by Eva Devon
Imogen beamed. “They shall and they’ll bless you Malcolm for your good heart. Now you pick the place it should go on the tree.
He gulped then grinned. “Thank you, my lady.”
She nodded at the butler, urging him to come close to assist the boy.
Duncan stepped forward, suddenly without thinking. “May I help Malcolm?”
Imogen looked down at the lad. “What do you say?”
“Why yes, Your Grace, you’re the tallest in the room after all and I think the nest should go at the very top.”
“Good logic, my lad.” Duncan held out his arms. “Lets hoist you up then.”
Malcolm crossed to him and stuck his elbows out, holding the nest very carefully.
Duncan took hold of the lad’s middle then lifted him up onto his shoulder.
“Och, Your Grace! Its ever so high up here,” Malcolm said wondrously.
“That it is lad.” Duncan couldn’t stop his grin. “It’s a miracle I can breath.”
Laughter surrounded him and he felt his heart warm. Was this how Imogen felt all the time? Warm? Included? He swallowed, humbled. How did this come so simply to her and to him only through someone like her rubbing his face in it?
The lad found a perfect place between the bows at the top of the tree and tucked it in.
“Marvelously done,” Duncan complimented. “Now, I think you deserve a cake for a job well done.”
“A cake?” Imogen exclaimed, winking. “You must have at least two!”
Duncan eased the boy down and sent him off to the table whereupon Malcolm stared at the cakes as if it was the world’s hardest decision to choose between the brightly iced confections. Imogen bustled behind him, bent down, and whispered in his ear. Malcolm gasped then immediately grabbed a light blue cake decorated with a tiny yellow bird.
Duncan picked up his wine and took a long swallow as the maids began bustling over the plain packages. And before he knew what was happening, the lasses were shoving gingerbread in the shape of little men, marzipan strawberries, and bits of ribbon on the tree.
In all his life, he’d never witnessed such a bustling, cheerful group as Imogen and her servants about the tree. As he stood back, not quite sure where to begin, it occurred to him by the way the crochetey old butler directed so easily and with a playful glint in his eye, and as the servants from the village worked seamlessly with the servants from London that this tradition must have happened in every house that Imogen had possessed for every Christmas. It all ran so smoothly. Where had she learned such a thing?
Did nothing daunt her?
“Where did you learn all this?” he asked suddenly.
“I spent two years in Munich with my husband. He adored all things from that region, and I must say, I think they celebrate Christmas more beautifully than any where else in the world.” Imogen observed the ornaments in his hands and took a sip of wine. “I do believe those little men are meant to go on the tree, not your fingers.”
He rolled his eyes. “If you insist. But first, what did you say to Malcolm? He lit up like the candle placed in your window.”
At the mention of the candle in her widow, her face changed with some unknowable emotion. “I told him I had a whole box of many colored cakes to take home so he needn’t worry about picking the right one.”
“Well done. “He peered down at her, unable to escape that her demeanor had altered ever so slightly when he’d mentioned the candle. Now, in Scotland it had a significance, to place a candle in the window. It was a beckoning to the Christ child, letting him and his family know they were welcome on their journey. But he had a compelling feeling that Imogen’s reason was different.
“The candle,” he said gently. “It’s special is it not”?
She glanced down at her wine before looking up at him, her eyes shining with tears, but she still smiled. “It is. As is this.”
Quietly, she crossed to the boxes and found a small pink one. She opened it with one hand then with a reverence that stole his breath, she slipped a small knit baby shoe form the soft paper, studied the tree, then tied it with a small red string to a branch. She stood silently, a suddenly slight figure, staring at that small baby’s garment.
Duncan’s heart dropped. It was impossible to not understand its meaning. His throat tightened. His beautiful, joyful sassenach had known the worst pain a woman could bear. The loss of a babe.
Despite, the public setting, despite the presence of the servants, Duncan came up slowly behind her and laced his arms around her, longing with all his heart to take away her sadness, to hold her, to let her know that he was there. Slowly, he drew her to the window, to stand by the candle and to have a moment’s privacy with her.
She let out a little sigh and dashed away a tear that slipped down her cheek.
“What was her name?” he asked softly, somehow knowing it was the exact right thing to say.
“Beatrice,” Imogen whispered. “Her name was Beatrice.”
“There was a star danced and under that, I was born,” he said gently.
She tensed for a moment, then relaxed into his embrace. “It is from one of my favorite plays.”
“Much Ado About Nothing,” he acknowledged. “Beatrice is a wonderful character.”
“I always hoped if I had a child, that she would laugh and never know tears. Just like Beatrice.”
He stopped himself before he could say something like he was sure she would have another child. It struck him, that she was still in mourning for Beatrice, that she didn’t wish to forget that baby. And saying she’d have another was suggesting that one day she would forget. So instead, he pressed his cheek to the soft curls atop her head and murmured. “Beatrice was blessed to have you for her mother. To still have you. You who light a candle for her, and hold her in your heart.”
Imogen drew in a shaky breath. “You are the most infuriatingly strange man.”
“Am I?”
“You wish people to think you have a heart of stone, that you are all logic, and then you go and say something like that.”
He shrugged. “I can only say what is clearly true.”
She turned in his arms, cheeks wet with tears. “Thank you. Now, let us have more wine and music.”
He nodded, realizing the moment between them had passed that she no longer wished to speak of the daughter that was not here upon this Christmas eve. So, as the servants continued to laugh and drink and decorate the tree, Imogen slipped back to the piano and began a soft, gentle, and flawless Silent Night.
Before he realized he was even doing it, the words to the song were slipping past his lips. Faint at first, then sure, a tribute not to just the Christ Child, but the woman who’d so abruptly turned his world topsy turvy.
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly
And as the song filled the room, its haunting lullaby sound surrounding them, the parlor grew ever more magical with the glow of candlelight and the silvering of early evening. Here in this remarkable and completely unexpected setting, he felt his heart grow. One day Imogen would be a mother. Somehow he knew it in his very bones and her baby would sleep in her arms and there would be no more beautiful sight in this world than that.
Chapter 13
Without any sort of doubt, Christmas was Imogen’s favorite day of the year. From the songs, the wine, to the sentiment, it was glorious. But on this particular Christmas Day she felt a rather odd feeling that it was she that was the present rather than the box she was handing to Duncan.
In truth, she was half tempted to yank the bow off her present to him and tie it about her head because frankly the way he was looking at her was as if she was that one gift that was absolutely useless but great fun to play with.
It was a disconcerting feeling especially after the closeness they had shared the
night before.
With the joy of a boy, Duncan took the box from her hands, pulled the green silk ribbon and peered into the box. He let out a laugh. “A sporran?”
She smiled, pleased at his reaction. “You know how I adore your kilts. So, I decided on accoutrement so that you never consider trousers.”
His lips twitched as he eyed the thing. “Its’ a bit. . .”
She propped her hands on her hips, daring him to find any sort of fault with her very Scottish gift. “What?”
“Well, ahem,” he pursed his lips then cleared his throat, “the ladies might wonder if I’m making up for something.”
She pinned him with a teasing scowl. “What other ladies?”
He coughed. “None. Not a single one.”
Giving him a saucy grin, she said carefully, “Think of it like Aston’s hat.”
A black brow shot up. “What’s my sporran got to do with Aston’s hat?”
She rolled her eyes. Of course he would be sensitive about being compared to Aston though the two seemed to actually get along. “His hat is outlandish but it says he’s great fun.”
“Are you trying to say my sporran symbolizes my level of fun?”
“Well,” she she said, filling her voice with appreciation and innuendo, “from my experience, you’re worthy of an even bigger one.”
A ruddy hue deepened his cheeks. “Imogen,” he groaned. “You’ll never stop that will you, lass? Complimenting my person?”
“Should I?” The unfortunate thing that had begun to occur to her was that it genuinely upset him, her effusive compliments about his magnificent body. That he actually found her to be inappropriate. It hadn’t bothered her before. Not until last night when he had come up to her, took her in his arms, and then nearly ripped out her heart with his sympathy.
No one had ever noticed her candle in the window or special ornament before. She never spoke of the baby that had lived for two days, filling her arms, then leaving her with the most brutal, empty ache. In unguarded moments, her arms still ached with their emptiness. In truth, she’d had to steal her heart against the ever rounding, glorious bellies of her friends. Because as delightfully happy as she was for them, sometimes. . . Sometimes it physically hurt to look at them and remember what it had been like to bear a child. Not a day went by when she didn’t miss Beatrice. Christmas especially.
Somehow, he had seen that. And by doing so, she cared what he thought. It was the most perverse thing. The kinder he seemed to be, the more her own ne’er do well nature cracked. She longed for someone like Duncan to love her. Except. . . Except. . . Well, he wouldn’t. She was a woman who wasn’t afraid to be herself and men like Duncan in her experience, no matter how wonderful, would struggle with that.
“You have the oddest expression on your face.”
“Duncan?”
Sensing her abrupt change in mood, his eyes widened, wary now. He looked like man at the dock waiting for the judge to send him back to the place from whence he came and then on to execution.
She swallowed. Before she could think too much, before she could be afraid, Imogen burst out. “Marry me, for Christmas.”
Duncan blanched, the sporran slipping from his grip. It landed on the floor with an awkward thump.
She pressed her lips together, the shocking pain in her heart horribly intense. She’d known. Of course, she’d known he wouldn’t ever want to marry her. The horrified look on his face confirmed as much. But she’d hoped. God help her, she’d let herself hope. From the first moment she’d seen him, he’d struck some unexpected chord within her. Oh, she loved being his lover, but she couldn’t face the idea any longer of spending day after day growing closer and closer until finally he left her for a fresh young bride. She’d thought she could do it. She’d been wrong.
No, she’d needed to know the absolute truth. Even if it was on Christmas. Even if it had been so entirely impulsive. Better not to waste another moment losing her heart.
He opened then closed his mouth apparently unable to speak.
“Oh dear,” she said lightly, determined not to let her devastation show. “I’ve quite blindsided you.”
“Och, lass,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I—I—I’m honored you’d think to ask me.”
“But no,” she said quickly, nodding. “I’m not duchess material.”
To her ever living shame, he remained silent with no attempt to deny her statement.
“I see,” she breathed. It took all her strength to swallow back the insidious little lump building in her throat and say clearly, “You do have a low opinion of me.”
“Indeed, I doona, Imogen,” he protested. “I think you are the most wonderful woman of my acquaintance.”
“But the most wonderful woman of your acquaintance would make you a poor wife.” Every word tripped from her lips without malice, without accusation. She wouldn’t suddenly turn shrew. What was the point?
“I cannae explain it in a few short words,” he drew in a long breath, “but you’re not to be my duchess, Imogen. You’d hate it.”
She nodded, her heart aching. “Too boring by far, no doubt.”
He smiled, a pained, painted grin on his perfectly handsome face. “You’ve got the right of it. My wife. . . My duchess, she must be beyond reproach. We can never be in the gossips’ stews.”
She sucked in a breath, trying to get ahold of the tears that were starting to threaten. She’d chosen happiness over propriety a long time ago. How could she have known that that choice would make her anathema to the one man she had ever wanted as a husband? She forced herself to laugh. “You’re absolutely right, Duncan. It would be a terrible bother, being so proper all the time. And just think, you poor man, you’re going to spend a lifetime utterly bored.”
He stilled, a powerful and determined look hardening his face. “Bored but safe. I shan’t ever have to worry about hurting my children or my sister.”
She hid the pain his words caused. Whether he realized it or not, he was suggesting that if she had a child, her own past would hurt it. But that wasn’t true. If anything all of her experiences would help her child not to choose a joyless life of duty. But that wasn’t what Duncan thought. Duncan thought duty mattered most.
The room suddenly swung and she rushed for the chair, plunking herself down in it. “Well, that’s good to hear,” she managed brightly. She wasn’t about to let him see how she was hurt. How she had let herself be so open to him. “There are far too many bastards out there. I’m glad to hear you don’t intend to be one. Or get one either, I suppose.”
“My father nearly ruined us,” he said. “I can’t do that to my family. But I’ve never been so happy as I am with you, Imogen.”
“Of course you are,” she said with exaggerated merriment. “Who else could make you happier?”
“Not a soul,” he agreed with clear relief. “You understand then?”
“Oh yes,” she said softly. “Duncan. I understand.”
He strode over to her and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She just smiled at him, barely responding to his touch. What else could she do? He’d said what he felt and she didn’t wish to ruin the day entirely. The Duke of Blackburn would never be hers, no matter what she said, and she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself by pointing out all the reasons why he needed someone like her. If he was determined not to figure it out on his own, she would no longer help him.
He stood and pulled her quickly to her feet. Tilting her head back, he kissed her with a remarkable tenderness.
Imogen savored it. Savored the very feel of his rough yet, tender kiss, and the taste of rich red wine upon his tongue. The memories would have to last a lifetime. For fool man, he thought she would be around for as long as he needed her. She would have, if it had been more than as just a mistress.
*
Duncan woke up in his cold extremely large bed, hating the fact that he had had to return to his castle the night
before on his own. He just couldn’t have the servants knowing about his relationship with Imogen. If she stayed with him, the servants would know without a doubt that they shared a room. He’d taken enough risk sleeping that one evening at her hunting lodge. No, he couldn’t behave in such a blatant way. He stretched, swung his legs over the bed and let out a sigh of contentment despite the freezing air which was barely warmed by the banked fire.
Usually, he needed several pots of coffee before he felt ready to face the world. But not since Imogen. With Imogen he felt ready, almost eager, to face the world every day. Yes, she was just the thing to renew his lagging spirits. It had been damned awkward when she’d asked him to marry her. More than awkward. It had beeb painful. In that moment, he’d felt the floor open up and he’d almost prayed to be swallowed whole. At first, he thought her jesting, but one look at her earnest face had told him otherwise. Luckily, she’d understood his reasons even if he hadn’t gone into detail.
He’d hated having to tell her no. If he’d been born a mere gentleman, he would have taken her in his arms, swung her around the room, and asked when they should have the bans read. But he wasn’t a simple country gentleman. He was the Duke of Blackburn and he would never let himself forget it. He wouldn’t ever slip like his father, who had spent his last days in a room down the hall, rotting slowly away as a result of his vices.
The door opened and a footman entered with coffee. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
The fortifying aroma filled the air and he drew in a deep, appreciative breath. “Good morning, John. Did you have a good Christmas with your family?”
The young brown haired man nodded. “I did, your Grace. I even found the schilling in the pudding.”
“Did you?” Duncan let out a laugh as he stretched his arms over his head. Once, as a boy he’d played all the Christmas games too. “Well done.”