by Hatch, Donna
“So they weren’t murdered by their husbands.” She put hand to her forehead, and her eyes took on a faraway look.
“No. Despite what people say, none of my ancestors murdered their wives.”
She studied him as if she meant to open up his mind and his heart and uncover all his secrets. “You didn’t murder your wife either.”
Her words hit him like a blow to the stomach. “No. I would never have harmed her. I loved her.” For all the good it did him. It would have been better if he hadn’t.
Deep, poignant sorrow darkened her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Truly I am.”
Old grief arose and choked him. He looked away and curled his fingers into a fist.
“Let’s imagine I believe in your curse,” she said. “Aislynn suffered from a broken heart and an Irish temper, but surely she wasn’t a monster. Perhaps there is a way to lift the curse.”
He couldn’t resist saying, “My brother-in-law believes that murdering you will do it.”
She took a step backward, glancing around as if she expected to be attacked.
At her expression, he smiled ruefully, feeling wicked for teasing her. “Don’t worry. I don’t uphold the practice of murdering maidens, nor of harming houseguests.”
Her ready smile banished the gloom in the room, and a place inside his icy heart began to thaw. “Very gallant of you, sir.”
He effected a courtly bow. “But to answer your question—though many have searched, no one has found a way to lift the curse.”
She sank into a chair, brow furrowing in concentration, and tapped a long, slender finger against her shapely lips, a hypnotic gesture that tied his stomach into knots. “Perhaps the curse is attached to the castle. Has anyone tried leaving?”
He dragged his gaze from her lips. “Many. My father took my mother to Ireland. Despite the war, I took my bride to Italy. They all died, no matter how far from the castle.”
“Were any daughters born?”
“Yes, a few, but each time a countess delivered a son, she died within a year.”
She turned her green gaze upon him. “So you have son?”
The door opened, and Henry burst in. “When—” He stopped as his gaze landed on the Fairchild girl. “Saints above.”
All the wind seemed to have been knocked from him as he stared at Clarissa Fairchild. Visibly taken aback at Henry’s stare, she looked to Christopher for help.
He gestured. “Miss Fairchild, my brother-in-law, Henry Seton.”
Henry lifted his nose and curled his lip as he stared at Miss Fairchild. “You have a lot of nerve coming here.”
Miss Fairchild took a step backward, bringing her closer to Christopher.
He couldn’t explain the surge of protectiveness toward the girl, but Christopher stepped forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. “She had nothing to do with it, as you well know.” To Miss Fairchild, he explained, “Henry’s sister was my late wife. He is my ward, home from Oxford for Christmas. He, er, blames your family for his sister’s death.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed as if he gazed upon the Corsican Monster instead of a beautiful young lady. “She was my only family in all the world. You—your family—took her from me.”
She held up a hand in a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Seton, truly I am. Until moments ago, I was unaware of any such curse.”
Briefly, Christopher wondered if she truly believed the tale of the curse, or if she thought them all mad and had decided to play along until she could make her escape.
Henry drew himself up and looked down his nose down at her. “Ignorance is no excuse.”
Christopher let out his breath in frustration. “Henry…”
Miss Fairchild’s voice broke in. “If there is a way to lift the curse, I vow I will find it. I’ll ask all my relatives and search our library.”
Henry eyed her dubiously. “You would help us?”
“Of course. As Aislynn’s descendant, it’s my duty.” She glanced up at Christopher with a wry smile that did odd things to his breathing. “I don’t suppose you have any records which may hold the answer?”
“We have an extensive history of our family as well as a number of old tomes on folklore and legends. But my ancestors have searched them already.”
“My father taught me to speak Gaelic, so maybe I can find something your forefathers overlooked due to the language barrier.”
“It may be a complete waste of time.”
She held up her hands in a slight shrug. “I have nothing else to do, and it will help take my mind off the fact that I’m here on the first day of Christmas instead of with my family.”
Christopher nodded. Of course. Christmas. He’d forgotten. Very well, to help her pass the time until she could return home, he’d help her search his library.
Henry appeared as a ship with no wind in its sails.
“Very well. Let’s begin our quest.” Christopher gestured to Henry to lead the way so he could keep an eye on his charge. Henry probably wouldn’t try to hurt the girl, but his pain and lust for vengeance was real, and his tumultuous sensibilities made him as unpredictable as he was emotional.
Inside the library, after lighting several candles and building up both fireplaces, they began searching. Christopher climbed the ladder to the section he thought would be most helpful and began handing down ancient books. He couldn’t believe he’d committed to spending the afternoon with the Fairchild chit, contrary to his earlier vow to avoid her. But perhaps the search would help Henry overcome his animosity. And for some strange reason, this lovely girl, who smiled so easily, made him want to please her if for nothing other than to win another smile. She was a bright spot compared to his normal gloom that he couldn’t help but desire to stay near her. Besides, if she really could find a way to lift the curse…
No. Even if she found one, the only way to test the cure would be to marry and risk another woman’s life—something he refused to do.
Hours later, after skimming a dozen volumes of family history, they were no closer to solving the problem. Miss Fairchild had started on books of folklore and sat reading, her lips curving charmingly, and her face alight. His housekeeper brought in tea with sandwiches and biscuits. They consumed the repast while they read.
Finally, Miss Fairchild sat up. “Here’s something. It’s written in Gaelic. ‘How to Lift an Irish Curse. Enter a sacred place under the moon’s full light. Fill a bowl of water. Add salt, sage, lavender and chamomile. Light thirteen white candles...’ Oh, wait, someone wrote in the margin next to the incantation, ‘ineffective.’ It looks like one of your ancestors already tried it.” Her mouth turned down in a pretty little pout.
Christopher pushed back his book. “I’m certain William and his sons tried everything. I’d be willing to try it. But there’s no way to know if anything works unless I marry some poor girl and fathered a son with her. And I won’t put another woman at risk.”
Her eyes softened. “Did she know about the curse? Your wife?”
He let out a labored breath. “I told her, but she didn’t believe in curses. She thought the deaths all tragic coincidences.”
Henry spoke up. “I didn’t believe either, to tell you the truth. It sounded too fantastic.”
She gestured to the book in front of her. “There’s no way of knowing who wrote this notation. It might have been someone else, and for an entirely different purpose. Perhaps you should try it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I won’t remarry.”
She smiled gently. “But if you tried it, it might work for your son.”
Christopher drew a breath. “My son died shortly after I lost my wife. I have no heir except a very distant cousin.”
She watched him with enormous, sad eyes. Silence hung heavy in the room. Outside, the wind wailed like a banshee. To give himself something to do, Christopher picked up another book and thumbed through it.
Henry pushed his book away. “This is pointless. We’re wasting our time.” He got u
p, glared as if he thought Christopher had defected to the enemy, and left.
Miss Fairchild watched him leave, her expression thoughtful, then returned to her study.
When the gray of the day yielded to the dark of night, he glanced at the clock. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
Miss Fairchild pushed back the book and rubbed her eyes. She used a paper to mark her place before closing it with a sheepish smile. “Perhaps someday you’ll decide to try it.”
As they crossed the main hall to the stairs, she gestured around. “You don’t celebrate Christmas on a grand scale, do you?”
Christopher swallowed. “No.” His word came out harsher than he’d intended. She couldn’t know what Christmas meant to him, of all he’d lost.
“I’ve never been away from home on Christmas,” she said softly.
Her forlorn expression and the sadness in her voice moved him to a compassion he never expected to feel for a Fairchild. He searched for a way to apologize. Awkwardly, he asked, “I suppose your family has a grand celebration? Tell me.”
Her eyes lit up. “Family comes from all over to celebrate, and they stay all twelve days. We bring in the Yule log and light it, and we put evergreen boughs all around the house, decorated with big, red bows. It’s very festive. We hang mistletoe underneath the doorways, and the boys all try to steal kisses from the girls who pretend they don’t want to give them.” She giggled. “I’m not sure why it’s acceptable to kiss under the mistletoe but not at other times.”
Silently, Christopher watched her animated face and the light in her eyes as she spoke.
She gestured as if seeing it all before her. “Then we decorate a fir tree with candles and almonds and raisins in papers. We also hang toys and fruit on the boughs, all tied up with bright ribbons. On Twelfth Night, we exchange gifts we’ve placed under the tree.”
He envied her joy. In a strained voice, he said, “It sounds perfect.”
“It is.” Her face clouded over again. “I’ll miss the First Day of Christmas Feast.”
The thaw in his heart spread outward, and he found himself searching for a way to banish her sorrow, to return the bright smile to her face. He came up with nothing but the hard truth. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here instead.”
As they ascended the staircase, she smiled, but it was forced, more like a grimace. “I wish to thank you for your hospitality, my lord.”
“No thanks necessary.”
As she looked up at him, he was struck by the trusting innocence in her eyes. “It is necessary. You’ve been most kind, especially since you consider me the enemy.”
“Yes, well, you know what they say: ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’” He smiled to soften his words.
“How close do you keep your friends?” Again came that probing stare.
He offered a pained smile. “These days, very far away, indeed.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
He stiffened, unwilling to confess the truth. “I keep busy.”
“I would be dreadfully lonely if I didn’t have family and friends around me.”
He stopped at the door to her room. “I’ll have one of the maids bring you a bath if you’d like. And perhaps we can find you some clean clothing. I can’t promise the fit or style, but—”
She put a hand on his arm. “I would consider it a kindness.”
She smiled again, and he found himself smiling in return. Christopher couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much in one afternoon. It was a wonder his face didn’t crack.
And all due to the smile of an enemy.
Chapter 5
After Clarissa bathed, a maid fastened, tied, and pinned her into a borrowed gown. Despite being at least two years out of date, her gold- and ivory-trimmed lace gown made her feel elegant and lovely. With her hair tamed into a cascade of curls down the back of her head, Clarissa strode, head high and smiling, to the drawing room to gather with the others. Instead of being home for Christmas, she’d found herself among those who viewed her as the child of the enemy.
But she’d finally realized her dream of entering Wyckburg Castle. And what an expected delight she’d found in Lord Wyckburg. He couldn’t be a murderer; his words and sorrow had been genuine. Something terrible had happened to this man—to his family—and she was determined to discover the truth. And if it turned out that this curse was indeed real, as she was beginning to believe, then she’d discover a way to lift it. There had to be a way.
In the drawing room, Aunt Tilly, dressed in a gown as out of date as the one Clarissa wore, sat sipping a sherry. Henry stalked around the room like a caged animal. Lord Wyckburg stood quietly, so utterly still he might have been a statue. When his gaze flicked to Clarissa, his eyes widened, and he looked her up and down.
“Lovely,” he said in a hoarse voice. Haunting vulnerability entered those pale eyes.
Clarissa paused. Was she wearing his late wife’s gown? Her breath left her. Lord Wyckburg was no murderer. He was a sad, considerate man who’d shut himself away from the world out of grief, not because he hid generations of crime.
He recovered quickly, but his smile was strained. “May I offer you a sherry?”
“No, thank you.”
The woman who’d brought Clarissa her breakfast tray announced dinner. As Clarissa placed her hand on Lord Wyckburg’s offered arm, he pressed his mouth together in a thin line. He led her to a dining room and seated her at his right. Henry silently escorted Aunt Tilly to Clarissa’s side then took a seat opposite them.
Very gently she asked Lord Wyckburg, “Am I wearing your late wife’s gown?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry. The maid who was helping me—”
“I told her to find something she thought might fit.”
“Oh.” Humbled by his gesture, she lowered her gaze. “It was very kind of you to see to my comfort. Thank you.”
“You do look lovely.”
“Despite my hair?” she said, hoping to tease him out of his somber mood.
Those beautiful eyes swept over her, resting on her hair. “It makes me think of sunset on the water.”
Clarissa wanted to throw her arms around him. After year of torment about being a redhead, his romantic description made her glow.
As they dined, Henry, couldn’t seem to decide if he should ignore her or watch her every movement. His behavior hadn’t changed, despite having spent all afternoon with her. Would she ever prove to him she was not his sister’s murderer?
Clarissa smiled at her host. “A delicious meal, my lord.”
His mouth twitched. “Probably not the Christmas fare to which you are accustomed.”
“No, but I expect everyone has their own traditions. Are you having a Christmas pudding?”
He took a moment to reply. “Miss Fairchild, when I said we don’t do much for Christmas, what I meant is that we have never celebrated it.”
Clarissa dropped her fork. “Not at all?”
“No. Not in five generations.” A distinctly haunted expression overcame him. As if realizing he’d lost his mask of cool reserve, his expression closed, and his features took on the same stern, unyielding look as the first moment she saw him.
She wanted to reach out and touch him, ached to comfort him, but knew he’d probably rebuke her efforts. Besides, she’d only met him this morning. Yet she longed to bring him out from behind all the barriers he’d built around himself and show him what a grand adventure life offered if one would only step outside his invisible walls.
Softly, she said, “Perhaps if you replaced bad memories with good ones…”
“No.” His tone suggested no room for argument.
Her appetite fled. How could one not celebrate Christmas? And worse, how could she stand to be here in this dismal castle, with its equally dismal lord, on what was supposed to be the most joyous time of the year?
He continued as if unaware he’d completely dashed her spirits. “The storm stopped, so I s
ent a messenger to bring word to your family that you’re here.”
Through the lump in her throat, she managed, “Thank you. I’m sure that will bring them peace of mind.” But it wouldn’t bring her home in time for the Christmas Eve feast, the lighting of the Yule log, or any of the other family customs.
Aunt Tilly squeezed her hand, a comforting, familiar gesture. Clarissa swallowed and pushed back her disappointment.
Lord Wyckburg’s voice gentled. “I had the carriage brought into the coach house so the wheel could be repaired. Do you need any of the parcels from inside the carriage?”
Clarissa shook her head. “No, they were Christmas gifts.”
He nodded, then looked past her with a faraway look in his eyes. Shame at her selfishness wound through her. Missing Christmas with her family mattered little compared with the losses his family had suffered over the years. Besides, she’d fulfilled her lifelong dream of meeting Lord Wyckburg. Though he hadn’t been the monster she’d feared—hoped?—he would be, he’d been a fascinating diversion. His being handsome didn’t hurt, either.
After dinner, Lord Wyckburg and Henry excused themselves, leaving Clarissa and Aunt Tilly to amuse themselves in the drawing room partitioned off to serve as a sitting room. A fire and an abundance of candles cheered the room. In one corner sat a pianoforte and a harp.
Clarissa moved to the harp and caressed the carved column. “What a lovely instrument. Do you think he’d mind if I play?”
“I’d mind if you didn’t,” Aunt Tilly said with a sniff, settling by the fire.
Smiling, Clarissa ran her fingers across the strings in an arpeggio. Though out of tune, it had a lovely, rich tone. After painstakingly tuning it, she sat, brought the soundboard to her shoulder, and played. The soothing tones washed away her woes, and her mind drifted. Lord Wykburg’s face, one moment stern, the next soft, danced before her eyes. How could anyone suspect him of being a murderer? He was too honorable, too kind, too sad.