O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Frederick’s lip curled. “She would never have been that. I would not have allowed it.”

  Ruthven took a wild swing at Frederick. He blocked it efficiently and with only a slight indication of his movements. Ruthven struck again. The same thing happened. When he did it a third time, Ruthven snarled. “Fight, damn you!”

  Frederick stepped aside, letting Ruthven’s blade whistle past his chest. At the sound, Rhona shuddered. “Please don’t do this.”

  Neither man answered, though they must have heard her in the fraught silence that had fallen. Ruthven struck. He had to hurt Frederick this time. Surely this could not go on like this.

  Calmly, Frederick caught Ruthven’s blade with his but, this time, instead of deflecting it, he pressed back. With a relentlessness born of his time in the battlefield, he forced Ruthven’s sword down, down, down, until it touched the flags. He had hardly moved, but now he leaned in, until he gripped the hilt of the claymore with his free hand. “Go,” he said.

  He jerked back and, all at once, he had two swords in his hands. At the same time, he brought up his knee and caught Ruthven between his legs.

  The minister fell to the floor with a cry of agony, clutching his privates.

  “I don’t need more than one good leg to do that.” Frederick stood over him. “Next time, ensure your opponent has not spent more than half his life fighting in His Majesty’s army. That is how soldiers fight, sir. They do what is necessary to achieve their aim, whether it is to kill, maim, or merely humiliate. You asked for that, insulting the woman I love.”

  Everyone in the hall gasped. And by now, it was everyone. All the men, all the servants. Even the second kitchen maid.

  “Now get out,” Frederick said in that same, cold tone.

  Ruthven closed his eyes. Frederick gave him one, disdainful look and then turned, coming straight to Rhona. “A word,” he said. “In private.”

  “What was all that nonsense about?” Frederick demanded of Rhona, once the door to the gallery was closed. Nobody would dare interrupt them here.

  Rhona folded her arms, hugging herself in her distress. “He proposed to me yesterday—”

  “The blackguard did that?”

  “That doesn’t make him a blackguard!” Rhona paced, coming to a stop before the paintings of Frederick’s grandparents. “He was concerned for me. He’s been courting me for a while. To see you coming here and taking what he wants drove him to that behavior. And that stupid Maire let slip that we were together last night. After he’d proposed marriage.”

  Fear had given way to indignation. Having men fight over her, especially a fight as one-sided as the one she’d just witnessed, was not her idea of romance. People wrote poems to men who fought duels over a lady’s honor. To her mind, it was all nonsense. “How does killing each other do anything to compensate the woman they’re fighting over? How does that help a woman’s honor?”

  A reluctant smile curved his lips. “It doesn’t, of course. But it does relieve the temper.” He came to her, but she backed away. He halted. “Why didn’t you tell me that he’d proposed?”

  “Because it was none of your business. You didn’t intend to, so what do you care?”

  His eyes widened. “What are you talking about? Why would you think that?”

  “I’d have thought that was obvious. You’re a lord and I’m a servant. You’re marrying the general’s daughter and the position of mistress is vacant.”

  He groaned, and wiped his hand across his forehead. “That’s not at all what I meant.”

  “Because it was irrelevant in our case.” Lords did not marry servants. Or if they did, they were ostracized. They both knew that.

  “How irrelevant? What does your current position have to do with us?” He stopped, paused, stared at the painting of his grandfather as if he could find answers there. With a cry, he returned his attention to her. “Did you think I would use you like that? You did, didn’t you? Oh, Rhona!”

  At the mention of her name, she nearly ran to him. Her stupid instincts urged her on, but she could not. This had to end. “I will stay here. I will not marry Mr. Ruthven, nor will I go away with you. I won’t be any man’s mistress, however much I love you.”

  “You do? You haven’t said, you know.”

  “Well I have now,” she said crossly. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “I knew you did, once. I came back because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Rhona. Do you think I would hide you in a corner, not share my life with you? How could you think that?”

  He sounded hurt. Well, she couldn’t help that. “You mean you were going to ask me to marry you?” She gave a harsh, painful laugh. “And undo all the good work your brother has done? He has risked his neck to restore your family this last fifteen years! He was barely grown when he inherited your father’s title, and he’s worked ever since. How could you take that from him?”

  He sighed. “You do understand that he married a woman who is called Cit in some quarters? That his brother-in-law married a City merchant? A widow with two sons?”

  “But your sister-in-law is a Dersingham, and her brother’s wife has never been anyone’s servant.” The barrier between servant and master could not be crossed. Could not. But the notion of marrying him, that he had considered it, crept through to warm her blood.

  “I want a wife, not a mistress. No, sweetheart, don’t even think that.”

  “But what if I want to be your mistress?” She knew now that if that was what it took to stay with him, she would do it. It had taken seeing the two men together to force the realization into her. All her indecision melted away. If she couldn’t have Frederick, she would have nobody.

  “You don’t. I know you. No, I want marriage.”

  “We can’t!” Startled, she sprang to her feet. “We talked about that before, long ago. When you joined the army rather than bring disgrace to your people.”

  He caught her hands, his thumb caressing the inside of her wrist. Shivers went up her spine. “We couldn’t do it then. My family was in disgrace. We had no money, I could offer you nothing. But now—we’re respected members of society. And hear me now. Because of what I did for the government in Rome, I’m owed a favor, and they know it. The king will ease our way. He’ll receive you at court.”

  “But I’m a housekeeper!”

  “You’re a daughter of the manse,” he countered. “Your father was the minister here. You were not the housekeeper here, a paid servant, but a caretaker.”

  She grimaced, her mouth setting in a hard line. “They’ll find out. You saw how fast word spreads. The kitchen maid only had to open her mouth and everyone knew.”

  He shook his head. “We can contradict any gossip. People here love you. They will band together to support you. I’ve seen it, and I have no doubts. Rhona, you deserve happiness. So do I.”

  She couldn’t deny she was tempted.

  Diving into his coat pocket, Frederick came out with a small box, like the ones he’d given her on the last two nights. He handed it to her.

  The carved word on the lid said Future.

  With shaking hands, she opened it. Inside, resting on a tiny velvet cushion, she found another wooden carving. Two rings, interlinked. There was no join. He’d carved them from a single block of wood, then polished them to a high shine.

  With the lovely piece in her hands, and damp eyes, she lifted her gaze to meet his. He must have thought about marrying her all along, because he couldn’t have made that carving overnight. He did mean marriage.

  “Rhona, do you trust me? Will you marry me, my love?”

  With a moan of surrender, she fell into his arms. “Yes.”

  That night, Frederick presented her with another surprise. “I took the chance that you would say yes,” he told her as they sat together at dinner that night. The staff and the people from the village were still here, decorating the castle for the Twelve Days. They dragged the long table into the middle of the hall once the boughs of holly were gone, an
d had an impromptu feast.

  With the boisterous activity echoing around them, Rhona stared at the marriage license in shock. “When did you get this?”

  “In London, when I reported to my superior officer. A month ago, though I’d been thinking about it for a while before that.”

  She took a moment to digest the information. That and the gift of the wooden rings convinced her that he’d never meant to take her as his mistress. He’d always meant marriage. “So you meant to ask me from the start?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “Yes, but fool that I am, I didn’t ask you to marry me right away because I wanted to make it a surprise. A good one, I thought in my bone-headed way.” He folded the sheet carefully and restored it to his pocket.

  “We don’t have to wait for the banns? But we can’t ask Mr. Ruthven to do it.”

  A few people laughed, and one of the men informed them, “He’s gone. Packed his bag and rode down the hill this afternoon. Says the village can shift for itself.”

  “Well, you’d think he’d remember his duty. Some minister he is.”

  The cheers around them increased. “We can ask Mr. McIver,” Cook suggested. The mob cap she habitually wore was at a jaunty angle tonight, and her face, always ruddy because of the heat of the kitchen, was red for a different reason tonight. She held up her glass. “To Mr. McIver!”

  “I thought he’d retired and gone south.”

  At Rhona’s puzzled comment, the man grinned. “He came back. Jimmy MacKay went to fetch him, and he’ll be back tomorrow, in time for morning service.”

  “Goodness!” She turned to Frederick. “Mr. McIver was the previous minister here. He took over from my father, and only retired two years ago. I had no idea he lived so close.” She gazed out of the window, but only the black night met her eyes. “If the weather holds.”

  “It will,” said Cook, with the wisdom of living here for fifty years. But Rhona had spent all her life here, too, and knew how quickly a storm could whip up from the sea. “We can hold a prayer meeting tomorrow. Not Eucharist, but the rest for sure and certain.”

  “He’ll get here,” Cook said.

  And he did. When they went down the hill on Christmas morning, Mr. McIver stood at the altar, beaming at them all as they went in. If he hadn’t been wearing his vestments, Rhona would have hugged him. He’d helped her so much when her father had died and she’d been a bewildered little girl, homeless and fatherless.

  The church was festooned with evergreen boughs and tall, white candles. The minister wore the bright Christmas vestments, and he smiled at the congregation. Unlike Ruthven, he kept his sermon short. And at the end, he said, “I have missed you.”

  After the service, standing at the church door, careful to talk to every villager, he explained why he had not told Rhona he was back. “I went to Glasgow to stay with my sister, but I missed the Highlands, so I came back. I didn’t want to push in and put Ruthven’s nose out of joint. Why did he leave so fast?”

  “He wanted Rhona to marry him, but I won,” Frederick explained with a grin as wide as the church door. He hugged Rhona’s hand next to his body as if he would never release her from his side. Displaying their love so openly overwhelmed her. She would have to get used to it, though. “And we wondered if you could put a little time aside to marry us?”

  McIver’s wrinkled face broke into a smile to rival Frederick’s. He looked at the license Frederick had thrust into his hand. “Well, you don’t need that in Scottish law, but I’ll take it anyway.”

  “I wanted to make sure we were wrapped up tight. I don’t want anybody to doubt it.”

  His consideration sent warmth through her. She had made the right decision. Except that he hadn’t made marriage clear. She would make him pay for that in the best possible way. A surprise? Bone-headed was right.

  They spent Christmas night in their own rooms, but in the morning, a soft tap on her door announced Frederick’s presence.

  Dressed in her finest, which wasn’t very fine, but would have to do, they went down the hill together, the servants trailing behind them, giving them just enough space for privacy. After a short, but lovely service, they came back up the hill married.

  Concerned for Frederick’s health, Rhona tried to send him upstairs to rest before dinner. “I’ll see to everything.”

  “Sure you will,” he answered and, false leg or not, picked her up and carried her upstairs. Well, as far as the first landing, anyway, which was enough to set the household cheering. After that, she made him put her down.

  The servants had been busy in his bedroom, though Rhona didn’t know when they’d found the time. They must have had the supplies ready, though, because sprigs of holly lay on the windowsill, and a large bunch of mistletoe was suspended above the bed, making her laugh in sheer joy.

  Someone had changed the sheets and aired them. Everything was ready.

  Well, she’d done her best to keep her sangfroid, but obviously she’d fooled no one, least of all her husband.

  Husband? Husband!

  Rhona helped him undress and he helped her. Between them, they were out of their clothes in record time and snuggling between the warm sheets, the crisp linen settling around their bodies. The fire crackled in the grate, the scent of pine infusing the room. And outside, a few flakes of snow fell.

  That was all the time Rhona had before he took her to paradise. Their own world, a world they would share for the rest of their lives. He caressed her with his hands and mouth, exploring her body with a thoroughness she might have found embarrassing, had she not been busy exploring his. Even after their three nights together, now that they were wed, they had a deeper, more lasting intimacy which had only just begun. His muscles rippled under her hands as he murmured his love. He came over her, guiding himself to her, and after his preparations, he found no resistance in her willing body.

  The pleasure that enveloped them increased tenfold. She wrapped her legs around his, high on his thighs, rejoicing in the power of the man she had married. The man she would love for the rest of her life and beyond, as he would love her.

  The wave cascaded over them both, and they held each other, caught in the center of the storm of love.

  Rhona curled into him, her palm on his chest, her new gold ring gleaming. His heart thundered under her palm.

  “So,” she said. “We’ve revisited our past, studied our present and made a start on our future. Who knows what’s next?”

  “We’re next,” he murmured. “Forever.”

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Lynne Connolly

  The Daring Dersinghams Series

  A Touch of Silver

  A Hint of Starlight

  A Trace of Roses

  A Bunch of Mistletoe

  A Whisper of Treason

  About the Author

  I write stories, and I always have. And I love a happy ending, especially a well-deserved one.

  I’m an award-winning, best-selling author of historical romance. I fell in love with the eighteenth century when I was nine years old, and it’s my dream job to write about the people who lived and loved back then.

  I used to work in marketing, and I have more letters after my name than in it, but I don’t use them much anymore.

  I live in the UK with my family, including my muse, Frankie the Nonsense, a ragdoll with no decorum. I love traveling, and I get over to the States at least once a year.

  My website is at lynneconnolly.com. Twitter @lynneconnolly and my Facebook page is here: facebook.com/lynneconnollyuk. My blog is at lynneconnolly.blogspot.com.

  I also have a newsletter. If you’d like to join it, email me on lynneconnollyuk@yahoo.co.uk or fill in the form on my website.

  A Yuletide Yearning

  Maeve Greyson

  Chapter One

  Tait’s Cove

  Christmas Eve 1703

  Tait Mackenzie covered his ears, wishing every last one of those drunken sods a hearty case of the skitters so bad they couldn’t
make it to the chamber pot in time. That would give them their due. Damned Christmas Eve. Or Yule. Whatever the hell you wanted to call it. No matter the name, the holiday brought out the worst in his men. The fact that both parliament and the church had made celebrating Christmas and Yule illegal, only added fervor to their merrymaking. It was like a dare that made his men all the rowdier and more determined to honor the holiday with the heartiest of cheer.

  Snatching up his own bottle of whisky, he staggered to the window and shoved it open. The briny wind battering the reef slapped him, leaving behind the sting of icy claws. He held fast and squinted into the cruel storm. The blasted weather had kept him trapped ashore, canceling the joyous Yuletide he’d looked forward to sharing with Tilda and the bairns.

  As an enemy of the English and with her husband’s occupation as a damn fine smuggler, his cousin Tilda and her family lived on a secluded island in the Archipelago of El Perdido. ’Twas a fair distance from his hidden isle off the western coast of Orkney, especially this time of year. Most Christmases, he made the journey with no trouble. But this year’s plans had gone awry. A troublesome shipment of rum had delayed him casting off until it was too late to make the safety of their hideaway before the worst of the seasonal storms hit. So, here he sat. In his own fortress. Alone and trapped with the worries that had grown greater with each passing year. Strange how a man could feel so isolated on his own island. The Cove was a true pirate’s kingdom filled with his men and a well-stocked brothel to boot.

  A long, hard swig of his drink chased away winter’s chill but did little to ease his sorrows. Gifts piled high on the table in the corner called out to him. Special presents meant for Tilda’s bairns. His namesake, young Tait, seven years old and full of himself, had asked for his very own dirk. Instead of a dolly, wee Leannan had requested a dirk, too, more than likely just to aggravate her older brother.