by Erica Ridley
“See?” she huffed as she rested her skis on the snow. “Going down will be positively relaxing.”
Alexander sent her a dark look rather than dignify her comment with a response.
She led him around the ramparts, away from the woods, to the spot she’d scouted the day before.
“Step one,” she announced. “Arrange your skis just so.”
His attention was riveted on her, and he copied her movements minutely.
“Step two,” she said. “Climb on.”
He stared down at his skis doubtfully.
She sank to her knees and lightly tapped the back of his muscular calf. “Come on, I’ll strap you in.”
“You’re kneeling on snow,” he said. “Aren’t your legs freezing?”
“They would be,” she agreed, “if I weren’t wearing buckskin trousers beneath my gown and petticoats.”
“Of course you are,” he muttered.
But he lifted each of his boots with obvious trepidation and placed his feet atop the skis.
She made quick work of the leather straps, ensuring the fit was secure and snug before adjusting his grip on his poles.
They spent the next half an hour going over how to steer, how to stop, and how to fall safely if necessary.
“Where did you learn this again?” he asked.
“Norway,” she reminded him. “We have relatives who live there. My cousin Olaf is a captain in the Cadastre Corps. Did you know that the Scandinavian military has trained with skis for over one hundred years?”
“I did not,” the duke said faintly.
“Of course, Scandinavian farmers and hunters had already been using skis for centuries,” she explained. “For the Corps, it was all very practical. Military drills over rough terrain, cross-country journeys on skis, target practice whilst on skis, and so on. Until Olaf decided to do something impractical.”
“A cousin of yours did something impractical?” Alexander murmured. “I am agog with shock.”
She grinned at him. “He launched himself ten feet into the air, flying over the dumbfounded gazes of his fellow soldiers. He was instantly infamous, and only became more talented and daring after that. He’s the one who taught me everything I know.”
“Wonderful,” said the duke. “I feel so much safer. Didn’t you break your leg? Twice?”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “And I won a two-hundred-pound wager.”
“Two... hundred...”
She adjusted her poles. “Ready?”
“I am not ready. I will never be ready.” He took a deep breath. “But here we go.”
He turned away from her and braced his poles.
She grabbed his arm and hauled him back to her side.
“Not that direction. The village is down there. I aimed our skis over here for a reason.” She gestured down with her gloved hand. “This section runs parallel to the sledding path. There are no obstructions, and people already know to keep a safe distance at the bottom.”
He looked shaken. “I almost skated into the village?”
“You probably would have slid face-first into a haystack and had straw falling out of your hair for days.”
“What if I veer too far the other direction?”
“Just point your skis straight down. You won’t have to steer. Honestly, this section is so wide, you can’t possibly run into anything. Except me, I suppose. But I skate well enough on skis to steer clear of danger.”
“Except for two broken legs.”
“Those were my first two attempts!”
“Your first two attempts to ski involved jumping from one cliff to another?” he said in disbelief. “No. Don’t tell me. I have just learned an important lesson about never again volunteering to ‘do anything’ with Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.”
“You’ll adore it,” she promised him. “It feels like flying. It’s my favorite thing, and I’ve never had anyone in England to share it with.” She gave him a shy smile. “I’m glad it’s with you.”
“Oh, very good,” he said. “Now my brain is full of kissing you, instead of imagining all of the ghastly ways this plan could go horribly awry.”
She grinned at him. “I’ll let you kiss me at the bottom.”
Before he could reply, she pushed with her poles and sailed down the side of the mountain.
It was glorious.
The sun dazzled her eyes and the wind whipped tendrils of hair from her chignon. Her skis were fast and smooth. Cynthia had waxed them that morning, just as Olaf had taught her.
All too soon, she reached the plateau. She twisted her legs sharply, turning to watch the Duke of Nottingvale’s progress down the mountain.
He was... not smooth.
His skis went every direction but straight, sometimes touching in the front, sometimes touching in the back.
Rather than guide the poles, his arms windmilled for balance, tipping him precariously one direction, then another.
The expression on his face was alternately terrified and exhilarated, as if every moment he remained upright was a victory in its own right.
He looked absolutely magnificent.
And he was headed in her direction.
“Stop,” she called out. “Turn your skis to break the velocity.”
The duke’s skis did nothing of the sort.
He flailed his arms wilder.
Cynthia scooted several quick steps to one side.
As he skated past, she grabbed hold of his arm. The sudden check spun his momentum toward her. Their skis tangled, followed by their legs, and their arms, and a collision of chests.
In the space of a heartbeat, she was flat on her back with the Duke of Nottingvale splayed on top of her, both of them winded and panting.
He kissed her hard.
“That... was... brilliant.” His eyes sparkled. “Let’s do it again!”
She let go of her poles and wrapped her arms about him. “I thought you wanted a kiss.”
He covered her face with kisses. “Can you teach me to jump crevasses?”
She closed her eyes and groaned. “I’ve spawned a monster.”
“It’s definitely your fault.” He kissed her again. “Everything good is.”
He’d let go of his poles, too. One hand was cradling her head, whilst the other propped him at an angle in an attempt not to crush her.
It was the least comfortable position she had ever been in, and an experience she would cherish for the rest of her life. She kissed him as though there might never be another chance.
At last, she pushed him aside.
“Too many kisses?” he asked. “Do I have to skate down again to earn another?”
No. He could have all of the kisses he desired.
“Let me unfasten these before we break a ski or an ankle.” She fumbled with the leather straps, then piled the skis and the poles to one side. “Now we can roll around in the snow like mature, responsible adults.”
He grinned and flipped onto his back, bringing her with him so that she was splayed on top of him.
“My heart won’t stop racing.” His smile was the widest she’d ever seen. “It’s either from proximity to you or my near-death experience.”
“Definitely the skis,” she assured him.
“I’m not so sure.” His eyes were unreadable.
He held her gaze for a long moment, then cupped her head and drew her mouth down to his.
Now it was her heart that wouldn’t stop racing. Either from proximity to him... or the realization that she never wanted to let him out of her sight.
Even if they never had another moment like this again.
What if they stayed friends after this? What if she saw him not once a year at Christmastide, but on planned holidays all year long? Would she be able to withstand the sight of him building a life with his new bride?
Would she be able to stand not seeing him at all?
“Come on, then.” She rolled from his chest and to her feet, then bent to offer him her hand. “Shall
we see what you might earn after your second slide down the mountain?”
They picked up their equipment and trudged over to the tree line to begin the hike back up to the top.
“I cannot believe these are Lady Gertrude’s skis,” he murmured.
“Gertie will never use them,” Cynthia replied drily. “They’re the Duke of Nottingvale’s skis now.”
“Isn’t it bad form to give away someone else’s possessions?”
“Isn’t it bad form to skate down a mountainside strapped to someone else’s possessions?”
“Touché. My skis. I’m happy to pay her for them.”
“I’d rather you introduce her to a young, single, eligible gentleman with deep pockets, an old title, a kind heart, and a penchant for pianoforte music.”
“Hmm.” They kept walking. “Well... there’s me.”
“You’re not young,” she reminded him. “You’re a spinster like me.”
He snorted. “No one thinks of you as a spinster.”
“Everyone thinks of me as a spinster. I have only to enter your ballroom and the mothers’ whispers begin at once.”
“Ah, well, I meant ‘no one with any sense.’ But I do see your point. Lady Gertrude is eighteen years, one month, and… let me count… nine days old.”
Cynthia giggled. “She regaled you with a few choice facts?”
“All of the facts,” he assured her. “I am now a Lady Gertrude expert. Which of the previous qualities you mentioned are the ones she seeks?”
“Penchant for pianoforte music,” Cynthia replied without hesitation. “Gertie would marry an actual pianoforte if she could.”
The duke was silent for a moment. “Why not let her?”
“I don’t... know if you know this,” Cynthia said slowly, “but pianofortes have a difficult time walking down wedding aisles in the local chapel.”
“I don’t mean literally marry one. But if she’d rather have music than a husband, why not let her, at least for a little while? She’s only eighteen. She has at least thirty-six more months before she turns irrevocably dusty and unmarriageable.”
“I would do so,” Cynthia said with feeling, “if it were up to me. Unfortunately, the only person with any say in the matter is Gertie’s father. The earl has decreed he will marry off his final daughter in January, come what may. Either I match her to deep pockets and a coronet, or her father will hand her off to a roué three times her age.”
“I see.” Alexander was silent for a moment. “I’ll make a few inquiries.”
“You will?” she said in surprise.
They exited the trees and emerged back atop the peak.
He turned to face her. “Why wouldn’t I? If it’s in my power to avert what sounds like a lifetime of misery for Lady Gertrude, then of course I’ll do my best to find her a match she can live with.”
A weight lifted from Cynthia’s chest.
“Thank you,” she said with a grateful smile. “It will be a Christmas miracle.”
“Shall I make inquiries for you as well?”
The smile slid from her face.
The duke was trying to be kind, not cruel, she reminded herself. He might kiss her at every opportunity, but they both knew those opportunities would soon end. He had never tried to mislead her. She’d understood the situation long before her lips first met his.
“I’m on the shelf,” she said tightly.
He shrugged. “People remove things from shelves all of the time.”
She stared at him, then swallowed.
“I’m not the right fit for the people in your echelons, and we both know it.”
If she hadn’t been right twelve years ago when she was a bundle of girlish nerves trying her very, very best... then she definitely wasn’t right now.
There was a reason he’d hid behind a tree rather than be seen with her. Cynthia could harm Alexander’s standing just by existing next to him.
Just being in her vicinity was embarrassing.
The unwelcome reminder sapped much of the joy out of the day.
“Come on.” She positioned his skis. “I’ll strap you in.”
Once his skis were safely attached, she attended to her own.
She gestured toward the sledding slope. “Remember, we skate in this direction. Over there is—”
“The village,” he said. “I remember.”
Not just the village.
Gertie.
Cynthia’s mouth fell open.
Max gave a loud yip.
“You are using the skis!” Gertie squealed. “I saw they were missing, and I wanted to watch. Can I watch?”
“Stay next to the wall!” Cynthia commanded. “It’s slippery here, and I don’t need you breaking your neck.”
“There was a higher probability of neck-breaking if you’d talked me into those skis,” Gertie replied, cradling Max to her chest. “From the look of things, you haven’t fared much better. You two have snow everywhere.”
“Er,” said the Duke of Nottingvale.
“Er,” said Cynthia.
“Well, make haste,” said Gertie. “They think I’m taking Max for a walk, but I can’t stay long. Max loves the snow and keeps getting lost in it. I only find him when I see his little tail poking out. He’s angry at me for carrying him up this mountain. You’d think the snow was hiding a field of bones to chew—”
At the word bones, Max yipped and sprung himself from Gertie’s chest.
He did not get lost in the snow.
He tumbled backward down the slick mountain, his yip turning to terror as he slid off the incline and over the edge—in the wrong direction.
“Dammit, Max,” Cynthia muttered, and pushed off after him.
This direction wasn’t as smooth as the other, and bumps beneath the snow sent her skis a few inches into the air before continuing on with a jarring thud.
Max was tumbling out of control now, a spinning, howling, puppy-avalanche of white snow and brown fur.
He wasn’t headed into the heart of the village.
He was headed straight for the area blocked off at the base of the castle... for the archery tournament.
Which was currently in progress.
“Damn it, Max!” she shouted, but of course he couldn’t hear her, not that he could do anything about it if he did.
The poor terrified puppy shot down the mountain like a cannonball.
Right into the line of fire.
Cynthia sucked in a breath.
The terrain grew almost too bumpy to navigate the closer she drew to the targets. She was carried forward by pure speed and velocity rather than talent.
With a final yip, Max thudded into the base of one of the haystacks.
He didn’t move.
“Damn it, Max.” Her throat pricked with heat. “Do not die.”
She was seconds away.
Possibly seconds too late.
She passed both poles to her left hand and hunkered down to scoop up the non-moving puppy as she whisked them both out of danger.
He made a tiny mewling sound and shuddered against her chest.
“Thank God.” She pressed her lips to his icy, matted fur. “We almost—”
And then fire ripped through her shoulder.
Chapter 11
The moment Cynthia took off after the puppy, Alexander took off after Cynthia.
He had no idea what he was doing.
This side of the mountain was nowhere near as smooth as the other, and he hadn’t been graceful on the easy slope. It took all his effort to maintain his balance as gravity did most of the work hurtling him down the mountainside after Cynthia.
He wasn’t as skilled as her.
He wasn’t as fast as her.
He had to watch in horror as he realized the haystacks she’d mentioned earlier were the targets set up for the archery tournament. Right in front of them.
Eighty yards away.
Sixty yards away.
Alexander winced as the puppy slammed into the
base of a target and stopped moving.
Cynthia was there instantly, her knees bent and her back straight and her poles tucked to one side as she ducked down and scooped up the puppy as though the rescue maneuver came as natural as yawning.
She was the most amazing creature he had ever seen.
A guardian angel. A—
Thwack.
Cynthia lurched upward, all her grace gone. She jerked backward, with a long wooden rod protruding from her chest.
Terror ripped through Alexander’s veins like a flash fire.
Cynthia fell to the ground, motionless, the little brown puppy clutched in her arms.
“No!” he roared, not caring who heard him. He flew forward on panic alone.
He was going to kill all of the archers.
Right after he reached Cynthia’s side.
Twenty yards.
Ten.
His skis caught on who-knew-what and Alexander went sprawling, landing in an ungainly heap two haystacks down from hers.
People were running toward them.
They were still a hundred yards away.
He flung his poles aside and threw off his skis, half sprinting, half scrambling, across the ice-slick snow. He gathered Cynthia up and cradled her to his chest.
“I will kill you if you die,” he choked into her hair.
“Ironic,” she mumbled. “I like it.”
She was alive.
“I didn’t mean to!” came a panicked, desperate voice.
“Is that... the Duke of Nottingvale?” said another.
Alexander didn’t let go of Cynthia.
He wasn’t certain he ever could.
“If you take one step closer,” he snarled at the adolescent lad with the tear-stained face, “I will rip you asunder with my bare hands.”
The lad blanched and nodded jerkily, new tears escaping to join the others.
“Is she... dead?” he stuttered.
“She’s alive.” The look of abject relief on the boy’s face matched Alexander’s own. “Go and summon a doctor.”
The lad nodded and ran off, his thin elbows spiking into the air.
Alexander lowered his mouth to Cynthia’s matted temple.
“If you die...” he growled.
