My First Noel: A Christmas Novella Set in The De Montforte World (The De Montfortes)

by Danelle Harmon

  He felt her hands under his elbow as she attempted to keep him vertical. “You’re hurt worse than you appear, aren’t you?”

  “Probably.”

  “You need a doctor.”

  “Aye, but you can’t send for one. I’m a fugitive at the moment, and you’re harboring me.” He eyed that big, soft bed with the piles of pillows, the silken spread, the turned-down sheets, with longing. “Let me sleep. A few hours and I’ll be on me way, and no more trouble to you.”

  She stood biting her lip.

  “Of course, if you were inclined to bind up my ribs, yourself…’twould make things a whole lot easier on me, it would, when I set off in the morning.”

  “Bind your ribs?”

  “Aye, why not?”

  “I don’t know how to bind someone’s ribs!”

  “’Tisn’t that hard.”

  She raked two lily-white hands down her flawless face. “Oh, I wish I’d not opened that door to you, I wish I’d gone to get my brother, I wish you’d gone to someone else’s ‘light in the darkness,’ this is getting more and more difficult by the moment! What am I to do?”

  “Well, you could go find something to brace up my ribs, to start with.” Noel pulled off his boots. He placed them side-by-side next to the hearth and draped his wet, muddy coat over them so that it could dry by the dying fire before he set out at first light. “The sooner you do so, Lady Katharine, the sooner I can be on my way.”

  Provided I can find my horse….

  A storm of emotions clouded her face. Then she nodded sharply, turned on her heel, and slipped back out through the door as silently as a cat on the hunt, leaving him all alone, just the candle burning in the darkness and the sleet and snow hissing against the windows that held out the night outside.

  Chapter 4

  Noel took advantage of her absence to get undressed. He took off his belt and pistols and put them beneath the bed. Off came the muddy breeches, the wet stockings, the embroidered wool waistcoat, until he was finally down to nothing but his shirt. Once, not so long ago, it had been clean and fine, a jaunty splash of white beneath waistcoats of elegant damask, rich silk or fine Irish wool. But when he’d fled Dunmore House with nothing but the clothes on his back, this had been the shirt he’d been wearing and now it was torn and stained and looking about as bad as he himself currently felt.

  Oh, how far he had fallen.

  He moved his hands over his torso, feeling each rib. Broken or bruised he could not tell, but he had a sizeable gash just above his kidneys where he must have hit and cut himself on a rock when the horse went over.

  Everything hurt. And everything would probably hurt far more in the morning. But at least he was alive, which was more than he would have been if Lady Katharine hadn’t gone back and opened that door to him.

  Lady Katharine….

  He realized he should have kept the breeches on, at least until she returned with something to bind him up. He couldn’t appear before her dressed in just the shirt, and he certainly didn’t want to pull the breeches back on and then get into her clean, pretty bed.

  But oh, that bed…it called to him. He wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath those soft blankets and silken sheets, to shut his eyes and let sleep claim him. She could bind him up in the morning. All of the problems he faced right now, at this moment…they weren’t going anywhere. They’d be there at daybreak, faithful and true, and at least with a few hours of sleep behind him he’d be better able to think them through.

  He cast an unhappy eye toward his wet clothes drying near the fire and shuddered at the idea of pulling the breeches back on.

  He looked again at the bed, neatly turned down and waiting.

  It wasn’t a hard decision. Noel padded to the bed, lifted the heavy coverlet and blankets, and slid between the sheets.

  For a moment he lay staring up at the bed hangings above.

  But only for a moment.

  In the next, exhaustion had claimed him.

  * * *

  Katharine, growing more and more panicky and desperate, had pulled on a pair of boots and a cloak and hurried out to the stable.

  Horses. They had plenty of them and the grooms often bandaged their fine legs against travel, against injury, against splints, heat, and swelling. What was strong enough to bandage a horse’s leg would surely be strong enough to bind a man’s ribs.

  Maybe I should just wake Perry. Let him deal with this.

  But in the next thought: If I tell Perry, he’ll throw the man out. He’s injured, and he’ll die out there in the cold, snowy darkness. I won’t give that victory to Lucien de Montforte. Besides, it’s Christmas, and something about this man…something about his eyes, something about his manner, something about his very soul…he sees right through me, not with scorn, not with judgment, but with acceptance and understanding. How can he understand me? He doesn’t even know me. He thought me kind. Oh, if only he knew. In any case, I’m the one who opened that door. He’s my responsibility, even if he is an…oh, Lord, a highwayman. My responsibility. I can do this.

  Horses moved in their stalls around her. She smelled their warm hides, their manure, heard them rustling about in the straw in which they were bedded. In the darkness, she found the tack room and the heavy wooden chest that contained the head groom’s supply of brushes, liniments, salves and yes, bandages. Thick cotton strips, sturdy and strong. She grabbed a handful of them and hurried back out into the storm.

  The weather had worsened. Wind blew cold and hard out of the west, dashing snow against her cheeks, making her nose and eyes run and freezing the tears in her eyelashes. Her teeth chattered with cold and she hugged her arms to herself, shivering. Her boots left tracks in the accumulating snow, and the tracks followed her back up the stairs and into the house.

  No sleeping footman. No drunken, damaged Perry wandering the halls with a glass dangling from his fingers and his eyes seeing things he could never forget. Nothing but the house, cold and still all around her—and that Irish highwayman with the odd name, upstairs in her rooms.

  In her bed.

  Her bed.

  Katharine took a deep and sustaining breath and clutching the bandages, moved silently up the stairs.

  She found Mr. O’ Flaherty in her bed all right, fast asleep. His wet and muddy clothing was neatly laid out by the glowing coals to dry. He hadn’t thrown them carelessly on the floor, the rug, the silk-upholstered chair, any or all of which would surely have been ruined by such careless abuse. It was a small gesture but one that Katharine couldn’t help but notice and appreciate—especially from a brigand.

  It hit her all over again.

  A brigand.

  In her house.

  In her bed.

  Her gaze strayed to that bed, and she shivered. She wasn’t cold. But the sight of a strong, virile male in such an intimate setting as her bed, beneath her sheets and blankets, framed by her headboard and the bed-hangings, did something funny to her insides, sent strange, fleeting sensations through her belly and made her nipples feel raw and tingly against a bodice that was suddenly too tight.

  She took a step closer to him, clutching the bandages and now pressing them to her breasts to quell their odd tingling. In the soft glow of candlelight, his features—starkly planed, clean-cut, not an ounce of extra flesh, bone, or wastage on that face—were softened. The chin was slightly cleft beneath a shadow of dark bristle, the mouth purposeful and firm, the nose commanding, the brows dark and slightly arched. The ears were set close to the head, the hair not quite black but a deep, dark cocoa, spilling in thick, riotous waves back from an intelligent forehead and down to her pillow where it curled haphazardly and looked very dark against the white casing. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the sheets, looked at his hand lying across the counterpane and noted the length and strength of the fingers, the breadth across the palm. A man’s hand, but not a working man’s. A masculine hand, but not one that she’d associate with a laborer. Just as in the fac
e, there was breeding in that hand, strength touched by a hint of elegance.

  Katharine stood, undecided. She ought to wake him and bind his ribs, as had been his wish and her reluctant intent. But in that moment he sighed in his sleep, the sound oddly peaceful with the snow whispering against the windows, the moan of the wind outside as it howled around the corner of the house and back out into the darkness. Mr. O’ Flaherty’s fingers twitched once, his head turned against the pillow and his breathing deepened.

  Katharine quietly set the bandages down on her night table. It would be cruel to disturb him only to cause him what would likely be more pain. She’d let him sleep. Chances are she wouldn’t find any peace in her own dreams tonight, and would be back in here before the servants—what few remained, with most having been given a few days off to be with their families down in the village—were even awake to come in and stoke up the dying fire.

  The fire.

  Oh, dear….

  Katharine had never stoked a fire in her life. It was a job reserved for servants, but she’d seen them do it plenty of times even if she’d never paid a lot of attention to the procedure. She bit her lip, quietly padded to the hearth, added a log to the embers and with a poker, pushed it up against the red-glowing, charred wood. She waited. Soon, smoke began to rise from the fresh log and a moment later, a tongue of flame was licking the darkness. Shadows danced against the brick behind it. Katharine let out her breath in a heavy sigh, feeling a bit proud of herself. It was the best she could do.

  Outside, the wind howled and whistled, and the tinkle of snow broke the silence as it beat against the window.

  She glanced at the man sleeping in her bed.

  For once, I’ve done the right thing…and it feels good.

  She stole quietly past Mr. O’ Flaherty and out the door, carefully shutting it behind her.

  Chapter 5

  A mile away, Lucien de Montforte pulled his black stallion, Armageddon, to a halt where the robber had held up his coach.

  Thick wet snow sifted down from above, quickly filling the depression in the mud where the highwayman’s horse had gone over backwards, lining the ruts of the carriage and hissing down all around him. His breath plumed the darkness as he scanned the area of the attack. The rogue was nowhere to be seen though his horse, a piebald beast with shaggy fetlocks and a back as broad as a warship, stood nearby, pawing at bits of grass stabbing up through the building crust of frozen sleet and snow.

  Lucien hadn’t really intended to come back. He’d figured the highwayman would have mounted his horse and disappeared into the night from which he’d come. But the horse was still here, which meant that he couldn’t, in good conscience, leave the animal out here to the elements nor the robber, who had to be somewhere….

  “Hell and damnation,” he muttered, and pulling his pistol free of its holster, swung neatly down from Armageddon’s back. His boots crunched through the frozen crust of snow and into the mud. Wind dislodged his tricorn and impatiently, he yanked it more firmly down. It was a wretched night to be out and about. He’d only just returned from a madcap trip across the Atlantic and back in pursuit of his errant sister, and hunting down a highwayman in a snowstorm was the last thing he felt like doing on Christmas Eve—or any other eve, for that matter. How he longed to be home, warm and dry and holding his duchess in his arms.

  Where was that cursed rogue?

  Leading Armageddon, he scanned the snowy darkness but there was no sign of the robber and Lucien wondered, impatiently, if he’d crawled off somewhere to die. Then he spotted the footsteps leading off the road and into the verge, where they were quickly fading beneath the building mantle of white. There were enough of them to note a pattern. Lucien’s black, omniscient gaze lifted and followed their direction. Far off into the darkness, the lights of his nearest neighbor glowed like a beacon.

  He stood there for a long moment, frowning, as the raw, brittle wind whipped his greatcoat around him. Brookhampton was probably deep in his cups and passed out, and he suspected that the Farnsleys, like himself, had probably given the night off to most of his staff. They were alone out there. Unprotected against whatever malice the highwayman intended. Lucien swung up on Armageddon, caught the reins of the loose mare and struck off across the dark, snowy pastures toward where that single light stood like a lonely beacon against the wintry night.

  A hell of a way to spend Christmas, he thought.

  But it could be worse.

  At least he wasn’t the highwayman.

  * * *

  The house was freezing.

  It was a raw, wet, penetrating cold, the kind that seeped in through ancient stone walls and snaked across the floors of every room, found its way through your clothing and then settled into the very marrow of your bones, where it took up residence and made you shiver and hug your arms to yourself and long for hot tea, a hot fire, a hot summer, the latter seeming hopelessly distant as Katharine settled herself onto the settee in the darkened parlor and listened to winter moaning around the outside of the house.

  Mama had had the right idea, going to London instead of staying up here in the country. Perry had found solace in drink, as well an escape from the nightmares that plagued him. Mr. O’ Flaherty was surely warm and toasty beneath her heavy blankets and sheets, and she—she—was shaking with cold.

  She eyed the cold hearth with bitter longing. She had no idea how to get a fire started. The butler had long since gone to bed and she probably wouldn’t have sought his help, anyhow; no sense giving him cause to wonder why she was down here in the parlor and not up in her apartments. For more reasons than she could list, it was best to keep Mr. O’ Flaherty’s presence in the house—let alone her bed—a secret between himself and her.

  Still fully clothed, she lay down on the settee, shivering. She pulled the decorative silk throw down from the back of the sofa and huddled miserably beneath it, folding her arms beneath her head in a makeshift pillow and her body into itself in a desperate attempt to get warm. Her feet were wet blocks of ice and she wrapped them in the coverlet, shoving them into the seam between the cushions on which she lay and the hard, stuffed backing at her spine. She thought longingly of her bed upstairs.

  Her bed that was being enjoyed by another.

  Riff-raff, and a common criminal at that. A nobody, a foreigner, a poor, wet, dirty creature from the masses who’d been swept in by the storm and to whom she owed nothing.

  In my house. In my bed. Under my warm covers. What kind of fool am I?

  A cold and shivering one, that’s what.

  She drew her legs up closer to herself and huddled against the back of the settee, clutching the throw and trying to press warmth into her body. Outside, the wind howled like wolves around a kill. Katharine stared miserably into the darkness, suddenly quite sorry for herself.

  “I can’t believe I’m lying here freezing on a silly piece of furniture while he’s upstairs, warm and cozy in my bed,” she whispered to herself.

  Yes, poor little you. Aren’t you just the most miserable creature in the world tonight?

  Where had that gentle, chiding voice come from? No matter, because she was indeed the most miserable creature in the world tonight. She deserved better than this. Resentment flared up from somewhere deep inside her, self-pity that was familiar and entirely justified.

  Yes, lie there and feel sorry for yourself, Katharine. You, who have plenty to eat even though you’re cold. You, who could get up and find a thick, warm cloak and some extra blankets if only you were inclined to help instead of pity yourself. You, who have a roof over your head and ancient walls to keep out the cold, the snow, and the undesirables of the world that you so disdain.

  Except, one of those undesirables was upstairs in her bed.

  “Jilted, yet again,” she said aloud to the darkness, and a tear slid from the corner of her eye and down onto her wrist, folded beneath her cheek. “I have a right to be angry.”

  The more you tell yourself that your anger is dese
rved, the worse it becomes and the more miserable you end up being. Can’t you see that, Katharine? Look at what you’re doing to yourself. You’re your own worst enemy. Think, instead, of the things for which you’re grateful and happiness will follow. Try to forgive those you’ve resented and the anger will fade. Isn’t it obvious after all this time, that Charles and Gareth were meant to marry others? That they’re deeply in love with their wives? Why can’t you be happy for them?

  “Because I’m so desperately unhappy, myself,” she whispered brokenly, and another tear slid from her eye and trickled down her cheek. “I’m the laughingstock of the ton. Officially jilted twice, if not three times. Nobody wants me. Am I not beautiful?”

  On the outside, yes, but we have some work to do on the inside. Lots of work. But you started that tonight, didn’t you?

  Lady Katharine shivered in her sleep.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  You went back and opened that door to me. You invited me in.

  “What?”

  “For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in….”

  “But I did no such thing!”

  You did. Not as bad a person as you think yourself to be now, are you? Oh, you fought against the idea and you’re fighting against it now, but you went back. You opened that door, you invited me in, and you did something you did not want to do, something you think you did not want to do. But you did it. And if you’re honest with yourself, truly honest, Katharine, you’ll admit that it felt good to do it. That it felt a whole lot better than the resentment and self-pity that have been the easier road to take, for so long. You opened that door and brought me into your home and yes, into your life, despite your revulsion toward me.