Christmas with His Wallflower Wife

by Janice Preston

  And now, the ribald comments missing from their wedding night started...teasing remarks about it being time for Alex to add to the Beauchamp clan by filling the Foxbourne nursery.

  How long had it been since any of his family had ribbed him like this?

  It felt good.

  The only sour note had been their visit to Stowford Place. After a stultifying hour sipping tea and making polite conversation, Jane had suggested to her father that in future he might prefer to call upon them at the Abbey. He had gratefully agreed.

  The six men of the family spent Christmas Eve morning collecting greenery: branches of holly, ivy, laurel and fir from the woods, rosemary and bay from the gardens, and mistletoe from the apple orchard. The women then decorated the house, adding candles and fir cones, clove-studded oranges, ribbons and silver and gold paper flowers. In the afternoon, the men then took all the children to help haul the Yule log back to the house, even George, who couldn’t yet walk—Zach showing Uncle Vernon how to twist a shawl into a sling, as the Romany mothers did, to carry his baby son. The others took turns at giving shoulder rides to the younger children when they grew tired.

  The log fit snugly in the huge fireplace in the drawing room, where it should burn from Christmas Eve right through to the end of Christmas night. The fire was ceremoniously lit using the remnants of last year’s log, and the Christmas candle was placed on the windowsill to burn through the night.

  Christmas morning dawned bright, albeit with a heavy frost. From the way the clouds were gathering—lowering and merging until the sky was uniformly white—snow looked likely by nightfall. The family attended the traditional Christmas morning church service and, on their return, were greeted by the three dogs who, with the delicious smell of roasting meat pervading the whole house, could hardly contain their excitement. Even the normally serene Hector was lolloping around, barking, tail waving like a flag, while Myrtle bounced around stiff-legged, like a barrel on springs, emitting shrill yips of excitement. Romeo hared into the drawing room and then streaked back into the hall, a slender fir branch, completed with red satin bows, trailing in his wake. He rounded the table in the middle of the hall and darted between Father’s legs, evading all attempts to catch him. Liberty grew tearful, but Dominic hugged her better, reassuring her that it all added to the fun.

  The family exchanged gifts. Alex immediately donned his waistcoat and Jane went all teary-eyed over the gold locket containing a lock of his hair that Alex had bought her on a quick trip to Exeter. The whole family then played riotous games of Hoodman Blind, Shoe the Wild Mare and Bob Apple—Aunt Thea proving herself almost unbeatable, much to Uncle Vernon’s chagrin—until Grantham announced Christmas dinner was served and informed them it was snowing.

  In accordance with Beauchamp tradition, once the meal was on the table, the servants were free to eat their own dinner in the servants’ hall. That included the nursemaids, and thus all the children, even George, joined the family around the dining table...after they had all crowded at the windows to exclaim at the beauty of the familiar landscape now shrouded in white.

  The snow, to Alex’s mind, simply added to the magic of the occasion.

  The meal was chaotic. But fun. And Susie, bless her—barely out of childhood herself at thirteen, quiet and serious and still looking much younger than her age—took charge of George, freeing Aunt Thea and Uncle Vernon to cope with Thomas and Sophie.

  Finally it was over. Everyone was full of roast goose and plum pudding and the nursery maids returned to take their eight exhausted charges upstairs to get ready for bed. Susie went, too, after being begged by Thomas to read them a bedtime story, while the adults trooped out of the dining room to head for the drawing room, Alex and Jane in the rear.

  Alex grabbed Jane’s hand as they crossed the hall, tugging her around to face him. ‘We’ve barely had a minute to talk all day, Janey. And I haven’t kissed you since this morning.’

  Jane gazed up at him, her eyes full of love. He brushed one glowing cheek with the back of his fingers and then tucked a stray tendril of silky conker-brown hair behind her ear.

  ‘Would you have it any other way?’ She tipped her head, a teasing smile on her lips. ‘Is this not what you have longed for—to be happy in the bosom of your family?’

  He smiled, contentment flooding him. Anchoring him. Finally he belonged.

  ‘Yes, and it would not be half as sweet without you by my side to share it, Honeybee.’ He put his arms around her slender waist and breathed in her jasmine scent. Her hands slipped up his chest to rest on his shoulders as their gazes fused. ‘More importantly, have you enjoyed yourself?’

  Words weren’t even needed. The beam that lit Jane’s beautiful, beloved face told him all he needed to know.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘has been the best Christmas I can ever remember. I didn’t know it was possible to be so happy. I love your family, Alex. And I love you most of all.’

  He lowered his lips to her ear. ‘Have you seen where we’re standing?’

  They looked up into the forked green lobes of mistletoe, glistening with white berries.

  ‘That is a lot of kisses.’ Jane’s eyes darkened.

  ‘Better get started then.’

  He gently cupped her chin. ‘Merry Christmas, Janey.’ He caressed her lips with his, the sweet need building inside him. He would never tire of this.

  Sweet Janey. His Honeybee. His wife.

  Delicate fingers slid around his nape and through his hair as a purr of pure satisfaction hummed in her throat. The blood quickened in his veins as desire rippled through him.

  Footsteps on the tiled floor broke the spell.

  ‘Don’t forget to remove a berry.’ Aunt Cecily indicated the mistletoe, smiling indulgently. ‘But make haste. Your father sent me to hurry you along.’

  Alex pressed a kiss to Jane’s palm before leading her into the drawing room where the family sat on sofas and chairs grouped around the fire. Father, his arm resting along the mantelshelf, was talking to Hugo, sitting with his arm around Olivia.

  Alex’s stepmother smiled as Alex and Jane entered. ‘Leo! Here they are.’

  Father looked up. ‘Splendid. Alex, pour a glass of champagne for you and Jane, would you please?’

  The rest of the family already held full glasses and Alex sensed the air of expectancy in the room. As soon as Alex and Jane were settled, Father cleared his throat.

  ‘This Christmas marks the end of a very special year for our family. We welcome both Liberty and Jane, and I, personally, should like to thank you both for making my sons the happiest of men.

  ‘Dominic—you are to be a father yourself before long. I know you and Liberty will make wonderful parents, and Rosalind and I cannot wait to meet our next grandson or granddaughter.

  ‘I also have Hugo and Olivia’s permission to announce the happy news that the twins can expect a little brother or sister in the summer. Again, I cannot wait to meet him or her. Congratulations to you both.’

  A murmur of excitement rippled around the room. Olivia blushed, and Hugo simply looked immensely proud.

  ‘Which brings me to Alex.’ Father paused, and Alex felt the full force of his penetrating silver-grey gaze. ‘Welcome home, Son. For too many years you have been a stranger, but now you are back in the family fold and nothing could make me happier.

  ‘Jane...’ Again he paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was choked. ‘Jane. Thank you. From the bottom of all our hearts, thank you. Without you, I do not believe the last few months would have had a happy ending.’

  ‘So,’ Father raised his glass high, the cut glass sparkling as it reflected the firelight, ‘I now propose a toast. To us.

  ‘To the Beauchamps.

  ‘May we continue to go from strength to strength. From our generation,’ his gaze rested in turn on Stepmother, on Uncle Vernon and Aunt Thea, and on Aunt Cecily
and Zach, ‘to yours,’ and it was the turn of Dominic and Liberty, of Alex and Jane, and of Hugo and Olivia, ‘and to the generation to follow—our beloved children upstairs, and those yet to be born.

  ‘May they grow healthy and may they prosper and, most important of all, may they be as blessed as their elders in finding the precious gift of love.’

  ‘To the Beauchamps.’ Every voice joined in that toast.

  Alex felt as though his heart might burst with joy as he looked at each member of his cherished family in turn. Finally, his gaze reached Jane and lingered, lovingly. They shared a tender smile as their glasses clinked together.

  ‘To the most treasured gift of all,’ Alex whispered. ‘To love.’

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story

  check out the other books in

  The Beauchamp Heirs miniseries

  Lady Olivia and the Infamous Rake

  Daring to Love the Duke’s Heir

  And why not check out

  The Beauchamp Betrothals miniseries?

  Cinderella and the Duke

  Scandal and Miss Markham

  Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr Gray

  Keep reading for an excerpt from A Deal with Her Rebel Viking by Michelle Styles.

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  A Deal with Her Rebel Viking

  by Michelle Styles

  Chapter One

  Late June AD 873—Manor of Baelle Heale, Forest of Arden, West Mercia, now modern-day Balsall Common, near Birmingham, England

  A late-morning heat haze shimmered on the water meadow, where a cloud of blue butterflies rose in the slight breeze. Peace personified. Ansithe, middle daughter of the ealdorman Wulfgar, whose manor lands included the meadow, breathed in deeply and made a memory before adjusting the quiver of arrows she’d slung over her back.

  The water meadow in bloom with yellow, pink and blue wildflowers had to be one of her favourite places in the whole world. No one bothered her here, or complained that she was weaving a cloth of dreams instead of a woolen one. Her eldest sister’s jibe earlier that day about Ansithe’s housekeeping standards and how no one decent would want a widow whose weaving threads always tangled rankled. She had run the household capably before Cynehild and her young son had arrived, fleeing the Mycel Haethen or the Great Heathen Horde of Danes’ inexorable advance in East Mercia. And she did her best thinking outdoors, always had.

  Someone had to work out a way to save their father and Cynehild’s beloved husband who had both been taken prisoner. They could be freed, according to the message from the Danish warlord who held them, for a price, gold that they didn’t have. He had sent the severed finger of Cynehild’s husband to back up his demand. If Ansithe could engineer a way to free them, then maybe her father would understand she was indispensable to the smooth running of the estate and any talk of her entering into a new betrothal would cease. One unhappy marriage was enough for a lifetime.

  She withdrew an arrow from her quiver, imagining the tree knot was the commander’s head, but the sound of tramping feet made her freeze.

  Ansithe retreated to the shade of the great oak which stood at the edge of the meadow. She concentrated on forcing air into her lungs. It would be nothing—a deer if she was lucky, or a wolf if she wasn’t.

  She turned slightly. Her heart skipped a beat. The Heathen Horde, here in Baelle Heale rather than where they should be—fifty miles to the east in the conquered lands. Openly. And not skulking in the shadows or keeping to Watling Street, the Roman road which ran a few miles from Baelle Heale.

  Ansithe flattened herself against the oak and watched their progress as the group of warriors emerged from the woods. They seemed in no hurry and in no mood to conceal themselves.

  The lead warrior, a tall blond man with broad shoulders, put his hands on his hips and examined the water meadow as though he owned it. She admired his chiselled cheekbones, and tapered waist for a long heartbeat until she noticed the large sword hanging from his belt alongside the iron helm. Her blood ran cold.

  She wanted to scream that it wasn’t his land, that the people here were not weak and lily-livered like the Eastern Mercians, giving in without a fight, but managed to choke the words back.

  Shouting at a warrior was likely to get her killed. Despite the sentiment her older sister had recently voiced about her reckless, mannish ways, Ansithe knew she possessed some modicum of self-preservation. She concentrated on keeping still and silently willing the warriors to move on.

  The warlord turned his head as if he’d sensed her unspoken defiance, gazed straight towards where she stood and took a half-step towards her, saying something to the others with a slight smile on his lips.

  With trembling fingers, she notched her arrow in the bowstring and muttered a prayer to all the saints and angels. Just when she thought she would be forced to loose the arrow and fight to her death, a wood pigeon arched up into the sky, launching itself from a branch above her with a loud clap of its wings.

  Another man pointed to it, giving a harsh laugh and saying something that Ansithe didn’t quite catch. Her warrior nodded, but gave one last searching look at the oak before striding in the direction of the river.

  Ansithe lowered her bow and drew further back before his ice-blue eyes spied her again.

  She knelt on the ground, grabbed a handful of dirt and raised it.

  ‘I will defend this land or die,’ she vowed.

  * * *

  The manor-house yard appeared unnaturally still in the late afternoon shadows when Moir Mimirson entered it, following in the wake of his younger charge and his four companions.

  A rundown air clung to the once substantial hall. The barns needed fixing and the stone walls had tumbled down in three places. Even though this area of Mercia had not witnessed a battle, Moir was willing to wager that the war had irrevocably altered this place, taking the able-bodied to fight and leaving only the weak, infirm and the women to defend it. Easy pickings for a raid, but such a thing would be a violation of the treaty his jaarl sought to sign with the Mercians.

  The sheer stillness of the place made his skin prickle, just as it did before a battle was due to start. Instinctively his hand went to the amber bead he wore about his neck, the one which had belonged to his mother. Before any battle, he touched it and remembered his final vow to her—to be better than his father. Always.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ Moir called in a low voice. ‘They have departed. I can’t even spy a hen or a pig for supper. We should move on, discover the way to Watling Street and return to your father—something which would have been easier if you had not tangled with our guide and made him abandon us.’

  His wayward charge halted. His face contorted as it always did when Bjartr was forbidden anything. ‘Why was it my fault that the guide ran off? Or that we got lost trying to discover where he’d gone?’

  ‘Men tend to dislike having swords held at their throat when they quite rightly suggest that looting and raiding is not what one does when trying to negotiate a peace treaty.’

  Bjartr’s mouth turned down in a petulant pout. ‘You should have stopped him. You are supposed to be my steward. And you should have provided us with proper food. My belly is rumbling. My father,
your sworn jaarl, assigned you this task. Or are you like your father—given to disloyalty?’

  Moir struggled to control his temper. Bjartr had not been alive when the tragedy with his parents had occurred. Bjartr’s recollection bore passing little to the truth of why Moir had been sent on this fool’s errand of a mission and was now having to play nursemaid to a group of barely blooded warriors rather than providing protection for his jaarl at the delicate negotiations with the Mercians and the other warlords.

  ‘I swear I heard bells earlier and that means an abbey,’ another warrior said, winking broadly at Moir. ‘There is always gold for the taking at a place like that. Here? Even the chickens have flown.’

  ‘Asking for hospitality remains the custom in the North. I suspect they follow similar customs here.’ Moir tried one last time. His sense of looming disaster rather than victory increased with every breath. ‘It is why we set out with gifts for those who favoured us. We can still ask for food to ease our starving bellies.’

  Was this the meaning of his vision of a Valkyrie earlier? To be wary of this place?

  ‘Instead of being the rock who held the shield wall together, you have become my father’s craven hound,’ Bjartr jeered. ‘My father will be beyond proud when I return laden with gold and hostages—no matter what he told you about keeping the peace.’

  Moir firmed his mouth. Any treasure to be found was probably safely buried long ago. Hostages simply caused unforeseen problems. And he was loyal to Bjartr’s father, Andvarr, the man who had taken a chance on him a long time ago. ‘You think seven warriors are enough for an all-out attack? How are you going to deploy them?’