Winter's Knight

by Hatch, Donna

  And that curse. If there really were a curse—and it was getting harder to deny the possibility—there had to be a way to lift it. If only she could return home and question her relatives, search out old family journals, seek out any sign that might help her discover what really happened. As her mother’s aunt, Aunt Tilly wouldn’t know. Her father might, or Great-grandmother Fairchild.

  But first she had to get home. Even her sense of adventure stepped back in favor of the cheer of home and family during Christmas.

  Chapter 6

  Christopher stood outside, his breath coming in great clouds as he looked up at the likeliest-looking fir tree near the castle. Illuminated by faint moonlight filtering through clouds, the tree seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. The clouds drifted over the moon, obliterating its light. At least the snow had stopped. Christopher gripped a lantern in one hand and an axe in the other. Hobbs eyed him patiently.

  Why was he doing this? Christmas meant nothing but grief and sorrow and loss. Yet here he stood, considering chopping down a tree and bringing Christmas into the house for a girl he’d only known a matter of hours, and the daughter of the witch who’d cursed his family, at that. He couldn’t help but view what he was about to do as a sort of betrayal to his family—to his wife, mother, grandmother, his ancestors. Henry in particular would hate the idea of doing anything for Miss Fairchild.

  But the loss in her eyes when she spoke of her longing to be with her family for Christmas tugged at his heart. When he’d informed her that his family never celebrated Christmas, she’d gone white with dismay and nearly burst into tears. If this simple gesture of a traditional Christmas Eve would bring another of her enchanting smiles to her face, and make her day bearable despite her separation from her family, then so be it.

  He nodded at Hobbs. “Think this one will do? It’s the only fir tree in sight.”

  “Ye’d haf’ ta go deeper into th’ forest to find one better, mi’lor’.”

  “I’m not that mad. This one will do.” Christopher set down the lantern and hefted his axe.

  They swung their axes, and within moments, the tree fell. Standing on either side, they grabbed the tree by a large, lower branch and began hauling it back to the house, tramping through the knee-deep snow. The thaw in his heart warmed further at the thought of her smile. As they returned to the house, he scanned every tree they passed, looking for mistletoe.

  Christopher stopped underneath an oak. “Is that mistletoe?”

  Hobbs held up his lantern. “I think so, m’lor’.”

  “I’ll take a look.” Christopher jumped for the lowest branch.

  “Oi, sir, lemme get it. We can’t have ye fallin’ and hurtin’ yesself.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, Hobbs, but I’m not exactly an old man.”

  He climbed upward, surprised at how exhilarating it was to climb a tree, the danger and the pleasure of anticipating Miss Fairchild’s happiness mingling into a heady euphoria. Calling himself a great fool, he reached one of the top branches and examined the plants hanging from it.

  He let out a satisfied grunt. “It’s mistletoe, all right.”

  With a small knife, he cut several bunches. They plopped in the snow as they fell. After sheathing his knife, he carefully climbed down, grateful his sturdy boots had good soles and that he’d worn a thick pair of leather gloves to aid his grip.

  Hobbs gathered up the bunches. “That’s a lot o’ mistletoe.”

  “Take some. Maybe you can coax a kiss out of some of the maids.”

  “I migh’ at that.” Hobbs grinned.

  Once inside, they dragged the tree to a corner of the great hall where the servants waited.

  A maid curtsied and held out a box of bright ribbon. “’Twas all we could find, milord. And these are the smallest candles we found.” She gestured to a box on the floor.

  Mrs. March, the head housekeeper, shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand, my lord. Why now?”

  “Because we have pair of houseguests who are missing their family. If we can give them a Christmas of sorts, it might help.”

  Mrs. March shook her head again. “She’s bewitched you.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s time to end the hatred.”

  Just then, Henry crossed the hall, glanced their way then halted, staring. “You aren’t.”

  “I am. You can either join us and remember what Christmas is about, or you can sulk in your room, but you aren’t to do anything to make our guests unhappy.”

  Henry stared at him, aghast. “No, not after—”

  “This topic is not open for discussion.”

  Henry clamped his mouth shut. As he stalked away, he said, “As you wish. My lord.”

  Christopher stared after him, wanting to call him back. He’d probably handled that badly, and he knew how traitorous a Christmas celebration must seem to Henry, but he couldn’t explain why he felt so compelled to do this for Miss Fairchild, how happy she made him, and how he couldn’t wait to see her beautiful smile.

  He addressed the servants in the hall. “When I give the signal, come in and bring all this—” he gestured to the boxes “—with you. Build a fire in every hearth and light all the candles.”

  Christopher moved to the drawing room. Sweet harp music floated through the air to him, coaxing him near. In the doorway, he stopped. Miss Fairchild sat at the harp, her hands floating gracefully over the strings, her lovely face serene. She played with such beauty, such passion, that his soul stirred. The scene took his breath away. How long he stood there, drinking in the peace and beauty of the music, entranced by the angel who created such loveliness, he couldn’t say, but when she stopped and set the harp upright on its base, he wanted to beg her to continue.

  “Exquisite,” he breathed. “I seldom hear such passion in music.”

  Miss Fairchild smiled. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I am rewarded many times over just for the pleasure of hearing you play.”

  Her smile brightened, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement rather than pretending to be demure. Drawn to her, he moved to her side. His hand lifted as if it had a mind of its own, and he had to fist it and bring it back to his side. Her lips drew his gaze, and his cravat seemed to strangle him.

  “Are you betrothed, Miss Fairchild?” he heard himself ask. He nearly cursed out loud. What had possessed him to ask such a thing? He’d sworn off marriage. Such a thing would only lead to death for the unfortunate bride. And he couldn’t bear to lose a wife again.

  Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “No, my lord. I haven’t found a man to whom I am willing to pledge myself.” She chuckled. “My aunt fears I’ll die a spinster if I don’t choose someone soon.”

  Her aunt let out a grunt. “She’s turned down half a dozen offers.”

  He grinned at Miss Fairchild. “A spinster at what, eighteen? Nineteen?”

  In exaggeratedly mournful tones, she said, “I’m nearly twenty, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes, quite in your dotage.”

  She laughed, the sound seeping into him like the warmth of a soft blanket. Again came that terrible urge to touch her face, her lips.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I have something for you. A poor substitute for your family, but I hope it will make your stay here more pleasant.”

  He nodded to a servant who hovered at the open doors. A footman dragged in a log. Two more brought in the fir tree. Others carried boxes. She stared as if she didn’t quite comprehend.

  He made a grand bow. “For you, my lady.” Grinning, he glanced at the girl’s aunt, who had arisen and stood with tears shining in her eyes.

  A servant approached. “My lord, Cook says it’s time to stir the pudding.”

  Christopher glanced at Miss Fairchild to watch her reaction. She didn’t disappoint. She looked at him first with surprise and then delight. Her smile lit up the room more brightly than the fire in the hearth.

  “A Christmas pudding? Truly?�
�

  He grinned. “Yes. Should we go stir it and make a wish?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  He chuckled at her enthusiasm. How gray his life had been until she came. Now his world exploded with color and joy, with Clarissa Fairchild in the middle of it. It would be a dark day, indeed, when she left.

  After stirring and wishing on the Christmas pudding, they spent the remainder of the evening decorating the drawing room until it looked more festive than the castle had been in his lifetime. Miss Fairchild directed all the servants, who lost their hesitation of helping a Fairchild, and scurried to please the lady whose contagious enthusiasm and smiles spurred them on. When all was done, they stood back and admired their handiwork.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered as if she stood on holy ground. Her eyes shone.

  “It is, indeed.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry there are no gifts for you on the tree.”

  She touched his arm, her eyes alight with the purest joy he’d ever beheld. “You have given me a wondrous gift. A knight of old could never have been more chivalrous or more generous.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, so softly and gently, it might have been the touch of a snowflake.

  Tingles spiraled outward at her touch, and the last of the ice inside his heart thawed. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d tumble irrevocably in love with this Christmas angel who’d brought light into his dark world. “Is there anything I’ve overlooked?”

  “No, nothing. Unless you have musicians, that is, for dancing.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “Dancing. Er, yes. Well, I suppose we could. Do you have a suggestion?”

  She smiled impishly. “The waltz comes to mind.”

  “May I? Unless you prefer your imaginary prince.” He grinned back.

  She laughed. “No, I gladly accept you over him.”

  He took her into waltz position and hummed a tune, leading her in time to it. She followed beautifully. Looking into her eyes, he wondered how he could ever let her go. In a few short hours, she’d transformed him from a brooding recluse with no hope into a man who smiled, laughed, danced—and the biggest surprise of all—a man who celebrated Christmas.

  When the tune ended, they stopped but didn’t let go. Her fingers tightened on his arm, and her eyes searched his. A current crackled between them.

  Hobbs sidled up to him and cleared his throat. Grinning, he held a sprig of mistletoe over Miss Fairchild’s head. “It is traditional, m’lor’.”

  Christopher didn’t know whether to laugh or run in terror. He watched the emotions play on Miss Fairchild’s face—surprise, embarrassment, expectation, hope.

  She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. At his hesitation, she blushed but made no move to step away. “You needn’t feel obligated, my lord.”

  “No.” He drew a breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. He put a finger underneath her chin and gently lifted her face upward. His heart thudded as he leaned downward. Her eyes widened, and her pulse throbbed in her neck. Her fragrance of winter roses mingled with the unique scent of her wrapped around him in a sweet cocoon. He leaned closer. Her lips parted and she closed her eyes. He kissed her. Her velvety lips grew soft and pliant under his, and she followed his lead as instinctively she’d followed him in the waltz. Years of emptiness, sorrow and bitterness melted away as her kiss healed him. He poured his heart into that kiss, hoping she’d feel what he couldn’t tell her.

  And knew he’d never be the same.

  Chapter 7

  In all the books she’d read, and in all the whispering, giggling conversations Clarissa had shared with her married friends and sisters, nothing had prepared her for the intensity, the passion, the purity of Lord Wyckburg’s kiss.

  Her heart soared, and she knew, at long last, she was home. The man she’d sought among the suitors in London was here, kissing her as if he’d never let her go. He slid his arms around her and pulled her against his solid chest. She clung to him, praying he’d never stop. Warmth and tenderness swept over her.

  “My lord,” Aunt Tilly’s voice broke in. “Really, I must protest!”

  Clarissa swallowed a moan. Lord Wyckburg ended the kiss, but his lips moved first to her eyelids and then her forehead. With a sigh, he drew back. Cold air rushed in where his warm body had been seconds ago.

  Christopher’s eyes glowed with quiet joy and tenderness. “I’d apologize, but I’m afraid I’m not sorry, not one bit.”

  Neither am I, she wanted to say, but instead summoned a playful smile. “We could blame the mistletoe.”

  He brushed a finger over her cheek. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.” Sorrow returned, and he closed his eyes. “What am I doing?” He stepped back and cleared his throat.

  Clarissa flushed, realizing they were the focus of everyone in the room. That kiss had gone way beyond the acceptable mistletoe kind and had bordered on impropriety. But she didn’t care. She wanted more. Much more.

  Christopher cleared his throat again. “Forgive me. I am not in the habit of assaulting young ladies, not even under mistletoe.”

  “Isn’t mistletoe wonderful?” Clarissa sad. “It’s resilient and verdant even in the darkest winter. Perhaps we can learn something from it.”

  He turned tortured eyes on her and her attempt at levity crashed to the floor. “Miss Fairchild, you must know that you’ve touched my heart in a way I thought I’d never feel again. But I cannot ever offer you a future. I refuse to bury another wife.”

  Clarissa gaped. He’d as good as told her he wanted to marry her, but the curse stood in the way. She considered a life with him. What had seemed restrictive and dull with other men now appeared bright, with endless new discoveries and beautiful possibilities—only with him. In but a few hours, this man had touched her heart as none other. No wonder his late wife had been willing to take a chance.

  Now more than ever, she had to find a way to break the curse and convince him to take another chance on love. With her.

  She squared her shoulders, raised her chin. “Then we must double our efforts to find a way to end the curse.”

  “Even if we do, I won’t risk your life testing whatever solution we find. The danger is too great.” He turned away.

  She rested a hand on his back, and he tensed, but didn’t step away. She whispered, “Christopher.”

  His shoulders heaved. “I had the carriage modified to a sledge. Tomorrow, unless it’s stormy, I’ll take you home so you can celebrate the rest of Christmas with your family.” He nodded to Aunt Tilly and strode out of the room.

  Clarissa let her hand fall as his rejection fully sank in. He wasn’t just denying himself; he was denying her. Her throat thickened. Servants drifted out, bidding her a joyous Christmas. The footman with the mistletoe gave her a cheeky grin.

  The housekeeper, whose name she’d learned was Mrs. March, stopped next to her. “Thank you, miss, for bringing a smile to my lord, and for bringing Christmas back the castle.” Her mouth curved into an awkward smile before she strode quickly away.

  Moments later, Clarissa and Aunt Tilly were were left alone in the festive room.

  Aunt Tilly stared at her. “Curse?”

  Clarissa related everything she knew about the curse. “Do you think it possible Great-grandmother Fairchild knows anything of it?”

  Aunt Tilly put her hand on her head. “A curse? Impossible.”

  “Then explain why every countess has died only months after bearing a son.”

  “The lords murdered them.” But her voice lacked conviction.

  “I don’t believe that. Not anymore. Do you really think Lord Wyckburg is a murderer?”

  “I admit, after meeting him, he seems gentle and kind. Sad. Not sinister.” She heaved a sigh. “I suppose a curse isn’t any more difficult to believe than a legacy of murder.”

  “Something is going on. And I refuse to leave Chri—er, Lord Wyckburg, to face a lifetime of loneliness. I must help him.”

  Aunt Tilly tilted her head. “What, exactly, do you fee
l for him?”

  “Oh, Aunt Tilly, I’ve never felt this way before. Of all the suitors I’ve had in London, none has made me feel this way.” She gestured around her. “And look what he did for us. For a man who’d never celebrated Christmas before in his life to have gone to so much trouble… it’s beyond kind and generous. It’s heroic.”

  “It is, indeed. Clearly, he’s a good man.”

  Clarissa sat down and took Aunt Tilly’s hand. “I love him, aunt. I know it’s mad, and I know we’ve just met, but I vow I’ll have him and no other.”

  Aunt Tilly drew in a breath. “Your father will have something to say about it, considering what everyone believes about the Wyckburg lords. And it sounds as though Lord Wyckburg may be equally hard to convince.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Aunt Tilly chuckled and kissed her cheek. “I know that look. Come, off to bed.”

  They crossed the main hall toward the stairway. The metallic scraping of a gun cocking sent chills down Clarissa’s spine. She froze. Aunt Tilly gasped.

  Standing in the shadows, Henry pointed the barrel of a pistol at her. “I cannot kill the original witch who cursed this family and my sister, but I will take vengeance on you.”

  Stunned, Clarissa stared in disbelief. The surreal scene came straight out of a gothic novel. This couldn’t be happening. Too shocked to be afraid, she fell into a state of unnatural calm.

  She moistened her lips. “Shooting me won’t bring back your sister, Henry.” She used his Christian name in the attempt to reach him in a personal way.

  “It will avenge her death.”

  Very softly, she said, “Perhaps, but will it help you find peace?”

  He hesitated. “My sister will be avenged.”

  “Are you truly prepared to kill?”

  The determination in Henry’s face faded, and the gun lowered an inch.

  “Henry!” barked Lord Wyckburg. Christopher! Again, her knight had come to save her.

  Henry flinched but put a second hand on the gun to hold it steady. “Stay back, Christopher. This is something I have to do.”