Daniel saw Richard, his dark blue gaze on his wife, hesitate, then quietly say, “You do realize that they almost certainly won’t be back in time to see any candles still burning.”
Catriona turned her head slightly and met Richard’s eyes. “It’s the thought that counts—quite literally. There’s energy in doing and in intention, and it matters. It makes a difference.”
His gaze on his wife’s face, Richard didn’t argue. If Daniel had to guess, he would have said that Richard would have done just about anything to ensure his eldest children returned safe.
Turning away, Daniel continued his sweep.
Ultimately assured that all the Cynster children, girls as well as boys, were at the very least on their way back to the Great Hall, Daniel went down the main stairs and strode back to the hall himself.
Entering via the main archway, he heard piping voices singing the old carol “Here We Go A-Wassailing”—very appropriate, as huge wassailing bowls filled with spiced ale had been brought out and set on several tables. An impromptu choir had gathered before the end of the dais, below the currently empty chairs of the three oldest of the company.
The smiles on everyone’s faces told of a moment of shared joy as children from the youngest to the oldest—some from the local families, others from the Cynsters—raised their voices, led by a few robust parental baritones, tenors, sopranos, and altos.
An irrepressible smile spreading across his own face, Daniel looked around and saw Raven and Morris returning from the direction of the library. Each was assisting one of the old ladies, and McArdle was stomping in their wake. The old ladies’ eyes had already fixed on the choir with, at least in the dowager’s case, unfettered delight.
A swift survey of heads assured Daniel that all their charges had returned, and all were busy either singing like angels, or else sipping the small samples of wassail they’d been allowed and munching enthusiastically on mince pies.
Smiling more broadly—infected by the welling happiness all around—Daniel crossed to where Claire and Melinda stood, also sipping wassail and rather more delicately consuming golden-crusted pies. Before he reached the pair, a maid bobbed up in his path to offer him one of the larger wooden beakers of wassail and a platter of mince pies; accepting the beaker, Daniel chose a pie, thanked the beaming maid with a smile and a half bow, then continued to Claire’s side.
The conversation had turned general; the heavily spiced fruit-filled pies were delicious, and the wassail, a golden ale redolent with spices, eradicated the last remaining tensions. Even though the lighting of the candles hadn’t miraculously transported the five older children home, there was a sense of the company having done everything necessary to ensure that those absent five would, eventually, return safe and sound.
Raven and Morris came up and joined their group. Along with the others, Daniel kept a weather eye on their charges, but this was Christmas Eve—as soon as they’d consumed their pies and slurped up the small tots of wassail, the children headed for the stairs.
Melinda chuckled. “No need for us to chase them to bed tonight.”
“No, indeed.” Morris grinned. “This is the one night in the year that governesses and tutors have no need to chivvy our charges to their slumbers.”
The departure of the Cynster children acted like a catalyst; soon, the manor families, sleepy children draped over shoulders or cradled in arms, murmured their good-byes and drifted out through the archways.
Surrendering his empty beaker to a still-smiling maid, Raven stifled a yawn. “I’m for bed, too. It’s been a long day.” He arched his brows at the others. “Coming?”
Morris and Melinda nodded. Daniel glanced at Claire and caught her eye. “We’ll follow in a moment.”
Meeting his gaze, Claire nodded, then glanced at Melinda. “I’ll be up soon.”
Turning away, Melinda waved. “Don’t rush on my account. Regardless of what night it is, I’ll check on the girls anyway, just to be sure, so you can come straight up—don’t worry about them.”
“Thank you,” Claire called.
Standing beside her, Daniel watched the others make their way out into the front hall. As they passed out of sight, he glanced around. The crowd had thinned dramatically. Other than the Cynster parents, the older three settled once again in their armchairs on the dais, and several staff clearing the last platters, bowls, and beakers, he and Claire were the last of the company remaining.
The Cynster ladies were gathering their shawls, and their men were stretching; clearly, they, too, were about to leave.
Touching Claire’s arm, Daniel nodded toward the inglenook beside the main fireplace. “Let’s sit there. It looks as if everyone else is leaving, so we should be able to talk freely—privately despite being in public, so to speak.” He suspected she would find the latter reassuring.
She nodded readily, and together they made for the stone bench built into the alcove beside the fireplace. The bench was large enough to comfortably seat them both, and once they’d sat, the shadows of the large overmantel enveloped them, adding a further element to the privacy the spot afforded.
A spurt of laughter reached them, then the duke and duchess led the other Cynster couples past and on toward the main archway, no doubt making for the drawing room, where the group usually spent the latter hours of most evenings.
With the duchess on his arm, the duke reached the archway—and halted.
Both Daniel and Claire had been watching the small procession. They saw the duke look up, saw a slow, distinctly devilish smile spread across his harsh features.
He was looking at a dangling bunch of mistletoe.
What with the anxiety over the riding party and the excitement before and after, until then, no one had noticed it.
Abruptly, the duke looked down—at his duchess, who had only just followed his gaze upward.
“Oh!” Her dark eyes widened.
“Indeed.” His arm sliding about his wife’s trim waist, the duke bent his dark head and kissed her—thoroughly.
The other couples looked on with indulgent smiles.
Eventually, the duke raised his head, and the duchess broke from the kiss on a laughing gasp. “Really, Your Grace!” She tried to frown, but she was smiling too much to manage it.
Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, cast a glance at his brother and cousins, waiting their turn to pass through the archway. Unrepentant, he grinned; looking up again, he reached up, plucked one of the white berries, and tucked it into his pocket. “Plenty more berries left on the bough.” Without looking back, he urged the duchess on. “Come, my dear. As ever, it falls to us to lead the way.”
There were laughs and hoots at that, but one by one, the other couples did, indeed, follow the lead of the head of their house, sharing long, passionate, yet gentle kisses under the dangling mistletoe before continuing on to the drawing room.
At last, Daniel and Claire were alone in the hall, except for the three oldest of the company, but a quick look their way showed all three dozing in their armchairs by the fire.
They were as alone as they could hope to be.
Daniel turned to Claire, but before he could speak, she laid a hand on his arm. Drawing in a breath, she glanced at him briefly, then, her voice low, said, “I need to explain so you’ll understand.” She moistened her lips, then went on, “I have believed—believe—that…” She drew in a tight breath, let it out on “That I would—will—never be able to commit to another marriage. That I would never want to—and this has nothing to do with the gentleman involved. This has to do with me—with what I feel—felt—after my previous marriage, with the vows I made to myself then.”
She paused, then cast a quick sidelong look at him and drew back her hand. “I felt—still feel—that were I to receive an offer from any earnest and sincere gentleman, then to accept that offer would be the worst sort of fraud.”
Daniel frowned. He opened his lips, but she glanced his way, and before he could speak, she rushed on, “Because
I can’t give that gentleman what he would deserve.” Finally meeting his gaze, searching his eyes as if she could somehow impel understanding, she stated, “It would be wrong of me to accept any gentleman’s offer of marriage because I cannot…” She frowned, clearly struggling to find the right words. “Because I cannot be sure—I cannot trust—that I will be able to be a true wife to him—to give him the affection, the support, the respect he would be due. I do not know that I can marry again, not anyone.” She paused. Then, as if her tongue had finally found the right phrase, her gaze growing distant, she softly said, “I do not believe—do not know if—my heart would be up to it.”
After a moment, she amended, “If my heart would be in it.”
Daniel…didn’t know what to make of that. Didn’t know what opening it left him. Clearly, her first marriage and her husband’s untimely death had marked her; he’d expected that to be the case, but he hadn’t dreamed that the impact would be so far-reaching. That her husband’s shade could reach out from the grave and prevent her from marrying again.
His mind circled the revelation in a dizzying whirl; before he’d made any conscious decision to speak, words had found their way to his lips. “Would your late husband have wanted that?” Swiveling on the bench, he caught her eyes, trapped her gaze. “Would he have wanted his memory to hold you back for the rest of your life? To prevent you from having any happiness, regardless of what life sends your way?”
Stunned, Claire blinked—and stared. For one long moment, she felt as if the world heaved and swung around her; only Daniel’s steady hazel gaze anchored her. For a moment, shock—the shock of realization, of a fundamental epiphany—was so profound it stole her breath. With an effort, she forced air into her lungs. Looking away, still mentally reeling, she murmured, “I never thought of it like that.”
She hadn’t.
She’d thought that by vowing not to allow herself to even consider marriage again she’d been protecting herself… Could it be that, instead, she’d been harming herself? Restricting herself? Cutting herself off from life and all she might have?
The sudden insight was so blinding she was temporarily struck dumb. Numb. Unable to think.
Much less speak.
When she didn’t, Daniel leaned closer. “I can understand that you feel it important to honor his memory, to put all you and he shared on a pedestal and not let a relationship with any other man mar that. That’s honorable, but it’s an intellectual stance.” He took her hand in his, and through his touch, through the intensity of his gaze, she sensed his earnestness, his commitment when he said, “I can understand that you might think that, Claire—but what do you feel?”
I want you.
The words echoed in her mind, trembled on her tongue, but she was still too caught by shock and confusion to let them fall. Meeting his gaze, she swallowed and, in a voice barely above an anguished whisper, said, “I feel…torn.” When he would have spoken, she swiftly raised her free hand and placed a finger across his lips. “No, please. It’s hard to speak of this, and I’m still not sure I understand myself… For so long I’ve believed, deep down in my heart and soul believed, that I could never bear to face an altar again. That I simply didn’t have it in me—no, don’t speak. This is not what you think. It’s not you—it’s me. I just don’t know if I have what it takes to wed a man again. I would have to trust…and I don’t know that I have any trust left to give.”
She forced herself to sit there, to hold his gaze and not turn away—to not rise and run away.
I want you.
Some part of her clung to that—refused to subside and allow her to deny this, deny herself and him, even though the rest of her was still convinced denial was inevitable.
That there was no chance, no possibility, no future. Not for her, not for them.
His eyes held hers.
She felt something inside her crumble, walls falling, yet still she didn’t have the strength—or the courage—to grasp what she most wanted. “I don’t know.”
The words were a breath of confusion, of tortured emotion; instinctively, Daniel closed his hand more firmly about hers. “It’s all right.”
She’s wounded. The knowledge burst on his mind with crystal clarity. He was accustomed to dealing with the turmoils of others; she might not be a pupil, a charge—no, she was even more important. She stood even more firmly in his care.
Even if she didn’t yet understand or accept that.
In that moment, he knew his own path with absolute certainty.
“It’s all right,” he repeated with greater assurance. He searched her face, saw enough in her expression, in the emotions clouding her lovely eyes, to know that this was not the time to push further. Not yet.
He needed to think, to assess—and she was too wrought up with emotion; they both needed time.
He glanced around at the now empty hall, then looked back at her and found a reassuring smile. “It’s late. We should go up. Melinda will be wondering where you are.”
She swallowed, nodded, and rose; sliding her fingers from his clasp, she turned toward the archway. By the time she took her first step, she’d drawn her shields back into place; she was Mrs. Claire Meadows, widow and governess, once more.
He’d risen as she had. He walked by her side toward the archway.
A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision had him glancing at the dais.
McArdle was snoring, but the other two…he realized they were pointing, gesturing madly. He looked to where—and saw the mistletoe.
Claire reached the archway. He put out a hand, caught her elbow, and stopped her.
She turned, brows rising.
He bent his head and kissed her, there under the mistletoe.
And it seemed as if he’d been waiting all his life to set his lips to hers, to feel hers soften, then—wonder and joy—firm as she kissed him back.
Not ravenously, but definitely.
For an instant, his heart stood still; in the next, it started to beat more heavily.
Almost certainly by instinct rather than design, she raised a hand and her fingertips lightly grazed his cheek while her lips continued to meld with his.
He didn’t want to end the caress, yet he didn’t want to frighten her. Knew he couldn’t push too hard, not yet.
Yet he couldn’t resist drawing her closer—just a touch. Just enough to feel the promise of her in his arms.
Couldn’t resist letting the simple exchange play out, his lips moving on hers with just enough pressure to evoke a response, perhaps more instinctual than intentional, yet a response nonetheless.
He knew the instant she realized and stopped—and mentally drew back.
Raising his head, he looked into her face. The thud in his bloodstream remained, a needing. Holding her gaze, he quietly stated, “I won’t stop pursuing you.” The truth and nothing more. “I want you as my wife, and I’m not going to give up—on you, on me, on us. I will keep trying to persuade you.”
Sensing the fragile tension that held her, he gently ran the back of one finger down her cheek. “Just so you know.”
Claire blinked. “What if I can’t? What if I say no?”
His gaze didn’t waver; if anything it gained in intentness, in intensity. “I’ll keep asking until you say yes.” He paused, then caught her hand, raised it, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles, holding her gaze all the while. “I’m not going to go away, Claire—I’m not going to give up on you.”
Commitment, devotion, and more shone clearly in his eyes. Claire read the emotions, felt them, recognized and knew them.
There was nothing she could say—there was nothing to be said.
Not now. Not tonight.
Slowly, she stepped back, out of his embrace; he let her go, his arms falling from her. Without a word, she turned and led the way to the stairs.
Daniel followed.
On the dais, Helena sat back in her chair, a smile of smug satisfaction on her lips. “Excellent! I do believe he�
��ll do.”
Algaria snorted, but didn’t argue.
CHAPTER 6
The wind shrieked and pummeled the cottage. Snow and sleet raked the walls.
Lucilla was distantly aware of the elemental fury outside, of the murmured concerns of her menfolk, and of Jeb, too, as they sat about the table before the fire, but, kneeling by the side of the pallet behind the blanket-screen, she had no time to spare for such minor matters; the baby was definitely on its way into the world, and the manner it had chosen was not going to make its path easy.
She held onto one of Lottie’s hands—or rather Lottie’s fingers had tightened about hers in a crushing grip as she rode out yet another of the increasingly intense contractions. Prudence, steady as a rock, sat on the other side of the pallet, holding Lottie’s other hand. She’d found Lottie a leather strap to bite down on, and in the gaps in between contractions, as Lottie panted and tried to catch her breath, Prudence bathed Lottie’s face with a cloth dipped in snowmelt.
As Lottie’s labor had continued, Jeb had grown increasingly distraught to the point that he was more hindrance than help. To the point that Lottie had to struggle to find the strength to reassure him, rather than him being of comfort to her. Lucilla had stepped in and sent Jeb to sit with the other men; Lottie had nodded, and he’d gone, leaving the three women to deal with the arriving baby without distraction.
“Gah!” Lottie exclaimed around the leather strap. As the fierce grip of the contraction abruptly eased and, gasping, she fell limp, Lucilla quickly examined her, then let the sheet fall back.
“Everything’s progressing as it should.” Lucilla lightly squeezed Lottie’s hand—and exchanged a meaningful look with Prudence. Progressing, yes, but the baby hadn’t turned. It would be a breech birth. The baby hadn’t yet entered the birth canal proper, but soon would—and then everything would need to happen quickly for the child to survive. For them to have any chance of helping it into the world alive.
“How are things going in there, ladies?” Marcus spoke from the other side of the blanket-screen. “Do you need anything?”
By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) Page 12
