by Regan Walker
Ailie shifted her gaze to the countess at the end of the table.
Muriel smiled. “Just so.”
Robbie had observed Nash’s reaction to the countess’ prediction that men would follow Ailie Stephen about London. A beautiful redhead gowned in silk and satin would be most welcome, at least by the men. The slight Scots brogue in her voice would make her unique among the young women on the marriage mart. As the guest of The Grand Countess, men would be intrigued.
He understood why Nash did not want Ailie going to London. Robbie wasn’t at all certain he liked the idea of the lass being paraded about in front of the ravenous rogues, even though, at times, he acted the rogue himself.
Here in Scotland, Ailie was a rare jewel, ripe for wooing yet isolated. In London, escorted through rooms crowded with bachelors seeking a wife, the competition for her hand would be fierce.
Though it mattered little to him and, he was certain it mattered not at all to Nash, as the only daughter of a shipbuilding magnate, Ailie Stephen would have a good dowry. She’d be one of The Golden Girls, as Robbie thought of them, the daughters of rich gentry who came not with lands, but with large portions.
Faced with a choice of a simpering ingénue just out of the schoolroom or an intelligent woman of uncommon beauty and wealth, the men looking for wives would consider Miss Aileen Stephen a most delectable choice. To Robbie’s mind, she was too great a prize to be offered up to the swains in London.
He brought his plate to the table and took the only available seat across from Nash. He winked at Ailie. “I recommend staying in Scotland.”
At his words, Nash visibly relaxed.
“’Sides,” Robbie tossed in, “Almack’s serves up tepid lemonade and weak tea. You’d not like it.”
“Balderdash!” roared Muriel. “At my parties, I serve only the finest champagne. Why, there’s also brandy and other spirits in the card room.”
Emily frowned. “Do not discourage my sister-in-law, Robbie. ’Tis a great opportunity Muriel has extended to her. I am confident my friend would see Ailie has a wonderful time.”
“In the meantime,” interjected Will, saving them all from another debate, “we have greenery to gather if we’re to dress the house on Christmas Eve. The snow is deep but the winter sun is with us. If you are willing to brave the weather, we can venture into the woods once again.”
Voices around the table echoed words of agreement.
Mary and Hugh exchanged a glance. “We still prefer to ride,” said Hugh.
“I, too, would like to ride,” said Nash. Then to Ailie, “Might you be my guide?”
Robbie kept his expression calm, but he was taken aback. This was Nash’s day to go to town. The deep snow he had seen upon rising might suggest a delay, but surely not a long one. He could easily cover the ground if he were to ride.
Ailie nodded to Nash. “I would be happy to show you the way to some greenery perfect for the house.”
For once in his life, Robbie had been too slow, missing the opportunity to extend the invitation to the lovely girl. He let out a sigh of frustration. He would have to be patient; there would be other opportunities.
Emily spoke up. “I’ve asked the servants to set up tables for cards in the library. And Mrs. Platt has promised to make wassail. Perhaps we might have a game of loo, Muriel?”
Muriel took a sip of her chocolate. “Well, it’s not whist, my favorite, but a game of loo will do.”
Emily laughed. “I recall that ’tis true of you.”
The countess laughed at their rhyming, making Robbie think the two shared some private memory. Since he enjoyed cards and Nash had usurped his place with Ailie, rather than make a nuisance of himself in the woods, he decided to be useful by contributing to the game’s participants. “Whist or loo, I can play either,” he ventured. “We just need two more.”
“We’ll play,” offered Martin. “Loo is one of Kit’s favorite games.” Kit nodded enthusiastically.
“If it’s all right with you, William,” suggested Nick, “Tara and I would like to see the shipyard.”
“I don’t know how many of my men will make it in today, but if you will allow me to be your guide, I’d be happy to give you a tour and tell you about the work we have underway.”
“Nothing could be better,” said Tara. “I’ve only seen my father’s shipbuilding enterprise in Baltimore. I would look forward to seeing yours and, with you as our guide, we’d miss nothing.”
“In addition to our repair work,” said William, “we built three schooners last year and have one under construction now I can show you.”
“Powell and Sons buys schooners,” said Nick with a wry smile, “but then I am certain Hugh mentioned that.”
William chuckled. “Aye, he did. Perhaps before you depart for London, we can do a bit of business.” He turned to Robbie and the rest of them. “Now that we are all agreed, I’ll leave the arrangements for the horses to Ailie and the cards to my lovely wife, while I take Nick and Tara to the shipyard.”
As the others rose and filed out of the dining room, Robbie caught Nash as he made to leave. “A word, Brother?”
Nash waved Ailie on and turned to Robbie. “What is it?”
“We’ve work to do in Arbroath, or have you forgotten why we are here?” If Robbie were being honest, his irritation with his brother stemmed more from his monopolizing the beautiful girl than from shirking his responsibility.
“I have not forgotten.”
Robbie took account of his brother’s guilty expression. “Our enjoyment of the Stephens’ hospitality cannot come before our obligation to the Crown. I sense Kinloch is here and I’d rather catch him before he boards the Panmure.”
“If I get back early, I can still go to town today. Otherwise, tomorrow. If the ship isn’t sailing until the end of the month, we have time.”
“Not so much that you can be constantly seeking out Miss Stephen.”
Nash raised his brows. “Jealous?”
Robbie huffed. Nothing irritated him more than being called out on a weakness.
Nash stared at him for a moment, seeing more than Robbie cared for him to. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll go tomorrow at the latest.” Then he turned and walked away.
Robbie considered his brother’s choices. He had never before pursued a woman to the detriment of their duty. Was it the assignment that was so distasteful? Or, perhaps Nash’s feelings for the girl were more serious than Robbie had believed. Was this desire he was witnessing, or could it be more?
Chapter 9
“Mind the holly thorns!” Ailie shouted to the others riding behind her as they ventured deeper into the woods. She had given them cloth sacks in which to put the greenery they found and, just as they left, Will had given Hugh and Nash each a new tool.
Captain Anderson had brought the pruning shears he called “sécateurs” back from France for Emily, telling her they would make short work of cutting woody stems.
Now all they needed was the greenery they hunted: holly, red hawthorn berries and branches of Scots pine. Planning for the house to be well decorated for the English Christmastide, Emily had been growing rosemary, ivy and the hellebore she called Christmas rose in the orangery.
Ailie had left Goodness and Mercy back at the house knowing the snow would be deep in the woods.
She led the others along the road, now covered with snow up to the horses’ fetlocks. No ice had formed and the horses, unshod for the winter, soon found their footing. The horses showed great enthusiasm for the venture, snorting and shaking their heads when snow from high branches fell upon them.
Being outdoors in the cold air enlivened Ailie’s spirit. That she rode with Nash only raised her enthusiasm for their outing.
“I see some holly bushes over there,” cried Mary excitedly. Ailie turned in the saddle to see Hugh’s wife riding off to the left. Hugh reined his horse to follow.
Ailie urged her mare on. She remembered a hawthorn tree in this part of the woods and was
determined to find it. The birds often ate the berries, but if she could find some they had left, the red berries would make an attractive decoration along with the Scots pine branches she hoped to gather.
Nash pulled up next to her. “What are you searching for?”
“A hawthorn tree.”
“Not just any greenery, then.”
“No, a tree I remembered being in this part of the woods.” She took the path to the right. The horses plodded more slowly, the snow now to their knees. “The deeper snow will make the going slower,” she told Nash, “but I’m hoping we’ll be rewarded with some berries.”
“Very well, lead on.”
Farther ahead, Ailie heard the sound of running water. The sound grew louder as they neared the small burn where water rushed over rocks. She spotted the hawthorn tree just beyond the water. “We’re in luck! The branches are laden with berries.”
“Those small red dots beneath the snow on the branches?” Nash asked.
“Aye.”
Nash dismounted and waded through the snow to where she sat her horse, watching him. He took hold of her waist and lowered her to the ground.
Her hands on his shoulders, Ailie slid down the front of his greatcoat until her feet touched ground beneath the snow. He didn’t let go but fixed her with his green and gold eyes.
She could not tear her eyes from his handsome face and the longing she saw in his eyes. Her heart sped as he said her name and bent his head, drawing closer.
He closed his eyes and, when his lips touched hers, she closed her eyes, shutting out all but him and his kiss.
His lips were surprisingly soft and his touch tender, causing her to welcome the kiss. Around them stood the cold snow-covered woods but, in his arms, she was warm, his lips moving over hers igniting a flame within her.
He raised his head. “I’ve been wanting to do that since that first evening in your parlor.”
It was the only time in her life Ailie had been rendered dizzy by a man’s kiss. With her hands still on his shoulders, she looked into his beautiful eyes, hoping he would kiss her again.
He smiled and so did she, like two children sharing a secret.
Acceding to her unspoken wish, he kissed her again. This time, when their lips touched, she wrapped her hands around his neck and held him close.
The kiss, less gentle than the first, stirred a response deep within her. He put his hands on her hips and drew her against his body. Their coats between them did not prevent her from feeling the heat of him. She delighted in his masculine smell tinged with the scent of sandalwood.
Tentatively at first, she returned his kiss. Despite the intimate nature of his tongue entwining with hers, it was not at all unpleasant. She had heard her brothers speak of such kisses but this was her first experience. With Nash, what had been described as something she never thought to enjoy became an exchange of passionate ardor such as she had never known.
He pulled away first, leaving her breathless. “Forgive me, Ailie. I shouldn’t—”
She put her gloved finger to his mouth. “Don’t say it. I’m glad you did. I liked your kissing me or couldn’t you tell?”
He gave her another of his winning smiles. “I could tell.” Then taking one of her hands, he led her toward the hawthorn tree. “We had best gather those berries before we forget why we came.”
“Aye.” She laughed. “I had nearly forgotten myself.”
His smile was subtle as he shook his head. “You are always surprising me, Ailie. Innocent you may be but with enough passion to require all my self-control.”
Bending his head toward the smaller branches, he began to cut. Since he had the shears, she directed him to those branches that were heavy with berries.
They worked side by side, Nash cutting and Ailie putting the branches in the bag. In her mind she relived his kisses. What could they mean? He was an Englishman, she a Scot. Most likely, he was an Anglican; she was a Presbyterian. She had only known him for a matter of days. In a matter of weeks, he would return to London and she would never see him again. Perhaps, to him, the kiss meant little.
They filled the sack. “What next?” he asked.
She looked around them, fighting the urge to return to his arms. A stand of small Scots pine trees stood nearby. “Some pine branches would go well with the berries and they will make the house smell like the woods. Let’s cut some of those.”
“I live to serve,” he teased. Working his way around the hawthorn tree to the young Scots pines, he asked, “How many?”
“Enough to fill another sack.” She took one from her saddlebag and brought it to where he stood. “Don’t you gather greenery in England for your Christmastide?”
“We do, but not Scots pines. I don’t suppose you have mistletoe in Arbroath?”
“Mistletoe… the Druid’s herb? Not much of it in Scotland, none that I know of in Arbroath unless a ship brings it, but even if one did, the Kirk would not approve.”
“’Tis what the English use in their kissing boughs.” His smile made her think of a small boy who had a frog secreted away in his pocket. “My mother always hangs the balls of holly, ivy and mistletoe from the entry hall chandelier. ’Tis allowed for a gentleman to kiss a lady caught beneath the bough.”
“Ah,” she said, “I see. But in Scotland, the Parish Kirk frowns on celebrations of what it considers to be the Yule, which is why we don’t celebrate Christmas, at least not openly, even though we do recognize the birth of the Christ Child. But with Emily a part of the family, I expect that will change. When word gets around that the Stephens have brought the English Christmastide into their home, our parish minister will think the whole lot of us have become Anglicans.”
He laughed. “Would that be so bad?”
From his expression, Ailie sensed the question might be important. “Perhaps not, but most everyone in Scotland is Presbyterian. In truth, ’tis the same God whose praises we sing, whether Anglican or Presbyterian, no?”
His smile told her he liked her answer. “I would certainly look forward to having a kissing bough to catch you under this Christmas.”
Her cheeks grew warm. Silently, she cursed her sensitive skin. “Now you remind me of Robbie,” she said in a teasing manner. “I will ask Emily about a kissing bough since I can see it means much to the English.” Ailie wouldn’t mind him catching her under such a bough.
“Ho there!” came the cry from the woods.
Ailie looked up to see Hugh and Mary making their way toward them. “Seems we’ve been found.”
Hugh arrived first and leaned down to pat the large sack tied to his saddle. “We have two great bags of holly and some other evergreen branches that Mary found to decorate your many rooms. Are you two almost finished?”
Ailie met Nash’s eyes. It had grown colder since they had arrived in the woods and now she no longer had his arms around her. “Aye,” she replied. “We’re done here as well and I, for one, would not turn away a cup of hot wassail.”
Robbie looked up from his cards to see Muriel pondering her next move. Not far away, the fire burned steadily, occasionally giving out with a loud pop. He liked the library and its rich smell of leather, wood burning and a faint remnant of pipe smoke. It reminded him of White’s, his favorite club in London where doubtless he would be this very moment were it not for Lord Sidmouth.
Through the windows, he glimpsed the pale sun casting its rays onto a white world. His thoughts drifted to Nash, who was somewhere out there enjoying the morning with the Mistress of the Setters. He envied his brother the time alone with the spirited girl. Nash had always been one to seize an opportunity. But since he did not have Robbie’s luck at cards, if one of them was to remain behind and play, it had best be him. Let Nash gather the Christmas foliage.
Muriel raised her head. “Emily, dear, might I have a glass of Madeira?”
“Of course,” said their hostess. The footman having left the library a short while ago, Emily rose to fetch the wine Robbie had learned the
countess favored.
Very soon into their play, it had become apparent loo was a game the five of them knew well. They were now into Double Pool rounds and Muriel, who had yet to declare if she would play the hand Emily had dealt her, was stalling.
The Grand Countess was a clever woman and an adroit card player, thus Robbie was certain she was making use of the delay to consider her next move. His suspicious nature wondered if she’d even wanted the wine. After all, it was early in the day and breakfast not long finished.
Martin narrowed his eyes on Muriel. “An underhanded move, calculated, I suspect to gain time.”
“When one has much on one’s mind,” said the countess, “additional time is required and a glass of Madeira helps me think.”
Robbie couldn’t imagine what might occupy the thoughts of The Grand Countess if not her cards. Her next ball?
Emily set the glass of the dark honey-colored wine before her friend. “After luncheon, wassail will be served in the parlor.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Muriel. “A cup of wassail always brings back pleasant memories.” She gazed toward the window, a wistful expression on her face.
Martin fiddled with his cards. “Ah yes… memories. I recall once playing loo when the stakes were very high.”
Muriel gave Martin an assessing look. “Are you thinking of your past pursuits, Sir Martin?”
“Possibly,” he drawled, avoiding Muriel’s piercing gray eyes.
Did Muriel know that Martin, like Hugh, had spied for the Crown in France? Perhaps in addressing him as Sir Martin, she was letting him know she was aware Martin’s knighthood had been conferred upon him for just that work.
“That’s all behind him now,” Kit put in. She glanced around the table. “Perhaps I shall do a sketch of our card game. It will make a nice addition to my collection.”
“I have decided to trade my cards for the miss,” Muriel announced, reaching for the extra hand to exchange for the one she had.
The play continued, becoming spirited at times. Robbie took most of the tricks, which surprised Emily and Muriel, but not his brother, Martin, or Kit, who were aware of his reputation.
