by Lauren Royal
“I want you to have all of them.” If anything, the stubborn look only got stubborner. “I’d probably kill them anyhow—I know nothing about caring for roses, and our groundskeeper chose to stay in Wiltshire.”
“I’m certain your brother will hire groundskeepers in Wales. And I don’t need a Christmas gift from you, Chrysanth—Chrystabel.” Holy Hades, he had to stop calling her that. It was only making things worse. “I don’t have anything to give you in exchange, anyway.”
“Yes, you do,” she said in a tiny little unChrystabel-like voice.
“I do?” For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what.
An odd look came into her eyes before he saw her square her delicate jaw. “You do,” she repeated more firmly. “You can give me you. And then you’ll be able to give me roses for my perfumery. Years and years of roses.”
And with that, she threw herself into his arms.
Unbidden, his own arms went around her—he was but a man, after all. A man who wanted her, and she felt heavenly and smelled better than his garden in full bloom. He was terribly moved by her generous gesture, and now he was horrified to find himself holding her—until she crushed her mouth to his. Then he wasn’t moved or horrified anymore, because he was too busy being consumed.
They hadn’t shared many kisses, but the rush of heat he felt seemed familiar anyway. It smacked him in the gut and spread out, and it felt right.
And it seemed she had learned a lot from their first kisses. Her lips parted, inviting him in, and they both sank into the caress. His remaining resolve disintegrated, no match for the force that was their overwhelming need for each other.
When he found his hands moving to detach her stomacher, he caught himself and pulled back with an almost painful effort.
What in the name of heaven, hell, and the rest of the universe was he doing?
“I’m betrothed,” he choked out. “I cannot do this.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m betrothed. To Creath.” Seeing shock flood her face and tears well in her eyes, he hastened to explain. “I swore to keep it a secret, but I cannot keep it secret anymore—not from you. Because no matter how much I wish I could wed you instead, I must marry Creath tomorrow to save her from Sir Leonard.”
His Chrysanthemum went white. He preferred pink chrysanthemums, he thought absurdly.
“Oh,” she said, looking devastated. “Oh.” He saw her swallow hard, as though she had a giant lump blocking her throat. “I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Guilt churned in his stomach. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you earlier, but my parents and Creath and I—we all pledged to keep silent, for fear of the news reaching Sir Leonard. How could you have known?”
“I don’t know, but I feel like I should have known somehow. Everyone tells me I’m observant—and I am. I should have figured it out.” She blinked back the tears. “I should have realized when you wouldn’t kiss me again in the cellar, because I knew you wanted to. Because we so clearly belong together, don’t you think? I mean, don’t you know?”
He did know—he had never felt that rush of heat with anyone besides Chrystabel, and somehow he knew he’d never find anyone else who could make him feel that heat again. But he wasn’t about to admit that now. It would only make this even harder.
Instead he said as calmly as he could, “Creath is my best friend, my oldest friend. I cannot abandon her. I cannot. I gave her my word. I’m sorry.”
And then she shocked the holy hell out of him by saying, “You don’t need to be sorry, because I can fix this.”
The color had returned to her face. Her voice had grown stronger, more confident. Apparently she was over her upset already. Devastated Chrystabel had transformed back into impulsive, impertinent, irresistible Chrystabel—the Chrystabel he’d fallen in love with—in the space of a few sentences.
The leap of hope he felt was ridiculous. “How? How do you propose to fix this unfixable thing?”
“Matthew can wed Creath tomorrow in your place. He can save her from Sir Leonard, and then you’ll be free to marry me.”
“What?” He couldn’t have come up with a more harebrained solution if he’d tried. “What on earth makes you think your brother would agree to that?”
“He will be happy to agree to that. He as much as admitted to me that he’s fallen for her, and I’m sure she cares for him, too.”
Last night he’d decided she might not be irrational, but irrational didn’t even begin to describe her plan. “Don’t give me hope where there is none, please. The two of them cannot be in love. She would have told me—she tells me everything. And besides, she just met him.”
“I just met you, you just met me, and—well, look how we both feel. At least, I think you feel like I do.” Evidently his eyes gave her the answer she was looking for, because she rushed on without him saying anything. “If we could fall in love in less than three days, why can’t they?”
“One day,” he admitted miserably. “I cannot credit it, but I fell in love with you in one day.”
He knew that now.
He’d been denying it, but there was no sense in trying to fool himself any longer.
“I fell in love with you in zero days, Joseph. The minute I saw you. There’s no reason Creath and Matthew can’t be in love, too. Maybe she doesn’t tell you everything. Maybe you’re wrong.” She drew a deep breath and crossed her hands over her Christmas-green bodice, as though she were trying to hold her heart inside. “I think you’re wrong. I think we need to go back to the great room, so you can talk to Creath and find out how she really feels.”
“Very well,” he said. He didn’t hold out much hope, but her plan was his only hope, so he’d ask. “I’ll go talk to her right now.”
Chrystabel pulled him out of the conservatory so quickly, he had a hard time keeping up with her.
Back in the great room, their families were playing Hunt the Slipper. Despite his emotional turmoil, Joseph felt a tiny twinge of amusement at seeing his father on the floor playing such an undignified game. Pacing back and forth, he waited until Creath had passed the slipper before tapping her on the shoulder and beckoning her from the room.
He drew her up the grand staircase and around six times to the top floor of the castle, where they couldn’t be overheard.
“Are you in love with Lord Grosmont?” he asked with no preamble.
“What?” Her eyes widened in astonishment. “What on earth gave you that impression?”
“Chrystabel.” He blew out a breath. “She thinks you and her brother are in love, and she said you’d rather marry him than me.”
“Joseph! How could you believe such a thing? I don’t know Matthew at all—I just met him—and I’ve known you forever. Of course I wouldn’t rather marry him!”
He took note of her use of the man’s given name. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Unless…” Her gaze turned speculative. “You wouldn’t rather I marry Matthew, would you?”
“Of course not.” It struck him that they were both uttering a lot of of courses, which could also mean the opposite. But Creath was the most honest, straightforward person he knew. And he couldn’t crush her by telling her anything but, “I want to marry you, Creath. You’re my best friend, and I look forward to marrying you tomorrow.”
When God didn’t strike him with lightning for that lie, he figured He approved of that decision.
Which did nothing to alleviate the knot of pain that was twisting in his gut.
“Oh, my God, Joseph, look.” Creath was staring out the window at the distant road, barely visible even from their lofty height. “It can’t be…?”
He peered out. “What the devil? It’s still two days till Saturday—”
“It’s him.” Creath had gone white as death. “He’s early.”
TWENTY
CHRYSTABEL PASSED the slipper beneath her skirts to Lord Trentingham, wondering what Creath was telling Jose
ph. She wished she were as confident in her plan as she’d led him to believe.
What if she were wrong? What if Matthew hadn’t quite fallen in love with Creath yet, or what if he had but was too cautious to tie the knot quickly? When she’d mentioned marriage yesterday, he’d dismissed the notion out of hand.
Or what if Matthew loved Creath, but she didn’t love him back? Creath had run away when he’d kissed her, after all. Chrystabel was fairly certain she’d seen signs of love, but this was her first matchmaking endeavor.
Or worst of all, what if Creath loved Joseph and wanted to marry him regardless of whether there was another alternative? What if she rejected Matthew’s proposal and held Joseph to his promise?
She was so preoccupied with her worries that it took her a moment to react when Joseph stumbled back into the great room, closely followed by Creath.
“Sir Leonard’s on his way!” he hollered. “Half a mile distant at most!”
Icy fear gripped Chrystabel’s heart. Doom approaching. It felt like the Dragoons all over again.
“Why aren’t you in the priest hole?” Joseph looked to Creath as if he’d just noticed she’d trailed him into the chamber. “Go get in the priest hole!”
She shook her head wildly. “I-I can’t,” she gasped, looking terrified. “It was so dark I couldn’t breathe, I just—”
“I’ll take a candle and go with her.” Matthew jumped up from the floor and grabbed Creath’s hand. “Let’s go!” As he pulled her from the room, he called over his shoulder, “Someone will need to follow us and close the false bottom over our heads.”
“We can’t let Sir Leonard see us celebrating Christmas!” Chrystabel rushed to the fireplace and began yanking down greenery. “Where can we hide all of this?”
“Mother, Father, stay here.” Joseph grabbed a couple of newsheets from a rack and tossed them to his parents. “When Sir Leonard shows up, he’ll find you passing a lazy winter morning in your great room. Lady Arabel, Chrystabel, we’ll collect all the trimmings and hide them in the priest hole.”
Arabel rushed off. Chrystabel pulled the last of the decorations from the great room and ran through the small sitting room, down the corridor, and into the bedchamber with the priest hole. Craning her neck over her armful of greenery, she saw the wardrobe cabinet’s doors were still open, the false bottom raised and still leaning against the side.
“Watch out below!” she called and tossed it all down the hole, hoping the trimmings weren’t falling on Matthew and Creath.
All the while, she marveled at Joseph’s ability to take charge during an emergency. He would make her an excellent husband, if only everything could work out.
When she turned around, Arabel shoved more decorations into her hands. Then Joseph showed up with yet more. “I fear Sir Leonard must be here by now,” he said.
“I’ll go check,” Arabel said and ran off again.
When Chrystabel went to fling more wreaths and garlands into the priest hole, Joseph held her back. “They might land on the stairs and create a hazard. Let me take them down. It’s safer.”
“We need to gather the rest!”
“This is the last of it. And I doubt Sir Leonard is here to catch us celebrating Christmas, anyway. He wants his bride.”
Below, Creath whimpered.
“I’m on my way,” Joseph called to her. His arms full of greenery, he began backing down the steep wooden staircase, his gaze on Chrystabel above. “Wait till I’m down, then toss me your decorations and follow. Watch the third step—it’s broken.”
Chrystabel leaned into the wardrobe cabinet and glimpsed a room far below. The dim light of Matthew’s candle flickered on walls made of stone. The chamber was surprisingly large for something called a priest hole, and sparsely furnished with a small wooden table, two hard chairs, and a tall, narrow bookshelf against one wall. And a bed. Well, a pallet, really—it didn’t have any bedclothing. She supposed a hiding priest couldn’t expect anything more comfortable.
Even with his arms full, Joseph descended the long staircase quickly. He disappeared for a moment before stepping back into her view. His hands were empty now. “I’m ready,” he called softly.
Chrystabel dropped the last of the decorations into the dimness and followed, avoiding the third step.
No sooner did she reach the bottom than Arabel arrived above. “He’s here! With an ancient priest-hunter, no less! He saw me, so I’m going back to pretend I’m passing the morning with Lord and Lady Trentingham.” With that, she slammed the false bottom into place over their heads.
Matthew’s candle blew out, leaving them in sudden darkness.
Creath whimpered again.
“Hush,” Chrystabel heard Matthew whisper. “It’s going to be all right. We will keep you safe.”
As Arabel banged the wardrobe doors closed above, Chrystabel imagined Matthew gathering Creath into his arms. She couldn’t see anything, so she didn’t know whether he’d done so. But she wished she could see Joseph’s reaction to Matthew comforting Creath. She was more certain than ever that her brother and Joseph’s friend belonged together.
Why had she doubted herself?
She wondered what Creath had told Joseph before they’d come running back into the great room. She wished she could get him alone to ask.
“Did you hear what Arabel said?” Creath’s whisper sounded panicked. “He brought a priest-hunter. A priest-hunter!”
“What’s a priest-hunter?” Chrystabel asked.
“In Queen Elizabeth’s time,” Joseph’s soft voice came disembodied through the dark, “priest-hunters—”
“He’s going to find me!” Creath interrupted. “He’s going to find me and make me marry him!”
“Hush,” Matthew soothed again.
Someone in the priest hole moved—and a shuffling sound followed by a crash indicated whoever it was had stumbled over some decorations and fell.
“Ouch!” If it were possible to whisper a shout, Joseph had accomplished that. “Holy Hades,” he hissed in evident pain. “Chrystabel, could you get the decorations off the floor and stack them all in a corner somewhere? Creath, you must calm yourself.”
“He’s going to find me!”
“There’s a tunnel hidden behind the bookcase.” Joseph sounded somewhat exasperated. “The bookcase itself is a door with a hidden latch. I’m not sure which way I’m facing now, but stand away from the walls and I’ll find it.”
Shuffling around in the dark in search of the trimmings she’d tossed down willy-nilly, Chrystabel bumped into the table. Now she knew where she was—at least generally. She decided to work her way around the room in a pattern, gathering the wreaths and garlands while avoiding the walls, as Joseph had asked.
“You never told me there was a tunnel from here.” Creath’s whisper sounded muffled, as though her face might be buried against Matthew’s chest. “We used to play in here all the time, and I never knew.”
“I suspect there are things you haven’t told me, either,” Joseph murmured a little sourly. “Ah, here it is.”
Chrystabel heard a click and then the loud screech of a creaky door swinging open. She froze—as did everyone else, if she could judge by the sudden, total silence.
No footsteps sounded in the room above them.
“Creath, where are you?” Joseph called after a moment.
“Here.” The single word was a terrified whisper.
“Come toward my voice. Now, listen. I’m going to get you out of here, but I don’t want to talk once we leave this room, because I fear any words may echo in the tunnel and find their way out the other end. So here’s what we’re going to do…are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
Chrystabel was listening, too—with her heart in her throat.
She heard Joseph draw a deep breath. “We won’t be able to stand up in the tunnel. We will have to crawl. I’ll lead the way and you’ll follow—stay close enough to touch me, all right? I want you to touch me every f
ew moments, and if I don’t feel you I’ll slow down. We’ll come out in the well in the well house near the stables, where no one will be able to see us emerge. The well’s water level is below the tunnel exit, and there are metal rungs sunk into the well wall, like a ladder we can climb.”
“Won’t the priest-hunter look in the well house?” asked Creath.
“If he does, we’ll hear him coming and go back down the well and into the tunnel. I’m more worried about him finding you here. This way if he finds this priest hole, you won’t be here—all he’ll find is the Trevors with a bunch of Christmas decorations. Do you understand everything I’ve told you so far?”
“I do.”
“Very well. We’ll stay inside the well house and keep quiet until we feel it’s safe to make a run for the stables. I’ll take you to Bristol and marry you, and that will be that. We no longer have any time to waste.”
Chrystabel gasped as her heart plunged from her throat to her knees.
He was going to marry Creath?
Now she knew Creath’s answer and wished she didn’t.
“On Christmas Day?” Her heart had to be in her throat again, because she could barely force the words out. She clutched the trimmings she was holding so hard that pine needles poked into her. “You think you can wed her on Christmas Day?”
“It’s officially not a holiday, remember?” Joseph sounded calm. Dead calm. Like maybe he was feeling dead inside. “All the shops are supposed to be open. All government officials have been ordered to mind their posts. Including Justices of the Peace. Yes, I think I can wed her on Christmas Day.”
“But—” Chrystabel began and stopped.
“But what?” he whispered.
She didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t say anything. And then she realized she wasn’t saying anything because there was nothing she could say. Nothing she could say that would stop Joseph from wedding Creath.
He’d promised to marry Creath, and he wouldn’t go back on his word, because he was an honorable man.
And Chrystabel wouldn’t want him any other way.
His decency was one of the many reasons she loved him.