by Lauren Royal
“Precisely. You’re friends. And as her friend, you ought to help rescue her, quite certainly. A friend would help facilitate her escape. A friend would help her find someplace to hide.”
“Where?” Losing patience, Joseph took to his feet and began pacing. “You think Sir Leonard won’t search our other properties? Or are you thinking to hide her with friends? Who of our acquaintance would put a stranger’s welfare above threats to their own family? Where do you imagine she’ll be safe?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere far away or unexpected or—Wales?” His mother’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Yes, send her to Wales with Lord Grosmont. The Trevors are good people, and Sir Leonard won’t look for her there.”
Joseph opened his mouth to argue…then closed it. His pacing stopped short as an incredible notion struck him.
Was it possible this wasn’t such a bad idea?
Neither Creath nor the Ashcrofts had any ties to Wales, meaning Sir Leonard was unlikely to look for her there. And even if, somehow, he learned of Creath’s whereabouts, the blackguard would wield far less influence in Wales than he did here. His authority was for the most part restricted to this corner of England. His power to intimidate—and to corrupt—would be limited across the border.
And the Trevors were good people. Despite their short acquaintance, Joseph felt they could be trusted. Lady Arabel was naught but clever and kind—she would make a good friend for Creath. Not as good a friend as he was, of course, but far from lacking. And Grosmont had proved himself a decent sort, especially with his efforts to comfort and protect Creath. No matter that the fellow’s misguided persistence was irritating, the compassion beneath it was obvious.
Even Chrystabel, interfering and insufferable though she was, seemed to be worming her way into Joseph’s good graces. Her impassioned entreaty this morning had revealed a new side to her. If she hadn’t quite convinced him of the wisdom of celebrating Christmas, at least she’d proven her heart was in the right place.
His thoughts lingered on Chrystabel—specifically, on her ivory shoulders bared by the gown she’d worn this morning, a sight he’d found strangely enthralling. And now he felt hot again.
Holy Hades, what was happening to him? He was either running a fever or losing his blasted mind.
Wrenching his thoughts from that unsettling development, he realized Mother had taken advantage of his silence to continue arguing her point. “…you see it’s perfect? Sir Leonard has no idea who they are. He never asked their names. If Creath remained in Wales but a month, well past her sixteenth birthday, you’d both be free of him.”
“You know it’s not that simple, Mother.” With a fresh surge of annoyance, Joseph resumed his pacing. “She’d be free of his guardianship, but he might still force her submission. Only a legal marriage can fully free her from his grasp.”
“Then let her marry someone else,” his mother retorted. “She’s pretty and has money and land, which means she’ll have her pick of men.”
“Then why on earth shouldn’t I pick her?” Joseph stopped pacing again, his fists clenched at his sides. “I promised to marry her, and I’m a man of my word. And given that there aren’t any other suitable young women in this godforsaken wilderness—”
“Really, Joseph.” Mother looked heavenward. “You’re twenty years old. Far too old for this silly pretending.”
Joseph’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?”
“There certainly is another suitable young woman.” Mother’s brows arched, daring him to name her. “The one who thinks we live in the wilderness.”
“The one who…Lady Chrystabel? You can’t be serious!” He licked parched lips. “You think she’s suitable?”
His mother cocked her head. “I think she interests you in a way Creath never will.”
“She doesn’t interest me.” Joseph’s face flamed, and he was beginning to sweat through his shirt. “She irritates me.”
Mother grinned. “Because she’s impulsive, irrational, and irresistible?”
“Yes. I mean, no! She’s not irresistible!”
His mother’s eyes shone even brighter, as though she’d somehow taken encouragement from his flat denial. “She’s refreshing and delightful and will keep you on your toes, my dear boy. You need to be with someone like her. I adore Creath, but she won’t challenge you. She’s so terribly good-natured that she’ll go along with whatever you want.” When she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes, he realized their brightness was the result of happy tears. “And while I love your father, I don’t want to see you follow in his footsteps and become an old fust-cudgel.” After blowing her nose, she managed a watery smile. “I want to see you with someone who questions convention.”
Before Joseph could formulate so much as a thought, his father banged into the study. “What’s going on?” he called out, thumping the door closed behind him. “Did you start the discussion without me?”
“Of course not.” Mother wiped the last traces of moisture from her eyes before favoring him with a pleasant smile. “Do sit down, dear, and let us begin. When do you think our son ought to take his lovely bride to Bristol?”
ELEVEN
WHILE HANGING a wreath above the great room’s enormous fireplace, Chrystabel watched her sister artfully drape garlands along the mantelpiece. “What shall we give everyone for Christmas?” she asked the top of Arabel’s head.
“Everyone?” With quick, practiced movements, Arabel tied off a neat red bow. “I’ve only got gifts for you and Matthew.”
Careful not to trip on her skirts, Chrystabel made her way down the ladder. “Well, I haven’t even got that much,” she grumbled.
Her order for two pairs of handsomely embroidered gloves should have been delivered yesterday—to Grosmont Grange. She’d been planning to scent Matthew’s with musk and Arabel’s with rose oil. But now her lovely gifts were probably warming the hands of some smug Roundhead and his dreary wife, leaving Chrystabel forced to ransack her own trunks in search of last-minute substitutes.
And here she was adding gifts for the Ashcrofts to her lengthy list of tasks.
She must be mad. After wandering about the house for ages, she’d finally come across a harried-looking Thomas Steward to send on her errand for boy’s clothes. As a consequence, she and Arabel had begun the decorating far later than they’d intended.
“Do you think our hosts expect gifts?” Arabel asked dubiously. “They know we didn’t plan to spend the holiday with strangers.”
“I’m certain they have no expectations.” Backing up to admire her handiwork, Chrystabel smiled. Perfectly centered. Though something was missing… “But it’s Christmas! And the Ashcrofts are no longer strangers. They’ve been awfully kind to us.”
“They won’t have anything to give us in return.”
“They’ve already given us their hospitality, which is more than enough.”
“Holly.”
“Pray pardon?”
Arabel held out a handful of loose sprigs. “The wreath needs more holly.”
Chrystabel grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
Her sister helpfully gathered Chrystabel’s skirts to one side so her stockinged feet could find the ladder’s rungs. It was their usual arrangement, since Arabel disliked heights.
“I’m at the top.”
Arabel let go and stepped back. “It’s very thoughtful of you, Chrys.”
“What?” She leaned forward to tuck more holly in amongst the pine, making sure the red berries showed.
“I said,” her sister called up to her loudly, “it’s very thoughtful of you!”
Chrystabel giggled. “I’m about three feet off the ground, Arabel. I can hear you just fine. What is thoughtful?”
“Oh.” Arabel giggled, too. “Your thinking of gifts for the Ashcrofts. I do believe you’re right that we ought to show our appreciation—”
“Stop.”
Her sister immediately jumped away. “Is it the ladder? Is it coming
apart?”
Chrystabel rolled her eyes. “No, but I’m glad to know that if it were, you’d bolt instead of catching me. Can you repeat what you were saying before?”
“That we ought to show our—”
“No, before that.”
“That it’s thoughtful of you to—”
“No, after that.”
Finally getting it, Arabel groaned.
“Please? I may never get to hear you say it again.”
“Oh, very well.” Planting her hands on her hips, Arabel heaved a great, overburdened sigh. “I do believe you’re right.”
“How I love the sound of that.” Chrystabel closed her eyes in feigned bliss. “Perhaps I am the older sister, after all.” Her eyes snapped open when something brushed her ear. “Well, that settles the question,” she added with a laugh. “Only children pelt their siblings with holly berries.”
As she backed down the ladder, another berry bounced off her arm.
“If you want to be the responsible sister,” Arabel said, “perhaps I shall leave it to you to sort out all the gifts.”
“Ha!” Safely on the ground, Chrystabel smiled up at her wreath. Now it looked perfect. “I was thinking of making perfume for Lady Trentingham and Creath.” Yet another thing to find time for today: creating two new scents. “Any ideas for Lord Trentingham?”
“I’ve been told he enjoys studying foreign languages. If I can find where our library is packed away, I believe there is a set of histories written in Italian.”
“Perfect! Especially since we cannot read those books anyway.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arabel said archly. “I do read a bit of Italian.”
“Just don’t read it aloud,” Chrystabel advised. “Your accent is atrocious.”
That earned her a whole cluster of flying berries, which landed plumb in her décolletage, startling a laugh from her. It was a silly thing, but soon Arabel joined in, and then neither of them could seem to stop laughing. Chrystabel realized it had been a long time since she’d laughed this much with her sister. It felt almost like a real Christmas, like she wasn’t all that far from home.
Arabel hiccuped, then giggled some more. “I think you should wear those berries to supper. Right there where they are now.”
“With a garland in my hair.” Chrystabel wiggled her shoulders. “How could Joseph resist me then?”
“He wouldn’t stand a chance. You’d be just like a Christmas present for him to unwrap. In fact, if you haven’t found one for him yet—”
“Arabel!” Chrystabel clutched at her stomach. “I’m begging you, please don’t make me laugh any more.”
But then she thought about Joseph ‘unwrapping’ her, and the idea didn’t seem so humorous.
Suddenly feeling flushed, she fished the berries out of her bodice. “No need to concern yourself with Joseph. I shall find a gift for him.”
What should she give her future husband? It would need to be something truly special for their first Christmas together. Her hand went into her pocket to play with her lion pendant while she considered.
“Very well, I’ll leave Joseph to you. Is that everyone, then?” Arabel ticked off the names on her fingers. “Lord and Lady Trentingham, the viscount, Creath, and then you, me, and Matthew.”
Arabel was easy, since Chrystabel knew exactly which of her gowns—the marigold silk satin embroidered with golden swirls—her younger sister most coveted. She had only to wrap it up for her. “I still need something for Matthew.”
“What can you possibly give Matthew that you didn’t bring along? He owns everything we have with us.”
“I’ll think of something.” Sighing, Chrystabel stepped back into her red-rosetted shoes and pulled another wreath off the stack. “I always do.”
TWELVE
“WAIT.” STANDING in Tremayne’s entry hall, Chrystabel tucked a strand of Creath’s bright reddish-blond hair back under her dull brown cavalier hat. Or rather, under Matthew’s dull brown cavalier hat. “There. You’re perfect.”
Creath smoothed her palms on the brown breeches Chrystabel had borrowed for her. “Do you really think I look like a lad?”
“From afar, you certainly do. And if someone looks closer, they’ll see the rest of us are strangers to the area, so they’ll have no reason to suspect you’re one of the party. Besides, we won’t be straying from Tremayne property—Lady Trentingham has assured me we’ll be able to find a perfect yule log in their woods. Let’s go.”
Watkins opened the door with a bow, and Chrystabel stepped into the chilly fresh air. It was beautiful outside. Sunshine sparkled off the light dusting of snow in the inner courtyard, and the sky was a pure blue.
She’d been so cold when they’d arrived that she hadn’t paid any attention to the layout of the castle—she’d just wanted to get inside. Now she saw the courtyard was bordered by three long connected buildings that formed a U-shape. The gatehouse with its portcullis was in the middle of the center building, with the upper floors spanning the area above it. She could tell which wing her family’s rooms were in and figured the Ashcrofts must sleep in the third wing. The obviously unfinished portion of the castle would be where Joseph’s conservatory was located.
The far end of the courtyard was open to the fields and woods. She headed toward the trees, her siblings following.
“Hold on,” Creath called from where she still stood in the entry. “Since Arabel is coming along, shouldn’t we invite Joseph, too?”
“No.” Chrystabel turned back. “If he’s with us and anyone sees us, they might connect you with him.”
“But you said we’re staying on Tremayne property. And that I look like a boy from afar.”
Chrystabel sighed. “Very well, I’ll ask him.” Before the girl could say she’d ask him herself, she hurried back inside.
Not really knowing where she was going but wanting to look like she did, she headed into the third wing, following the path she’d seen Joseph and his parents take last night when they went off to bed. Once she was hidden around a corner, she waited a minute, then another minute, and a third minute to be safe. Then she turned and retraced her steps.
“Joseph is busy,” she told Creath. “Working with his father. Shall we?”
“All right,” Creath said, apparently happy enough to go without him as long as he’d been invited.
Chrystabel celebrated silently, glad her ploy had worked. She had a sneaking suspicion that Creath and Matthew wouldn’t fall in love with Joseph watching over their shoulders. Well, more than a sneaking suspicion, really. She was sure of it.
Joseph was far too protective of Creath.
Lifting her pretty red skirts to keep them from dragging in the snow, Chrystabel kept up a stream of happy chatter as they all tramped through the courtyard, across a field, and into the woods.
“Which is the widest tree trunk?” she asked. “Which will make the best yule log? We want it to burn through tomorrow at least.”
“We didn’t bring a saw,” Matthew pointed out. “How on earth do you expect to cut a yule log?”
“Ladies don’t saw down trees,” she shot back. “And I don’t suppose you’d like to manage it alone? We’ll choose a tree and then go fetch a few brawny servants to cut it and haul the log back.” She shivered theatrically. “My, it’s cold, isn’t it? Much colder than I expected.”
Her eye catching Matthew’s, Creath flushed and huddled into her borrowed brown cloak. “I’m warm enough.”
“Well, I’m not.” Chrystabel faked another shiver, hoping she was giving a more convincing performance than Arabel had yesterday. “Why didn’t I choose my heavier cloak? I believe I shall return to the castle for it.” She looked to her sister. “Arabel, would you be so good to as to accompany me?”
“I’d rather not—”
“Thank you, sister,” she said, seizing her by the arm. “I’ll feel much safer with a companion.”
“My pleasure,” Arabel said without grumbling, because she truly wa
s quite a kind sister. And she never grumbled.
“You two go on searching without us,” Chrystabel called to Matthew and Creath as she dragged Arabel off. “We won’t be gone long!”
“You’re not shivering anymore,” Arabel pointed out when they were well on their way. “And it’s not especially cold, not like it’s been these past few days. Are you sure you want to walk all the way back and then all the way out here again?”
“Yes, I’m sure I want to walk all the way back. After that, I think I will decide I’m exceedingly busy.” Which was true; they were still behind schedule.
Arabel stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not going back out there.” Chrystabel tugged on her sister’s arm again to get her moving. There was no time to waste. “I mean I intend to leave Matthew and Creath alone in the woods so they will fall in love.”
“You’re out of your mind, Chrys. I swear, you’d feel right at home in Bedlam!” When Chrystabel walked faster, Arabel scurried to keep up with her. “Sir Leonard will be back for Creath three days from now—do you really think you can get these two to fall in love and wed before then?”
“I really think so, yes. I think they’ll take their time choosing a tree for the yule log, and then take even more time getting to know each other before they realize we aren’t returning. And then I think they will kiss, and I hope they will fall in love. Or maybe they’ll fall in love and then kiss,” she added, unsure of the order in which these things happened.
Chrystabel herself had yet to be kissed. To her mounting distress, in all of her nearly seventeen years, the opportunity had never arisen. Most of the suitable young men back in Wiltshire had left years ago to fight for the king. And many of the unsuitable ones had gone to fight against the king, while the remainder had seemed too gutless to even talk to an earl’s daughter, let alone kiss one. Which was a shame, because Chrystabel liked talking to all sorts of people, and might have liked kissing them, too, given the chance.