Wicked Christmas (Blackhaven Brides Book 10)

by Mary Lancaster

  Elizabeth raised her eyes to his. “Do you believe that? That death is all there is?”

  He shrugged. “Yes. But I could be wrong and you could be right. None of us know. Remember her with kindness, speak her name to Andreas sometimes.”

  She nodded, swallowing. “You have seen a lot of death in your profession.”

  “I like to think it could have been more, but I wish it were less.” He hesitated, then. “You have seen death, too. Yet you never speak of your husband.”

  Her lips twitched into a small, rueful smile. “He died in a hunting accident. A genuine one.”

  “Did you love him?” As soon as the words spilled out, he regretted them. He had no right to ask, and less reason to be jealous. Had she been Miss Hale, there could have been hope for him. But she had always been the princess, and in his heart, buried beneath the bright, unreasonable new hope, he had surely always known it.

  “Once,” Elizabeth said. “When I was sixteen years old, wide-eyed and impressionable. He was young and handsome and princely. And I was the daughter of his wealthiest subject. I thought our marriage was a fairytale, but it was a business transaction. My love could not thrive beyond the first year of infidelity and boorish behavior. I was well out of love by seventeen, and relieved to be so by eighteen. Now he and my father are both dead.”

  Hard on the heels of his pity, came another question, another possibility. “The daughter of his wealthiest subject,” he repeated. “Who inherited your father’s wealth?”

  “I did. Much of it was invested abroad, here in England—which was our attraction to my husband. Napoleon’s whims could not touch it. That is one reason I came here when I fled Vienna.” She frowned. “Why do you ask this now? Does my wealth bother you?”

  His lips twisted. “Oh, my dear, your wealth can make no possible difference to me. But it as clear as day that our assassin was never after Andreas. It was you who needed to die, so that Andreas would be returned to his uncle, who would then, presumably, control the wealth Andreas inherited from you. I can’t imagine anyone risking murder for the sake of an obliterated principality and an empty title. But wealth, filthy lucre, that is a different matter.”

  She stared. “Then…it was I who was meant to die in Vienna? Not Andreas?”

  “I imagine he needs Andreas.”

  She swallowed, taking in the possibility, obviously rethinking everything. “He cannot have Andreas,” she said abruptly. “I have to stay alive to prevent it. But he will not stop when he discovers his men failed.”

  “We’ll find a way.” The words were torn from him. He would do all in his power to help her. That was all he could do.

  A frown tugged at her brow, as though she detected something odd in his manner. And then he watched understanding dawn.

  “You truly believed I was Miss Hale in disguise,” she said slowly.

  “I wished you to be,” he acknowledged. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “You know.” Dragging his gaze from her, he strode once more to the window. “You always knew my presumption. A doctor cannot court a princess.”

  She was silent. Then she said, “Perhaps it depends on the princess. And the doctor.”

  He closed his eyes against the pain. “We both know that is rubbish. You have Andreas to think of.”

  Part of him longed to turn to her, to see if she ached as he did, to comfort her if she did, to ease his own pain in one last glance at her beauty before he bolted to lick his wounds alone. But he didn’t. He kept staring at the dark window, until he saw the few white flakes drifting past.

  “It’s snowing again,” he said stupidly. There seemed to be nothing else to say that did not hurt.

  “Then you had better escort me to church,” she said, “before it grows worse.”

  Chapter Eight

  Until she walked to church with Dr. Lampton that Christmas Eve, Elizabeth had no idea it was possible to feel such pain and such comfort at once. Now that she no longer feared for Andreas’s life, grief for Miss Hale, a woman she had barely known and yet had trusted to care for her son, rose to the surface. Along with that ache, she knew in her heart this was the last walk she would ever take with Nicholas Lampton. Anything else was fantasy, romance of the stupidest, most childish kind, such as she had once indulged for her unworthy husband.

  And yet, Nicholas was there beside her now. Her hand in his arm, she walked through the snow-flecked darkness, aware of his every movement, his every breath, absorbing everything she could because there would be no more. She was glad it was Christmas, to have spent this time of hope with him. In the years since childhood, she had almost forgotten the wonder, the magical element to Christmas. With him, she remembered again.

  She would do better now, and hoped he would, too.

  She would not think of the parting, of the hole that would be left in her life by his absence. She had not known him a week. She would survive because she had Andreas. And somehow, she would think of a way to get Alfred off her back.

  People were streaming toward the church from all over town. Many, from all walks of life, called cheerful greetings to the doctor and smiled at Elizabeth.

  As she expected, the church was packed. The castle family smiled and bowed from their pew at the front of the church. In the otherwise empty pew opposite, Kate Grant turned and beckoned to them.

  “Don’t stay for me,” Elizabeth said with difficulty. “I shall do fine now, and I know your views.”

  “I shall stay,” he replied without explanation.

  And so, they walked to the front, and she sat between Kate and Nicholas. Mr. Grant emerged in his clerical robes and the service began.

  For Elizabeth, there was always something special about church on Christmas Eve and the early hours of Christmas morning, a purely emotional response to the story of birth and salvation and hope, and to the good will that surrounded her. Something seemed to happen to people at Christmas, making them kinder, more forgiving. Perhaps that was what affected her, for when Nicholas’s hand brushed hers accidentally as they stood up to sing, a jolt of physical pleasure swept though her. And with it came an equally shocking knowledge.

  I love him.

  She couldn’t help turning her head toward him. He didn’t sing but gazed straight ahead in silence. He might not have believed, but she knew somehow that he was moved. She loved the strong, defined line of his jaw, the sculpted, unexpectedly sensual curve of his lips, the cool grey eyes that smoldered with passion. She loved his humor, his wit, his self-deprecating kindness that went far beyond religion and teaching and duty to his basic nature. He was that rarest of beings, a compassionate, gentle man.

  Tears rose up her throat, choking her.

  As if he sensed it, he glanced down at her, then almost immediately looked away, as if he could not bear to see her. Or to lose her.

  Why? Why should we lose each other? Who decreed that a princess without a country could not be with a gentleman who works for his living?

  In desperation, her fingers sought his and grasped them. They tensed for an instant, and then slowly curled around her hand.

  A tear escaped, spilling down her cheek. Her voice wavered with sheer emotion as she sang. Because if they loved, they would find a way.

  On her other side, Kate gasped. Thinking the vicar’s wife had seen her teardrop, Elizabeth hastily wiped it on her glove.

  The hymn ended, and Mr. Grant began to pronounce his Christmas blessing.

  Kate grasped Elizabeth’s arm and doubled in pain. “Help me out of here!” she pleaded in a whisper that echoed around the church. Elizabeth seized her around the waist to help her out. Nicholas waited to receive her at the end of the pew.

  “There, we’ve got you,” he murmured. “You shall do fine now.”

  Elizabeth suspected Mr. Grant had never rushed through a blessing so fast.

  *

  While Elizabeth helped Kate to her bedchamber, Lampton sent a servant scurrying to fetch his bag.

&
nbsp; Grant, white faced with fear, had hold of his arm. “It’s a month early. Is it going wrong? Give me the truth, Lampton. I can bear it.”

  “The truth is, I don’t yet know, but I have no reason to believe anything is wrong. Some babies are just anxious to be born.” He grasped Grant’s shoulder. “Let me go to her and I’ll tell you everything as soon as I know it myself. Be strong, Grant, because she will need to be, for however many hours it takes.”

  Grant straightened. “I know. But I also know much she fears losing this child. She looks on her pregnancy as a miracle.”

  “I’d be surprised,” Lampton said dryly, and was relieved to see the answering spark of amusement in Grant’s eyes, however brief. With what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he left Grant and hurried upstairs.

  In truth, Kate’s early and sudden travail troubled him far more than he revealed to Grant. He understood only too well the devastation his friend would suffer if he lost his wife or his child. And yet, people survived such loss. He had. He just wouldn’t wish such agony on his worst enemy.

  When he strode into the room, Kate was already in bed, clinging to Elizabeth’s hand as a wave of pain took her.

  “Where is her maid?” he demanded.

  “She claims she cannot support her mistress through such an ordeal and has fled,” Elizabeth reported.

  “I shall dismiss her for cowardice,” Kate said breathlessly.

  “No you won’t,” Lampton said.

  Pain obviously battered Kate again, worryingly close on the heels of the last one.

  “Could you find me another maid?” he asked Elizabeth.

  “Kate seems to like my being here. I shall assist you.”

  “That isn’t fitting,” he said without thought.

  Elizabeth laughed. “What could be more fitting? There, good girl,” she added warmly to Kate. “Now, breathe.”

  “Kate, I need to examine you,” Lampton said calmly.

  Kate nodded.

  “Are you happy to have the princess with you?” he asked bluntly.

  Tears started to Kate’s eyes. “I want Tris,” she whispered. “But don’t shout. I know it won’t do.”

  “I’ll call him if you get out of hand,” Lampton said, folding back the sheet. Kate gave a breathless laugh that turned into a soft moan of pain as another contraction wracked her. “Elizabeth, we’ll need towels, lots of them.”

  Kate’s child was clearly determined to be born immediately. Her pains were coming so close together that it was difficult to explain to her she was not yet wide enough to push the baby out, as her body was urging her to.

  His main concern was that the baby might not yet have turned to the birth position, and such a delivery would be both dangerous and excruciating for Kate. Fortunately, Elizabeth took over, encouraging Kate to pant as he had taught her, to avoid pushing, while he examined her.

  With unspeakable relief, he felt the baby’s head and knew quite suddenly that everything would be well. As he straightened, his smile to Kate was quite genuine.

  “We’re almost there,” he assured her.

  It was only then, when the anxiety left him, that he realized how wonderfully useful Elizabeth was, fetching and carrying, comforting Kate and giving her sips of water, as well as keeping her calm and focused on what she had to do. More than that, her very presence helped him. He could not dwell on that right now, but it was there at the back of his mind, with some other huge thought that he could analyze later. He had no time for emotion. He had to see his friends’ child into the world, as he had been unable to do for his own.

  There had been many births since Mary died, but for some reason, this one seemed like his redemption, his forgiveness.

  Thrusting the emotion aside, he glanced up at Kate’s sweat-soaked face. “Good,” he said briskly. “Now, when the next pain comes, you can leave off panting. Just push as you want to.”

  And very quickly after that, he caught the new life in his hands, a healthy, breathing baby that he wrapped tenderly in a towel and placed in his weeping, laughing mother’s arms.

  Leaving them to Elizabeth’s exclamations, he strode to the door.

  “Grant!” he yelled. “You have a daughter!”

  There was a clatter from downstairs, as though Grant had knocked something over, swiftly followed by his pounding footsteps on the stairs. At the same time, the baby began to cry.

  Grant, in shirt sleeves and unfastened waistcoat, pushed past Lampton and exploded into the bedchamber. Elizabeth stepped away from the bed, moving out of everyone’s way.

  “They’re well,” Lampton said quietly. “They’re both well.”

  Kate looked up from her daughter and smiled. As if she couldn’t help it, she reached for Grant with her free arm. He strode to her and sank on the bed. His Adam’s apple worked as his arm crept around his wife and he gazed down at his tiny daughter in wonder.

  “She’s perfect,” he whispered. “How very clever you are, Kate.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said shakily, laying her head on his shoulder.

  It was such a timeless vignette of love that all the emotion Lampton had been keeping at bay rose up and swamped him. There was sorrow for his little lost one in there somewhere, but most of it was sheer, overwhelming happiness for his friends and the miracle of life he had just assisted.

  Gentle fingers touched his arm. The bedchamber door closed on the new family, and Elizabeth stood in front of him. With trembling fingers, she wiped his cheek and he realized he was weeping.

  “Oh, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Oh, my dear.” Her arms went around him, holding him, her cheek was pressed to his.

  With a gasp, he hugged her to him. “I love you. I love you, and nothing else matters. We’ll find a way, if only you love me.”

  “Oh, you idiot,” she said brokenly. “Do you not know that I always have?”

  Laughter shook him through the tears that still threatened. “Always? All week?”

  “No, all my life. Even before I met you,” she said obscurely and pulled back to look into his face. Her eyes shone with tears of sheer emotion, like his. Nothing and no one had ever been so beautiful.

  He kissed her, long and tenderly. It was just one more miracle of this Christmas night.

  *

  Mrs. Graham had gone home to her own family for Christmas Day, so when the battering began at his front door, Lampton was obliged to answer it himself. Hoping it was no one taken urgently ill on such a day, he threw the door open and Grant brushed past him into the house with a surge of snow and freezing wind.

  “There you are,” he said briskly. “You’re only half-dressed and dinner will be ready directly.”

  Lampton blinked. “Dinner? Kate cannot want guests today! Neither of you can.”

  “On the contrary, it’s Kate who insists. Your princess is organizing things as if the vicarage is her palace, and it is all going splendidly. Put your coat on, man. And comb your hair. Kate won’t care, but you might at least try to impress your princess.”

  Lampton frowned at him. “You keep calling her my princess.”

  “Isn’t she?”

  In truth, Lampton didn’t know. In daylight, alone in his own modest home, the emotionally-charged scene of last night seemed like a dream. A dream that warmed and thrilled him. But he was trying desperately to keep his feet on the ground, to prepare himself for almost inevitable disappointment.

  Since they were both exhausted, he had taken her back to the hotel very shortly after their mutual confession of love. He had rarely felt such closeness to another human being and the particular elation of simply being with Elizabeth, of knowing she cared for him, was utterly new and wonderful.

  But they were in a state of wonder following the birth. Elizabeth had her son to think about. And inevitably, doubts tugged and nipped away at his happiness.

  Instead of answering Grant, he said abruptly, “Am I a fool, Grant?”

  Grant searched his face. “Yes, if you don’t t
ake this chance.”

  “Unequal marriages don’t always work.”

  “Mine does,” Grant said frankly. “Wickenden’s does, and Tamar’s, and Braithwaite’s. Marriages are always unequal in some way—birth, wealth, education, experience, age, beauty. Follow your heart, my friend. I believe she is following hers.”

  Lampton gave him a lopsided smile. “Have I ever told you what a very odd vicar you are?”

  “Frequently. I take it as a complement from you. Nicholas,” he added as Lampton began to run upstairs to dress more properly.

  Lampton turned, raising one eyebrow.

  “Thank you for what you did last night.”

  “I didn’t do anything but watch,” Lampton said. “Kate did it herself.”

  “I know you did more than that. Your presence made all the difference to her. And to me.”

  A sardonic reply rose to his lips and died at the last moment. It was Christmas after all. “I was glad to be there,” he said honestly.

  *

  Elizabeth adjusted the central table decoration of holly and candles and stood back to admire.

  “Excellent,” she pronounced and the maid fled in relief, presumably before she changed her mind again. At the sound of muffled footsteps outside, Elizabeth glanced involuntarily at the window and saw two familiar figures passing through the powdery snow to the front door.

  Her stomach, which had been tingling all morning, seemed to dive, and she reached nervously to check that her hair was still in place. Not that Dr. Lampton would notice such trivialities. Her heart drummed at the sound of his voice in the hall. She yearned to rush out and meet him, but lived in fear of finding his expression changed from the exciting warmth, the love of last night.

  Did she really believe he was so fickle? No, but it was a highly emotional time. Perhaps he had been carried away and regretted it…

  Swallowing, she pulled herself together and walked toward the door.

  Dr. Lampton—Nicholas—was hanging up his overcoat on the stand. Beside him, Mr. Grant was asking the maid if his wife was still upstairs.

  “Yes, sir,” the girl replied, just as Grant caught sight of Elizabeth.