Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  He hesitated a moment before finishing the note and blowing on the ink in the absence of a sanding pot. “Your father is always in danger. You know that.”

  She did, but she preferred to ignore the reality as much as possible.

  Thomas straightened and rolled the message into a narrow cylinder an inch long. He rang a bell sitting on the desk. Less than a minute later, a lean youth dressed for riding entered, nodded at Thomas, and held out his hand. The message was slipped into a slit in the lining of his jacket.

  “You know what to do?”

  “Aye, guv’nor. It’ll not take a quarter hour.”

  “Good.”

  The youth departed. Thomas turned to Victoria and shuffled closer to loom over her. She let her head fall back against the top curve of the chair and met his assessing gaze.

  She shifted on the lumpy cushion and rearranged her padding. Thomas noticed everything yet had said nothing about her attire. “No interrogation about the way I’m dressed?”

  “What happened to your hat?”

  “It ended up on the ground. A pity. It was difficult to procure such a hideous headdress without Mother’s knowledge.” She was rewarded by the merest quirk of his lips.

  “We must move on,” he said gently.

  She had been afraid he would say that. “Can’t we rest a while here? It’s safe enough, isn’t it? After all, a secret knock is required for entrance.”

  Garrick’s lips twitched one more, but a smile didn’t crack his serious expression. “I assume the men we’re dealing with wouldn’t bother knocking. I should have killed them,” he finished on a sigh.

  The two men in the alley had been large and used to brawling, yet Thomas had dispatched them with an ease that was both admirable and fearsome. Victoria had no doubt he could have sent them to their maker. “Why didn’t you?”

  His gaze traveled her face before meeting her eyes. “Death is not something a lady should witness, but never doubt, if they had hurt you, I would have ripped them apart with my bare hands.”

  Thomas delivered the declaration with the coldness of a man who had killed to survive and would do the same for her. The thought would send a proper lady into a fit of vapors. It was clear Victoria wasn’t a proper lady, because his vow of violence struck her as almost… romantic.

  “Where will we go?” she asked.

  “Somewhere I can protect you and keep you safe.” His voice held a sharp, jagged edge.

  Bands of warmth tightened her chest and made it difficult to speak. She wanted him to take her in his arms and lend her some of his strength. That wasn’t all. She wanted to kiss him again and take her time doing it. A tug of his nape would be all it took to bring his lips to hers.

  The guttering candle illuminated only half his face, casting his features in harsh lines and angles that weren’t handsome in the soft, well-fed way of the gentlemen filling her dance cards. Instead, Thomas was arresting. She couldn’t look away, and she stared at him like she’d lost her wits.

  Maybe she had. Or perhaps the day’s events had merely stripped away all pretense that she didn’t desire him in every inappropriate way possible.

  Before she could act on her desire, he straightened and held out his hand. Without hesitation, she took it and stood. He tightened his grip and brushed an escaped curl off her forehead with a bare finger. The touch was like striking flint.

  “Do you trust me?” The rumble of his voice held a tentativeness she wouldn’t have expected from him.

  “I trusted you from the very first.”

  He’d arrived on their doorstep with wide, suspicious eyes, a too-lean frame, and ragged hair. She’d made it a habit to pop into his room with a basket of the best treats from the kitchen to share. Days accumulated into weeks by the time she had finally earned a smile. It had been her greatest accomplishment up until that point in her young life.

  He nodded crisply, but the heat in his gaze warmed her from the inside out. “The sooner we depart, the sooner you can rest.”

  The warmth he inspired didn’t last. Snowflakes drifted from the sky, and the shock of the cold made her breath catch. She assumed the same position astride behind Thomas, thankful his bulk blocked the wind, but it was too miserable to relax.

  Their synchronized swaying in the saddle was a metronome ticking off the seemingly endless seconds. The pace changed, and Victoria poked her head from behind Thomas’s back. They left the road and descended into a shallow gulley. The copse beyond was dark and menacing.

  Victoria looked behind them. The snowfall had picked up in intensity and was already filling the divots made by the horse’s hooves. In an hour, maybe even less, there would be no evidence of their passing. The horse chuffed and tossed his head.

  “Are we close?” she asked.

  “The cottage is just through the trees.”

  Victoria squinted but could only see a few feet in front of them. The trees thinned out, and the gurgle of a brook welcomed them. The faint outline of a thatched crofter’s hut in a small clearing came into view. Thomas stopped at the edge of the trees and scanned the area.

  After long seconds in which Victoria knew better than to ask questions, he proceeded across the shallow water. They dismounted next to a lean-to that had been erected against a hillock to block the wind.

  Thomas nodded toward the hut. “Go on while I get him settled with water and oats.”

  Victoria wasn’t going to argue. Her legs shook, and her feet were numb. She fumbled with the latch, the kid of her gloves damp from the snow, her fingers clumsy from cold. It wasn’t much warmer inside the hut than outside, but she was thankful to be out of the wind.

  Using her teeth, she pulled off her gloves and rubbed her hands together while her eyes adjusted. The outline of a lantern caught her eye. It had been left next to the door within arm’s reach. She was surprised to find it full of oil. A flint lay next to it.

  Welcome light burst from the wick. It was amazing what comfort such a mundane convenience as light could be. She held up the lantern and took stock of her surroundings. It was a small but neat little hut. Wood was stacked next to the hearth, a sturdy table and two chairs were against the far wall, and a bed piled with quilts was in the corner.

  One bed.

  Her mouth was suddenly bereft of moisture. No doubt Thomas would offer to sleep in the chair or on the floor like a gentleman. But… what if she didn’t want him to be a gentleman?

  She shoved the thought out of her head. They were on the run from men who had wanted to abduct her or worse. Her parents might be the next target, and she had no idea whether Garrick’s note had found her father in time to take precautions.

  The existence of one bed in the cottage should not be her primary focus. Yet she was still staring at the bed when the door opened and knocked her in the back, startling her out of her daze. Clearing her throat, she shuffled farther into the cottage with the lantern.

  Thomas stamped his feet and shivered. “Once I start a fire, we’ll warm up quickly.”

  “I should have done that.” She refused to admit what had distracted her.

  Thomas slid his great coat off, hung it on a peg next to the door, and squatted in front of the hearth, deftly laying wood and kindling. The crackle drew her closer, and she stood behind him, watching his big, capable hands limned in firelight as he tended the flame until it was a healthy blaze. Thomas rose and bumped her with his shoulder. She grabbed his arm to catch herself. The muscle was ropey with strength.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “My fault. The two us will have to manage the best we can in the small space, I’m afraid.”

  She slid her hand up his arm a few inches. While her physical balance was restored, the foundation of her neat, safe world had shifted. She should be safely in her room, her part in Eleanor and Lord Berkwith’s love affair over once and for all. If she hadn’t gone to the Bear and the Crown, the night would have passed like any other. She would have woken and begun packing for the sojourn to the h
ouse party, where her mother would expect her to settle on a suitable gentleman to wed.

  The path of her life had diverged into a dark wood with a new companion.

  “Thomas. My parents. Will they be safe?” She tilted her face to look him in the eyes, sure she would be able to detect truth from lie.

  “Sir Hawkins is as wily and shrewd as any man I’ve ever met. Henry and Callum are well trained. I made sure of that. My note should have reached the right people in time. If there is a grander plot afoot, I have every confidence your father was given ample warning to avoid danger.”

  “I know Father courts peril every day, but I’ve always felt safe. Until now. Was it all an illusion?”

  “You have been safe,” he said vehemently and then sighed. “Until now. The French are growing desperate with each passing day. There are those in England sympathetic to Napoleon’s cause and others who have profited from the war and do not want peace. Sir Hawkins holds the keys to many secrets. He is valuable, and you would be an excellent bargaining chip.”

  “Those men wanted me in order to force Father into betraying his country and mission?”

  “It seems likely.” His expression turned thoughtful. “If they had wanted to kill you, it would have been a moment’s work to slip a knife between your ribs or slash your throat.”

  She touched her neck and swayed. Her shock must have reflected on her face. How close had she come to dying this night?

  “That was badly done of me. I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. Never apologize for telling me the truth. I appreciate not being coddled.” The room was warming, and she slipped off her cloak and hung it on a peg next to Thomas’s. With her back to him, she asked, “What would Father have done if those men had succeeded in taking me? Would he have bowed to their demands?”

  Thomas’s hesitation was answer enough. “Sir Hawkins is your father. The rest of us see him as something different altogether.”

  “Even you?” She turned and regarded him with the same fascination and curiosity she’d always felt around him. “He saved you from the orphanage and educated you like the son he never had.”

  “A son?” He laughed, but it was full of bitterness. “I had a father. A good one at that. I never wanted another.”

  Chapter 5

  Garrick had injured Victoria’s feelings. He could tell because he had been attuned to her reactions since she was a child. Her cheeks pinkened from more than the fire, and she bit her lip as her gaze slid away from his.

  Victoria had been a complicated, charming girl, equally bold and tenderhearted. The first time he’d found her in his room, he’d assumed she was there to steal his meager belongings. Of course he’d quickly learned how ridiculous the notion was. While not rich in the way of some peers, Sir Hawkins was Midas in Garrick’s youthful eyes.

  “I was so happy when Father brought you home.” The firelight emphasized the long curl of her lashes. “I hated being an only child.”

  “I was never meant to be your brother. That’s not why your father plucked me from the orphanage.” He imparted the fact he’d accepted years ago as gently as he could.

  “Why did he choose you?”

  “I was a big, strong lad with a sharp mind. My mother was a vicar’s daughter and made sure I could read and do my sums. Sir Hawkins wanted to mold and train me into an effective weapon. He succeeded.”

  She blinked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. The orphanage was harsh, and I had to fight for every scrap. Still, it was better than being forced out onto the streets to eke out a living by pickpocketing or sweeping chimneys. Your father offered me a future and a purpose. I’m not complaining.”

  “But you sounded so bitter before. Why?”

  It was his turn to avoid her gaze, afraid she’d see straight into the heart of him. “Let’s see if we can put together a stew.”

  He was sure she would forget about his feelings once the reality of their situation had a chance to set in. They would be spending the night in a one-room cottage with a single bed. He glanced to the pile of quilts before focusing on the larder.

  “Won’t whoever lives here be upset if we use his firewood and eat his food?”

  “This is a safe house.”

  “Yes, it feels safe enough. Unless the owner barges in with a pistol.”

  Garrick laughed and laid potatoes, carrots, and leeks on the table. “No, I mean it’s been outfitted for exactly this purpose. Anyone in our network can retreat here if they need to disappear. We pay a local to keep firewood and food stocked just in case.”

  “Is there any tea in the cupboard?” Victoria riffled through the larder and pulled out a tin with an exultant, “Aha!”

  “There might be something even better.” Garrick shifted the cupboard aside and retrieved a bottle of brandy from behind it that had come straight from France. A perquisite of the job. He uncorked the bottle and poured a liberal amount into two chipped, unmatched tea cups. Garrick downed his in one swallow. Victoria picked hers up and sipped as if it were boiling-hot tea.

  She coughed but smiled at him over the rim. “Mother only allows me a small glass of port after dinner or one flute of champagne at soirees. According to her, liquor muddles your thoughts and leads to poor decisions.”

  “Your mother is entirely correct, but we can afford a little muddling while I prepare our dinner.” By the time he gathered the water needed for their soup and hung the black pot over the fire, Victoria had downed the contents of her cup and poured herself more.

  She propped her chin on her hand and pouted. “I could help if I still had my knife. I forgot to retrieve it after you disarmed me.”

  Garrick cut the vegetables, dropped them into the small black pot, and seasoned it liberally with salt. It would be simple fare without even a loaf of bread. Not what Victoria was used to.

  “I must say I do feel much warmer and delightfully muddled.” She raised her arms into a stretch and then plucked the remaining pins from her hair. Snow-dampened curls unspooled, and she finger combed them back from her face. “I understand why Mother would be worried if I over imbibed.”

  Garrick mouth had gone dry. He wasn’t sure he could speak even if a pistol were being held to his temple. Watching her perform the mundane task of taking her hair down nearly unmanned him. It was an act only a maid or husband should be privy to, yet here he was with a front-row seat.

  He remembered that day they’d been alone in her father’s study, the day he’d succumbed to his longing for her. The two years since had blunted the constant frisson of tension between them, but the afternoon at the modiste had awakened his desire like a hibernating bear, starved and ready to devour her. The silence built until it was unbearable.

  “How many times have you used this cottage?” she asked.

  “Twice.”

  “Where are we exactly?”

  “North of London.”

  “That’s not exactly exact.” Her look was so sardonic, he fought a smile and lost.

  “The more people who know about this place, the less safe it is.”

  Her hum was full of annoyance. She took a sip and examined him over the rim of the cup. “Because you never mentioned a life before the orphanage, I assumed you had been abandoned there as a babe, but you weren’t.”

  He shook his head but said nothing, not expecting her to circle back to their earlier conversation.

  “What happened?”

  “An illness took my mum and da within days of one another. I was ten.” He felt like he’d swallowed a whole turnip and it had stuck in his throat.

  She slipped her bare fingers around his palm and gave his hand a squeeze. Her skin rasped delicately against his. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked. Why didn’t I think to ask?”

  He stared at their hands. His large and rough, hers slender and strong. “Because you were young and sheltered and such tragedy would never have occurred to you.”

  “Tell me about your
parents.”

  He hadn’t talked about them for years. At first his grief had been too raw, and later he’d learned missish feelings invited bullying in the orphanage. To cry was the mark of weakness, so he’d buried his grief and love and had never attempted to excavate them. Why bother now?

  “They were good people.” He shrugged and tried to sound dismissive. “From what I remember.”

  “What did your father do for a living?”

  Her questions were a spade to his defenses. “Blacksmith.”

  “Ah, you must take after him. You’re very…” Her voice petered into nothing. He raised his brows, waiting. She cleared her throat, and whispered, “Strong.”

  “Yes, Da was a big man. Mum called him a gentle giant. He would bring home strangers in need of a hot meal.” The years had dulled Garrick’s memory like a watercolor left in the rain, but his da’s laugh was indelible. Even so many years later, hearing a deep, booming laugh would spin Garrick around in search of his long-dead father. “His kindness got him killed.”

  “But you said he was felled by illness.”

  “One of his charity cases was sick and died on a cot in the smithy. Mum and Da were taken by the same sickness not two weeks later, a day apart.” He didn’t like revisiting the memory of his indomitable da gaunt and weak, dying in the same bed his mum had died in the day before.

  So much death. It was only when he went to war that he became inured to it.

  “You had no relatives to go to? No one in the village offered to take you in?”

  “They were afraid of me. Three people had just died in our cottage of some unknown plague. They burned the cottage and the smithy and banished me from town.”

  “They burned your cottage down and refused to take you in? That’s barbaric. Heinous. It makes me want to—” She slammed her fist on the table, jostling the cups.

  Her outrage on behalf of the ten-year-old boy he had been resettled something inside of him. He had tried to justify the way men, women, and children who had known him all his life had reacted, but he finally felt entitled to the anger he’d tried to deny. His da had been an important part of the village and had helped everyone at one time or another. Yet the villagers had only offered Garrick their backs.