“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, but in a voice that told him she knew he had not.
Turning over on his back, he laughed. With his arms about her middle, he drew her on top of him. She kissed away the moisture on his cheek.
“You know you didn’t...but Mary, I never expected this, either.” He snuggled her head onto his chest, stroking her hair with his palm. “I reckon we were meant to be.”
“I reckon so.” She sighed, drawing little circles on his shoulder with her fingertips. “Merry Christmas, husband.”
“Merry Christmas, wife.”
* * *
The very moment that the sky began to brighten, footsteps pounded up and down the hallway.
“It’s Christmas!” Dan shouted while he banged on bedroom doors, spreading the happy news.
Joe sat up, kissed her quickly, then grinned. He kissed her again, this time for a long, delicious time.
Then he stood up and went to stand at the foot of the stairs.
Clearly, he wanted Maudie to see just her mother sitting in front of the tree with her arms open in welcome.
Nervousness made her stomach queasy. She only hoped that she was the mother that Maudie wanted. Perhaps she wanted one more like her first mother.
Dan appeared at the head of the stairs first, but Maudie shot past him, flying down the steps, her nightgown flapping behind her like angel’s wings. Any ill effects of her journey to see Santa had vanished.
“Ma!” she shouted. “Ma!”
Mary doubted that Maudie’s feet even touched the floor. Her new little daughter flew into her arms, then after a long hug, snuggled happily onto her lap.
“Oh, Ma! I knew it would be you. Santa told me.”
Mary remembered reading the letters that the children had written. That night, she had despaired of seeing even one of those wishes come true.
“You did say he was magic,” Joe said.
She glanced up to see him grinning.
“Anyone knows that, Pa,” Caleb declared.
“A lesson for us grown-ups!” Cornelia’s eyes twinkled a merry blue as she came down the steps carrying Amelia.
She handed the baby over to Joe. “And what did Santa bring you, Miss Maudie?”
“Look, Grandma! He brought me a ma, just like he said he would.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful?”
Her mother-in-law probably felt it was more than wonderful, if the joy shimmering in her eyes was anything to go by.
“Which ones are our presents, Ma?” Brody asked, hopping up and down on one foot and then the other.
“She’s my ma!” Maudie clung to her arm possessively.
“If Pa is your pa because he’s my pa, then Ma is my ma because she’s your ma.”
“I’m your mother, Brody, yours, too, Caleb and Dan. I love you all as much as my heart can stand.”
“I reckon, Ma, that it would be right to share you with baby Amelia, too, ’cause she’s my sister and Santa would want me to.”
With all that settled, the children tore into unwrapping their gifts. Ribbons and wrapping flew about the tree in a colorful snowstorm.
Joe sat beside her and handed her the baby. Amelia looked up at her with a smile, happily waving her small fists about.
She hadn’t actually written to Santa about wanting a baby. Hadn’t dared to. Still, here Amelia was, cooing sweetly in her arms.
“Where’s the last present?” Maudie asked, standing up and looking about at the gift-strewn floor. “The one for Ma.”
“I have everything I could possibly want right here,” Mary said because truly, she did. A husband, a family and a place to call home...she had been granted a Christmas miracle, of that there was no doubt.
“No, Ma, there’s one more thing.” Maudie seemed distraught. She believed that Santa had come to her in the snow and showed this gift to her.
“Maybe he meant it for next year,” she suggested, hoping to see the smile return to her daughter’s face.
Frowning, Maudie shook her head. “No...I saw it. It’s in a little blue box with a gold ribbon tied around it. It’s a ring, Ma, just for you. It’s gold with a diamond in the middle and a ruby on each side.”
Glancing at Joe, she shrugged, hoping he knew some way to ease the child’s disappointment over Santa’s mistake.
But her husband looked suddenly pale...stunned, even. He drew something from his pocket, then placed it in her hand.
My word! It was a small blue box tied up in a gold bow. Slowly she untied the ribbon, then lifted the lid. Nestled in black velvet was the very ring that Maudie had described.
Joe plucked it from the box. A stab of sunshine shot through the window making the jewels sparkle, the gold glimmer.
“This belonged to my mother—the first one,” he said.
He slipped it on her finger...a perfect fit.
“It’s just as pretty as when Santa showed me.” Maudie clapped her hands.
“Joe?”
He looked at her. She looked back at him, gazes locked in amazement.
“Howdy-do, Mary. Life is going to be one remarkable ride.” He kissed her.
She kissed him back with all the love that her fertile heart could express.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from CHRISTIAN SEATON: DUKE OF DANGER by Carole Mortimer.
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Christian Seaton: Duke of Danger
by Carole Mortimer
Chapter One
August 1815, Paris, France
‘Touch one hair upon her head, monsieur, and you are destined to meet your maker sooner than you might wish!’
It took every ounce of his indomitable will for Christian Seaton, Fifteenth Duke of Sutherland, not to react or turn to face the person who had just spoken softly behind him.
Not because he was disturbed by the threat itself; his reputation as one of the finest shots in England was not exaggerated, and few gentlemen could best him with the sword either.
Nor was he concerned by the barrel of the small pistol he currently felt pressed against the top of his spine through his clothing.
Or that the person making the threat was a woman who, judging by her voice, was a woman of mature years.
It was the fact that the threat had been spoken in accented English which caused him such inner unease...
As an agent for the English Crown, Christian had arrived secretly in Paris from England by boat just two nights ago and, as had been planned, he had immediately taken up residence as the Comte de Saint-Cloud—an old and extinct title of his mother’s French family—in one of the grander houses situated alongside the Seine.
Since his arrival Christian had been careful not to speak any other language but French, which he could claim to speak like a native, once again courtesy of his maternal grandmère.
He had been especially careful to maintain that facade in the Fleur de Lis, a noisy and crowded tavern situated in one of the less salubrious areas of Paris.
That he was now being addressed in English brought into question whether this pretence in his identity had somehow been compromised.
He continued to maintain his comfortable slouch at a corner table of the noisy tavern as he answered the woman in French. ‘Would you care to repeat your comment, madame?’ he replied fluen
tly in that language. ‘I understand English a little, but I am afraid I do not speak it at all.’
‘No?’
‘Non.’ Christian calmly answered the scornful taunt, although that feeling of unease continued to prickle inside him. ‘I am the Comte de Saint-Cloud—at your service, madame.’
There was the briefest of pauses, as if the woman were considering challenging him on that claim. ‘My mistake, Comte,’ she finally murmured, before repeating her earlier warning in French.
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘In that case, I confess I have no idea which “she” you are referring to.’
A loud hmph sounded behind him. ‘Do not play games with me, Comte,’ the woman growled. ‘You have had eyes for no one but Lisette since the moment you arrived.’
Lisette...
So that was the name of the beautiful young woman serving the tables situated on the other side of this crowded and noisy room.
Oh, yes, Christian knew exactly which ‘she’ this woman was referring to. Which of the serving wenches he had been unable to take his eyes off of for more than a minute or two since he had entered the tavern an hour ago.
And he was not alone in that interest, having noticed that several other well-dressed gentlemen in the room were also watching the young woman, if less openly than he.
The reason for those gentlemen’s slyness now become apparent to Christian—obviously they knew better than to openly show their admiration for the red-haired beauty, for fear of having a pistol pressed against their own spine.
He gave another glance across the tavern to where the young woman had been kept busy all evening serving drinks to the raucous patrons. She was unlike any other tavern wench Christian had ever seen—tiny and slender, with pretty red curls, hidden for the main part beneath a black lace cap, she was also dressed more conservatively than the other serving wenches, in a long-sleeved and high-necked black gown.
A mourning gown...?
Whatever her reason for wearing black, it did not detract in the slightest from the girl’s ethereal beauty. Rather it seemed to emphasise it; her hands and neck were slender, her heart-shaped face as pale and smooth as alabaster and dominated by huge long-lashed blue eyes.
She had also, Christian had observed with satisfaction, managed to neatly and cheerfully avoid any of the slyly groping male hands that had tried to take advantage of her as she placed jugs of ale down on the tables.
Unfortunately, Christian had not seen her until after he was already seated, his own table being served by a buxom and flirtatious brunette, and so preventing him from as yet finding opportunity to speak to the lovely Lisette.
A situation which Christian had intended changing before the night was over; a dalliance with one of the Fleur de Lis’ serving wenches would be the perfect means by which he might visit this tavern often, without the regularity of those visits being remarked upon.
He gave a lazy shrug now, again without turning to look at the woman behind him. ‘All of the ladies working here are very pretty, madame.’ Once again he continued the conversation in French.
‘But you have eyes for only one,’ the woman rasped in the same language.
‘Surely a gentleman is allowed to look, madame?’
‘One such as you does not just look for long,’ she said scornfully.
Christian was every inch the gentleman, known amongst English society for his charm and evenness of temper; indeed, he had long and deliberately nurtured that belief. But that was not to say that he did not have a temper, because he most certainly did; he simply chose to reveal it only to those who were deserving of it and on the occasions when it was most warranted.
But whether the French Comte de Saint-Cloud or the English Duke of Sutherland, he was obviously a gentleman, and this woman’s insults and overfamiliarity were deserving of such a set-down. ‘I take exception to your remark, madame.’ Christian’s tone was icy-cold, something that those who knew him well would have known to beware of.
Whatever the woman standing behind him knew of him, she obviously did not know the nature of him at all.
At least it was to be hoped that she did not...
‘One has only to look at the way you are dressed, at you, to know you are nothing but a rake and a libertine. Coureur!’ she added disgustedly.
While it might be safer for this woman to believe Christian was a rake, and the ‘womaniser’ she had just spat at him, than for her to have any doubts as to his identity as the Comte de Saint-Cloud, he still took exception to the insult. ‘On what grounds do you base such an accusation, madame?’ His tone had grown even chillier.
‘On the grounds that you have been undressing my...niece with your eyes for this past hour, monsieur!’ she came back disgustedly.
Her niece?
The beautiful girl, Lisette, was the niece of the woman standing behind him with a pistol pressed against his spine? Surely that claim did not make sense unless—
Unless...?
Very aware of that pistol at his back, Christian carefully sat forward, his movements measured as he turned just as slowly to face his accuser. His brows rose slightly as he instantly recognised her as being none other than Helene Rousseau, the owner of this Parisian tavern.
The very same woman who was both the reason for his clandestine visit to Paris and for his presence in the Fleur de Lis tavern this evening.
Helene Rousseau was the older sister of André Rousseau, the man known to have been a French spy during the year he had spent in England as tutor to a young English gentleman.
A year during which André Rousseau had also gathered together a ring of treasonous co-conspirators amongst the servants of the English aristocracy, as well as some high-ranking members of that society itself. Their aim had been to assassinate England’s Prince Regent, as well as the other heads of the Alliance, and so throw those countries into a state of chaos and confusion, allowing Napoleon, newly escaped from his incarceration on Elba, to march triumphantly back into Paris unopposed.
Christian had been one of the agents for the Crown who had managed to foil that assassination plot on Prinny. But not before André Rousseau lay dead in the street outside this very tavern, killed by the hand of one of Christian’s closest friends.
Christian was in Paris now because it was suspected that Rousseau’s sister had taken over as head of that resistance movement following the death of her brother. That she and her cohorts were still determined to undermine the English government, whilst working with those co-conspirators in England, by fair means or foul—and their methods had been very foul indeed—to find a way of releasing the Corsican upstart for a second time.
Indeed Christian, and several of his friends, had only days ago prevented news of the date and destination of Napoleon’s second incarceration from being revealed, when it was believed that a second attempt would have been made to effect the Corsican’s escape.
Nowhere in Christian’s information on Helene Rousseau had there ever been mention of her having a niece.
The same young and beautiful woman whom Christian had been admiring for this past hour or more...
A young and beautiful woman who wore black because she was in mourning for her dead father, the French spy André Rousseau? As far as Christian was aware, Helene Rousseau had no other siblings.
His eyes narrowed on the Frenchwoman. Also dressed in black out of respect for her dead brother? ‘I apologise if I have caused you any offence, madame.’ He gave a courtly bow as he stood up. ‘I assure you I meant none.’
Helene Rousseau was a woman of about forty, tall and voluptuous where her niece was tiny and slender, and the older woman had only a touch of red in her blonde hair; surely Christian could be forgiven for not having previously made the connection between an aunt and niece who were so different in appearance?
Especially as there had never been any information of André Rousseau having a daughter.
Hard blue eyes looked up at him scornfully as the female owner of the tavern continued to ho
ld the small pistol at a level with his broad chest. ‘A man such as you would not be in such a lowly tavern as this one, monsieur, if you were not looking to corrupt one of my girls.’
Christian raised a blond brow. ‘Surely it is for those “girls” to decide for themselves as to whether or not they would see my attentions as corruption...or pleasure?’
‘Not if your choice is to be Lisette.’ Helene Rousseau looked at him with all the challenging hauteur of a duchess.
Christian bit back his impatience with this woman’s temerity, knowing it would not serve his purpose to antagonise her further; his intention this evening, to be taken for just another gentleman bent on pleasure, had instead incurred this woman’s notice as well as her wrath. Both of them he would rather have avoided at this stage of his mission. ‘I have given my apology if I have caused you any offence—’
‘I believe Claude wishes your presence in the kitchen, Helene,’ a huskily soft voice interrupted them.
A huskily soft voice that, Christian discovered when his gaze moved to Helene Rousseau’s side, belonged to none other than the beautiful Lisette herself...
* * *
Lisette had noticed the handsome gentleman with the lavender-coloured eyes the moment he entered the tavern earlier this evening; indeed, he was the sort of gentleman of whom any woman would take note.
He was exceedingly tall, with tousled overlong blond hair. The perfect fit of his black superfine coat over broad and muscled shoulders must surely be the work of the best tailors in Paris. As were the pantaloons tailored to his long and muscled legs. His black Hessians were so highly polished Lisette was sure she would be able to see her face in them if she cared to look.
But it was the hard masculine beauty of the man’s face which drew the eye; a smooth, high brow, sharply etched cheekbones, his nose long and aristocratic, and a sensual and decadent mouth that was not too thin and yet not too full either, above a surprisingly hard and uncompromising jaw.
The man’s most arresting feature by far was his eyes—Lisette did not believe she had ever seen eyes of such an unusual shade of lavender before—fringed by thick and curling lashes.
Dreaming of a Western Christmas: His Christmas BelleThe Cowboy of Christmas PastSnowbound with the Cowboy Page 27