Mischief and Mistletoe

by Jo Beverley; Mary Jo Putney; Patricia Rice; Nicola Cornick; Anne Gracie; Joanna Bourne; Susan Fraser King; Cara Elliott

  Cristina glanced away. All she had to do was stop the coach....

  First she needed a pistol, a disguise, a horse, a reason to leave the house that night—and a good deal of courage.

  Chapter 2

  All he had to do was survive the holidays....

  And for now, supper at the vicar’s, Edward thought. But the meal was over, port sipped, cards played, and some hot, baked, salted potato slices were enjoyed with a steaming brose of cream, honey, and whisky. Now the gigs and carriages were being brought round and the ladies were donning bonnets and cloaks. Soon a servant would bring his greatcoat to him and his horse would be walked to the post.

  He sighed. He had not expected to enjoy the evening, but he had liked it, not the least reason the vicar’s niece. Lovely, intelligent, forthright, with an appreciation of history—the combination was hard to resist, but he meant to do so.

  Even though he was now viscount and owner of a ramshackle castle and sheriff of a quaint Highland village, he did not intend to linger in the area. Nor was he eager to find a bride and sink into domesticity here or anywhere. He rather expected married life to be dull, and he considered himself dull enough already.

  He had a lamentable love of history, books and solitude over cards, racing, and parties. Sought after in social circles, he rarely accepted, which suited his bookish nature. His current research about the Armstrong Border clan played more on his mind than marriage, to the everlasting frustration of his mother in England and his siblings on both sides of the Border.

  “Merry Yule to you, Lord Dunallan, and good night,” Mrs. Lindsay said. She was the widow of a local laird—no, she was the miller’s wife, he thought; the lady fussing with her fur pelisse was the laird’s widow. Only one face and name had captured his full attention that night.

  Cristina Heron-Shaw, standing with her aunt, glanced at him again. And so it had gone all evening: stolen glances, little smiles, some frowns. Hooked like a fish, he was, though the girl had not acted deliberately. That was even more alluring, he thought.

  “So good to make your acquaintance. Safe journey home in this weather,” he told the older woman, and repeated it again and again as he took gloved hands to say farewell. He knew the ladies in particular were curious about him: a titled bachelor with a decent yearly sum, a civic office, and a castle, however decrepit. But he was not as marriageable as they thought, being in no hurry.

  Even his St. Andrews friends had made bets that he would be the first of them to marry, which he found laughable. He felt sorry for the eager mums hauling their daughters and nieces about on his behalf in Edinburgh, and now here. There was no point, he sometimes wanted to tell them. Not yet.

  Since his arrival a fortnight ago, he had attended three country dances, five supper parties, a funeral, and a christening, all while learning his duties as sheriff and viscount. Much of his time was devoted to going through his grandfather’s library and papers. Then Rutledge had produced boxes of documents and excise officers’ reports to review, along with other issues to consider—including a young prisoner in the tolbooth soon to be transferred.

  Enough to keep anyone busy, surely, particularly since the area was a hub for the manufacture and smuggling of illicit spirits and the free-trading of goods. He knew that before arriving, as he had gone out on patrol with his grandfather and others, years back—but he had never expected to be sheriff.

  He intended to return to Edinburgh as soon as another sheriff could be named. He had a law office to think about, and a comfortable, well-ordered George Street house with staff who knew to leave him be. He had a few trustworthy friends and reliable relationships with his mother and siblings. His life was peaceful and dull, and he meant to keep it that way.

  Besides, he had been engaged once and jilted. Youth, idealism, and poor judgment on his part—and some conniving on her part—were to blame. He was not bitter, having gained maturity and perspective, and now he scarcely remembered why he had loved her. Currently free of encumbrances at twenty-nine, he enjoyed life as an advocate, an amateur scholar, and quiet bachelor. He also enjoyed the discreet acquaintance of a few lovers over time, leisurely savored without ties.

  But his grandfather’s death and will had left him unexpected responsibilities—not only the castle and civic duties, but boxes of old family documents. The prospect of the research made him happy as a child with pots, shovels, and dirt. He could not wait to resume it this evening.

  “Lord Dunallan, do take an apple pie home with you, sir,” Mrs. Heron-Shaw said then. “We have so much food left, as the poor weather kept some of our guests from coming.”

  “Thank you, madam, but I could not accept.” Politeness dictated that, though he wanted to accept; he had sent the housekeeper home at Hogmanay, and there was little left in the larder.

  “The crust is perfection, the filling sublime. My niece made it, as you know.”

  “I do.” He saw Miss Heron-Shaw blush like a peach—which he preferred to apple—as her aunt touted her accomplishments. He felt a bit sorry for the girl, paraded by others when she clearly did not want it.

  “I hope you enjoyed the meal,” the aunt persisted. “We are so happy you could join us.”

  “An excellent Scottish country supper! It reminded me of my boyhood,” he said heartily, knowing it would please his hostess. “Roast lamb, seasoned vegetables, crusty breads, wonderful desserts—a grand feast.” He had not had a decent meal in a fortnight. But if he said so, the whole glen might know by morning, and platters would appear on his very doorstep.

  When he had arrived at Dunallan Castle, the place boasted an elderly housekeeper, a groundsman, and one dim maidservant. Edward had sent them off to their families for the holidays, wanting peace and quiet for his research. The shabby old castle had character but lacked the order of his well-appointed town house. The larder held a store of bannocks, cheese, and apples, and he had relied otherwise on the plain cuisine at the Drouthy Wench Inn down the main road. And in the castle he had discovered a supply of whisky so fine that a long sip would satisfy any man’s drouth, or thirst, as was said here.

  “If you have more pie, Mary, you could give it to neighbors,” Mrs. Lindsay suggested.

  Mrs. Heron-Shaw had already directed a servant to bring some pies wrapped in brown paper and string. “Here, Lord Dunallan,” she insisted. “Apple custard, jam trifle, rhubarb, and a cheesecake, too. Perfect for a hungry bachelor.”

  He accepted the pies clumsily stacked to his chin, their smells enticing. “Thank you, madam,” he conceded, slightly embarrassed by the familiar generosity he remembered from his boyhood days here.

  “Aunt, I could bring something to Mrs. MacDonell down the road,” the niece offered.

  Edward peered over the pies. The girl looked up at him. Heaven-blue eyes and long lashes made his heart leap. A turn of the golden head, curls whipped to marzipan froth, made him hungry again, but for something other than rich food.

  In fact, his breath caught and he felt as if his heart opened, warmed somehow. But he could not, would not, be smitten.

  “Remember, Mrs. MacDonell is infirm and could not join us tonight,” the niece said.

  “Snow is falling now. It could be dangerous, Kirstie.”

  “It’s just flurries and it’s only down the road. I could stay for company, and if the weather worsens, I could stay the night.” She smiled, sunny, dimpled, lovely and impish.

  Watching in silence, Edward might have agreed to do anything for her.

  “Well . . . Yule is traditionally a time for charity,” her aunt considered.

  The vicar’s fetching niece smiled up at Edward. “Charity should extend to everyone at Christmas, even prisoners, do you not agree, sir?”

  He blinked. “I never thought about it, to be honest.”

  “You ought to,” she said bluntly.

  “Miss, the fellow in our tolbooth cannot be released,” Rutledge said, stepping toward them. “Perhaps the young lady has forgotten that smugglers are the cri
minal sort.”

  “They deserve charity as much as anyone.” She glared at the deputy.

  Puzzled by that sudden spark, Edward lifted a brow. “It is not usual custom to grant holiday privileges for prisoners,” he told her. “But we could take it into consideration.”

  She began to answer, but her aunt drew her by the arm to bid farewell to other guests. Edward stared after her, then rebalanced the leaning pies.

  “Do be careful, Dunallan,” Rutledge murmured. “That bonny thing has notorious kinsmen. Her father was Johnny Shaw. The good reverend has a wicked branch in his family.”

  Frowning, Edward hid his surprise, but his mind whirled. He had met Johnny Shaw’s daughter years ago. Surely Cristina Heron-Shaw was not—

  Kirstie, her aunt had called her. Stunned, he glanced toward the girl who stood nearby, her back to him, the lamplight spilling gold through her hair. In that instant, he knew.

  “Indeed,” he said softly.

  “Her uncle and aunt took her in after her father’s death, and made sure she had an education and was brought up properly,” Rutledge explained. “A younger brother stayed in the hills with his mother and uncles, I think. Rogues and lawbreakers, that lot.”

  “Her father was never caught or formally accused.”

  “Shot by a lawman while smuggling is accusation enough. You went with us on a raid to his house once, when old Dunallan was away. Remember, Ned?”

  “I do recall that,” Edward murmured as he watched young Kirstie. She had grown into a beautiful young woman. With her back to him, she turned her head just so. Lovely indeed.

  He felt a tug again, her familiarity now understood. Eleven years ago he had encountered a child protecting her small brother. What he felt tonight was but a response to a dim memory, he told himself. Only that.

  “Be warned, sir,” Rutledge repeated.

  “Of course,” Edward agreed. “Arthur, may I remind you that I am expecting a parcel delivery this evening from Edinburgh. I have another parcel to send off as well.”

  “Aye. Odd for Yule Eve, sir, if I may say.”

  “The court considers the matter to be pressing. The documents contain orders for . . . our guest,” he said carefully, “drawn up last week, as you know, though they could not be delivered sooner due to the winter weather south of here.”

  “I am glad he is being transferred for trial. Too much smuggling goes on in this area of Scotland. May the rascal’s fate serve to deter others.”

  “His guilt is not yet proven.”

  “I caught him at it myself, and that’s enough for me. The foul weather has cleared in Lothian, so I hear,” Rutledge went on. “The vicar mentioned that an acquaintance of his could not travel here until today, due to the snow to the south.”

  “The Stirling road is adequate for travel now, so I am told.”

  “But those thick flurries outside may be the beginning of the snow for us. Sir, I had arranged for Mr. Gordon to relieve me at the tolbooth this evening so that I could spend Old Yule with my wife and our family. But now it seems I must wait upon your courier.”

  “No need, sir. I will watch for the courier—the road runs past the castle. Let Mr. Gordon keep watch at the jail if he is willing. Go home to your family.” Edward felt a twinge of regret, but he had chosen to be alone for the holidays this year. He felt quick sympathy for the young lad shut up alone in the tolbooth this night.

  “Patrick Kerr seems a decent lad,” he told Rutledge. “Perhaps I will bring the pies over for him later.” He shifted the wrapped packages in his hands.

  “He should have no privilege, sir. He and his comrades were free-trading. The others ran off and left him to take the blame. Any punishment is deserved.”

  “Perhaps, but he insists that he was on his way to Edinburgh for his first year of university, happened to visit his cousins, and that he is no smuggler.”

  “And you believed him? I saw cause to arrest him and so I did. You mentioned two parcels?” Rutledge asked, changing the topic.

  “Aye. The other is for a friend. The courier can take that one tonight. Sir, I bid you and yours a merry Yule.” Edward turned to take final leave of Reverend Heron-Shaw and his family, looking around for the niece—Johnny Shaw’s daughter, he corrected himself—who had been standing there only moments ago.

  “Please give my compliments to your niece,” he then told her aunt and uncle.

  “Oh, do say farewell yourself!” The aunt smiled. “There she is, coming out of the library.” She practically pushed him in that direction. The girl paused in the hallway, where an oil lamp on a table gave off a flickering light.

  Miss Heron-Shaw looked startled as he approached, tucking something under a black cloak slung over her arm. “Lord Dunallan! I was just going out—”

  “I was just leaving—” he said at the same time.

  “What a pleasant evening,” she went on politely, yet sounded nervous.

  “Flurries have started,” he replied, glancing toward the open front door. “May I escort you to your neighbor’s house?” He had not planned to offer, but it felt natural. “It would be on my way.”

  “I will be fine . . . but thank you,” she added.

  “Well.” He hesitated, not wanting to leave, suddenly. “I must be going. I . . . very much enjoyed the evening, too. The apple pie was delicious.” She would be delicious, too—sweet and curvy and soft beneath his lips and hands. He stopped that wicked thought, but could not keep his gaze from dropping, lifting.

  A glint caught his eye. What had she tucked under the cloak? The object looked like a gun with a flashing of brass over wood. But the light in the hallway was dim; surely he saw only the gilded spine of a book. “Taking some reading to Mrs. MacDonell?”

  “Oh—aye! Good night, Lord Dunallan.” She stepped past him, a graceful golden creature in lamp glow and shadows. He went with her, and she paused to shake his hand at the door, forthright about that, like many Scotswomen. He loved the exquisite feel of her slim, soft hand in his. Then he departed, carrying the pies.

  Riding through the darkness on the road back to Dunallan, he mused that if he had been looking for a Highland bride—which he was not—then Johnny Shaw’s golden-haired daughter would be his first choice, no matter what her father had done. Briefly he wondered if she would even consider a dull and bookish viscount who was not a very exciting gentleman.

  A moment’s dream on a snow-dusted night. First, many things needed his attention—starting with parcels and a coach.

  Chapter 3

  Bitter cold air, the moor washed pale by moonlight and snowfall, the horse restive on the frozen track—and Cristina shivering in the saddle, thinking herself a lunatic to be waiting here to rob a coach. She patted the neck of her uncle’s chestnut mare, borrowed for the ride to Mrs. MacDonell’s, and sighed. After she had brought the meal and visited briefly with the lady, she had changed her clothes in a barn and had struck out along the Stirling road.

  Whatever did one say to halt a coach? Your money or your life, the English highwaymen of old had called out, Dick Turpin and Sixteen-string Jack and the like. Scottish history had few of those, boasting a greater number of whisky smugglers and cattle reivers than highway robbers—except for her own legendary great-great-grandmama.

  Johnny Shaw would have applauded her courage this night. He was never a thief, simply a peace-loving teacher and a charming, clever free-trader for the benefit of his family and his glen. And he had been killed by gaugers on a moonlit night before he could hang for his beliefs.

  Her own life would be at risk tonight, for the sake of a document intended for the sheriff. After clearing her throat, she lowered her voice to rehearse. “Hand over the parcel,” she said gruffly. “Give me the mail pouch, if you please, sir.”

  She sighed. She sounded like an adolescent schoolboy. Her breath puffed outward in the cold air, and she tucked the black paisley shawl, one of her own, snug around her face and throat. Otherwise she wore male clothing—a black woolen gre
atcoat, knee breeches, waistcoat, and jacket of black superfine. She wore black leather boots as well, tall for her and folded at the thigh. A broad-brimmed black hat covered her giveaway golden hair.

  The things belonged to Patrick, who was tall and slender; she had brought them to Craigiston in case he needed decent clothing for a trial, or a burial. Although she had not anticipated this impromptu use, so be it.

  Tucked in a pocket of the greatcoat was the antique wood-and-brass pistol that had once belonged to her great-great-grandmother. Clean of powder and shot, it was missing a latch, which rendered it unusable. She had taken the heirloom from its brace on the library wall—Dunallan had nearly seen her with it—and she intended to return it soon.

  Her sins that night were many, she thought, but all for Patrick’s good. With luck, her aunt and uncle would never know that the tolbooth prisoner was their own nephew until he was free. Let any blame fall to her.

  She did not question Patrick’s innocence, knowing how he despised the smuggling trade that had caused their father’s death. He had been traveling to Edinburgh for the Candlemas term at the university to begin his law studies. A cousin had brought word of Patrick’s trouble, reporting that the lad had stayed the night with some cousins still involved in the free-trade, and he had been caught in their midst. They had fled, but he had been arrested.

  All this had transpired before Dunallan’s arrival, and the court orders to transfer Patrick were already on their way. Tonight she would steal them, and tomorrow convince Rutledge to allow the prisoner to visit the vicar’s home for the holiday. Then she intended to spirit her brother back up to the Highlands without involving her uncle.

  That was the whole of her scheme. Now that Dunallan, stern and astute, had come to Craigiston, her best chance to help Patrick was now or never. Silently she blessed the new sheriff for mentioning the documents and inspiring her new plan.