Mischief and Mistletoe
Page 34
“Leaving already, Miss Heron-Shaw?”
She whirled. He stood so close that she sidled away, limping, her back to the wall. He had removed his outer coat, and the dogs had returned with him.
“Let me go,” she said desperately. The deerhound crowded close, sniffing at her hand.
“Poor weather has stranded us both for now. Sit,” he said. “Not you—the dog,” he added.
Cristina looked down to see the deerhound licking at the sweet filling that still clung to her wrist.
“That will make her ill,” Dunallan said.
“It is just cream and jam from the trifle. She likes it.”
He huffed impatiently as the dog wandered off to sit with the terrier. Then Dunallan slapped a hand, each one, on the wall beside her head, trapping her there. “No more pies, dogs, or delays. What were you doing out there tonight?”
She closed her eyes against a wrenching urge to tell the truth, wanting to trust him, but caution made her hesitate. Still, she had best explain some of it. “I meant to save my brother.”
“Patrick,” he said softly. “Patrick Shaw.”
“How did you know?” Had Rutledge discovered Patrick’s identity already?
Dunallan’s strong, straight arms trapped her. He sighed and nodded half to himself. “Kirstie,” he said, “I am Ned. We met once, years back.”
She stared at him. Recalled, gasped. Then tears pooled. “N-Ned, who saved us when—”
“When you and your brother were children hiding in the box bed.” He spoke gently.
A sort of relief washed through her, and hot new tears trickled free. This was not Dunallan, the stranger—here was Ned, who had guaranteed safety. She studied him for a moment and saw indeed that same Ned, grown handsome and sure—but quite possibly dangerous.
“So, Patrick Kerr is indeed Patrick Shaw. He looks like you,” he said, brushing his fingers over her hair, then placing his hand quickly on the wall. “What else should I know?”
“Nothing else. Will you put me in the tolbooth?”
“Just tell me the whole of it, Kirstie.”
She sighed. His hands pressed near as he leaned toward her. She could smell lemon sugar, buttery crust, and the good scent of him, too, soap and wool and horses. Still silent, she looked up. His face was so close that she could see the dark sand of his beard and the dimple hiding beside his mouth. He waited. Cristina finally nodded.
“At supper, I heard you tell Mr. Rutledge that the documents were coming tonight.”
“Go on.”
“I thought if the document went missing, there would be a delay, and I would have time to help Patrick. He was not smuggling that night, but traveling with cousins who were known to Mr. Rutledge, who saw them out together.”
“Can you prove his innocence?”
“My cousins can verify it. But Rutledge never asked them, never looked for anyone else. He seemed eager to lay the blame on Patrick, since he was already in his custody.”
“Interesting. Why the disguise and the robbery?”
“There was so little time, I had to do something quickly. My great-great-grandmother saved her father from a hanging this way. I thought to do the same.”
“Bold lass,” he murmured. “And a foolish risk.”
“Without proper documents, you cannot transfer the prisoner.” Her heart beat fast. She might be risking her brother’s life by saying too much, trusting so much.
He smiled, the dimple forming. Watching his mouth, she felt a surge of feeling—fear, anticipation, hope. And she felt deeply stirred, distracted by his closeness, his solid warmth. When he moved a hand to cup her cheek, she leaned toward him, pressed close, wanting something she could not define.
“Sweet and foolish,” he murmured, his fingers shaping her chin. Then he moved toward her, touching his lips to her brow, tracing down. Her heart quickened as his lips met hers, and in that deep, warm, sudden kiss she tasted lemon and cream and something new, manly, intoxicating. When she should protest, she felt herself melting, giving in—
He drew away, stepping back, raising his hands. “Pardon. That was not good of me.”
She did not mind, though knew she should. But her body thrummed, lips hungry, heart pounding: She only wanted more, despite all. “What now?” she asked breathlessly.
He reached into his waistcoat and drew out a slim packet wrapped in brown paper and string, fixed with a red wax seal. “These are the documents,” he said, “from the Session Court regarding Patrick Kerr, who is to be brought from Craigiston to Edinburgh for trial—”
“Where did you get those!” She reached, he avoided.
“The courier delivered them to me over an hour ago,” he said calmly. “What you stole is the parcel I gave them in return. And I want it back.”
Reaching out, Cristina shoved at Dunallan with all her might.
Chapter 6
Edward grabbed her hands, pulled her toward him, while she half sobbed, so angry that she pushed at him again. Aware of her frustration, he wanted to understand the rest but had to know more.
“Easy,” he said, batting her hands down. “Go easy. Listen,” he said, as she pounded a fist on his arm. “Kirstie, have some sense. Help me sort this out.”
She subsided, breathing hard. He guided her to the bed to sit her there and noticed she was limping. When she sat, he took the chair opposite and leaned forward, beckoning. “Your foot—let me see.”
Allowing him to take her by the ankle and tug the boot free, the girl leaned back. He noted the lovely curves beneath breeches and waistcoat, the same womanly form he had admired in silk and satin earlier. The linen shirt, without a neckcloth, gapped to reveal the glint of a delicate gold necklace and an embroidered corset supporting her lush breasts. He glanced away, his body responding too well to the sight.
Removing the long boot, he cradled her slender foot in its silk stocking. “You turned it?” He flexed it this way and that; she winced. “I doubt you will be running off this evening,” he said. “Let me remove the other boot.”
She nodded as he tugged. He would need to find the girl some slippers, as well as a nightshirt and a bed for the night, as well, he thought. And he frowned. Regardless of sheriff and would-be brigand, this situation was more than scandalous.
No matter what happened tonight, the girl was ruined. If the truth was discovered, Cristina Heron-Shaw would be done for in good company. Already her father’s reputation worked against her, although her uncle’s standing countered it. But if this got out, she might never have a suitor, might be shunned in social circles, and the vicar and his family might suffer, too. Edward contributed to social disaster by detaining her here, alone with him. He sighed, unsure what to do quite yet.
“These are my brother’s things,” she explained as he took off the second boot and examined her other foot, small and fine-boned and without injury. “I brought a gown to change back before returning to my uncle’s house.”
“ ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’ ” he quoted softly, setting her foot down.
“ ‘When first we practice to deceive,’ ” she finished. “Marmion.”
“You know your poetry.”
“I admire Scott. And I have made quite a tangle,” she admitted.
“I will not argue that. Nor do I know how to escape this tangle.”
“I suppose I am ruined.” She watched him, eyes summer blue, her meaning unsaid. But he understood her wariness.
“I might be lost as well,” he murmured. “You are in no danger here. I promise.”
“I know. Lord Dunallan—”
“We are long past polite acquaintanceship, do you agree? It’s Ned.”
She nodded. “Ned, if you already had the court orders, what is in the other parcel?”
He stood. “Come—can you walk? Good. Careful.” He took her hand to assist her in crossing the room, and opened a doorway. “This was my grandfather’s study.”
Entering, he turned up the wick of an oil lamp. Bookshelves
covered the walls from parquet floor to painted ceiling. In the center, an oak desk was littered with papers, ink bottle, pens.
“I came here as a girl, with my uncle,” she said, looking around. “I remember this room.”
“Grandfather respected the vicar. He greatly admired your father, too.”
“Lord Dunallan—your grandfather—told me that once, when we visited.”
“He was a fair-minded sheriff, and thought the whisky tax unjust. He considered your father a friend. I’ve spent the last fortnight going through papers and found mention of your father.”
“I hope it was favorable.” She limped toward the desk. “Is this where you are writing your history of the Armstrongs?”
“For now. I discovered some papers here that Grandfather had intended to send to a family friend for an opinion. So I sent them—or tried—tonight. Sir Walter Scott,” he said, “is waiting for those pages.”
She lifted her brows in surprise. “The other parcel is for the poet himself?”
“It is. My grandfather found some original handwritten ballads composed about our Armstrong ancestors, some of whom were notable thieves and rascals, and knew his friend would appreciate seeing them.”
She laughed. He loved the sound of it. “But your ballads were stolen by a highway rascal. How ironic!”
“I did notice that,” he drawled.
She took a paper from the desk. “Is this a copy of one of the songs? My father sang this very one to me when I was a girl. I know it well, along with others about the Armstrongs. The songs are local to this area, I suppose.”
“Indeed!” He went to her side to look at the page. “I did not find any written music for the songs.”
“Da taught the songs to me. Like this.” She began to sing in a light, clear voice.
Listening, Edward was enchanted. As a man, he found her enthralling, a revelation; as a scholar, he was nearly as thrilled. “If you know these old songs, you must sing them all for me. The rest of the verses are in the missing parcel, which means—”
“You want it returned,” she finished.
“I do,” he murmured.
“Very well . . . we will make a bargain,” she suggested, tapping a finger on his chest, where the legal documents were tucked in his waistcoat. “I want these papers, and you want the other set. I could be persuaded to reveal where they are hidden.”
“If your brother goes free? I cannot promise that.” He wished, suddenly, that he could.
“But you could promise to look into the matter most sincerely.”
“I could,” he agreed. “But . . . it occurs to me that these orders may be useless.”
“How so?”
“They are made up for Patrick Kerr, as Rutledge requested. But we have a Patrick Shaw in custody.” He had thought about that detail earlier, as soon as he knew the name for sure. Now the solution seemed logical.
She gasped. “So simple as that?”
“Well, it is at least a reason to delay the proceedings, and that will give me time to find the truth. About the other issues, such as your unlawful actions tonight—”
“I did not steal any legal papers, since you already had them,” she pointed out. “Nor did I steal the other parcel, really. The courier dropped it. I only picked it up.”
“You scared the devil out of the coachmen.”
“I, scare them? They frightened me to my wits’ end—they threw a bottle at me!”
“Likely they thought the ghost of Dick Turpin was upon them.” He smiled.
“Hah! They thought me a wee bit lad who should go home to his mum.”
He nearly laughed. “Luckily they did not think you a threat, or you would have been shot dead. That parcel of songs must be delivered. I will take it to Sir Walter myself,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could bring along the lovely Miss Heron-Shaw to sing the ballads authentically for him. He would be delighted to meet the daughter of a notorious smuggler.”
“My uncle would never allow me to travel with you. But my aunt might persuade him, if she thought the scandal would—” She stopped, blushed.
“Would throw us together in compromising circumstances? That is already done.”
“So it is.” She tilted her head. “While I would love to meet Sir Walter, I cannot go with you, I think. I would rather avoid such a scandal for my family’s sake.”
“Certainly.” He blew out a breath, thinking about a detail that had puzzled him for days. “I found something recently among my grandfather’s papers but haven’t known what to make of it. I’d like you to see it.” He reached down to open a little cubby in the desk and took out a folded letter, its red wax seal broken. He offered the page to her.
Time seemed to slow in that moment. Cristina could not explain why—nor did she know quite why her heart beat so insistently, or why her fingers trembled as she took the page from his hand. His fingers brushed hers gently and withdrew. He watched her in silence as she opened the folded paper.
The note was inked in old-fashioned script with the spikiness of an elderly hand. “Did your grandfather write this?” she asked.
“That is his handscript. The letter is dated seven years ago.”
“ ‘To my good friend John,’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘I have thought more about the conversation we had during your last visit when we shared a bottle of the finest Highland whisky I have ever tasted. I agree, sir, it is high time for you to forego your current enterprise and take up the venture we spoke of—the manufacture of Highland whisky to be legitimately sold rather than illicitly distributed. I am willing to invest in this new venture as your business partner, supplying the funds, while you—as you expressed—contribute the work. When next you visit, we shall discuss the prospect further and may come to a pleasing agreement. Yrs, Dunallan.’ ”
She glanced up. “What does this mean? Who is—oh! My father!”
“I believe so. Read the postcript,” he said.
Cristina unfolded another crease. “ ‘Post scriptum,’ ” she read. “ ‘If you recall, sir, we spoke of a possible match between your daughter and one of my grandsons. Lately I met the young lady, who visited here with her uncle. She is bright and thoughtful, lovely, too, and you have cause to be proud. She possesses a spirit that would match my grandson well, were she older. He is at university, a serious lad who has taken his father’s passing to heart and finds solace in his studies. We shall talk more of this when you come to Craigiston. Yrs, D.’ ”
She looked up, her heart quickening. “Do you think he meant . . . us?”
“I do. I was the grandson who was at university that year. My brothers had graduated. But something else puzzles me. The letter was locked in the desk, its wax seal unbroken.”
Cristina nodded. “This is dated just two days before my father was killed by an excise man,” she said.
“So Grandfather never sent the letter,” he said. “Your father never knew.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “It must be. My father would have been so glad, had he known. This news—your grandfather’s wishes—might have changed his life.”
“And ours.” Dunallan took the letter from her fingers and set it aside. “Had he lived, and had the two of them talked about this and made an agreement . . .”
“Then Papa would have gone into business with your grandfather,” she said. “It was always his dream to open his own distillery. He never had the chance.”
“If he had, Cristina, we might be married now,” he said quietly.
She took in a quick little breath as hope and wonder and something deeper, finer, rose within her. Looking into his eyes, she nodded.
Taking her by the shoulders, he drew her toward him. “So,” he said, voice soft and low, “what do you think?”
“About what?” she asked, breathless.
“Brigands and parcels and pies,” he said, “and this snowy night—”
“Which has stranded us alone,” she added.
He gave her a little smile. “Do y
ou mind?”
“Not at all. We have a good deal to sort out. What shall we do first, Dunallan?” she whispered, resting her palms on his chest, over his heart.
“For now, we could begin here.” He pulled her closer, into the circle of his warmth, his strength, his safe presence; a safety she had not forgotten in all this time. “And here,” he whispered, cradling her face in his fingers, touching his lips to hers.
“A fine place to begin,” she murmured, returning that kiss, letting it deepen. She drew back, though she felt eager for so much more. “And tomorrow, we will go together to the tolbooth—”
“Hush you,” he said, and kissed her again. “Time enough to sort that out, I promise.”
Time enough for all of it, Cristina thought. For now, this snowy holiday eve brought an unexpected gift of peace—and love—that she willingly, gratefully, accepted with all her heart.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Compilation copyright © 2012 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
“She Stoops to Wenchdom” copyright © 2012 Mary Jo Putney, Inc.
“Miss Brockhurst’s Christmas Campaign” copyright © 2012 Jo Beverley
“Intrigue and Mistletoe” copyright © 2012 Joanna Bourne
“Wench in Wonderland” copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice
“On a Wicked Winter’s Night” copyright © 2012 Nicola Cornick
“Weathering the Storm” copyright © 2012 Andrea DaRif
“The Mistletoe Bride” copyright © 2012 Anne Gracie
“A Wilder Wench” copyright © 2012 Susan King
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2814-7