How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by MacLean, Sarah

  Annis called down, “Fenella? Is something amiss?” As her father’s daughter and the sole member of her family present, she was the mistress of the house. It was a responsibility she should not take lightly.

  Both heads snapped up to meet her gaze, but she only had eyes for the stranger.

  Her breath caught in her chest, a great bubble locked inside her as the man’s bright stare fixed on her. Except he wasn’t a stranger. Unfortunately, she knew him.

  Indeed, she remembered him well. The dark eyes. The handsome face. Oh, yes. She knew this man. She’d know him anywhere. Mortification flooded her as she recalled his frosty gaze skimming her like she was a bit of vermin dragged in by the cat.

  She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin. This was her home. He was the interloper here. She had no cause for embarrassment. Not this time.

  She had never expected to see him again–especially not when she was in such a discomposed state. Her hair was unraveling from the plait she’d created hours ago and her nose was so cold she was certain it was berry red. And then there were her bare feet peeping out at the hem.

  As embarrassing as her state of dishabille was, it couldn’t be any more embarrassing than the first time the Duke of Sinclair laid eyes on her. She’d never live that memory down.

  Nine days ago . . .

  Annis stepped from the carriage and paused to inspect Glencrainn, the grand castle stretching to the skies in front of her. The pale gray structure was several shades lighter than the stormy winter sky above it. It made the castle Papa had won look like a modest manor house.

  “Quit dawdling, Annis. We want down, too.” A sharp jab in the back propelled her forward and sent her flying to the snow-packed ground. It was impossible to say which one of her sisters shoved her. Now that Imogen had secured a fiancé with a baronetcy, all the other remaining Ballister sisters were hungrier than ever to win a match. As though a gauntlet had been tossed. No manner of cutthroat behavior was above them. It was every heiress for herself.

  Annis’s hands saved her face from the worst of the impact. Her elbows, however, smarted from where they struck the ground. Her dignity was not spared either.

  Her sisters spilled out behind her, practically stepping on her in their haste. They pushed and shoved at each other, sniping like a quarreling nest of vipers.

  “Really, Annis,” Regan proclaimed in hot accusing tones. Her second youngest sister was largely considered the most beautiful of the Ballister girls. “Must you be so clumsy?”

  Clumsy? No. She usually wasn’t. Odd duck out? Yes. Almost always.

  Annis blew at the snow flecking her lips. She looked up, freezing as she locked eyes on a pair of well-worn boots directly in her line of vision. She pushed up on her stinging elbows, following the path of boots over snug, well-worn breeches and up the long body to the humorless deep-set eyes staring down at her. Flat stare. Unsmiling lips. His square jaw was locked tight. He needed to shave. Bristle dusted his jaw, but even that did not detract from his handsomeness.

  The man made no move to help her.

  “You there,” Papa announced, eyeing the stoic-faced man as he descended the carriage steps. “Fetch your master and see to our carriage.” Papa started as he spotted Annis on the ground. “Daughter? What are you doing down there?”

  Stifling an eye roll, Annis pushed up to her knees.

  “This place is monstrous!” Cordelia tittered, rotating in a small circle in the courtyard, her mouth wide. “Can you imagine being mistress of such a grand place? It might make up for living so far from London.”

  “Yes, yes, I can imagine it perfectly.” Deidra gave a toss of her curls. “You, however, should not bother stretching your imagination for you shall never be mistress of this place. The Duke of Sinclair would never want to marry a pinch-faced ninny like you.”

  “Stop saying that! We’re twins!” Cordelia shrieked. “Identical!”

  “Hardly. I’m the prettier. Everyone knows it,” Deidra returned, squawking as Cordelia dove for her with raised fists. Regan, unfortunately, stood in her path and caught a set of knuckles on the chin that launched her into an unceasing wail.

  “Girls! Girls!” Papa wearily exclaimed.

  “Papa!” Penelope, Annis’s youngest sister of fifteen years, stomped her foot. “They’re embarrassing. What if the duke sees?”

  Papa rubbed a gloved hand over his face, no doubt regretting bringing his horde of unattached daughters along on this call. Not that Mama had given him a choice. In her mind, the only good thing about Papa dragging them to this far corner of the earth was that a duke happened to live in the area. Even if he was a Scot, a duke was a duke and Mama wanted each of her daughters to marry a title.

  The rude man finally spoke. “The Sinclair is no’ accepting callers.”

  As Annis made it to her feet and brushed off her clothing, it struck her as oddly irreverent for a servant to refer to his master so casually, but what did she know? Perhaps it was a Scottish convention?

  Papa pulled his shoulders back in affront. He hadn’t amassed a fortune without gaining a fair amount of arrogance. He wouldn’t tolerate being turned away so abruptly by a servant.

  Papa flicked his fingers toward the house. “Be a good fellow and let the duke know that his new neighbor, Evered Ballister, is paying him call.”

  Her sisters seemed to calm, as though they sensed they might not be getting their way. They stared expectantly at the servant, ready to fall into a pout or tantrum, whatever was in order.

  The man didn’t budge, and Annis couldn’t help but wonder if he had even heard her father. His gaze skimmed the lot of them. “The Sinclair has nothing tae say tae any of you.”

  Annis blinked, imagining that his top lip curled faintly.

  Papa’s chest swelled at the servant’s impertinence. “Now see here—”

  Shockingly, the man turned, not even bothering to hear out her father’s speech and presented them all with his back.

  Cordelia huffed. “What an insolent boor! The duke should sack him.”

  Papa’s face flushed and Annis knew he was not quite certain how to proceed.

  “Papa, perhaps we should go,” she suggested. She’d never wanted to come along to begin with, but Mama had insisted. Annis was the second oldest. Although not a beauty like Regan or Imogen, Mama expected Annis to make a match for herself–whether she wanted such a thing or not.

  “Leave?” Regan demanded. “Without meeting the duke? We can’t! Mama said we must meet him. One of us will surely win him. Mama insists he will naturally fall in love with one of us as we are all passing fair and I’m the prettiest! I want to be a duchess!” She stomped her foot beneath her skirts.

  Annis blinked slowly and shook her head, certain that the duke could hear them from wherever he lurked inside the castle. It was mortifying.

  The servant was almost to the front door when he stopped, turned, and addressed them all. “I can assure you, Sinclair will no’ fall in love with any of you. Extend your time and efforts elsewhere and return home.”

  “How do you know?” Cordelia demanded with a belligerent thrust of her chin.

  He took his time answering, stepping forward a pace and Annis couldn’t help noticing the length of his well-muscled legs encased in wool trousers and boots. He towered over all of them. A bitterly cold breeze lifted and tossed his dark hair around his head. His stark handsomeness was so much like the surrounding countryside–wild and harsh and a little bit dangerous. “Because I’m the duke.” The announcement dropped like a stone in the air between them. “And I’d just as soon kiss the arse end of a sheep as wed any of you lasses.”

  That said, he entered through the great wood door and shut it on them with a resounding thud.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Present day . . .

  Annis could still hear the thud of that thick door shutting on them as they all stood in a shocked, frozen tableau. The sound had echoed through her ears these many nights.

  Now that
awful man was here, in her house. In her foyer.

  Heat crawled up her face, and she was grateful for the distance between them. She was up here and he was all the way down there. Hopefully he could not detect her flaming cheeks. Perhaps he would not even recognize her. She had been one of five girls in his courtyard that day, after all. And she most certainly looked different now. She was wearing a nightgown and stood several stones’ throw from him in a shadowy foyer.

  “You.” His deep voice rang out in the great hall.

  Blast. He recognized her.

  She gripped the railing and reminded herself that this was her home. She belonged here. Duke or not, he did not.

  She lifted her chin. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come tae fetch Fenella and Angus.” His brogue was a little less intense than the other locals. A fraction more cultured. She should have noted it that day when they assumed him to be a servant.

  She scowled down at him. First he said he would rather kiss a sheep’s backside than marry her or any of her sisters and now he was here to steal away her household staff and leave her truly alone in this great pile of stones. No. Not happening.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I thought your family left.” His gaze flicked to either side of her as though he expected her sisters to rise up beside her.

  “Och, they did leave.” Fenella darted a glance up at her. “But they forgot ’er.”

  Embarrassment flushed through her at the bold statement.

  He looked between Annis and Fenella before asking of the housekeeper, “Forgot her? What do you mean they forgot her?” Bewilderment rang out in his voice.

  Annis released a heavy breath. Her mortification intensified.

  “I have a large family,” she cried out in defense.

  He stared up at her as though she possessed two heads. “So they forgot you?”

  Why did that sound so much worse when uttered aloud? “They left in a rush. Snow was rising in the pass.”

  Fenella nodded sagely. “She’s stuck ’ere.”

  He grumbled something in Gaelic and dragged a hand through his snow-dusted hair. He paced a small circle, tracking muddy snow over the foyer floor.

  She eyed him warily. More refined brogue or not, it was still difficult to believe that this man was a duke and not a servant. She’d seen dukes in London; all from afar, but she had observed them and he bore no resemblance to those dignified well-turned-out nobles.

  Her gaze raked his tall form. In his well-worn greatcoat, the man looked more like a common laborer than a nobleman. He was coarse and rough and . . . virile.

  He stopped his pacing and glared up at her. “Verra well then,” he snapped, every line of him vibrating with hostility. “Gather a few things. You’ll also have tae come.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Your Grace, and neither are Fenella and Angus. Now if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my home. It is quite late.”

  For a moment he looked amused, but then the gust of laughter that escaped him did not sound mirthful. “You’re coming with me. A band of thieves is terrorizing the countryside, robbing all the houses locked up for the winter. I’m not about tae leave an old man, a woman, and a fool girl tae defend themselves against the unsavory lot.”

  “Thieves,” she echoed. An image of wild ruffians bursting inside the castle filled her mind. She looked to the door that stood slightly ajar, wind and snow tufting inside through the slight opening.

  “Aye, brigands.” His deep voice recaptured her attention. “The vicar from a nearby village ventured out tae warn us. If you wish tae return home in the spring with your virtue and life intact, I suggest you return tae your room and garb yourself appropriately and pack for the ride tae my castle.”

  She couldn’t move. His story of brigands could not be true. In this modern day and age such things did not happen.

  And his suggestion—no, demand—that she come with him to his keep. Ridiculous. He was a surly boor, and she would not go anywhere with him.

  She recovered her voice. “We appreciate your concern, but we will be fine. The doors have bolts and the windows—”

  “Are you daft, lass?” Shaking his head, he stalked up the stairs toward her.

  Annis backed away from the railing. “What are you doing?” He was not coming upstairs. He wouldn’t dare. “Stop right there, Sinclair!” Yes. He was a duke, but the designation stuck in her throat. It was too polite, too formal, too gentle an address for a man such as he.

  Still, he kept coming, his booted feet biting hard into the steps. She backed away from the railing, watching his head first appear, then his shoulders, then the rest of him. Heavens, he really was large.

  He didn’t relent until he reached the landing, where he stopped several feet from her. Then it was just the two of them.

  “You shouldn’t be here. This is vastly inappropriate.” Was that strangled squeak her voice?

  He pointed at her. “Dress for the journey. We’re leaving.”

  “No, you’re leaving.”

  “You selfish lass.” His blue gaze blistered her where she stood. “If you haven’t a care for yourself then think of that old couple down there.” He stabbed a finger to where Fenella stood below. “If you stay, they stay. I won’t be able tae persuade them otherwise. And they will attempt tae defend this place. And you. What do you think those ruffians will do tae them?” His chest rose on an inhalation. “Or do you no’ give a bloody damn?”

  She released a shuddering breath, rattled at the scenario he painted. If there was even a kernel of truth to it, she couldn’t remain here.

  “What’s it tae be?” he pressed. “Will you walk out willingly like a good lass? Or shall I carry you? Because I’m no’ letting Fenella and Angus die for you.”

  His gaze held hers, hard and fast. Annis forced herself to not look away. She had never felt so . . . seen. With so many sisters, she was accustomed to being invisible.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  No. She didn’t want them to get hurt for her either. She didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

  She needed to put her silly embarrassment over their first encounter aside. The appropriateness of traveling alone with him, with only servants as chaperones, couldn’t matter. This was a dire situation. Besides. No one need ever know that for a short while she had been alone with the unconventional Duke of Sinclair. Certainly the brigands would be apprehended and then she could return here with Fenella and Angus until the pass cleared.

  She nodded, ignoring the small tremor of excitement rushing through her at the prospect of an adventure with this striking man. She was not like her sisters with a head quick to turn for a handsome face. “Very well. I’ll change my clothes.”

  Calder remembered her well.

  She was the one that was shoved from the carriage. She had been an undignified pile of ruffled skirts with several shrill females around her.

  He couldn’t recall much of the other Ballister chits other than that they’d made his ears bleed from all their painful caterwauling. Except he remembered her. She’d been the quiet one. He recalled that about her. Her eyes had been as wide and blue as a spring sky, and her face had gone pink as the drama unfolded around her.

  What kind of people forgot their own daughter or sister?

  Shaking his head, he descended the stairs to where Fenella stood glaring at him.

  She propped her fists on her narrow hips. “Now, lad, ye dinna have tae be mean tae her. She’s a good one. No’ like those worthless sisters of ’ers.”

  He shrugged, not liking that Fenella’s opinion closely matched his own. This one was different from her sisters, but not different enough. She was still English. Still on the hunt for a duke. Still didn’t belong here.

  And he had no interest in marriage. Especially not to someone with a family like hers. He winced as he recalled the blaring mob of sisters. He hadn’t even met the mother, but the girls had been more than enough. N
o way would he bind himself to that clan.

  He addressed Fenella. “Are you ready?”

  She pursed her lips. “Dinna pretend she’s nae pretty. Ye ken it.”

  Calder shrugged. “A pretty face doesn’t affect me.”

  Fenella released a rough laugh. “It affects every man.”

  “She could be the most beautiful woman in Scotland and I wouldn’t—”

  “Ye need a bride and Glencrainn needs new blood.”

  Her words fell like heavy weights on his chest, pressing and pushing the air from him. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard someone voice such an opinion. Fenella especially was fond of telling him how to live his life and had done so ever since he was a boy. Only lately, since he turned thirty, those inclined to share such an opinion were becoming more vocal about it.

  “Are you suggesting that lass and I . . . ” Calder couldn’t articulate the rest. Who could believe Fenella was suggesting such a thing? She wanted him to take a Sassenach to wife? For her, the English victory at Culloden happened yesterday and not a generation ago.

  “Aye. Ye put it off long enough. How old are ye now?”

  “No’ verra old,” he snapped.

  “Hm-mm.” She lifted her eyebrows dubiously. “Older than both yer parents when they died.”

  “Thank you for that somber reminder.” She made it sound like he could drop dead any moment . . . and this from a woman who had been alive since the Magna Carta was signed.

  “Life is fleeting.” She snapped her fingers for illustration, her knuckles red and swollen from the labors of life. “’Twas a sign when all these lasses showed up ’ere.” She looked heavenward. “And then they forgot ’er . . . and she’s the best of the lot! It’s providential.” She motioned to the stairs gleefully. “That lass is for ye. Dinna be stubborn and risk losing ’er.”

  He stared at Fenella’s gaunt, lined face. Had she finally succumbed to senility? “You’re mad.”

  She made a sound of disgust. “I’m sane as can be and see things perfectly. Better than ye. Och, I ken what ye need.”