An ominous grumble climbed this fierce once-more-a-stranger’s chest and stuck in his throat. Cara took several faltering steps back and stumbled over herself in her quest to get away from this glowering figure. She gasped and shot her arms out to steady herself. However, he only marched past. In one effortless move, he climbed onto the driver’s perch and then hefted her trunk down.
It landed in the snow with a soft thump.
Emotion swelled in her breast. Ignoring the cold, she scrambled over and fell to her knees. Her fingers, numb from the cold, shook and she damned the uselessness of those chilled digits.
“Here,” Will barked, pulling her attention up. He leaned down and, in one fluid movement, worked the latch open. “There,” he spat. He slashed a hand furiously at her trunk. “Collect whatever it is that is so precious to you, princess.”
She hesitated, as with that last, jeering endearment, he transformed her once more into that callous ice creature he’d taken her as…and with good reason. That unfeeling lady she’d been groomed into after her mother’s passing was, in fact, the person she truly was. With that angry truth, she fished around the neatly folded gowns of white satin. Where in blazes was it? Her heart thundered in a panicky rhythm as she sought that hidden pendant. Then her fingers collided with the hard metal and she sent a prayer skyward. With tremulous fingers, she withdrew the necklace. The ruby, a crimson mark of vivid sadness upon the stark, white winterscape, tugged at her.
“Ah, so that is why you’d risk your life.” William’s regret-tinged words brought her neck back with such alacrity she wrenched the muscles.
She winced. And where he’d judged her before and been correct in his harsh suppositions, in this he was wrong. He saw her as nothing more than a lady, enamored of her precious stones and gems. William held an arm out and effectively quashed the defensive rebuttal on her lips.
“Come,” he said gruffly.
Silently, she wrapped one hand about his arm and curled her other around the last gift she’d ever been given. They moved slowly. Cara’s breath came fast, stirring the winter air as she labored to lift her foot from the wet snow and take another step. She’d no doubt Will could run the distance to the inn without so much as an extra breath taken, and yet, he remained at her side—a woman, who by the sneer on his lips and glint in his eye, he clearly despised.
They broke through the copse of juniper trees and the inn pulled into focus. “Why?”
Cara didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I’m greedy, Will,” she said, giving him the truths he expected. She leaned against him in a futile bid to steal his body’s heat. “I- I could not sleep all night in fear of my cherished diamonds.” Pain stabbed at her heart. That was how little he thought of her. And why shouldn’t he? What manner of avaricious creature had she proven herself with her orders to the earl’s driver a day earlier? The world saw a person the way one might through a frosted pane; hazy and blurred, distorted.
He brought them to a stop. “It was a ruby.”
He’d noted that small detail. She fisted the heart pendant in her hand. The edges of that stone bit painfully through the fabric of her glove. “And there were other jewels and a trunk of satins and silks.”
Those miserable pieces paid for by her father. She hated everything and anything connected to the vile reprobate—including herself who by the very nature of blood made her an extension of that foul figure.
She looked at Will squarely. His face may as well have been a mask he’d donned, so little she could tell from his expression. “It was,” she said tightly. Or rather… “It is a ruby.” He pierced her with his gaze and with the intensity of his stare, he may as well have looked inside and plucked all those sorry pieces of her existence and made them his. No one had ever looked at her so closely. No one. It left her open and vulnerable, filled with a tumult of emotions she didn’t know what to do with. Her feet twitched with the urge to flee. Cara made a hasty move to step around him.
Will placed himself between her and escape, effectively blocking her forward stride. For one of his impressive size, he moved with a surprising agility. Cara folded her arms close to her chest and hugged herself tightly, praying he attributed that small protective gesture as a bid to find warmth.
“Why?” he asked quietly.
Why should he ask? Did he see a glimmer of the person she’d once been and secretly, with the tiniest sliver of her soul, wished to again be? One who felt and loved and longed to be loved in return? She bit the inside of her cheek hard. “Why does it matter?” That raspy question tore from her throat.
He palmed her cheek. Cara longed to jerk her chin away and shake free of his intimate caress. With his tender touch, he threatened to shatter the carefully constructed defenses she’d built about her heart.
“It matters.” That low pledge rumbled up from his chest.
Oh, God.
Perhaps the sliver of her soul that craved warmth was far stronger than the rest of her cold, miserable self, for she ached for him to keep touching her in this soft, searching way.
After her mother’s death, Cara had retreated into herself. The perils in sharing anything personal had been made clear when, as a girl, her own father had rejected that offering. “Why?” She turned a question on him. Her mind warred with the need to give Will details about her past and those intimate parts of her pathetic life story.
For a long moment, she expected he’d ignore the query she put to him in return.
But then, he passed that penetrating gaze over her face and lingered on her eyes. “I took you to be a self-centered lady.”
Bitterness surged in her breast. “I am.” Those were the truest words she’d ever spoken to another person since her mother’s passing.
Will dipped his head and layered his brow to hers. Their breaths mingled and the puffs of white escaping each of their mouths melded as one. “Do you know what I believe, Cara mia?”
Cara stood immobile, as frozen as the sharp icicles hanging from the sign outside the inn. She could not so much as muster nod. “What?” Her breath emerged as a breathless whisper.
“I believe there is more to you than you’d have people know.”
How could this man see so much of her when the world saw nothing more than the icy façade she presented? The part of herself that had spent years keeping people out wanted to lash out at him for his knowing. Yet, for the first time in more years than she could remember, no stinging diatribe sprung from her lips.
“What do you see?” she whispered, aching to know, and more, be that person he took her as.
“I see a woman who loves to smile but who fears doing so.” With his words, he reached inside her heart and fanned that long-cold organ with a contagious warmth that spread its beautiful heat to other parts of her too-long chilly being. “I see a woman who is so very afraid of being whispered about and talked of that she presents an empty, unlikeable façade to the world.”
The unerringly accurate words speared her. She parted her lips in silent shock.
He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. Of their own volition, her lashes fluttered and then drawing in a deep breath, she let him in. “It was my mother’s.”
William stilled, his thumb pressed to Cara’s full, lower lip.
It was my mother’s.
Not is. Was. Pain dug at his belly, as with the glimmer of sadness in her expressive eyes, Cara’s dogged tenacity in collecting her belongings now made sense. As though unnerved by the thick silence between them, she stepped away.
She unfurled her small hand. The crimson ruby stood vivid on her kidskin gloves. “The clasp is broken.” To demonstrate as much, Cara fingered the intricate and clearly damaged clasp. He studied her head bent over the piece. “It was my mother’s,” she repeated, the murmur so very soft, the winter wind carried with it nearly all sound. “She died when I was seven.”
At the faint tremble of her fingers, the evidence of her stoic grief, pressure weighted his chest, making it difficult to draw breath. How co
uld this woman, a mere stranger two days ago, and one he’d not much liked upon first meeting, have caused this dull ache, as though her pain was his?
Her eyes grew distant and by the sad, little smile on Cara’s lips, her mind danced back to those times when she’d been happy. “My father insisted I don only diamonds.” She gave her head a wry shake. “I despise them. I could not understand why anyone would wish to wear those clear, colorless stones. Not when there are far more vibrant and interesting gems.”
The wind tugged at her bonnet strings and knocked it backwards on her head. With the burden of her necklace in her hands, she attempted to right it. William reached for it.
Cara recoiled. “What are you doing?” She eyed him warily.
Ignoring her, he unfurled the long, red ribbons and carefully lifted the velvet bonnet. He set it atop her riot of golden curls. His movements slowed by the chill in his fingers, William retied the strands underneath her chin.
“Th-thank you.” Was the tremble to Cara’s words a product of his touch or the winter cold?
The rules of propriety rang in his ears, urging him for the first time since he’d entered this inn to turn on his heel, escort Cara safely back, and then leave as fast as his mount could possibly carry him. “Then how did your mother come by the ruby?” he asked, instead, his tone gruff. How much easier it had been when she’d been nothing more than the materialistic, grasping lady who valued her personal belongings before the lives of her servants.
“Oh, it was her mother’s,” she said with a matter-of-factness that raised a smile. “My mother said I should wear it and always remember there is far more beauty in being colorful than in…” She let her words trail off and looked past him.
William captured her hand in his and raised it. “Than in what, Cara?”
She unfurled her palm, displaying that cherished piece. He stared at the crimson heart. “Than in being a colorless piece that inspires no emotion in anyone.” She spoke of herself. Is that truly how the lady saw herself? How could a woman who’d charge into a dark hall to challenge a person she’d believed laughed at her, or stalked off in the midst of a storm to rescue her own possessions, not see the strength of her own spirit?
“Forgive me,” he said quietly.
She opened and closed her mouth several times like a fish floundering on shore.
“Again, Cara, are you surprised I am capable of an apology?”
Cara shivered and then hugged her arms to her once again. “I am surprised any man would be capable of such.”
He frowned. As with that admission, and the story of her heart pendant, she let him inside a world she’d lived. A world where her father had sought to quash her spirit and churn her into a cold, vapid lady whose sole purpose was the match he’d no doubt make from her. By her bold actions at the inn these two days, the man had tried and failed. And with that revealing piece, she once again threw into question everything he’d believed about her.
I am an unmitigated ass.
He steeled his jaw. “Never bind yourself to any such man who’d try and kill that colorful part of who you are.” His words came out gruffer than he intended. For as soon as the words left his lips, an image slithered in of some faceless, nameless bastard who’d lay claim to her body and attempt to purge the happiness from her soul to be nothing more than a polished hostess. A lethal desire to end that imagined man for daring to possess any part of her burned through him. He staggered back and the cold momentarily sucked the breath from his lungs. For how else was there to account for this inability to draw air?
Cara studied him in that silent, assessing manner of hers. Something sparked in her eyes—regret, sorrow, resignation, and then her expression grew shuttered.
And he knew.
Knew before she so much as uttered them, what the words poised on her lips would be.
“My future has already been set for me.”
His stomach muscles clenched. He couldn’t, not for eight more years of freedom granted by his father to travel and avoid that shrewish lady waiting for him, force out the question.
She studied her palms. “My father has selected the perfect,” her lips twisted in a macabre rendition of a smile, “nobleman for my husband.”
He had no place caring. Though no formal contract yet existed, another lady waited for him and Cara would exist as nothing more than the tart-mouthed beauty who’d ensnared his attention. Even knowing that as he did, he wanted to kill both her father and that lord who’d received her cold sire’s approval. A shudder wracked her lean frame and snapped him from the red haze of fury blinding his vision. “Come,” he said gruffly and held out his hand.
Cara eyed his fingers a moment and then slid her palm into his. He folded his hand over hers and even through their wet gloves, a charge of heat penetrated through and shot pinpricks of desire running through him.
Wordlessly, they walked the remaining way to the inn in silence.
And before, he’d not wanted to leave this ramshackle inn for the future awaiting him. Now, as he opened the door and Cara slipped inside breaking that contact, he found himself not wanting to leave for the past that would remain behind here.
Chapter 8
From where he stood at the hearth, William cast another glance at the stairs. The faint, aged contralto of the old innkeeper’s wife sounded behind him and he glanced back. A collection of greenery littered one of the inn’s tables and she quietly sang as she worked.
Oh! how soft my fair one’s bosom,
Fa la la la la la la la la
Oh! how sweet the grove in blossom,
Fa la la la la la la la la
Oh! how blessed are the blisses
He joined his baritone to her ancient voice.
“Words of love and mutual kisses,
Fa la la la la la la la la la.”
Martha widened her eyes and stopped mid-song. Surprise sparkled in her eyes. “You know the Welsh song then, my—” She stopped just shy of that proper address.
William winked. “I spent one Christmastide season in Wales and learned the lyrics to Nos Galan.”
She nodded slowly, approval in that subtle movement. With a jaunty hum of the same tune, Martha returned her attention to her bough.
He pulled out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. Did the lady plan to sup in her rooms? Of course, that was the proper thing for a lady to do without the benefit of a brother or chaperone’s protection and he didn’t doubt Cara had lived the better part of her life conforming to be that proper English miss. Still, disappointment filled him at the prospect of not again seeing her.
“I expect she will be down soon.”
William spun about. “Hmm?”
Martha sat with her head bent over the wreath while working the threading of her sewing needle with gnarled fingers. “I expect your lady,” she said not picking up her gaze from her efforts, “should be down shortly.” She tied a wrinkled, red satin bow about two branches, connecting the evergreen. A smile played on the woman’s lips. “And her coming will have nothing to do with the lady’s leaking ceiling.” She picked up her head and spoke on a conspiratorial whisper. “Even if she tells herself it is.”
A dull heat climbed up his neck and he resisted the urge to yank at his collar. He, who’d never struggled with words, came up empty when presented with the older woman’s knowing look. Had he been so very transparent in how each moment spent with Cara had drawn him more and more under her spell?
Since early that morning, when they’d parted, he’d not been able to rid his thoughts of the golden-haired beauty. Of what she’d shared. Of her past. Where most young women of eighteen were filled with a carefree innocence and hope, her light had been dimmed by the darkness she’d known at her father’s hands. Through all their exchanges, however, there had been the flicker of light and spirit, and it would kill him the day their paths would eventually intersect once more at a ton event when he was the proper duke’s heir and she was the frigid, unapproachable lady he’d first
met in this inn.
The fire snapped and hissed noisily. William balled his fists. He’d not think of a world where that was again the woman she became. He’d remember her as she’d been, lying on her back in the snow, joy dancing in her eyes and etched on the delicate, angled planes of her face as she stared up at him. From where she sat working on her Christmas bough, Martha cursed drawing him to the moment. A small smile pulled one corner of his lips. And he’d forever recall Cara as the lady who cursed with an inventiveness possessed only by a poet’s turn of phrase. He made his way over to the table. “Did I mention I had a good share of experience making Christmas boughs?”
She looked up with a glimmer of surprise and, in an assessing manner, took him in. A twinkle lit her rheumy eyes. “I would wager a charmer such as yourself has a good deal of experience with the kissing boughs, hmm?” She waggled her stark white eyebrows.
He winked, eliciting a laugh from the old woman. She motioned to the colorful bows and fabrics scattered about her table. “I’ve but the three branches for the boughs.” He followed her sad gaze over to where her husband shuffled with pained movements about the taproom. He pushed the broom over the dusty floor. “Every year we would go out and collect the green together.” Her eyes lit with a blend of happiness and sadness converging as one with that old memory. “How very fast time goes. You are making those boughs one Christmas to kiss your love and the next,” she held up her gnarled hands, “and the next you cannot even make your fingers move.”
The passage of these eight years was testament to the rapidity of time. What would he have become thirty-eight years from now like this aged couple? Where they knew love and joy in their marriage, his would be a cold, calculated affair that, if he was fortunate, would bring him children and very little misery. “Here,” he said quietly.
Later that evening, her wet garments cast aside for another borrowed dress from the innkeeper’s wife, and the chill gone from her jaunt into the storm, Cara hovered at the base of the stairs outside the taproom.
A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 27
