12 Naughty Days of Christmas - 2016

by Jenny Plumb

  “You are, and I am a married man. I am going to love being your husband, sweet wife. I want to love you like that for at least a hundred years.”

  “I am yours to love always. May I ask you something? Where did my beautiful ring come from?”

  “It was my gram’s ring. She gave it to me when Gramps died. She told me to give it to my bride someday. Do you truly like it?” he asked.

  “I love it. Thank you for giving it to me. Another beautiful Christmas present. I wish I had something to give you!”

  “You gave me your innocence, wife. I treasure that gift.”

  Jessica’s heart swelled with love. “You say the nicest things, Victor.” She said a prayer that God would see her family through a difficult time, and then turned to her husband again.

  The Present

  “Mom, this letter was lying on Jess’ bed. She must have had a premonition,” Timothy said quietly as he handed the envelope to his grieving mother.

  “Dear Mama,

  If you are reading this, then I have met with an accident of some kind. I am writing this to share a message of hope. I know you and Daddy and the rest of the family loved Victor. I am a bit surprised that none of you recognized his name. Sheriff Victor Bodey is a famous name in the history of Guthrie. I know that all of you will rush to the Internet now to bring up his name, and that is okay. He was reportedly killed by the Ames Gang in 1873, but he didn’t really die. I found him in my side yard that night, one hundred and forty-three years later. I fell in love with him, and he fell in love with me. He felt that he was sent to this time to protect me, and I want you to know that if it is possible, he will do just that, even if it means his life. Since you are reading this, you know that it didn’t work. Please don’t be sad for me.

  I can’t help but wonder how many others among us have time traveled. It does give one hope that there is truly life on the Other Side. Please know that no matter where I am, I will be thinking of all of you. I wish you all a Merry and Blessed Christmas and a Happy New Year. All of my gifts for everyone are wrapped and in my bedroom closet. Please hand them out for me. I love you all and I will always love you.

  Jess”

  “Good God!” Tim’s eyes were wide. “Oh dear Lord. She’s alive! I am serious! Our Jessie married Victor Bodey on Christmas in 1873! Read this!” He handed the laptop to his mom.

  “Victor Bodey is one of the earliest residents of Guthrie, Wyoming. He was the sheriff who is famous for arresting the Ames Gang and bringing an end to their lawless ways. Bodey was married to Jessica Cosgrove on Christmas, 1873, and they went on to have one of the largest spreads in the state. They had eight children: five sons and three daughters. Victor and Jessica Bodey were famous for spreading Christmas joy throughout the town and countryside, making sure that orphanages received gifts for all the children, and shelters for the elderly had the nourishing meals that sustained lives. Victor and Jessica Bodey were known for helping anyone who needed their help with only one request – that they pay it forward someday.”

  The End.

  Merry Christmas to All!

  About the Author

  Paige Mallory

  Paige Mallory’s fascination with time travel began as a child when she wondered what it would be like to live in the Old West. It was also the beginning of making up stories that took place in that world. Paige still enjoys the idea of someone traveling to another world and living a wonderful life, and finding that special cowboy, lawman, rancher who makes her heart go pit-pat; a stern, but loving, man who isn’t afraid to spank a naughty bottom when necessary.

  Paige is married to a wonderful man and has two adult children and two grandchildren who make living life in today’s world exciting and very busy.

  Other titles written by Paige Mallory are:

  To Find My Love

  Emily

  To Picture the Past

  A Giggle or Two

  Lucinda

  She Ran

  Do I Know You?

  Peace and Harmony

  A Reason to be Thankful

  Sweetheart Dance

  Teaching Samantha

  The Do-Gooders of Carson Flats

  Real Man

  Janie and the Firelight Kid

  Rafe the Guardian

  Chapter 1

  Yorkshire, England.

  Mr. and Mrs. Weston....

  Glancing out through the mullion windows of his solid Yorkshire stone house, Oliver Weston watched the softly swirling snow as it settled over the moor. He absentmindedly broke the wax seal upon the letter he held. His gaze withdrew from the mesmerising flakes as he scanned the note. Picking up his unfinished toast whilst he read, his hand froze halfway to his mouth, his fingers still clutching the half eaten slice. He was completely absorbed by his letter and did not appear to notice the butter melting; it dripped down his wrist, staining the edge of his white ruffled cuff.

  His wife Harriett glanced up from her own correspondence, her husband’s sudden stillness alerted her to the fact something serious had gained his attention. “Pray, is it bad news, Mr. Weston?” she asked anxiously.

  “Hmm?” her husband responded absently.

  “Oliver, you are causing me concern, what is in your missive that intrigues you so?”

  This time her husband lifted his gaze and seeing her consternation, smiled at her reassuringly. “I am surprised is all,” he answered. “We have been included in an invitation, along with the rest of my family, to Merriton Hall for New Year. I thought Benedict Mortimer would never forgive me for my foolish behaviour with regard to his sister Imogene, but it seems that he has done so.”

  “Our sister too, now that she is married to your twin, Charles,” Harriet pointed out.

  “Mmm, yes quite so,” Oliver muttered as he reread the letter just to ascertain the facts. It was signed The Right Honourable Rose Countess of Stradock and Rose’s own unmistakably flourishing signature was at the bottom of the letter. He looked at his hand, still clutching his half eaten toast, with surprise; taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully.

  “Well, well,” he said, shaking his head bemusedly. “I confess that I am astonished but singularly gratified by this invitation.” He noticed the melted butter staining his cuff and dropped the toast onto the plate with an irritated “tsk.” Picking up a serviette he dabbed at the yellow stain. “The invitation also includes your sister Helen and her husband Richard.”

  Harriett clapped her hands. “Oh Mr. Weston, what a gay Christmastide we shall have to be sure! Could I perhaps have an advance on my dress allowance so that I may look my best amongst such high society?”

  Oliver smiled indulgently, nodding affably. “I see no reason why not, Mrs. Weston, but I shall demand a forfeit from you.”

  Harriet made a pretty moue.

  “Fear not, nothing too strenuous m’dear, merely some kisses from your pretty lips.”

  Harriet jumped up from the table and ran around to where her husband sat and planted a kiss upon his cheek. Oliver pulled her in close, whispering against her ear. “No, I will exact payment later, when we are alone and I can put those plump lips of yours to good use.”

  “Mr. Weston!” she squealed, scandalised. Oliver chuckled and patted his wife’s well covered rear. For a farmer’s daughter she was easily shocked; it delighted him to tease her and watch as blushes suffused her pretty cheeks.

  Merriton Hall Sussex, England.

  The Earl and Countess of Stradock...

  Breakfast at Merriton Hall was, by the standard of the day, casual. The breakfast fare was served in silver covered tureens set upon a polished wooden sideboard. No servants or butler were present to wait upon the family, who enjoyed the privacy of simply being en famille. They ate with gusto, discussing anything left unsaid when a servant was present. The older two children joined their parents for breakfast, staying until Nanny came to fetch them, then Rose would take baby George and keep him for an hour or two, while the nanny gathered the older children taking them outside
for their daily constitution about the grounds of Merriton.

  Rose had decided that it would be best to share the news of their New Year visitors with her husband during the general hubbub of breakfast, a time of day she thought her husband would be less likely to overreact.

  Rose glanced through her post and noted an invitation that had arrived solely in her name. Sliding it into her reticule she intended studying it later, when she was alone. Thankfully, her husband was distracted by his pamphlet, while the children were too absorbed in their own bickering to even notice her furtive deed.

  The moment the words had left her mouth, Rose knew she had been mistaken in her supposition that Benedict would take the news of their impending guests better in front of the children.

  “WHAT? No. Absolutely NOT!” Lord Mortimer bellowed, leaping to his feet, startling the squabbling children into shocked silence. The dogs leapt to their feet, sensing their master’s sudden change in mood, they assumed danger approached, but their warning barks frightened the children who burst into tears. Benedict ignored the cacophony and focused his narrow-eyed attentions on his petite blonde wife; she gazed back at him contriving innocence.

  “Don’t think that wide-eyed look will save you,” he intoned sonorously, narrowing his eyes just as Rose rolled hers.

  “Ah, that is more like the Rose I know and love.” He wagged an admonishing finger at her. “You went behind my back to arrange this visit, knowing full well what my answer would be had you asked my permission and you jolly well should have asked!” He slammed the flat of his hand down upon the table and the entire breakfast porcelain jumped, whilst the silverware rattled, the children wailed, and the dogs bayed. The door opened and a nervous nanny appeared with baby George cradled in her arms. She took in the master’s stormy countenance and called the children over to her. They dashed to her side and clung to her skirts, fearful of their father’s ire. Nanny glanced over at Rose for instruction and Rose waved her away, instructing her to take the children from the room. As the children left, the dogs took their opportunity to escape the overcharged atmosphere, rushing out. They very nearly toppled Nanny over.

  Benedict seemed not to notice that everyone had left, so intent was he on his argument.

  “You know, he knows, just about everyone knows, why I will not have Oliver Weston under my roof!” he bellowed at Rose.

  “But he is Charles and Claudia’s brother and now Imogene’s brother-in-law. We cannot invite them here without asking Oliver and Harriett! Surely you see that! After all, you are the English Lord, always so full of what is correct, regarding English etiquette, etcetera, etcetera!” she replied crossly, her American accent coming to the fore in her distress.

  “Oliver Weston married my sister as an imposter and—”

  “Yes, but now your sister is married to your friend, our brother-in-law, Charles! Imogene accepts Oliver into her household. It was she that he deceived, not you and yet she accepts him, as you need to do without all this blustering. Lawks a mercy, give me strength!” Rose spun away from the table and flung up her hands in frustration.

  Benedict moved with surprising agility for such a large man. Rose barely had time to blink before her husband was around the table, her wrist secured within his grasp.

  “You will accompany me to my study.”

  “Benedict, I am the mother of three children, a matron now, in fact. Your behaviour is not at all appropriate. Release me this instant!” she hissed vehemently.

  Her husband snorted. “You don’t look a day over the eighteen years you were when I married you. I wouldn’t care if you were a grandmother of three, you deserve to be soundly spanked, and so you shall be!”

  Rose squealed, although secretly she was thoroughly enjoying her husband’s masterful reaction to her underhandedness. He hadn’t shown any inclination to spank her in quite a while, but then, she hadn’t given him any cause to do so. Even now, this unexpected treatment of her person was a surprise. She quite genuinely believed that this kind of husbandly discipline was a thing of the past. After all, she was an established matriarch and, as such, it was refreshingly exciting to rediscover Benedict’s dominion.

  “I have a meeting with Cook to go over Christmas and New Year menus, I cannot simply dispense with my duty and disappear into your lair,” she protested weakly.

  Benedict tightened his hold on his wife. “I beg to differ, you can and you will.” He tugged open the door. Roberts, their butler, stood aside bowing his head in deference to their sudden appearance. His eyes widened as the master strode past with the mistress in his inexorable grip.

  “Roberts, inform Cook that Lady Mortimer will be delayed, she will ring for her when she is ready.” He carried on in the direction of his study, his wife securely in hand.

  “Certainly, milord.” The butler watched solemnly as his employer towed his diminutive wife along the polished hallway, her silken slippers sliding in an attempt to keep up with her husband’s stride. Roberts remained stationary until they disappeared around the bend in the passage, then he entered the dining room, snapping his fingers at the footman standing either side of the doorway. The liveried servants cleared away the breakfast debris accompanied by the faint but distinguishable song of a female wailing in distress.

  Chapter 2

  Longetlestone, Sussex, England.

  Sir Thomas and and Lady Margaret Wiggington...

  Sir Thomas scanned the New Year’s Day invitation, handed to him by his wife, with a scowling frown. “No, certainly not, it is from that man Blackwell.” he said firmly as he handed the elegant scripted card back to her.

  Margaret glared haughtily at her husband. “I cannot see the harm, Thomas, so pray to what do you object?”

  William Blackwell, known to most gentleman of the ton as Black Bill, was a renowned rake and libertine. When he had been much younger, William had sought Margaret’s hand in matrimony. Thomas had spent an entire sleepless year worrying that Black Bill’s suit would be accepted by Margaret’s mother, which would have scuppered his own chances at winning the hand of his lady love.

  Thomas sighed heavily and laid aside his newssheet. “Tis an invitation made by a man known to be a notorious blaggard, Margaret, as are the so called gentlemen that he associates with. He is up to no good, of that you maybe sure. Why else hold a New Year celebration for ladies only? My answer is no and we shall not discuss the issue again.” He picked up his newssheet giving it a brisk shake before reading once more. A loud scraping noise grated harshly on his nerves; he glanced up, noting that his furious wife had pushed back her chair without signalling to a footman that she wished to rise, thus causing the dreadful screech of chair legs dragging on the parquetry floor.

  Thomas watched, resigned, as Margaret flounced from the room slamming the heavy door behind her. He sighed and laid his paper aside, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew precisely what his Bee required. He pondered his options, a caning perhaps, or a birching maybe? His thoughts drifted to the unsuitable invite his wife had received. How on earth could she even contemplate accepting such an invitation? Thomas felt unsettled by any contact with William Blackwell. He disliked and distrusted the man to such a degree he trembled with ire hearing his very name. Margaret was surely aware of how he felt about the fellow who had pursued her for so many years? He pondered his wife’s recent petulant and peevish behaviour, all of which pointed to her need for chastisement.

  Thomas had made it his mission in life to understand the needs of ladies with bad-tempered dispositions. He understood Margaret’s sour moods and concluded that enough was enough. His wife clearly needed a sharp reminder from her husband in order to restore the balance of harmony to her nature. Returning Margaret to her biddable demeanour was a regular mission, one that he knew if neglected, would allow his wife to fester; she would revert to a nature that was on the bitter side of vinegar. In short his wife was a shrew and it took all Sir Thomas Wiggington’s patient loving discipline to keep his Bee from turning into a nasty litt
le wasp.

  Decision made, Thomas patted his mouth fastidiously with his napkin; coughing politely, he waited for one of the footman to pull back his chair. He thanked the lad graciously and made his way out to the rear of the house, stopping along the way to retrieve his greatcoat from the boot room and to pull on a pair of sturdy black and tan leather boots. He stepped outside into the icy wintery garden to look for suitable switches, possibly hazel, something not too thick but pliable and whippy to make up his birch. He wanted to deliver a sting without weight; Thomas took Margaret’s welfare extremely seriously. After all, he had loved the pretty termagant since he had been a callow youth and she had given him a crushing set down at his very first ball. She had been, to his shy young eyes, quite magnificent; he was utterly smitten and determined to take her to wife. It had taken him years to learn how to deal with venomous women. Thomas had practiced on a fair number of ladies from the haute ton. He learned from affaires with bitter widows and neglected wives, married to husbands not strong enough to deal with the spiteful little witches they had married.

  By the time Thomas had manipulated Margaret into accepting his proposal, he had become a master at understanding women of her dour ilk, and Margaret? She adored him, but not at first, oh no, the start of their marriage had been extremely... interesting. Thomas had delighted in his waspish bride, thoroughly enjoying taming his own delectable perfect little scold, while she, in turn, came to realise that she couldn’t do without her husband’s particular brand of loving discipline.

  The tree branches were shrouded in frills of rimy frost glinting in the pale wintery sunshine. Thomas walked to the shrubby hazel tree and tested various branches, finally deciding on the three that would suit his purpose. He took out his pocketknife and cut the thin, straight branches, scraping them clean of leaves and knobbly bumps.