Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  “We all make mistakes.” Climbing out behind Ursula, Rye resisted the temptation to slap Cameron’s injured shoulder. “But didn’t the others get curious about where we’d gone?”

  “Your grandfather was convinced that Arabella’s story was true—that you two had gone off to… you know.” Cameron gave an apologetic shrug, then winced, clutching his shoulder. “He said you and he had had a long talk earlier in the day and you’d told him you were going to ask Miss Abernathy to marry you. It all added up. It was only when we were sending the last guests to bed that Arabella pounced on me. She was so excited, telling me how she’d planned everything, starting with killing Brodie.” He shuddered and passed his hand over his face.

  Rye had to admit, Cameron looked as sick about it as Rye felt. But had only a few hours passed? It felt as if they’d been in that hole for days.

  “Where is she now?” Rye had to know.

  “I left her sobbing in her room. I made it clear that anything between us was over. She’s in a bad way.” Cameron gave Rye a pleading look. “I’m not sure what she’ll do next—whether she’ll hurt herself.”

  Rye turned to Ursula. “We’ll get you something warm to drink and I’ll light the fire in your room, then I’ll go with Cameron. It’s too much for him to deal with on his own. We may have to lock Arabella in, until we work out how to handle this.”

  “There’s no time for that.” Ursula squeezed Rye’s hand. “We need to see Arabella first. She’s a danger to more than herself. We can’t leave her on the loose.”

  “That’s my little bear.” Rye dropped a kiss on Ursula’s forehead.

  “Follow me,” said Ursula. “It’s quickest to take the servants’ stairs.”

  As they turned onto the corridor in which Arabella’s bedchamber was sited, they were in time to see her emerging from the room.

  “You!” She screeched at Cameron. “Betrayer! After all I did for you.”

  “Arabella, calm down. We can talk this through.” Cameron inched along the passageway.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, you weasel! I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

  “Come back! Arabella!” Cameron called out, but it was too late.

  Lifting her skirts, Lady Balmore ran in the opposite direction.

  “She’s heading for the battlements!” Cameron looked as if he was about to pass out. He staggered and half-fell but urged Rye on. “Go after her, please. Don’t let her do anything stupid.”

  Round and round they climbed, Rye ahead and Ursula doing her best to keep up, taking the spiral steps of stone, past each floor until they reached the door leading onto the roof.

  Rye gasped as he emerged into the night air. A hard frost was forming, coating every surface in a sheen of ice.

  And it was so quiet. Quieter than the dungeon had been.

  He couldn’t see Arabella at first—only the stars and the sky.

  The sky was huge, and the stars brighter than he’d ever seen them, up here, high above the moor.

  Ursula grabbed the back of his shirt. “Where is she?” She was panting hard, having run all the way.

  “Look, there.” He saw her now, the wind whisking her long hair, tumbling from its pins. And she’d climbed up onto the ramparts.

  “Arabella!” Ursula called. “Come down from there.”

  Lady Balmore turned, and there was a madness in her eyes.

  “Come here then, if you want to help me.” She stretched out her arm, beckoning.

  “No, Ursula!” But Rye wasn’t quick enough. Ursula had darted past him, running to Lady Balmore.

  “Wait!” Ursula’s voice was whipped by the breeze. She’d almost reached her.

  “No time to wait,” answered Lady Balmore. Her fingers touched Ursula’s and pulled her up beside her.

  “You’ll go with me, then. I won’t be alone.” With that, Lady Balmore leant forward.

  There was a flutter of fabric and a shriek.

  “Ursula!” Rye grabbed her waist and yanked her back.

  He’d nearly lost her.

  So very nearly.

  From far below came a hollow thud.

  Epilogue

  Christmas Day

  “Mistletoe? In your bridal crown?” Mary pursed her lips, looking over Ursula’s ensemble one last time—even though they were standing just inside the door of the castle chapel and it was really too late to change anything. “Are you quite sure?”

  Miss Abernathy might have owned up to being closely related to the Arrington viscountcy but Mary was still a little suspicious. In her eyes, decent women didn’t go galavanting about the Highlands pretending to be something they weren’t.

  “She looks lovely!” declared Lady Dunrannoch. “I only worry that you’re warm enough, Ursula dear. Even with your thickest underthings, this place is as cold as the tomb.”

  The countess was far more willing to reconcile herself to Ursula’s new status. Clearly, young Rye was smitten—and the girl was nothing if not resourceful. She’d hold her own amongst the Dalreaghs, Lady Dunrannoch was certain.

  Iona’s wedding dress, which had been handed down from the old dowager herself, had only needed the tiniest of alterations. The lace, freshly whitened with lemon juice, was studded with tiny pearls across the bodice and down each sleeve, and the wide, square-neck of the gown was most becoming. With silver slippers and a long veil of silk tulle, Ursula’s costume was complete.

  With all that had happened, it was only fitting for the wedding to be a quiet affair, but Rye was determined that their joy would push tragedy aside.

  They were sharing that joy with the people who really mattered. Both Daphne and Eustace had made the journey, thanks to Campbell riding out to send telegrams, and all the family were gathered.

  As Earl Dunrannoch walked Ursula down the aisle to meet her groom, Rye looked round and gave her that lopsided Dalreagh smile. The one that told her she was the person he most wanted to see in the whole wide world, and the one he wanted to kiss. The one he wanted to spend his life with—no matter what life ended up throwing at them.

  What had Miss Abernathy’s Lady’s Guide said? She’d been looking for advice on marriage and husbands, and it had seemed too embarrassing to ask out loud. The book seemed to have a lot to say on the subject—some of it bizarre, but most of it rather good. Or, at least, it seemed so. Not having ever been married, or had a husband, Ursula could only go with her gut.

  There had been something about not finding your happiness by running away, and that, when you found the right person, you’d know it was time to stop running all together. That you could stand still, instead, and know you were right where you were supposed to be.

  Ursula had that feeling.

  She didn’t need to run away from Rye.

  He wasn’t marrying her because that was what his family were insisting upon.

  He wasn’t marrying her from any sense of duty.

  And he wasn’t marrying her because of the inheritance. She knew this for certain because she still hadn’t told him, although she’d had to come clean to the pastor about her real name, and to Rye too, for the sake of legalities; it was time to say goodbye to Miss Abernathy.

  Rye was making her his because he wanted her in his arms and in his heart, and he wanted to face every bit of what came next together.

  He looked deep into her eyes and the smile had gone for the moment. He looked serious, and just a little nervous.

  “You ready to take the leap, little bear?”

  “I am—if you’re jumping with me.”

  There was the smile again. “We’re gonna jump right in together.” He pressed his lips to her ear. “You and me. Every day, over and over.”

  And Ursula smiled right back.

  Meanwhile, from the battlements, the ghost of Camdyn Dalreagh looked down. He’d put away his bagpipes for the time being, having no intention of playing them any time soon. Instead, he’d tucked McTavish under his arm.

  Together, they’d watch over Castle
Dunrannoch and the newlyweds.

  McTavish would surely leave an occasional offering on the crisp quilt of Lord and Lady Balmore’s bedchamber, but it would always be given with love.

  About Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Emmanuelle lives with her husband (maker of tea and fruit cake) and her hairy pudding terrier (connoisseur of squeaky toys and bacon treats).

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  Kidnapped with the Knight

  by Emily Murdoch

  Chapter 1

  Edmund slammed down the pint and ignored the slopping stickiness that washed over his fingers.

  “There,” he said triumphantly. “There – a straight flush. Can any of you match it?”

  He looked around the corner table in the dingy pub where he had set up shop for the afternoon, and saw with what he hoped was well-hidden relief that none of his companions appeared to have a hand stronger.

  What a way to spend Christmas Eve of 1818.

  “Hand it over,” he said calmly, trying to ignore the tension in his shoulders. He must not loosen his cravat or his waistcoat, he must not show any sign at all of weakness. This was always the most challenging part of the game.

  Not the cards themselves; no, he was too experienced now at earning his way day to day through a deck of cards. No matter where the queen hid, he could find it; he could make twenty one two out of three hands; a straight flush was never too far away.

  No, it was collecting on his winnings that was always a little more difficult. No one liked to lose.

  “It doesn’t seem possible,” said a stocky man sitting directly opposite him, his cards lying on the table. “Such a strong run of luck…it does not seem possible.”

  Edmund swallowed. He was a tall man, that was true, but Mr Groats, if that was his real name, was broader than he was, and looked much more experienced with his fists.

  He did not want it to come to that.

  “Some people get all the luck,” said Mr Groats’ companion, pushing his share of the winnings towards Edmund with a glare on his face that was poorly hidden. “Another round?”

  The fourth man at their table, a stringy sort of fellow with a straggly beard and a nervous look in his eye, shook his head. He pushed his share of the bet over to Edmund, inclined his head jerkily to them all, and rose to leave.

  Mr Groats still had his eye on Edmund, who knew better than to look away. Never show weakness, that was the trick.

  One of the few things of worth his father had ever taught him.

  “Just how long have you been playing cards, may I ask?”

  Mr Groats’ question was speculative, whining. Edmund leaned back, trying his best to give the appearance of a gentleman who was so unconcerned with the question that he would take his sweet time with the answer.

  “Goodness, for as long as I can remember,” he said breezily. He had always had the Northmere charm, had it in spades, but in a place like the King’s Head, it was not just a life skill. It was a lifeline.

  Mr Porter, scrubbing a glass at the bar, caught his eye and grinned. He had seen all of this from Sir Edmund Northmere before.

  Mr Groats frowned. “And you have always won, have you not?”

  This was not going quite as well as Edmund had hoped. Usually at this point, his opponents were so in their cups that they hardly noticed how much they were losing. When they eventually collapsed onto the table, what were a few more shillings taken from pockets?

  Edmund swallowed. It was not going to be one of those easy evenings, he could see that.

  He took a careful look around the room with a carefree air that he hoped Mr Groats would not recognise as checking for an escape route – and a woman sitting in the opposite corner caught his eye.

  She did so for three reasons. Firstly, because she was there in the first place. Edmund could not remember the last time he saw a woman – an actual woman – in the King’s Head. Mr Porter did not usually allow that sort of thing.

  Secondly, because she was with two of the most unpleasant gentlemen he had seen in a long time, and for Edmund, that was saying something. He had had money once, true, but no longer, and that meant frequenting places like the King’s Head far more often than he would have liked.

  It was the best place to relieve people of their coin, when they were drunk.

  But thirdly, and perhaps the reason why his eyes refused to continue their circuit of the room, was because she was beautiful.

  Even from this distance, Edmund could see the line of her neck, the brightness of her eyes. Her lips were full as she spoke rapidly and quickly with the two gentlemen she was seated with, and as she twisted to raise her tankard to her lips, Edmund saw the curve of her breasts.

  Edmund swallowed. Now was not the time to get distracted.

  “I think you are cheating, sir!”

  Mr Groats’ words caused a hush in their corner of the pub, and Edmund’s eyes snapped away from the enticing beauty in the corner to the rather sweaty man who had just uttered the words one should never say at a card table.

  “Cheating?” Edmund repeated the word quietly but his steely gaze focused on the man, and Mr Groats did his best to look stern. “On Christmas Eve – on any day of the year?”

  “Yes sir, cheating,” he said stiffly. “I do not think it possible for one man to have such luck, and so I say, cheating!”

  His companion had half risen from his seat, ready for the fight, but had lowered himself gently as he saw Edmund was not going to resort immediately to fists.

  He needed to think, and fast. Edmund knew the type, and knew that Mr Groats and his friend were almost certainly not alone. It was big talk Mr Groats was giving, and if Edmund had been amongst his old friends, it would have been a duel and with swords, not fists in a dingy establishment such as this.

  A muscle twitched in his neck. Well, that life of his was over. This was his life now, and if he was going to survive longer than the two years he had managed, he needed to think, fast.

  Something glittered on the other side of the room, catching his attention.

  The lovely woman had lifted her tankard again, and a candle had glimmered in the one shiny part of it.

  Edmund smiled. “I do declare, Mr Groats, that I am innocent!”

  “Prove it,” snarled the man, taking to his feet.

  He was far taller than Edmund had predicted, perhaps even taller than him – but that did not matter now. He had a plan, and all he needed was a distraction.

  “I am more than willing to be searched, Mr Groats,” he said clearly in a loud voice, “but I hope you do not take offence when I say I would rather it was a beautiful maid than yourself.”

  Mr Groats’ companion laughed, as did a few other onlookers who had turned in their seats to watch the free entertainment for the evening.

  A flush tinged the parts of Mr Groats that was not beard. “I – I did not say I would – ”

  “And so we need a beautiful maid,” said Edmund, leaning back and grinning.

  More laughter rang out and Mr Porter yelled, “Don’t we all?”

  Putting his hands behind his back as though utterly unfazed by the whole thing, Edmund smiled.

  Mr Groats was looking discomforted now. “Well, what do you suggest? I will not leave this place until you are searched, mark you, I do declare it!”

  Edmund’s smile widened. “You there, the girl at the table. Would you do me the honour of searchin
g my person?”

  Molly frowned and tried to calm her beating heart. It was enough that they had agreed to meet with her; if she could just get to them to agree that –

  “No,” said Tom with an air of finality. “No, Molls, I do not see it. Not interested.”

  Molly sagged with frustration at the table. “Tom, you know that I speak sense, and you know that I have always been the one to do so.”

  “You are not the only one with a plan, Molls,” said Jack, shaking his head with a smile. “Oh, no. We do not need you to think up the next one.”

  Molly sighed and leaned back in her chair. She should have known, when her brothers had suggested a drink at the King’s Head on Christmas Eve, that they were not serious in their discussion. She had asked them to think about it, and they had promised they would.

  Why had she been so foolish as to believe them?

  More to distract herself from the frustration rising in her stomach than because she was actually thirsty, she raised the tankard of beer to her lips and drank.

  It was disgusting, but she should have known. No woman ever stepped foot in the King’s Head, and there was a reason for that – beyond Mr Porter’s dislike of having them about the place, unless they were behind the bar and convincing foolish men to buy around round.

  “We cannot continue as we are,” she said quietly in the silence that had grown. “You know that. We have been lucky up until now – ”

  “Not lucky enough,” interrupted Tom, thunder in his look. “If that Peeler had spent just five minutes longer talking to you, we would have finished that job and got all the coin from the pawnbrokers.”