Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  “You’ll go no farther,” another man shouted.

  “Why in Hades not?”

  “None of your blasted arguing,” the hefty man roared.

  The ache in Percival’s leg intensified, and he squirmed. “I’ve got urgent business in London to attend to.”

  “You forgot something,” another man said.

  Percival rubbed his hand through his hair.

  “Please do not claim you’ve forgotten me.” A clear, alto voice soared over the deep-voiced grumblings, and Percival blinked when a familiar face peeked from the throng of men.

  “You’re a witch.” Percival’s voice was hoarse.

  That was the only explanation. Maybe all those people in the middle ages warning about ginger-haired demons had been onto something.

  “I had help.” The woman rose and gestured to the surrounding men.

  “But—”

  “You will take her with you,” a man from the sled said.

  “But—” Percival rubbed his hand over his hat.

  “Now.”

  “I was so devastated when you abandoned me!” The woman’s voice sounded mournful.

  “Your wife is pregnant!” A white-headed fellow frowned. “You can’t abandon her. I don’t care how tired you are of your children.”

  “My children?” Percival gasped.

  “She’s told us everything. No lies.”

  “We’re—we’re not married,” Percival stuttered.

  “Take her with you now.”

  “I—”

  “Are you planning on abandoning your pregnant wife to the snow?”

  “Think of your four babes!” another man shouted.

  “I’m just happy my mother is taking care of them now!” The Scarlet Demon tossed her head, her voice still mournful. “How could you have abandoned me? I know it’s hard . . .”

  The men frowned. “We will not tolerate any man being unkind to his woman. Especially on Christmas.”

  “Christmas is a time for romance,” one person on horseback added.

  The white-headed man shook his head. “Just because you used to be a soldier doesn’t mean you can put on fancy airs. Seducing women with your uniform. Marrying them. Leaving them when they’re pregnant. For shame. You’re not at war anymore. We won’t tolerate these actions any longer.”

  “You’ve made a mistake. A terrible mistake.” Percival sucked in a deep breath of air. “And I need to get to London.”

  “Get into the sleigh beside your wife now.”

  Percival glanced at the road. Snow swept over it rapidly. Anger seared him. He’d been so close to escaping. He’d even left the woman some money, for some ridiculous reason feeling sorry for her, only to find she’d managed to convince a whole tavern filled with people to capture him again.

  He crossed his arms and scowled. “She’s not my wife.”

  The men murmured.

  He pointed at the Scarlet Demon. “This woman is a fraud and a liar. She’s a highwaywoman who captured me.”

  Fear flickered over the woman’s face, but she then had the indecency to dab her eyes with a handkerchief, as if he were the one lacking in reason. The woman was impossible.

  “It’s the truth, so help me God.” Percival raised his hand to his chest.

  A gasp sounded. “You shouldn’t do that, lad! You shouldn’t lie before our heavenly father.”

  He gritted his teeth. “This lady is a highwaywoman.”

  “Darling!” The Scarlet Demon let out an affronted shout.

  “She stopped the coach I was in, threatening the driver and me with a knife.”

  “Where’s the driver?” Someone shouted.

  “He ran away.” Percival flicked his hand. That part was irrelevant. “She demanded I let her take me somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know!” Percival shook his head. “But she had me drive the coach north, even though it is vital that I get to London soon.”

  “Do not believe him.” The woman’s voice trembled. Though it still had a rich alto sound to it, her manner had changed, as if she were a genteel woman, overwhelmed by the male-dominated surroundings.

  She seemed more like a mouse than a fox.

  “What say you to this?” one person asked her.

  The woman frowned, and Percival didn’t fail to notice the worry in her eyes. “I say he needs some rest.”

  “I don’t think we should let you alone with him,” the hefty man grumbled.

  “But! I’m not the one who kidnapped somebody,” Percival shouted. “I’m the one who was dragged miles out of my way. I’m not the person claiming to be someone I’m not. I’m not even married. I don’t even have a wife.”

  “Then who are you?” The white-headed man asked.

  He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to reveal this, but he couldn’t be taken for a criminal by this wild grouping of men. “My name is Percival Carmichael, and I am the Duke of Alfriston.”

  “That is an extraordinary claim!” The white-headed man frowned.

  “No! There’s nothing extraordinary about it at all. I’m the one being truthful. All of you are believing a madwoman.”

  Gasps sounded from the others.

  “I am worried about having you alone with him.” The hefty man turned to the Scarlet Demon.

  The woman’s lips wobbled. “He’s harmless. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Oh.” The men tilted their heads and stroked their chins, the prospect of believing him apparently impossible.

  “The man’s perfectly safe. You mustn’t harm him. Never even learned how to fire a musket.”

  “You’re insane.” Percival frowned. “I lost my leg in the war.”

  “Farming accident.” The woman turned to the others. “One of those dreadful new machines—far too complex for the man. Certainly not a duke.”

  “I would never have married you,” Percival grumbled.

  The woman drew in her breath sharply, but then smiled. “Are you saying a demon must have arranged it?”

  Percival glanced at the determined faces of the men, so eager to fight injustice, which apparently he embodied. He sighed. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Good.” The woman’s shoulders slumped though, and her lips fluttered downward.

  “It is a crime to abandon your wife in a strange place,” the hefty man growled.

  “I forgive him,” the scarlet-haired woman said.

  “You should be in church!” one of the men on horseback said, “Praising the lord that you have such a good wife.”

  “Come on, darling,” the Scarlet Demon said. “Will someone take the man’s coach? I’m afraid he must have taken the mail coach by accident.”

  “We won’t report him,” the white-headed gentleman said kindly.

  Percival cast a mournful look in the direction of London.

  Chapter Nine

  Fiona exhaled as Percival stumbled toward her through the thickening snow. His gloved hand tightened around his cane, and his wooden leg thumped against the floor of the sleigh. Mr. Nicholas rose and offered Percival his seat beside Fiona, and a man returned the mail coach.

  Percival’s gaze remained fixed away from her, and something in Fiona’s chest constricted as the sleigh sped back over the hills.

  They weren’t far from Cloudbridge Castle, but Fiona couldn’t show up so late with a stranger, even a supposed fiancé, in tow. At least she’d told Grandmother she was visiting her sister.

  She glanced at Percival. The man’s face was as stony and hardened as a statue, and she averted her eyes. She shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t have gotten him involved, and goodness, she shouldn’t have gotten the tavern-goers involved. She wrapped her arms together and pressed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t stop the occasional brush of his arm against hers in the jostling sleigh, reminding her of his presence.

  Finally, the sleigh pulled up at the Old Goblet Lodge and the men toppled outward, hollering something about rewarding themselves with cider and al
e.

  She cast a glance at Percival’s ashen face, and her stomach tightened as if pulled into one of the more complex fishermen’s knots. “Forgive me. I—I won’t hurt you. You must know that.”

  Mr. Nicholas snorted, and Fiona frowned.

  “Sorry, love. It sounded like you were apologizing to him. After he gone and done a runner on you.” His voice sobered, and he shook a finger at Percival. “Young man. You may have lost your leg, but you should be shouting to the heavens in joy that you still have the affection of such an enchanting woman.”

  Percival’s features hardened.

  “Mr. Nicholas,” Fiona ventured, but the man merely waved his gloved hand at her. Snow continued to topple onto his hair, the thick white flecks giving him a sage-like appearance the man might appreciate, even if she was sure he didn’t deserve it.

  “You’re lucky to have her in your life,” Mr. Nicholas continued. “You certainly shouldn’t be worried she’ll hurt you. Why, this sweet woman is the mother of your children.”

  Fiona squirmed.

  “Let’s see if the tavern has a room for you. Bringing another life into the world should be cause for joy,” Mr. Nicholas grumbled. “It’s a good thing she came after you when she did. That coach wouldn’t have made it to the next town, and you would be an ice block.”

  Percival tensed beside her, and Fiona fought the urge to loop her arm with his and seek to bring him some comfort.

  “And where would your lovely wife and children be then?” Mr. Nicholas shook his head. “Ice blocks make even worse husbands than cripples.”

  Percival flinched.

  “You mustn’t speak of him in such terms!” Fiona exclaimed.

  “Cripple?” Mr. Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “Just saying it how it is. I leave all the gentlemanly nonsense for those men in court with their silk pantaloons and their white wigs.”

  Mr. Nicholas pushed open the door to the pub, and Fiona and Percival followed him. The men in the carriage seemed well on their way to working through their first celebratory round.

  “To the reunited couple,” Mr. Potter cheered and thrusted a half-empty tankard in their direction. “We’ve got you the best room in the tavern.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Percival eyed Mr. Potter, as if assessing the likelihood that the man would direct his pistol at him again.

  Mr. Potter’s eyebrows narrowed. “You want to take this splendid woman to a room that isn’t the best?”

  “I—”

  “Because this tavern ain’t the place to go for second-rate rooms. You’d be battling the bed bugs enough as it is in the best room. But there’s a bloody blizzard out there, and cripples can’t be choosers.” The man chortled. “Get it? Like beggars, but you’re a cripple, see, so—”

  “I get it.” Percival’s voice was flat, and Fiona’s chest twisted.

  “I think my husband was hoping we could have two rooms,” Fiona said finally.

  “When you should be busy reuniting? Absolute nonsense.” Mr. Potter leaned toward Percival and winked. “You can’t worry about getting with child if one’s already on its way.”

  The other men roared, and Mr. Potter downed the rest of his cider before slamming it against the bar.

  “Besides. This place is filled. None of us are leaving tonight. So you’ve gotta share. Better for love-making anyway.” Mr. Potter elbowed Percival, and the man stumbled, jabbing his cane into the floor to regain balance.

  Percival frowned. “You’re right. Naturally, my marvelous wife and I will share a room.”

  Fiona stilled. Women did not share rooms with men. Women like her weren’t even supposed to stay in places like this. “Wait. Maybe—”

  “Come on, dear,” Percival said.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll notice if he tries to escape again, love.” Mr. Potter grinned.

  “Th-thank you,” she stuttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Give her a kiss,” one of the men shouted, and Fiona stilled.

  “Can’t have you upset at each other before bed.” Mr. Nicholas’s eyes softened. “That’s what me wife always said, bless her soul.”

  “Aye, aye,” someone said. “A kiss.”

  Fiona’s eyes rounded, and she was careful to avoid meeting Percival’s gaze. “I think we require a bit more privacy for such an action.”

  “Nah, those rules are just for unmarried people.” Mr. Nicholas laughed. “No formality here, right boys?”

  “Aye, aye!” The men roared their assent.

  “The way I see it,” Mr. Potter said, “We reunited you. So we need to make sure you’re happy.”

  “How gallant of you,” Percival murmured dryly.

  “Now if I was she,” Mr. Potter said, “I wouldn’t be hanging around with a man without a leg. But that’s me. People are different.”

  “That’s big of you,” Fiona said.

  “Nice, that’s what it is.” Mr. Potter flashed her a toothy grin.

  “Half an hour ago, you were trying to kill me,” Percival said.

  “Threatening to kill you,” Mr. Potter corrected. “It’s different.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Nicholas said. “Mr. Potter threatens to kill people all the time. It’s his way of making conversation. Practically.”

  Fiona smiled tightly.

  “But maybe your husband here is just not the kissing type,” Mr. Potter mused. “Rather a waste of a wife if you ask me.”

  “I’m not asking you,” Fiona said.

  Mr. Potter stepped toward her, and his dark eyes flickered. “Perhaps you should. I guess a man without a leg can’t be expected to know what to do with a woman.”

  In the next moment a strong hand gripped her, and she found herself staring straight into Percival’s blue eyes. Her heartbeat quickened.

  “My wife is completely content,” Percival said.

  “Y-yes,” she squeaked.

  Percival pulled her toward him, and Fiona’s world shifted. Broad shoulders filled her vision, and her hands itched to touch chestnut hair and high cheekbones.

  His gaze was serious, and his hands tightened around her waist. The light played in his hair, revealing honey-colored strands mixed with the chestnut. For a mad moment, Fiona contemplated what it might feel like to slide his wavy locks between her fingers, and if they would feel as silky as they appeared. A dark shadow covered his cheeks and chin, and she pondered whether the texture would feel rough against her cheek, were he indeed to kiss her.

  Cheers and clapping sounded in her ears, but they seemed as distant and irrelevant as the sound of owls hooting outside.

  The world comprised of two things: Percival and her. And right now that world was changing as Percival’s hand stroked her back and his lips moved toward her.

  Her heart hammered.

  She’d never been kissed before, not even as a debutante. Kisses were things girls with glossier hair and freckle-free complexions whispered about. They didn’t apply to Fiona.

  Except everything was changing, and warm lips pressed against her, sending a jolt of heat tumbling through every nerve, every inch, every part of her very soul.

  For a brief, blissful second his tongue touched hers, and warmth cascaded through her.

  And then he stepped away, and everything should have been normal, but she was sure it never could be again.

  “I guess he’s the kissing type,” Mr. Potter muttered forlornly.

  “Show us to the room,” Percival told the barmaid.

  Percival tilted his head at her, and his gaze assessed her. Her heartbeat seemed to compete with the sound of her steps pressing against the creaking floorboards as they followed the barmaid upstairs.

  Goodness, if anyone found out. She would be ruined. Utterly ruined. Unmarried women weren’t supposed to spend nights with any men, but spending the night with a man she’d just met would produce bafflement in addition to outrage.

  And Percival and she had kissed, right there, before nearly two-dozen witnesses, as if she we
re one of the brightly dressed women who wore copious amounts of rouge and lacked sufficient material to cover their ample bosoms.

  Except even those women hadn’t been kissing anyone in public.

  Fiona’s legs trembled as the barmaid unlocked the door, and they positively shook when the barmaid descended the steps again, leaving Percival and her standing before the door.

  “You can’t stay here,” she whispered.

  “And have angry villagers after me again? After they’ve had more time to drink? Nonsense.” He grabbed hold of her torch and brushed past her. His wooden leg clicked against the thick hardwood panes of the floor. He turned back to her. “Unless your plan is to tell them we’re not married after all? And tell them you lied to all of them, forcing them into the cold for absolutely no reason?”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  “You’re acting like some chit from the ton.” Percival lit a tallow candle, and dim light flickered over his perfect features, twisted into a scowl because of her. “You have no morals. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  She stiffened.

  “Enter,” Percival growled.

  Boisterous shouts came from downstairs, and the men broke into song. Fiona clenched her jaw and stepped into the room as if she were a brazen harlot.

  Dim light flickered over worn furniture, and she started when the door slammed behind her.

  “Hello, wife,” Percival said, and Fiona knew she should be afraid.

  She should not—absolutely should not—be thinking of the man’s attractiveness. The idea was ridiculous. Though perhaps not so ridiculous, because there hadn’t been a single occasion in her twenty-two years when she’d been alone with a man who wasn’t her servant, not to speak of alone in a room intended for sleeping. And this man—dear Lord, this man was what dreams were made of.

  A mattress sagged on a small frame, unembellished by even the most austere curtains. He settled into a chair. “I hope you can forgive my lack of gallantry.”

  “Of course! Take a seat,” she chirped, her voice bright in an effort more to reassure herself than him. “I’m glad you were fine. You shouldn’t have attempted to drive off like that. That mail coach wasn’t going to make it to the next town. You don’t know the region.”