Great Aunt Tilly’s teacups! Wasn’t she the one who had sworn she would not kiss anyone beneath the mistletoe?
No, indeed. That was Pamela, the child. Pamela, the recluse. Pamela, the wounded. And she was none of those things any more. Or, more honestly, she was no longer the Pamela incapacitated by the fears that had kept her from becoming the woman she was supposed to be. The woman she now wanted to be, if she could break out of her self-imposed exile from life.
But did she really, really want to? The world beyond Appledown was strewn with pitfalls. Pamela’s lips firmed into a stubborn line. Miserable mistletoe. Such a fuss over a few white berries. They would not trap her into the first step toward losing her independence.
Pamela heaved a heartfelt sigh, and faced reality. She had no need of mistletoe to find herself fairly trapped. Since meeting Will Forsythe, her views on independence were in danger of shattering into as many shards as the snowflakes that had dusted the ground the day before. She had a suspicion they might soon be as vanished as the mistletoe from the apple trees.
Magical mistletoe. With its promise of more than kisses. Of mystical blessings on all who believed. The promise of good crops, enduring love, fertility . . .
Pamela blushed. She would find a way to gather those high clusters so far above her head. For Aunt Honoria, for Appledown, for herself. And for Will, who needed hope and a new beginning more than all of them.
Somehow she would find a way.
A freezing wind, full of snow laced with ice crystals, blew in off the Irish Sea, trapping Pamela at home for two full days. The weather was so inclement her aunt would not even send men out for greens or the Yule log. Pamela, fretting over her inability to conquer the mistletoe problem, longed to send a note to Will explaining the sudden need for the high-nesting clusters, but such forwardness would put her beyond the Pale. There were certain things even young ladies of an independent bent did not do. And high on that list was corresponding with young men.
On the third day, Pamela woke to a weak winter sun casting sparks off the ice crystals in nearly six inches of snow. Aunt Honoria might accompany the men on their search for a Yule log and greens, but Pamela would bring home the mistletoe. She would! Though how she would manage it, she had no idea.
She needed Will. His male height and strength and his soldier’s ability to deal with challenges. There! She’d admitted it. Men truly could be useful at times. Hopefully, having been confined for two whole days, Will would also ride out this morning. With eager anticipation fluttering her heart, Pamela donned her warmest riding habit, ate a hearty breakfast, and ran down the front steps of Appledown Farm at a pace far too reckless for such an icy morning. The groom tossed her into the saddle, she settled her heavy woolen skirts over Boudicca’s back, and she was off.
By hook or by crook, Aunt Honoria was going to have her mistletoe.
Chapter Eight
By hook or by crook.
What a splendid thought. Surely somewhere in Appledown there must be a walking stick used by a family elder in days gone by. Or, better yet, a shepherd’s crook. Though Aunt Honoria did not keep sheep, perhaps at some time in the past . . .
After a brief consultation with Digby, the only male staff left after the departure of the Yule log hunters, a stout stick with a finely carved ivory handle was discovered in the attics. But, alas, no shepherd’s crook. Pamela consoled herself with the thought that the longer shaft on the shepherd’s crook might have been a trifle difficult to carry, something like a knight balancing his lance, and Boudicca, however good-natured, might well have taken exception to being continually struck in the flank.
An hour later, only Pamela’s fierce determination to succeed kept her from throwing the stick into the nearest bramble bush. It simply did not extend her reach far enough. If only Will . . .
He usually haunted her favorite rides. Where was he, the beast!
She was not on any of her usual riding paths, Pamela reminded herself. She was re-tracing the random path she and Will had followed the day they searched the woods for more mistletoe.
Wasn’t mistletoe supposed to be magic? Could it not call Will to her side? Could he not simply feel her presence?
Absurd! She was stuck out here, with every able-bodied male on Appledown Farm off gathering greens or hunting the perfect Yule log, and if she wanted to give her aunt the one thing she truly wanted for Christmas . . . if she wanted to demonstrate her thanks for all Aunt Honoria had done for her since she’d taken in a young girl whose hopes and dreams had been shattered by . . .
No! She would not allow her thoughts to stray in that direction.
Pamela laid the walking stick across the saddle in front of her and stared into the distance, eyes narrowed against the sun glinting on snow patches between the trees. Truth was, she had allowed her life to come to a halt over nothing.
With her family’s help.
Yes, Mama and Bella had made things worse, much worse, but she should have had the courage to survive it all and face her London Season with courage and grace. Instead, she had run away.
And if she had not, she would not have had the pleasure of living with her dear Aunt Honoria, She would not have learned about apple farming, herbs, or how to be independent.
She would not have met Will Forsythe.
What an odd, convoluted place the world was. Perhaps she was being given a second chance, an opportunity to demonstrate she was no longer a frightened child.
Pamela’s thoughts thudded back to reality. She had already rejected three of the four mistletoe clusters she and Will had spotted that day. It was possible they could be retrieved by men armed with ropes and ladders, but as for getting them down by herself, the green mistletoe balls with white berries sticking out mocked her, as if saying, You thought you could reach me with that puny stick?
And now, here she was, beneath that rarest of mistletoes, a cluster high up in a venerable oak tree, and she would have it! If this were the only mistletoe Appledown boasted for the holiday season, surely its ancient magic would make up for the lack of quantity.
But to get it, she would have to climb. In a riding skirt.
If she came back in boy’s breeches, riding astride? Yes, that might work, but she wanted that mistletoe now. She’d promised Aunt Honoria mistletoe, and she wanted to surprise her with it. Today.
With soft, coaxing words, Pamela sidled Boudicca up close to the trunk of the oak. Now came the hard part. If they could do it at Astley’s . . .
But the riders standing on horses’ backs at Astley’s were riding bareback, and not hampered by yards and yards of fabric about their ankles.
Nonetheless, this oak tree sported bottom branches only slightly above her head. Steadying herself by hooking the stick’s handle over one of the branches, Pamela inched upward until her knees were precariously balanced in the saddle. If only she could strip away her blasted skirts!
Modesty was the smallest part of the problem. Just thinking about exposing herself to the freezing cold in her chemise was enough to put a stop to that line of thought!
Pamela huffed a small breath, took a death grip on the stick and stretched her other hand toward the solid comfort of a branch to her left. Good. Soft words of approval to Boudicca, then slowly, surely, she willed herself erect, pulling, pulling . . . until she was standing on her saddle.
Ah! A short triumph. The stick, now beside her instead of above her head, slid along the oak’s bark; she lost her grip, teetering precariously as her left hand slipped off that branch as well. She grabbed the tree trunk. It was too large, her grip so tenuous, she swayed forward, her face scraping against the rough bark. Dear God, she couldn’t hold on!
And then she was flying through the air, expecting the shuddering impact of cold frozen ground or, even worse, the fatal flash of a startled Boudicca’s hooves. Instead, she thudded down onto a horse’s back. Not Boudicca. Felt the warmth and strength of a body behind her. The security, the blessed security, of an arm about her waist.<
br />
Will! He’d found her. Will! Pamela shut her eyes, leaned back against his chest, and let his hot scold float over her. Words without meaning. Of course he was angry. What sensible person wouldn’t be? She’d made a complete fool of herself again, but somehow it didn’t matter because she was in the safest place in the whole wide world. In Will’s arms.
“You’re fit for Bedlam!” Will was shouting for perhaps the fifth time during his tirade. “Your aunt doesn’t need mistletoe at the expense of you breaking your neck.” His hot breath wafted past her ear. “I thought we’d agreed to get up a party with ropes and ladders if Mrs. Whitehurst had to have more mistletoe.”
Pamela finally found her breath. “We did,” she agreed in a very small voice. “But, you see, someone stole the clusters on our apple trees, and aunt was so very upset, and I thought while she was out with the Yule log party, I could surprise her . . .”
She peeped up into Will’s set face and realized her excuses might as well have been delivered to the flat granite boulder above the stream.
“You haven’t the sense God gave a goose,” Will declared flatly. He clicked his tongue and, to Pamela’s surprise, Boudicca ambled forward as if she took orders from him on a daily basis. Proffering nothing more than a mighty scowl, Will heaved her onto her saddle, watching closely until she put a foot into her stirrup, hooked her knee around the pommel, and adjusted her skirts.
“And now,” he pronounced in arctic accents, “I will get the mistletoe, and I trust you will inform Mrs. Whitehurst how close to disaster her taste for ancient legends has brought her favorite niece.”
Pamela could only hang her head, wondering that euphoria could so easily give way to hot-cheeked mortification. Just like . . .
Oh, no! She would not be that poor crushed female. Never again. Pamela lifted her head to tell Will what she thought of his tyranically male attitude, and found him perched on the ancient oak’s second set of branches, reaching high up over his head for the mistletoe cluster. Her breath caught in her throat. With his injured leg, how could he? It must hurt like the very devil. She moved Boudicca closer. If the worst happened, perhaps she could break his fall.
Foolish thought. He’d flatten her. Pamela held her ground.
Will’s fingertips touched the leafy green cluster, bright against the winter gray-brown of the oak branch. He pulled. It clung with surprising tenacity. Putting all his weight on his right leg in order to stretch a bit higher—was that not his injured leg?—Will managed an extra inch. His leg gave way. He grabbed for one of the lower branches and missed. Reacting instinctively, Pamela reached out as he flew by, kicking free of her stirrup just before he tore her from the saddle. They crashed together into the snow, Will on his back, Pamela on top. The ball of mistletoe, dislodged at last, broke apart as it fell on top of them and disintegrated into a shower of green leaves and white berries.
“Are you all right?” Pamela gasped.
“Just . . . winded.”
Pamela stared down at him, eyes wide. “You’re covered in mistletoe,” she whispered.
“So . . . are . . . you.” Will’s gray eyes darkened, and she saw the answer to the question she could not voice.
“Covered with it,” she breathed, her lips inches from his, descending ever closer.
Just this moment, this one perfect moment, that’s all she asked. “Mistletoe magic,” Pamela added on a sigh as her lips touched his.
Stiff lips, icy cold. She might as well have been kissing the legendary Ice King. But Will’s breath, fiery hot and oh-so-human, suddenly scorched them both, sweeping an officer and a gentlemen and a young lady of determined maidenly modesty into a glowing warmth that must surely melt the snow around them. A simple, spontaneous mistletoe kiss, friend to friend, became so much more as lips softened, explored, tasted. Bodies melted into each other. Will’s arms snaked slowly over her back, drawing her closer yet. Pamela could smell the scent of his skin, feel the lean, hard length of him.
His lips opened, urging her to something more, something . . .
Pamela gasped as his tongue plunged inside her mouth, demanding—
The flames abruptly died, returning to ice as quickly as they’d ignited. Beneath her, Will’s body stiffened. His tongue abandoned hers. His hands jerked from her back to her shoulders, thrusting her away so hard she ended on her backside in the snow. Murmuring an almost unintelligible apology, Will scrambled to his feet. With a face fixed in the glowering mask she’d seen the day they met, he held out a hand and hauled her to her feet.
Standing stiffly at attention and looking somewhere past Pamela’s left shoulder, he declared, “I beg your pardon, Miss Ashburton. I assure you such shocking conduct will not be repeated. Allow me to help you mount, then I will gather the mistletoe.”
He was apologizing to her! “Perhaps your fall has scrambled your wits, Mr. Forsythe. I kissed you, if you will recall. Apologies are unnecessary.”
“I fear it is your recollection that is faulty, Miss Ashburton,” he responded stiffly, though he had the grace to shift his gaze to her face. “It was my more than full cooperation that escalated a mistletoe kiss into . . . into something less appropriate.”
Less appropriate. He might as well have slapped a glove in her face. Was that the response of a half-pay officer to the heiress of Appledown Farm? The response of a scion of a noble house to the cast-off daughter of a baron? Or the response of a man determined to maintain his position as a recluse, eschewing so much as a hint of a leg-shackle?
Not that it mattered at the moment, as Will had summoned Boudicca and cupped his hands, waiting stone-faced to give her a leg up. She should offer to help him gather the fallen sprigs of mistletoe, but her mind was numb. Pamela sat slumped in the saddle and watched him limp his way to each twig and stuff it into the grain-bag she had brought with her. He even delved down into the snow to find the mistletoe that had been squashed by their—
No! She slammed the door on that kiss. On the feel of him, the scent of him. The tingling from toes to head that set her brain whirling into an unknown realm she had never visited before.
Alas, when she slammed that mental door, she must have shut herself on wrong side of it, Pamela grumbled to herself, because that blasted, humiliating kiss was not going away. She very much feared it was going to stick with her the rest of her life.
“There.” Will looked up at her, evidently having successfully fastened the bag of mistletoe to her saddle. “I fear Mrs. Whitehurst must send men with ladders and ropes if she wishes more mistletoe than this.” He stepped back, offered a brief nod. “Good morning, Miss Ashburton. Please be good enough to inform your aunt that I shall be unable to attend the Yule log festivities on Christmas Eve.”
It took Pamela a few moments to find her voice, but pride and years of training finally allowed her to say, “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Forsythe. I will give aunt your message.” Head high, back military straight, she turned Boudicca toward home.
Chapter Nine
Christmas Eve, 1815
Will slapped a card onto the small deal table drawn up in front of the fire. With a grunt of satisfaction, Joseph Tubs pounced on it. “That’s three straight ye’ve lost, major. Reckon your heart’s not in it tonight.”
Will swept a hand across the table, scattering the cards all the way to the hearth. Tubs scrambled to rescue them before they burst into flames. “Had some fine times on Christmas Eve, didn’t we, sir?” Joseph Tubs ventured as he formed the errant cards back into a proper deck, while his major glowered at the leaping flames. “Tucked up in winter quarters with no fighting, had plenty of time for a proper holiday we did, be we on the mountains or the plains.”
“Humph.”
“Or mayhap your mind’s on Christmas at Poynings, Major. Must’ve been a grand time, with wassail by the barrel and fine decorations like Mrs. Whitehurst’s plannin’ for ’er ball. All them greens ’n’ holly and that there mistletoe ye’ve been huntin’.”
This time, Will
didn’t even bother to grunt. Though he’d never set foot through the door of Appledown Farm, he could clearly picture the scene. They’d be lighting a Yule log large enough to burn straight through to Twelfth Night, the day legend said the three wisemen arrived in Bethlehem. At Appledown there would be warmth, smiles, laughter, the company of friends. Not that Joseph Tubs wasn’t far more than a servant, but he was very far from being Miss Pamela Ashburton.
Will could think of a number of epithets for a man who panicked and ran from the kiss of young lady. A spirited, kind-hearted young lady who had been so far from disgusted by the infirmity that plunged him out of a tree and into the snow that she kissed him silly. And he, William Forsythe, had run like a fox from the hounds.
Burrowing his head into his hands, Will groaned out loud. The term jingle-brained came to mind. Lunkhead, nodcock, numbskull, nincompoop followed close behind.
No! None of those words was strong enough. Coward! That was more like. He deserved every jot of the melancholy he was wallowing in while keeping Tubs, as well as himself, from the warmth of Christmas Eve traditions. Wallow, yes, that was another apt word. Instead of properly appreciating his family’s anxious attentions, he’d been heedless, churlish, an ingrate, running off to wallow in his wounds—body and mind—as if they were his friends, not the insidious sappers of his manhood, his common sense.
Oh, he’d consoled himself with vague vows of making the world a better place. Someday. But someday was never going to come if he locked himself up so tight he could not let a sparkling sprite like Pamela Ashburton into his life.
Will straightened, squared his shoulders to military correctness. “On New Years’s Eve, perhaps we should down a pint at the Hare and Hound.”
Mistletoe Moment Page 5
