Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  Ian grunted. If they had been fools, he wouldn’t have employed them. Walton marched off and returned with Ian’s paperwork.

  When Ian arrived back, dripping melted snow into the parlor, the cat was his only company. Why Rose had decided to adopt the miserable creature was anyone’s guess. A whim, no doubt. Or some strange ploy to induce him to watch the snow yellowing, like this morning. That cat could piss a river if she lapped enough milk. Ian unlocked his case on the table, assuming the sight of him working in the parlor would keep Smith and Gray out. He wondered where Rose had gone, but doubtless she was prinking in the bedroom.

  He lost himself in the new bills being presented in the new year, and the next time he checked his fob, half the day had passed. Leaning back in the most uncomfortable chair he had ever experienced, he gazed at the waning fire. The cat had rotated from midnight to twelve-fifteen. She clearly heard him move, and stood and stretched, one long muscle at a time. Finally, she turned to face him. A first. She stared right into his eyes. No doubt she wanted her lackey to take her to the hiding place of yellow snow again. The noise from the taproom had risen a pitch, or possibly he hadn’t noticed a noise while he’d been working. He also hadn’t had consumed any fluid since early this morning. A mug of ale would refresh him.

  First, he locked his case and then he took her majesty outside. When she had finished her prowling around, expecting to find a dry spot in the snow, he deposited her back inside, trying this time to have her face the room. She narrowed her eyes with mistrust, and took up her previous uncompromising position. Clearly she was made of sterner stuff than most cats. His own tasks completed, he took his case up to the bedroom, washed his face and hands, brushed his tousled hair back, buttoned his coat, and began to make his way to the taproom.

  Halfway down the stairs, he realized that Rose hadn’t been in the bedroom. His chest filled with dread as he increased his pace down to the hallway. If that wretch had been in the taproom all this time, he would kill her.

  He strode into the overflowing room. The patrons had lined up at the small bar, two deep. A few sat over hot meals in the booths, but the crowd surrounding the faro table numbered in the dozens. Smith and Gray appeared to be doing a rip-roaring trade, judging by the inordinate noise inside the packed area. Had Rose been there, he would have spotted her. Frowning, he pushed through to the bar where the tapster was pulling brews, not planning to call attention to the fact that he had misplaced his ‘wife.’

  Susie suddenly appeared, pushing in front of a couple of farm laborers at his side. She smiled shyly, and raised her voice above the shouts. “Would you be wantin’ your meal, sir? You just go back into the parlor, out of all this noise, and I will be there in two shakes.”

  He nodded and scanned the room, regardless, but the likelihood of Rose not standing out in the crowd was nil. Rubbing his forehead, he returned to the parlor, and seated himself. Susie arrived in moments, her cheeks flushed. “Shall I bring you a nice slice of meat pie? Or would you like the rabbit stew?”

  “First, I would like to know if you have seen my wife.”

  Avoiding his gaze, Susie wiped down the clean table with her cloth. “She’s with Mrs. Hobbs. We couldn’t leave her wandering around at a loss and she is good company for the mistress.” She raised her eyes. “But she has already eaten, sir. She said she couldn’t wait for you. So, don’t worry yourself about her. She is having a rare old time.”

  Gathering from that speech that Rose was managing to entertain herself quite well with the owners of the establishment, where she would be safe enough, he nodded and ordered a jug of ale and a pie. If Rose had already eaten, he could take a quick meal and return to his paperwork upstairs. The parlor was beginning to shake with the noise. He took the cat with him when he left, and ferocious little Merry clung to his chest using her tiny sharp claws.

  “If you imagine that I am stealing you, you wretched, flea-ridden stray, I will enlighten you. I am trying to deposit you in a safe place, because I have had a certain amount of confidence placed in me. I must live up to Rose’s expectations.” As he finished the last word, he realized he had spoken aloud. He gritted his teeth.

  The cat accepted her placement by the bedroom fire, her back turned. Ian added enough logs to warm the room for a few hours. After making a desk of his briefcase, he continued working, adding notes to his next speech. When the gray afternoon gloom dimmed his ink tracks, he put his work aside. Mrs. Hobb’s company must have been excellent, for he still hadn’t seen Rose.

  The sound of shouts outside moved him toward the window. He glanced down at a group of fighting men ringed with others trying to join the action. More pushed out through the main doorway. Although Rose should be safe enough with the hosts, he would rather have her with him. If she remained downstairs, she wouldn’t have his protection. As he began down the stairs again, the noise increased. If the patrons weren’t waging a full-on war, he was a Dutchman.

  He began to pound down the staircase, his heels soundless over the shouting. Whether his concentration had been extremely deep for the last few hours, or whether the excited bellowing was ongoing, he couldn’t say. Skidding to a halt outside the taproom, he glanced through the doorway. The chairs had been thrown about and splintered. Overturned tables were used as barricades. The place resembled a battlefield, and men with bloodied noses and bruised knuckles stood on the outskirts cheering.

  He squeezed inside the room, jostling for space until he spotted Marty and Watson on the outskirts of the fray, not participating but trying to jostle men out of the main fighting group. Not about to be used as a punching bag as well, he finally caught the eye of Marty, who nudged Walton. His two former soldiers edged through the crowd with tight smiles on their faces, and flanked him.

  He nodded at each, grinned evilly, flung his jacket onto the staircase, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.

  Chapter 6

  In the kitchen of the Pig and Piper, the sound of chairs smashing into the walls continued from the other room. The staff, consisting of the cook, Mrs. Hobbs, two kitchen maids, Mr. Hobbs, a barman, and Rose, stood in a huddle by the work bench. “Leave them to be killed,” Mr. Hobbs said, shouting to be heard over the din. “They deserve it after fleecin’ farm workers and takin’ all their pay. It’s justice, that’s what it is.”

  Rose’s heart tumbled around in her chest. “But think of the blood, Mr. Hobbs.” She widened her eyes with mock horror, which she only half-faked. Mr. Smith and Mr. Gray had been caught out. One of the players had discovered a secret drawer in the table, holding an extra set of cards. “Someone will have to clean it up.”

  The stark anger in the shouting voices of the farm laborers sent cold shivers down her spine. However, if Mr. Smith or Mr. Gray, or both, were killed, the culprit would be arrested and hanged, leaving wives and children, the innocent, to suffer. She hoped someone could calm down the situation.

  Then, her father’s voice echoed in her head: Someone, who one? Someone, you one. But how?

  Being a mere female, her lone voice wouldn’t be heard above the ruckus ... and then she remembered how she could be heard. She spotted the step stool that Mrs. Hobbs used to reach the high shelves. Her chest filling with fluttering birds, she scooped up the steps and marched into the taproom to the beat of, “Don’t go in there, my lady,” from behind her.

  Too late. She was already in and trying to push through the crowd of angry, bumping men. She attempted a quick warming of her throat with a frantic exercising trill. Hearing instead, a deathless squeak, she took a deep breath, and trilled the scales again. Without a pause, she began the newest song in her repertoire, “Silent Night.”

  No one heard her over the shouting. She increased her volume, while she marched over to the nearest table, carrying the stool. The men nearest turned to frown at her. Doubtless her high soprano was bursting their eardrums. Loudly singing Silent night, holy night, three times, she settled the stool near a chair, and held out her hand to the nearest male. With an expressio
n of reluctance, he took her fingers in his. Using him as her balance, she swiftly stepped up onto the seat of the chair and then to the table, and began the second line All is calm. She knew she had a powerful voice, but her audience wasn’t yet convinced.

  By the third line, more heads turned. More shouting stopped. By the time she got to ‘Round yon virgin, she was a virgin surrounded by a group of rough males with ripped shirts, and hot, angry, staring faces. She finished the song to a scuffling silence, and then a loud cheer.

  “More,” someone yelled.

  “If you promise to sing along with me ...”

  And the song was repeated with a shouting chorus of more than thirty tuneless males. Her energy sagged as she watched the surrounding men, hoping she wouldn’t have continue singing all night. Then the crowd parted to admit one very large, but very controlled man, who scooped her off her stage and into his arms. The loudest cheer she had ever had for her voice, erupted. In fact, the second cheer she’d ever had. The first had been minutes earlier.

  “That went well,” she said awkwardly, using Lord Eden Thornton’s favorite phrase to Sir Ian, as he swung around to the doorway with her held in his arms. She circled hers around his neck, relief flooding her. In fact, she may even have clutched gratefully at his shirt collar. She rested her face against the bristles on his chin, while the thunder of his heart against her chest filled her with happiness. He had been afraid for her. He cared. He cared. He cared ...

  As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he paused and said between his clenched teeth, “I survived the battle of Waterloo, Rose, but escorting you home to the country will be the death of me.”

  Chapter 7

  Ian marched up the stairs with Rose in his arms, a constriction over his heart. When he had first heard her soprano voice, he had been outside trying to prevent a double murder. His teeth had ached with impatience. He was trying to preserve the lives of two thieving men, while Rose was cozily singing in Mrs. Hobbs’ parlor. The Hobbs surely had more pressing matters to attend.

  His impatience with Rose’s thoughtlessness made him rougher than he liked with Smith. By the time he and Walton had thrown the broken faro table, minus the cards and the counters, into the men’s carriage, and Marty had finished roaring at the men’s coach driver, Ian had realized the sound of the customers shouting and throwing furniture in the taproom had ceased.

  However, Rose’s soprano still continued.

  He saw the hucksters’ carriage halfway down the road, making sure they disappeared as fast as possible, when the volume of the singing told him he couldn’t possibly have heard Rose from a back room. Her soprano voice pealed from the tavern at the front. Turning, his pulse a whip in his throat, his breathing suspended, he raced through the tavern. Rose stood surrounded by rough men, singing her heart out, which had almost ripped out his. He skidded to a halt, shocked by his underestimation of her.

  Standing on a table top, dwarfed in a food-stained white apron four sizes too large, her blonde curls cascading down over one shoulder, she looked like an angel on high, surrounded by a horde of bloody and battered heathens singing Christmas carols with her. He had spent the longest five minutes of his life, remaining where he stood behind her adoring audience, his hands tightened into fists to restrain him from grabbing her off the table.

  He was hard put to leave her there while she finished taking requests and charming everyone with her unfeigned sweetness. The woman he had decided was nothing but a cold-hearted flirt was exactly the way she appeared, kind, thoughtful, and, yes, adorable. Rightly, he should bow his head in shame to have so misjudged her. However, he had her safe, at least.

  Dumping her on the bed, he stood aside, his fists planted on his hips. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  She widened her soft blue eyes. “That’s a leading question. I’m not sure what I have to say.”

  “You were singing in a tavern. If anyone hears about that, do you know what that will do for your reputation?”

  She slowly rose onto one elbow. “I will be acclaimed the greatest soprano since Madame Fanny Corri-Paltoni?”

  His shoulders relaxed, and he half turned away. Although he refused to let down his guard, on this trip, he had been unable to ignore her endearing sense of humor. But now having finally seen her inner depths, he wanted her for those depths, all the while knowing that he could only have her because of the convenient snowstorm. Even though society’s mores stated otherwise, he couldn’t possibly take advantage of her situation that way. “You are incorrigible.” A heaved sigh relieved a little of his tension.

  “Does that mean wonderful?”

  He shrugged, determined to appear cool. “Your hair is a mess, your apron is dirty, and it’s time we stopped sharing a bedroom. I believe two more will now be vacant.”

  Tears sprang out of her eyes and a trail of glistening diamonds ran down her cheeks. “You can’t mean that. What will everyone think? We shared a bedroom and then you ask to move out?” She lifted the hem of her apron and dabbed at her eyes. “They’ll see that as you being ashamed of me for singing in a tavern. Any other husband would be proud of having a wife who can use a diversion to stop a riot.”

  His shoulders sagged. “But you are not my wife,” he said in a tired voice, combing his hair off his face with his fingers. He fought his urge to grab her back into his arms. “That is the point, not you calming the situation.” He watched her tears, fascinated rather than worried. Her eyes didn’t redden, her nose didn’t leak, and her tears somehow seemed superfluous. “And you can stop the tears now. I have duly noted that you are upset.”

  “Of course I’m upset. I am being ostracized by my husband.” She gulped.

  He stood, staring at her. “We had no choice other than to share a bed, but we can’t continue when there is no need.”

  “Of course there is a need. We are more likely to be remembered if our behavior isn’t logical. A normal husband would be proud of his wife, not desperate to find an excuse to move out of her bedroom.” Her blue eyes met his and another tear trembled, waiting to drip to her chin.

  He broke away from her gaze to feed a log to the low flames. “I doubt that anyone has pushed through the snowfall since yesterday, therefore we’re unlikely to see anyone we know,” he said, in no way justifying his previous argument. His feeble decision lost to the flare of the fire, he hauled in a breath and turned back to her. He had managed his need of her discreetly last night, and he could do the same tonight in the same hurried way after he had chopped enough wood to keep the hotel’s fires going for a month. “However, you are right. If I suddenly moved to another room after forcibly removing you from the tavern, the staff here would remember that as the eighth wonder of the world.” He jammed the pads of his fingers into his forehead trying to rub his hypocrisy away.

  “And we may be able to leave tomorrow, anyway.” She sat up, efficiently sluicing a finger beneath her eyes to remove her tears. “I suppose I should tidy myself up now. I made enough dumplings today to choke a horse. Mrs. Hobbs wanted them for her stew, which she will be serving tonight.”

  His breath left his chest with a sigh of inevitability. “You cooked.”

  “I cooked. Mrs. Hobbs thought you wouldn’t want to see your wife behind the bar,” she said, batting her incredible eyelashes with too much faked innocence.

  “You’re a baggage, Rose.” He shook his head. Life with the wretch would be harrowing. He only wished he could be the one to be harrowed. But he wouldn’t marry Rose unless she loved him.

  He waited until she had removed her apron, tidied her hair, and arranged a shawl across her shoulders, and walked down to the morning parlor with her again.

  “Merry,” she said in a cooing voice as she spotted the cat, back to the door, facing the fire. “How have you coped without us?”

  Merry frowned over her shoulder, stretched luxuriously, leg by leg, and stalked across to Ian. She offered him the same sort of fixed stare he had suffered from his Colonel when he
had been a junior officer. He leaned down to scratch behind her ear, which she suffered in silence. “Since you asked so politely, yes, Merry, I will take you for a stroll outside,” he said, scooping her up.

  Rose rang the bell on the mantle. “I’ll order the beef stew because I know the dumplings are light and fluffy. Merry, you can have stew tonight too.”

  Merry looked overjoyed, or her version, which was expressed by a suspicious frown at Rose.

  She investigated outdoors longer than usual, leaving Ian to suffer in a freezing silence while pale moonlit snowflakes drifted down and cooled his face. The snowfall today had been lighter than yesterday and he decided to be optimistic about tomorrow, and assume they could leave in the morning.

  Most of the inn staff dropped in to thank Rose for her performance. Hobbs thanked Ian for sending off Smith and Gray. “Thought they was goin’ to be trouble, but I didn’t know how much trouble. I had four chairs broke.”

  “But we served more meals yesterday than we have in a month,” Mrs. Hobbs said proudly to Rose. “And we emptied five kegs of ale. We’ll be able to hire a carpenter to make new chairs as well as restock the larder for Christmas.”

  Rose smiled widely. “More people should know about this lovely inn. It’s the nicest place I have stayed in on this road. I’ll make sure my family hears about you, Mrs. Hobbs, and your delicious meals. My father takes the trip many times in a year and this is a handy place to stay on the journey back to London, being so close.”

  “You’re right,” Ian said carefully, having been unable to frown her down. The fewer people who knew he and Rose had occupied the same room in this inn overnight, the better. “Staying so close to town would mean not having to flush out the servants at home late in the afternoon to prepare a meal.”

  Mrs. Hobbs colored with pleasure, patting her chest as if to help her heart to beat.

  “They’re so adorable,” Rose said after everyone had left her with Ian. “Susie isn’t even a maid, because she normally works in the local dairy, but she’s the best maid I’ve had. Every other one tells tales about me to my mother.”