Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  “It’s not mine!” Ursula pressed her fingers to her temple. “I mean…it’s for emergencies.”

  “If you say so, lil lady.” He gave her another of his winks.

  Ignoring the provocation, she returned to the task and alighted on a bottle—too small for alcohol, though the contents were dark. Tentatively, she held it to the light.

  “Syrup of figs.” Rye squinted, reading the label. “Isn’t that good for—”

  Ursula shoved it back again. “My last charge. A spoonful every morning.” She returned to rummaging. There was bound to be something useful.

  Her fingers found something metallic. A small tin! Opening it, Ursula smiled. She’d been right. Definitely tea. She gave it a sniff. An unusual blend—rather smoky. Lapsang Souchong?

  She held it out to him. “It’s an acquired taste. Very relaxing in the evening.”

  Rye lowered his nose and sniffed cautiously. “But it’s—” He rubbed a pinch between his fingers, looking bemused.

  Before she could stop him, he’d reached into the bag himself and drawn out something made of wood. It had a long stem with a bulb at the end.

  “You smoke a pipe?” He raised an eyebrow.

  Glaring, Ursula snatched it away. “A lady’s handbag is sacrosanct,” she retorted. “It’s not for—invasion.”

  God help her! She’d be struck down at this rate.

  In fact, Ursula hated the acrid smell of tobacco smoke but why shouldn’t Miss Abernathy indulge. “We all have our vices.” She smiled tightly, trying not to show her disappointment over the elusive tea.

  The bag contained many of the usual things—safety pins and a sewing kit, a newly laundered handkerchief, a pocket watch, Epsom salts, a jar of balsam.

  With satisfaction, she located the rest of Miss Abernathy’s chocolate and three toffees in their wrappers.

  “Not bad.” Rye gave her his lazy grin again. “But no coffee, huh?”

  “It’s not the sort of thing women tend to carry about…” Ursula sighed. She really would have loved a cup of tea. Would the toffees dissolve?

  The very bottom of the bag was sticky with the remnants of confectionary long-since sucked, but there were the unmistakable edges of a book. Bound in dark blue leather, it was pocket-sized, the title embossed in gold:

  The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful

  Ursula leafed through the first few pages, her brow furrowing. She’d received something similar from her grandmother on her eighteenth birthday, just before she was enrolled with Monsieur Ventissori and was obliged to have her “coming out”.

  She didn’t know where her volume was; stuffed in a box somewhere, surely. Hers had been very dull—unless you were riveted by tips on how to throw the perfect luncheon party.

  Still, she supposed it might be useful to her, under current circumstances. She’d have to check the chapters on how to address correspondence to various members of the peerage, and conventions of seating precedence. Such topics were bound to be included in a book of this sort.

  Miss Abernathy’s bag had turned out to be rather a let down—apart from the bar of Fry’s. She stretched out her legs towards the stove, letting it warm the soles of her feet. Ladylike behaviour be damned. He already thought she smoked a pipe and secretly swigged spirits; a flash of ankle was hardly likely to make much difference. Besides which, once he’d delivered her to the castle, they’d never see each other again. He was charming in his way, but she didn’t suppose his relatives mixed in the same circles as the laird.

  It was probably for the best. He already knew too much about her. Once she reached Dunrannoch, she’d need to act her part far more thoroughly.

  She’d put up her hair only hurriedly before going to the dining car that morning. With her rush to disembark the train, then the snow and everything that had happened, several strands at the back were falling down, and the rest had to be a mess. She took out the pins, running her fingers through to unsnag the tangles. It didn’t help that her hair had gotten wet.

  The room was warming up nicely though. Once dry, she’d curl it round her fist and pin it back into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Here. Try a sip o’ this.” Rye had been busy while she perused the book. Both cups were filled to the brim. “There’s a dash o’ brandy to liven it up. Seein’ as we might call this an emergency. Just sip it slow.”

  It smelt surprisingly good and the taste wasn’t bad, with the hot water mixed in.

  Ursula took another mouthful. The heat travelled downwards in a most pleasant way.

  “You can call me Ursula, if you like.”

  Resolving to be nicer to him, she handed over a piece of chocolate. After all, he’d been true to his word. He hadn’t tried to molest her. Rather, all his actions had been considerate.

  From the deep recessed window, Ursula watched the whitewashed landscape fading to grey as the sun disappeared.

  On the whole, it was a good thing they’d stumbled into one another. She might otherwise still be trudging through the snow, ending up who knew where.

  Chapter Seven

  A bothy, on Rannoch Moor

  Early evening, 13th December

  There was no avoiding it. They were stuck there, together in the bothy, until the mist lifted and the snow let up.

  They ate the rest of the chocolate and drank more hot water laced with brandy. Though her head was a little fuzzy, she was feeling more at ease than she had in a long time.

  It had grown dark, the only light coming from the wood burner.

  He’d slipped outside for a while but was now settled cross-legged by their fire, looking as if he sat on the ground all the time.

  Perhaps he did.

  He nodded towards the door. “I checked on Charon—gave him some of our water. It’s still snowing, thick n’ heavy. No sign o’ the moon.”

  She came to sit beside him. Not on the chair but on the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest and gathering her skirts close round her. Making more room, he scooted over, giving her the prime spot, right where the fire glowed hottest.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “What is it you do, in Texas?”

  He didn’t answer right away, surveying her through half-closed eyes, as if weighing up how much she’d be interested in hearing.

  “I work on a ranch with near ten thousand head o’ Longhorn cattle. Three times a year, we drive a couple thousand to the railroad in San Antonio.”

  “That sounds like hard work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But also quite exciting.”

  That smile; his mouth, quirking up on one side.

  “There’s nothin’ like spending the night in the wide, wide open, with nothin’ between you and the stars: Orion, Cassiopeia, Scorpius…and Ursa Minor, o’ course. Named for you, lil bear.”

  Ursula hoped it was dark enough to conceal the flush creeping through her. It was his voice—that long, slow drawl. That and the way he was looking at her.

  “You shouldn’t call me that.” She attempted a reproving look. “I’m Ursula or Miss Abernathy.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” He tipped off his hat then settled it back, staring at her still from behind its rim.

  He didn’t look sorry.

  He was laughing at her; she was certain of it, but she was determined to keep their conversation civil.

  “What else do you miss?” she asked. “Your family I suppose.”

  Again, he took a moment before answering. “Most everythin’, truth be told—but my dog especially.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a smidge. Here was a subject they could talk of without her feeling awkward. She’d had a dachshund some years ago and had been thinking of purchasing another. Once she came into her money, she’d do just that. She could have five if she liked! There would be no one to say she couldn’t.

  The thought brought her a wave of pleasure.

  Her current situation wasn’t what she would choose, but it was an adventure of sorts, and it wouldn’t b
e for long. Soon, she’d have the financial independence to make her own decisions.

  “What breed is he, your dog?”

  “A blue and tan Lacy.” Rye gave her a genuine smile now—one that had nothing to do with teasing her. “Helps herd the livestock. He’s smart as they come, and loyal with it.”

  “All dogs are loyal, aren’t they?” Ursula sighed. “More reliable than people on the whole.”

  “It’s like the story of Argos.” Rye moved his weight to one side. “You know it, right? After twenty years o’ his master wandering, he was the only one to recognise him.”

  He’d read The Odyssey? Of course, why shouldn’t he? They had books in Texas, just like everywhere else.

  Rye continued. “That poor dog’d been neglected all the time Odysseus was away. He was unloved, weak and full o’ lice, but it dint stop him waggin’ his tail on his master’s return. He lacked even the strength to walk over to him, and Odysseus couldn’t go to him for fear of discovery, but Argos showed he was loyal. Content at last, the old fella lay down and died, and Odysseus couldn’t do anything but wipe away his tears—not wantin’ his enemies to see and guess who he was.”

  Ursula couldn’t help but notice that Rye’s eyes were glistening.

  “The bond between a dog and his master puts most human loyalties to shame,” she said softly. Perhaps it was the firelight, or the brandy from before, but she felt softer altogether, as if she was letting go of something that had been wound tight inside.

  “Same with horses.” Rye nodded. “Take Charon there, the Hanovarian I was ridin’. He wouldn’t look at anyone when I first came. Since he threw his master, no one’s wanted anythin’ to do with him. It’s a shame, pure and simple, but Charon and I are gettin’ along just fine. He’s been starved of affection is all.”

  Rye leant forward. The room had toasted up nicely but he opened the stove to add more fuel, poking at the embers to stir up the flames.

  She was resting her chin on her knees, looking at him, her eyes wide; hazel green with amber flecks, and lashes tipped in gold. It had been her eyes he’d noticed first, when Charon had brought him near on top of her, almost knocking her down. They’d given each other a fright—no doubt about that.

  He’d been foolish, setting out when he could see mist rolling down the hills. As he’d saddled the horse, Campbell had warned him against it, but he hadn’t been able to face a whole day inside. There were too many women at Dunrannoch. He wasn’t used to it—all that chatter about not much at all.

  Lavinia hadn’t laid it out for him explicitly but it was obvious what they had in mind, and he could hardly blame them. Dunrannoch was their home. It was only natural they’d want to safeguard their place in it. His grandfather was tenacious all right, but he wouldn’t see out too many more years.

  Rye had known the deal. Coming over here, taking on the mantle that could have been his father’s, he’d a duty to continue the line—and that meant finding a wife.

  Or being provisioned with one.

  He’d only been at Dunrannoch a couple of weeks but, already, he was being backed into a corner. Not that they weren’t amenable, those cousins of his: Fiona, Blair, Bonnie, Cora and Elspeth. All dark haired and blue-eyed and pretty as porcelain dolls. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t much to choose between them. Perhaps that was the problem. It felt like picking a shirt from a whole pile stitched just the same.

  Damn! He was an ungrateful son of a bitch.

  Of course, he’d planned to settle down one day and raise a brood. He just hadn’t realised it would happen so quickly. Any other fella would’ve been feeling like a kid in a confectionary shop; instead, he’d only been feeling trapped.

  Until now.

  Until Miss Ursula Abernathy, sitting there with her honeyed hair all loose about her shoulders, and those dainty bare feet, pale as milk. One long, thick ribbon of satin caramel curled down one side, reaching over the curve of her breast, all the way to her waist.

  He’d a yearning to find out how soft it was but he’d made himself sit far enough away that he wouldn’t overstep the boundaries. As it was, he’d have to spin a tale to keep her reputation intact.

  He couldn’t make out if she was flirting with him, with that velvety look in her eyes. When her nose wasn’t wrinkling in disapproval, she sure was pretty.

  He’d no idea what she was thinking right now.

  Nor what she’d say when she worked out who he was.

  He hadn’t lied. Not exactly. He just hadn’t wanted to tell her—not yet. In case it changed how she acted towards him.

  And though he might not be telling Miss Ursula Abernathy the whole truth, he was darned sure she was holding a few things back herself.

  They sat for a long while, drinking the last of the brandy, saying not much at all. Rye tried hard to keep himself from staring. She’d closed her eyes, tilting her head on one side. Her lips were pale pink and petal-plump, parted in just the right way for kissing.

  When riled, she was prickly as a cactus—but kissing her would smooth that out some. That, and holding her close, convincing her that she was safe—that nothing bad could reach her.

  “You’re tired, little bear.” He pushed back a lock of hair from her cheek. “You should get to bed before y’ tump over.”

  Drowsy, she opened one eye. “Where will you sleep?”

  “Right here. I’ve slept on rougher ground. I’ll be fine.” Even as he said it, he was thinking of how he’d like to curl up behind her and tuck her into him. He wanted her close enough that he’d be able to smell her hair.

  If he were honest, he wanted the roundedness of her behind pressed up against him too, but he shoved that thought away quickly. She trusted him, and he wouldn’t do anything to make her regret that.

  “Come on now.” He got her under the arms, raising her up.

  He shouldn’t have given her the last tot of brandy. She wasn’t used to liquor.

  Reaching the wooden cot, she lay down at once, tucking her knees up. It couldn’t be too comfortable; the horsehair mattress was losing its stuffing. He laid the rough blanket over her and she said nothing but, as he stepped away she reached out one arm, her fingers brushing his lower thigh.

  “Keep me warm.”

  “You want me to hold you?” His voiced came out cracked. He knew it was a bad idea but God help him, he was only human.

  She nodded and rolled over, leaving space for him. Not much, but just enough. If he turned in the night, he’d pitch right out and onto the floor.

  He adjusted the blanket, making sure her feet were covered, then slipped alongside. He only hesitated a moment before putting his arm over her shoulder, making her snug in the crook.

  The rest of him he kept apart from her, but she pushed back, as if by instinct, so that her thigh and her cold little feet sought his. Even through her numerous petticoats and layers, he could feel the warmest part of her, fleshy, rubbing against his groin.

  He groaned.

  Couldn’t she feel it? The almighty cock-stand she’d given him?

  Apparently, she could, for she sighed and wriggled, but then her breathing slowed.

  The brandy sent her straight to sleep.

  Rye smoothed her hair and moved up the bed a little. He couldn’t help the erection in his breeches but he’d at least be gentlemanly enough to stick it into her back rather than the cleft of her buttocks.

  It was a good hour before he drifted off, dreaming of wide-open plains and a horse saddled beneath him. He was riding hard, heading into the haze of the desert, towards something he couldn’t quite make out. Something waiting for him in the far-off distance. Something, or someone.

  Chapter Eight

  Early morning, 14th December

  Ursula woke shivering.

  She was alone in the truckle bed and the fire had almost gone out, the embers in the stove glowing only dimly.

  Where was he?

  As she sat up, there was a horrible stabbing through her brain.

&nb
sp; Good God!

  She raised her hand to her forehead. It wasn’t hot, or bleeding—just dizzy and sore. And her mouth seemed to be full of sand.

  Oh for a cup of Earl Grey!

  Gingerly, she lowered her toes to the floor. Someone—Rye of course—had draped her stockings of the day before at the end of the bed, and put her shoes nearby. Lowering her head to reach her feet brought on the jagged spike of pain so she leaned back, contorting herself to avoid further infliction.

  Slowly, she stood up, taking small steps to the table, upon which her coat lay. It was dry, thank goodness.

  He’d left a cup of water for her and, eagerly, Ursula drank it down, though its coldness made her shudder.

  The addition of the liquid to her insides brought about a sudden awareness of her bladder and, heavens to goodness, there was no chamber pot! If she wanted to relieve herself, there was only the pan they’d used for boiling the snow—or she might manage with the cup.

  She tried to gauge its capacity. No—it would have to be the pan; and best to do it quickly, before Rye came back.

  Of course, he would be outside—perhaps answering the same call of nature, or seeing to the horse. It must be ravenous, poor thing. Although her stomach was jumping about, Ursula rather thought she was too. The chocolate hadn’t gone far in filling her up and she’d had nothing else since breakfast on the train.

  That thought brought an anxious tightening to her belly. Could she really go through with this? They’d have found Miss Abernathy before the train reached Fort William, surely. There might be a story in the newspapers. How long before something reached Dunrannoch and they discovered she was an imposter?

  Ursula felt sick.

  But it was all nonsense. Of course it wouldn’t be in the papers. She hadn’t been murdered. She was simply an elderly lady who’d passed away, quietly.

  Ursula had only to keep her head. She’d been altogether silly to leave the train as she had. What had she been thinking? She might have been with Daphne by now.