with a deafening racket, the woman crashing atop Tristan. He heard a hollow thud and a sharp cry of pain as the force of the woman's fall knocked them both to the floor.
He swore, grappling for her wrists, rolling her beneath him while she struggled like a wildcat. "Hold still! Damn you—" He snarled, forcing her into submission with the weight of his body. He gritted his teeth as the soft pillows of her breasts crushed beneath his chest, her skirts tangled about her thighs, and her legs were pinned beneath the weight of his own. She smelled of wintertime—snowflakes and ivy—her eyes snapping gold fire in a pale heart-shaped face haloed by wild waves of auburn hair.
"Who the devil are you?" Tristan grated, stunned at the fierce jolt of awareness that sizzled through every sinew of his body. "And what are you doing in my house?"
"My name is Alaina MacShane. I was h-hanging a kissing bough," the woman choked out. "Do you always shoot people for that offense?"
"Only when they break into my house to do so. Did someone send you here? Blast it, if one of my sisters took it into their heads to interfere—"
"No. I broke into your house of m-my own accord."
Tristan wondered if one of the chairs had crashed down on his head. "You broke into my house to decorate it for Christmas? What kind of lunatic are you?"
"One who will soon have a lump on her head big enough to match the dome on St. Paul's Cathedral." The woman gave a futile tug against his grasp. "I'm not a lunatic. I only wanted to ... You have a child here. He deserves a little Christmas magic."
Blast it, was his family responsible for this? Tristan wondered. They'd bludgeoned him with pleas about Christmas until his head ached. Hearing the same condemnation from a stranger made his features harden, a muscle in his jaw tic dangerously.
"Take this rubbish and get out of my house," he said, dragging her to her feet. "And tell whoever sent you that my son is my concern. Christmas can go to blazes for all I care! And you with it!"
"Papa?" The soft voice came from beyond the door.
"Gabriel, get back to your room this instant!" Tristan bellowed.
But it was too late. The child, a pale ghost in a white nightshirt, had stolen into the room, his beloved stuffed pony clutched beneath his arm. Gabriel's sleep-heavy eyes skated past the pieces of furniture strewn across the floor, past the two disheveled figures, then caught on the kissing bough still swinging wildly from the nail overhead.
"Oh, Papa!" Gabriel cried, rushing closer, breathless. The child's eyes rounded with wonder, then swept an awed path from the kissing bough to Alaina MacShane. Gabriel caught his breath, as if afraid he would shatter some enchantress's spell. "So ... so beautiful!" Gabriel gaped at the woman as if she were spun of moonbeams. It irritated Tristan that he wasn't certain whether his son was rhapsodizing over the kissing bough or the woman standing beneath it.
Displays of delight were so rare in the solemn boy that it was like acid in the raw places in Tristan's soul. "I had nothing to do with this nonsense. This—this . . . thief is responsible for this disaster."
"I'm not a thief!" the woman protested.
"She's right, Papa! She couldn't be a thief," Gabriel piped up. "She didn't take anything. She brought things. Holly and ivy and Christmas candles."
Tristan ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "Gabriel, I'm not going to argue with you. Get upstairs. And you." He threw a glare back at the woman. "You take this rubbish and get out of here before I turn you over to the authorities."
The woman's chin jutted up at a stubborn angle. "Go ahead. It would be worth it just to hear you attempt to explain my crime to the constables."
"Hush, mo chroi," the woman soothed. "It's all right."
"He wants to send you away!" Gabriel cried, casting a glare at Tristan. "I won't let you do it, Papa! She's mine! I wished her here!"
"Wished her here?" Tristan gaped, stunned at the passionate fury in the boy. His son, who had always treated Tristan with the stiff courtesy accorded a stranger, was clinging to Alaina as if she were the only safe haven left in his little world. It hurt Tristan far more than he would have believed possible.
"Gabriel, we cannot keep this woman here. God only knows where she came from!"
"God does know!" The child's face set in stubborn lines that mirrored Tristan's own. "She's an angel. My angel. I asked for help, and Mama sent her, just like I asked."
The fierce certainty in the boy's voice twisted in Tristan's gut like a knife.
"Gabriel, hush, now." The woman called his son by name, stroking his silky golden curls. How the devil had she known Gabriel's name? His own? Tristan fought off a ripple of unease. His sisters must have told her... or whoever else was behind this plot. The idea of spinning out private wounds before a stranger made him feel violated. And when Tristan got his hands on the person responsible ...
"Gabriel, look at her!" Tristan dragged his fingers through his hair, struggling for patience. "This is no angel. If she had wings, don't you think she might have used them to fly instead of building towers and landing on top of me and bruising the devil out of both of us?"
"Mama said angels come in all different shapes and sorts. She said that you should always be good because you never know when one will plop right down in front of you."
A Gift of Love Page 20