by Anthology
The earl regarded her seriously. “I wanted to introduce you to some of Victoriana’s children.”
“Are you trying to find me a job?” Robyne asked. The next words tumbled out of her lips. She was getting dangerously cozy with the earl, enjoying his touch too much. “Because I’m going home. As soon as we’ve finished sightseeing.”
He smiled. “Perhaps.”
He led them up a flight of steps, into a large ward. As he released her and put a hand to her back, pushing her deeper into the room, her breath stuck in her throat. Each bed held a child.
Children, suffering children. She, who knew the pain of disabled children so well, but also knew their resilience and capacity for uncomplicated joy, could see these children had no hope. No one to love them. At least her kids in Tacoma had mothers. These wards were empty, except for the children.
“Scurvy, Miss Arthur. Rickets. Pneumonia.” The earl led her past bed after bed. “That orphaned lad fell on the ice and broke his leg. That motherless child fell on slippery steps and broke her back. Yet they live, I know not how.”
Robyne tried to blink away her tears. “Why have you brought me here?” She stared down at one little blonde girl with skin so pale she could see the blue veins in her forehead that stood out in stark contrast.
“You must know,” he said hoarsely. The earl turned to her and took her hands. “You must know,” he repeated, “the cost of this ghastly winter.”
He shook her hands for emphasis. “Miss Arthur, you have the power to help these poor children. Reach into your heart, madam, and show them mercy.”
Robyne pulled away from him and walked down the ward. The earl left her alone as she clasped hands and kissed foreheads of the dear little souls. Within her heart she felt the same love for these children as she did for those she’d transported for the four years she’d been a driver. None of these children had the chances her kids did.
How could she consider merely saving herself with all these children in so much pain? She would survive somehow, perhaps as a governess as Lord Chester had suggested. But she now knew she couldn’t go home and abandon these children, leave them to die. She vowed to help them. They were the neediest children she’d ever seen.
When she returned to the earl, she had the Christmas cracker extended in her mittened palm.
“Take it,” she said, her voice trembling. “You were right. Your need is far greater than mine.”
The earl’s face grew solemn as he gazed at her. A long pause transpired before he spoke. “I thank you, Miss Arthur. You are a heroine.”
Robyne blinked and took a deep breath.
His face softened and he smiled at her. “Let us go.”
She glowed with pride at his words as she took the arm he held out to her. They left the hospital, with Lenchen and the servants trailing behind them. The earl moved with purpose as they entered a park. They walked down wide lanes edged with bare trees. When they reached a windswept clearing, the earl stopped.
“Here,” he said, his voice holding a note of uncertainty for the first time. “Stand back, everyone, I’m not sure what will happen.”
“It knocked me unconscious,” Robyne reminded him.
“Exactly. Remove yourselves.” Lenchen and the servants hastily retreated into the trees, but Robyne shook her head.
“I’ll stay with you.”
“Are you certain?” The earl searched her eyes.
She nodded firmly. “What if my presence is some-how part of the process?”
“Very good thinking.” The earl took off his gloves, careful not to drop the cracker.
The colorful designs flared in the weak sunlight, now defining the marketplace, the hospital, and the park. The world in the center almost appeared three-dimensional to Robyne.
“I have an idea.” His eyes searched hers as though probing her soul. “Would you pull it with me?”
“I’d be honored.” Robyne removed her mittens and stood across from him. They each took one side of the cracker. The wrapping felt alive to her, buzzing slightly against her fingers. “It knows something important is about to happen.”
He smiled. “As do we.” He leaned forward, and almost before Robyne could react, he kissed her cheek. The sensation of lips against skin was even more electric than the cracker against her fingers. She looked at him in surprise.
“For luck,” he said.
Robyne grinned at him. “That wouldn’t bring us very much luck.” Amazed at her daring, she touched her free hand to his cheek and pressed her lips to his. His lips were soft, smooth, and his moustache tickled her nose and above her lips. As she broke the kiss, she saw his joy and wished she could share happy moments with him always.
A twinkle still in his eye, he said, “Thank you, Robyne Arthur. I do not know quite what will happen, but I am humbled to be with you today.”
Robyne smiled tremulously, feeling her crush blossom into something deeper, knowing this was the most important day of her life, whatever the consequences.
“Ready, then. On the count of three, it seems sporting,” the earl said, then smiled at her.
She nodded, and as he counted, she grasped the cracker firmly despite its increasing warmth.
“Three!” Robyne pulled the cracker with all her strength.
BOOM!
She came to, blinking, and realized she lay flat on her back, staring into a blinding sun. A warm sun. Around her, she heard cries from passers-by at the sudden warmth. Where was the earl, she thought frantically, blinking her sun-blinded eyes until she saw his form through the spots, lying several feet away. She got up, feeling an ache in her bones, and crawled over to him.
The earl’s eyes were closed, but as she shook his shoulder, he opened them.
“Did we do it?”
She nodded, tears sliding down her face. He reached out an arm, pulling her close. She dropped her head to his chest as he clasped her tightly.
Robyne woke from a deep sleep the next morning, when the maid bustled in with her tea tray.
“’ow’s our ‘eroine, then?” the maid asked, as she drew the heavy velvet curtains aside. “No need to stir the coal this morning, eh?”
“I guess not.” Robyne pushed back the too warm covers.
The maid looked critically at the curtains. “We’ll be replacing these with cotton soon, I expect.”
“It’s certainly warmer,” Robyne said. The sip of hot tea still felt good against her parched throat, however. She’d spent the evening with Lenchen, learning local songs as a maid played the piano. The earl had disappeared after their hug in the park, had the footman escort them home through the cheering throng of Victorians. Robyne longed to celebrate the victory with the earl. He was her only anchor in this strange place and she didn’t know what she’d do without him.
She passed the morning with Lenchen, reading the morning papers full of news of the season’s change and glowing predictions for the future. Just when she was about to go out of her mind with impatience, the earl strode in. She noted the lack of a topcoat or gloves and was glad the warm, sunny weather held. He smiled at her, and she wanted to fling herself into his arms.
“Miss Arthur, may I see you in my study?”
“Of course.” Robyne rose, heart thumping, and followed him into the room where he’d brought her that first night.
He directed her to an overstuffed red velvet sofa while he leaned against the carved mantelpiece.
She drank him in, as he gathered his thoughts before speaking. “Miss Arthur, I have a confession to make.”
Robyne raised her eyebrows. “I’m listening.”
“I told you of our men of science. A few months ago, they developed a method of returning those like you home. I believe I have the power to return you as well.”
She drew in a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I think you know the answer to that.” His eyes burned into hers and heat not from the newly activated sun, crept into her face, as she remembered her selfishness.
&
nbsp; When he spoke again, his voice was slightly hoarse. “Are you ready to return?”
Robyne closed her eyes. She had no reason to stay, now that the children were safe from winter. She looked at the earl for a long moment, and saw nothing but reserve. She’d never forget him, but how could he be hers? He was an earl.
“Yes,” she replied and couldn’t understand why she wasn’t happy about it.
The earl nodded and left the room. Robyne held back tears as a maid escorted her to a carriage. The earl climbed in after her, and she leaned into the seat. The horses moved them away from his house and she watched the landscape ease past. Silently, she said goodbye to each child at the hospital, to the market folk, to the maids, and Lenchen. But her heart wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to the earl.
He never spoke a word. Halfway through the journey though, he took her hand and tucked it into his arm. She tried not to clutch at his arm, but wished she could find a way to stay with him.
In well under an hour, far too soon, the carriage deposited them at a great building, which Robyne soon realized was a train station. A footman escorted her in, with the earl bringing up the rear. Inside the vast entry, she turned to him.
He held his hands out to her, his face solemn. ”Miss Arthur, I can send you home on the train—or you could stay.”
Her voice trembled with tentative joy. “I could?”
“Yes. I must tell you the truth. I am really Albert Edward, the son of Queen Victoria. Someday, I will be king here.”
Robyne’s heart sank. She could stay, but without him.
“Miss Arthur.” He clasped her hands in his, and all her hope was restored. “Robyne. Your selfless actions have taught me much. I am certain you are meant to be queen here. My darling, Robyne, please do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
She exhaled with a laugh or a sob, she wasn’t sure which. “Are you certain? How?”
“I have discussed my feelings with the Queen. She approved. Your heart, my dear,” he nearly stuttered on the words. “You put me to shame with your goodness. How could I not love you?”
“You showed me the way,” Robyne whispered. “You have such care for your people.”
“You can go back to your home, if that is your wish. I wanted you to have the choice. But my love is true.”
She saw it in his eyes. “I know.”
He nodded solemnly. “Your answer?”
“It is yes, of course.”
He shouted his approval and pulled her into his arms. With a joyful laugh, Robyne threw herself into his embrace as he twirled her around.
It might be springtime in Victoriana, but forever after, Robyne knew she would hold the magic of Christmas in her heart.
Be sure to visit Heather’s website
http://www.coffeeonsundays.info/_sgt/m1_1.htm
Blue Christmas Cat
Deborah MacGillivray
Dara Seaforth hung the receiver in the phone cradle, then groaned. Amplifying her irritation, the television played Elvis singing Blue Christmas to advertise a re-release of the King’s If Every Day Was Like Christmas album for the holiday season.
“Blue Christmas? Yeah, is it ever! This promises to be the worst Christmas Eve in my entire life, Dext―” She glanced down at her feet. No cat.
Depressed by the prospect, she sighed. It was hard adjusting to the empty space now Dexter had passed over the Rainbow Bridge. It’d been six weeks, yet she still missed the silly cat so. Her first Christmas in eighteen years without him. It didn’t feel strange nattering aloud to a cat. Talking to thin air had her pondering if she’d lost her marbles.
She glared at her laptop on the kitchen table, her Deadwood screensaver reminding she needed to be writing not complaining to an ‘invisible cat’. The January deadline loomed, and with time ticking away, she wasn’t anywhere near typing The End.
“How can I write a hot sexy romance when life is so dreadfully dull?”
Her sister Leslie’s call had been to wish her a Merry Christmas. She wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas this year. Her younger sister was in love and spending the holiday with Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy and his small daughter. Oh, Leslie hadn’t admitted it, but the emotion was clear in her voice when she spoke about Keon Challenger.
“Bloody hell, with a name like that I’d fall for him, too,” she muttered. Naturally, she was happy for Leslie, yet admitted in the same breath that she was envious. “I’m the last Seaforth sister not coupled with some sexy stud. Leslie’s a year younger than I. Least she could’ve done was wait her turn. In olden days, the younger sister couldn’t marry until the older one found a lad. Of course, it isn’t as if I had any prospects. And like some blethering eegit, I can’t stop talking to a cat who’s not there. Am I pitiable or what?”
Dara glanced out the window at the swirling snow. A snowstorm dumped a meter of the white stuff over everything the night before, blocking her from reaching the airport to catch her flight to her grandfather’s home in Colchester, England.
“Bloody airport is probably closed anyway,” she grumbled.
Going home for the Hols had lost its appeal when Leslie broke the news a couple days ago that she wouldn’t be there. Past dinners were a gauntlet of are you seeing anyone special?, why didn’t you bring a young man to dinner?―or the guaranteed to make her teeth grind, you’re so pretty, I can’t understand why you haven’t landed a husband. Her aunts, great aunts and grandfather, bless their souls, could make life a virtual hell with their old-fashioned way of still viewing anyone over twenty-five as an Old Maid. Without Leslie’s presence, all that would be focused on her. Worse, when they heard Leslie was in love it’d be even more, tsk...tsk...poor Dara.
She caught herself starting to tell Dexter she’d love to see Great Aunt Janet’s face if she wickedly replied the reason she was minus a husband was she couldn’t find a tall, sexy, elegant man that gave her hot sex three times a day―and had a name like Keon Challenger. She sniggered.
The chuckle died as an image of a man with pale eyes, a light hazel that bordered on yellow, shimmered before her mind. Welsh eyes. Strange after all this time his image remained so clear in her mind. Over the years, at odd moments such as this, she’d wondered about Rhys St. John and gleefully tried to picture him as bald and potbellied. No such luck. She’d seen him several times over the past weeks since his return. If anything, he was as lean and hard as ever, age only sharpening his male beauty.
“As if I care, the bloody bastard.” She tossed another brick of peat on the fire, ignoring the tightness around her heart. But she did care. Always had. Always would. “Oh, Dexter, up in Kitty Heaven, if you hear me, send me a friend. Please. I’m not picky. He doesn’t have to look like you, he doesn’t even have to be a he, just a feline friend to make this cottage less empty. Someone I can talk to and not feel a loon.”
As she replaced the fireplace poker in the stand, a cat yowled. She paused, feeling twenty kinds of a fool for hearing it. “The mind is a terrible thing to waste―especially on a cat who doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Meeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooow!” The howl persisted, louder.
“Och, I give up. I am losing it. Next thing, Sci-Fi Channel will be investigating me―see the woman who talks to a ghost cat.”
Strong winds buffeted the house, rattling the windows. Shivering, she reached for her oversized jumper and slid her arms into the warm, fisherman’s knit. The lights flickered, causing her to glance to the chandelier, fearful power would go out. After a few tense seconds, the electricity returned to steady.
“Meeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooow!”
Dara sighed. “Next time I’m facing a deadline, I’m going to Aruba where the temps are hot and sexy cabaña boys are hotter and will wait on me hand and foot. That way, if I lose my marbles there’d be someone to call the men in the white coats to come and take me away...haha.”
Instead of visions of cabaña boys dancing through her head, the image of Rhys St. John roared back into her consciousness. “Whe
re’s a voodoo doll when I need one?”
She couldn’t recall a time when she hadn’t loved Rhys. The memory of when she first knew she loved him was clear. She’d been eleven-years-old, out riding bikes with her sisters, Leslie and Jenna. Rhys had zoomed past in his white MGB and swung into Castle MacNeill’s long driveway. Top down, wavy black hair rippling in the wind, he was everything her pre-teen heart could want in a hero. From there, as she’d grown and changed, so had her love for Rhys, though she doubted he ever paid her more than fleeting attention. Nine years older, he was always too busy to notice the adoration she found hard to hide.
She’d spent a large portion of her life just watching Rhys St. John. Wishing. Knowing it could never be. Ruining her life, she was ashamed to admit. How could she ever commit to any man, knowing she’d never love him as she loved Rhys?
“Gor, how utterly pathetic is that?”
The sexy half-Welshman had finally come home and taken possession of Castle MacNeill, the medieval fortress down the road. She hated absentee owners, especially owners who weren’t Scot...well, full Scot. Scotland’s heritage should be treasured, protected. Rhys had inherited the castle from his grandfather nearly three years ago, but this was the first visit he’d deigned to pay since becoming owner. The arrogant man obviously had been too busy with his jetsetter life to return to the wee village where his father had been born. Keeping to himself, few had seen him since his arrival. Oddly enough, she’d spotted him frequently from a distance on horseback, riding in the woods. Other times zooming about in the midnight black Ferrari Testarossa.
“Och, silly man won’t get very far in the ‘rari tonight.” She chuckled, thinking how the sleek black car wasn’t built for the thigh-deep snowdrifts of the Highlands.
It seemed she couldn’t set foot outside her cottage that Rhys wasn’t about somewhere, lurking. Last week, when she’d peddled her bike to the village to pick up a few things, she saw him pull up at the end of the castle’s long drive. He looked over at her, making contact with those pale, amber eyes, almost a gold seen only in those with ancient Welsh blood.
