She felt the heat of the hearth at her back. Her heel touched the hearthstones. In a single movement, she threw the embroidery behind her, onto the fire.
“No.” Jeanne started forward.
“Let it burn.”
The gun poised between them, unwavering. Jeanne’s eyes narrowed. “I did not expect this.”
Downstairs, they sang about tidings of comfort and joy. Upstairs, Elinor said, “If you run, Jeanne, and leave this behind to burn, I promise to stay silent until you have a chance to get away.” She risked a glance at the fire. “I’m gambling you won’t shoot me to get the cloth back.”
“That is a very great gamble,” Jeanne said.
Chapter 7
“You did what?” Jack wasn’t a man to shout. He compressed outrage into a low, reasonable voice. His hands opened and closed convulsively.
“I promised her ten minutes’ head start. I kept the promise.”
“She stole my horse.”
“I didn’t really think about the details of horse stealing.” She considered the matter. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“She stole my damn horse and rode off into the snow.”
“She’s strong and warmly dressed and clever. She’ll be safe enough until she reaches shelter.”
Jack brought his anger over close to her, so they could both examine it. When she put her hand on his forearm, his muscles were hard as carved wood. He said, “I’m not worried about her being safe. She’s a French agent.”
“And she stole your horse. Yes. I understand. I’ll buy you another horse. I’m not rich, exactly, but I make a good living.”
“I can buy my own damn horses. That’s not the point.”
“If you’re determined to chase after her, there are other horses in the stable. Steal one of them.”
“She took the ten minutes you gave her to cut every saddle girth in the place. They’re patching something up for me. It’ll be a while.” Jack took her shoulders into his big hands. His fingers shaped to her, firm and strong, with the careful control that was exactly Jack Tyler. “What did she say to you?”
Jeanne’s embroidery, pulled from the fire, lay on the hearth. The linen backing was brown and burned all the way through in spots. The threads had fared worse. They were curled and crinkled and gone black. There was nothing left. The code and the names were gone.
Good riddance, in her opinion. “She said she was glad to be dealing with me and not some male idiot. She was sorry we had never had a chance to play cards against each other. She said the French would find these same sympathizers again, or others, and this was only an inconvenience. We agreed, in fact, that such lists are useless because very few men have the resolution to carry through on promises. Most of those supposed traitors will turn out to be only loyal Englishmen who like to grumble. I don’t like lists with so many innocent people on them.”
“You stood and chatted.” His hand shook a little when it came up to touch her hair.
“While the code was burning busily on the fire. She wouldn’t leave till she was certain that list wouldn’t fall into your hands. Oh. And she said her scruples against killing me were transient and fragile as soap bubbles. I thought that was rather pretty.”
Minute by minute, he found new places to touch her. To hold onto her. His hands were not entirely steady. “You could have been killed.”
“I thought about that possibility.”
“Nothing in that message was worth risking your life for. You should have given it to her and stayed quiet and let her go. If that girl is who I think she is . . . You don’t—” He took a deep, deep breath. “You don’t realize how much danger you were in.”
“I knew. I considered the—”
“You’re alive. You bargained for your life, and you won. Do you have any idea how wonderful and remarkable you are?” He wrapped her to him, tightly, body to body, as if he were joining them, heart to heart. As if he were settling them together just right, because it was going to last for a long time. He took her mouth under his and came down for a long, slow kiss.
It roused a hundred intriguing sensations inside her. She couldn’t wait to explore them.
Another kiss. Jack said, “Two years ago I tore Oxford apart, looking for you, wanting to say this. Marry me, Elinor.”
“I—”
“I’ll show you all the mischief the classical Romans got up to between the sheets. I’ll write love poems to you. In Latin.” Close to her cheek, he whispered, “Amo te, Elinor Pennington. I love you.”
She loved him. Outside, Christmas Eve settled around the inn, wrapping it in peace. The new year was coming. They’d been given a second chance. What could she say but yes?
WENCH IN WONDERLAND
Patricia Rice
The wretched snow would not stop falling. What a miserable Christmastide this promised to be. Damaris Bedloe gazed out the frosted coach window at the Lancashire countryside and knew it wasn’t the snow creating the gloom, but the ache in her own heart.
What she was doing was wrong. After years of propriety, she was severing her relationship with all she knew and loved, for the right reason perhaps, but in the wrong way. She should never have let Lady Alice persuade her to this foolish charade, but loving her young cousin like the sister she’d never had, Damaris couldn’t deny Alice in the matter of her entire future.
She supposed that Alice’s father, Lord Reidland, had his good points. After all, he’d taken her in after Damaris’s parents died when she was only twelve. Her uncle had made it clear, though, that her purpose was to keep his young daughter company in his all-male household. His temper had left her trembling in fear of being thrown from his home for years.
Alice was less inclined to fear her father’s wrath. She’d stalwartly rejected all offers for three Seasons because her father refused to countenance a match with Theodore Harley, a promising young barrister and the man Alice loved. But in the end, Alice had not been able to fight back when Lord Reidland had thundered that it was time for his daughter to stop mooning over a penniless nobody. He’d accepted the next of her suitors to ask for her hand—Jonathan Trevelyan, younger brother of a wealthy viscount.
Alice was not the sort given to hysterics. But as soon as her father accepted an invitation for her to travel to her fiancé’s family home in rural Lancashire for Christmas, Alice had realized that this was a perfect opportunity to elope with Theodore. All she had to do was leave the coach in a town where Theodore would meet her with a special license in hand. Damaris would continue the rest of the journey alone, covering up Alice’s escape until the young lovers were safely married—although none of them had anticipated she’d be riding into a blizzard.
Having helped Alice slip away in Banbury, Damaris understood and accepted that once the earl discovered her part in the deception, he would never want her to darken his door again. At least she was too old to be placed in an orphanage for her one act of defiance.
She despised deceit, but any sacrifice was worth saving Alice from a life without love. That misery was more easily endured by a twenty-seven-year-old spinster who lacked backbone or dreams.
Damaris sighed, and her warm breath cleared a small spot on the frosted window. Alice had promised that her cousin would always be welcome in her new household, but Damaris doubted that even good-natured Theodore would want her underfoot forever.
Too late for second thoughts now. Surely she could find some sort of work. Perhaps as a teacher. She’d always enjoyed children, and she’d had ample experience with Alice’s younger brothers.
The coach swayed through an icy rut, and the driver shouted curses at his horses. Damaris’s death grip on the leather strap was all that prevented her from landing on the floor. She rubbed her bruised shoulder, glad Alice had escaped before the blizzard hit.
The luggage-laden rear of the coach sank into a hole, abruptly heaving the front upward. Damaris bounced off the wall again, the door frame connecting painfully with her head. The horses wh
innied frantically. The driver shouted and cracked his whip. The jarring upheaval slammed her against the door. This time, the frozen lock split open, and she tumbled out into the snowy night, head over heels.
“I did not think Mack would accept a plain girl,” a woman whispered in the hazy way of dreams. “Her dowry must be large indeed.”
“That’s very cynical of you, Mother,” a dry, deep voice responded. “Perhaps she’s very good at gambling.”
She wanted to join in the chuckles that followed, but she did not quite understand the joke. Who was Mack? And who was the plain girl with the large dowry? Her head ached abominably, but she thought it rude not to join the conversation.
She struggled against the downy weight covering her, and instantly, strong, masculine hands adjusted the pillow she’d just discovered she was lying against. Why was she in a bed with a man about? She froze in horror.
“Don’t try to do too much just yet, Lady Alice,” a pleasant baritone warned. “You are fortunate that pretty head of yours is still on your shoulders after the blow you took.”
Confused, she wondered if he was addressing her, but her eyes could not quite open. Her head pounded as if a dozen blacksmiths beat upon it. The pillow adjustment felt wonderful.
Her woozy mind tried to remember a moment when she’d felt such comforting strength, but she could not recall ever having a man’s hands on her. She struggled with her memory but there appeared to be holes in it, brought on by the pounding in her head, no doubt.
“The doctor said you must drink this, dear. It might relieve the pain a little.” The feminine voice that had sounded so caustic earlier switched to syrupy softness while fragrant hands held a cup to her lips.
She couldn’t quite tilt her head to sip. The strong hand returned to ease her a little higher, and she drank greedily. Once the cup was empty, she fell back against satiny soft sheets scented with lavender. She couldn’t remember ever sleeping in such luxury. There must be a very large gap in her memory.
“Do you think Mack forgot we invited her?” the woman whispered as she slipped toward sleep.
“More likely, he got her with child and is fleeing responsibility,” the man retorted. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t be traveling without a chaperon. I’d thought it odd that an earl would accept a reprobate like Mack. This could all be a hoax. I’ll send Fred to look for the rascal once the snow clears. I’ll have him dragged home to do the proper thing.”
“Oh, dear, really, Trev, another child in the Hall. I don’t believe I can bear it.”
Slipping into sleep, she tried to picture a Mack but couldn’t. The sensation of strong hands holding her had replaced all fears with comforting dreams of security.
Adam, Viscount Trevelyan, looked up from the estate map as the housekeeper marched his oldest son into the study, pinching the boy by the ear as if he were a disobedient pup. Which he was.
“What now, Mrs. Worth?” Trev asked, gesturing for her to release the brat.
“He stole the tart Cook baked for you, my lord. He and those other heathens ate all of it.”
“Blackberry jam, I take it?” Trev observed, the evidence smeared across his heir’s face. “My favorite, too.”
Georgie had the grace to look guilty. He scuffed his toe on the plush Aubusson carpet. “We was hungry. Nanny starves us.”
“Nanny does no such thing. She merely deprives you of your pudding when you’ve behaved wretchedly. What did you do to irritate her today?”
Georgie screwed up his eight-year-old face, looking a great deal like his scapegrace Uncle Mack. “We didn’t do our sums. It’s snowing out,” he protested, as if that were the greatest excuse in the world.
“And had you done your sums, Nanny would no doubt have let you go out to play in it. As it is, now you will have to stay inside and do twice the work, with no pudding for you tonight.”
“That’s not fair!” his little scoundrel shouted. “We’re just babies. We should be let to play.”
Out of the mouths of babes . . . spoke the idiotish excuses of Uncle Mack, by way of Violet, Lady Trevelyan, his frivolous mother. Trev rubbed his brow and gestured at the housekeeper. “Take him back to Nanny and tell her what I said,” he told the housekeeper.
Trev had no other idea how to deal with his motherless brood. That’s what nannies and nursery maids were for. There were days Trev longed for a cheerful, obedient wife to rein in his troublesome family, but it had been his madcap wife who had created these straits. Disorder had ruled from the moment he’d brought Louise home as a bride. Never again. He could dismiss bad help. It was impossible to dismiss a bad wife. Or a bad mother, but that was another topic.
He had an estate to run or there would be no blackberry tarts in anyone’s future. Years of paying off his younger brother’s gambling debts and his mother’s profligate spending had drained the home farm’s cash until he’d finally played the part of ogre and refused to cover more than their allowances. He’d offered to buy Mack colors or find him a position in a foreign office. He should have known his brother would find an heiress instead.
Knowing Mack had no wherewithal to take a bride anywhere except here to the Hall, Trev didn’t dare hope that he had found a meek, obedient wife, one who would quietly organize his disorderly home. Admittedly, the patient upstairs appeared older and possibly more mature than the silly chit he’d anticipated. Still, Mack did not typically choose older women. Perhaps the purple bump on her brow sallowed her complexion.
The dowry Mack had promised to hand over to Trev for housing his bride would go a long way toward making up for the gambling debts Trev had paid over the years. Perhaps Mack was finally growing up and accepting his obligations.
Once he had the extra funds, Trev could plow them into improving some of the fallow grounds, and with the profits maybe set Mack up with his own house here on the estate. He could hope the chit was with child and had no choice but to marry the wretch quickly, before she realized what kind of ramshackle household she was marrying into.
A footman summoned him to the sickroom. Hopes rising for the first time in years, Trev took the stairs two at a time.
Damaris savored the smoky Darjeeling tea. Alice detested tea and preferred hot chocolate in the mornings, and as her companion, Damaris had always drunk whatever was offered. Tea was a rare pleasure.
Her memory was returning. She recollected wishing wistfully for tea while sipping sweet chocolate. Still, she couldn’t remember how she’d come to be in this strange place. With the realization that her mind wasn’t whole came uneasiness and confusion, which caused her head to throb. So she simply enjoyed the treat and the sinfully wicked scones and the wonderful pillows and tried not to wonder why a mere servant was being gifted with such luxury.
Two pairs of curious green eyes appraised her from beside the bed. That might be sufficient cause for confusion, she thought, as she studied them back. Twins, would be her guess, although the one had luxurious brown ringlets hanging to her shoulders and the other appeared to have butchered her curls with a carving knife. The one with ringlets wore an immaculate pinafore. The one with short hair appeared to have been crawling in mud.
“I’m Mina and she’s Tina,” the rumpled one said, before they seated themselves on the carpet. Damaris guessed them to be about five. She would offer them some of her tea and scones, but they produced some lint-coated candies from their pockets and sucked on them.
“Uncle Mack said he’d marry a dragon who would breathe fire on us if we’re bad,” the ragged twin declared.
“You don’t look like a dragon,” the other explained. “Dragons eat children, not scones.”
The mysterious Mack again. Damaris thought if she was meant to marry him, she ought to remember someone of that name, but it hurt to try. “Dragons aren’t real. Only hungry wolves eat children,” she added teasingly.
“The nanny before this one said there’s wolves in the forest,” Mina—the ragged one—said with a frown. “But Georgie just sneaked out there to
play in the snow.”
Oh, dear. Damaris cast a glance to the maid standing by, who dipped an obedient curtsy and hurried out. Apparently the entire staff was needed to deal with the scamps.
“He won’t get eaten, will he?” Tina asked worriedly.
“I’m sorry, I was only teasing about the wolves. England doesn’t have wolves anymore. I think Georgie may need to be afraid of what your nanny will do when she catches him.”
“Oh, she’ll just yell, I don’t know what I’ll do with you, Master Georgie, I simply don’t. And then she’ll go to her room and slam the door. She smells funny when she comes out of her room.” Mina sprawled on her skinny belly to peer under the bed. “Grandmere says there’s dust bunnies under here because Mrs. Worth doesn’t make the maids work worth a farthing. Are dust bunnies big as real bunnies?”
“We got real bunnies in the garden,” Tina offered.
Damaris’s head was definitely spinning. She almost sympathized with their nanny. “I don’t think you ought to be crawling under the bed if there are bunnies there. You’ll scare them,” she suggested. “Do you have any books I could read to you?”
“I don’t see no bunnies,” Mina said, backing out covered in even more filth. Their grandmother was right about the maids. “And Georgie burned my bunny book.”
“I’ve gots . . . I have a fairy book,” Tina said eagerly. “Will you read that?”
“Certainly, although Mina might want to wash her face and hands before she touches anything else.” Damaris suppressed a smile as the imps jumped up—and almost collided with a pair of long legs elegantly encased in knit pantaloons.
She winced as she lifted her aching head to follow the legs upward, skimming past his narrow hips and embarrassing maleness to a formidably broad chest in a gold-embroidered brocade vest. She didn’t dare look higher.
This was no footman come to fetch the miscreants.
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 14