Spirit of the Season

by Cate Dean

  “I—no.” He backed away, and Maggie saw the signs of someone ready to bolt. “I did not—”

  He sprinted past her, headed for the door.

  Martin must have anticipated him; he reached the door first, and caught Ashton’s shoulder when the younger man started to backpedal. Spencer blocked him from behind, trapping his retreat.

  “Calm down,” Martin said. Maggie recognized the tone of his voice. She’d heard it before, in several of his documentaries. He always used it when a student or less experienced archaeologist lost their cool. “Whatever they might have found, Ian will investigate, and make certain that appearances are the truth, and not a false clue.” He squeezed Ashton’s shoulder. “He is a good man, Ashton. You can trust him to do right by you.”

  With a sigh, Ashton deflated. “I—there is something I must tell you. Please understand, Maggie—I wasn’t attempting to hide this information. I simply wanted to start over, in a place where no one knew of my past.”

  Her heart ached at the despair on his face. She moved to him and took his hand. “You can tell us anything, Ashton.”

  He swallowed, gripping her hand like a lifeline. “I was recently acquitted, after a trial that accused me of—” He stared down at the floor, his voice a whisper. “Murder.”

  “Oh, Ashton.” She knew Ian would find out about Ashton’s past—if he didn’t already know. “You’re not alone. We’ll be with you, every step.” She cupped his chin, and gently applied pressure until he met her eyes. “You’re not alone.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  She smiled at him—and hoped that the instincts she normally trusted weren’t wrong.

  ***

  Maggie led Ashton out of the shop, Martin at her side, and Spencer behind him. She knew Spencer didn’t think much of Ashton—especially after hearing his confession. But she also knew he would stand behind her, no matter what she decided.

  To her surprise, Ian appeared two blocks down from the station, and headed straight for them.

  “I told you five minutes, Maggie. I will take him now.”

  “We’re going with you, Ian.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Ashton isn’t going to face this alone.” She raised her eyebrow, daring him to refuse.

  Ian rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Maggie knew she’d won this round. “Very well. Can we head to the station now?”

  She tightened her grip on Ashton’s hand and followed Ian up the sidewalk. Ian led them into the station, past the high front counter, the scarred wood desks, and down the hall, stopping in front of the interrogation room. “This is where you stop, Maggie. No argument. You, the Professor, and Spencer can wait out front.”

  He guided Ashton inside and closed the door. She flinched when she heard the lock click.

  “Martin—”

  “We’ll wait, love.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and led her back to the tiny waiting area, lowering her to one of the three uncomfortable chairs. Spencer flanked her on the other side. “Would you like some tea, or coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great. Thank you.” She tried to smile, and failed.

  Martin leaned down, kissing her with such tenderness that tears stung her eyes. “I won’t be long.”

  He strode out of the station, so confident, so capable. Without him next to her, Maggie felt vulnerable, and more alone than she’d ever felt. Not even her cold, uncaring parents had left her this lonely.

  How am I going to deal with him being gone for months at a time?

  She took a deep breath. No matter what it took, she would deal with his absence. Martin’s work was too important, and she refused to be the reason he didn’t pursue his passion.

  Spencer draped his arm over her shoulders, like he knew exactly what she was thinking, and kissed her cheek. “You’re not alone, Mags.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  Martin returned sooner than she expected, and she saw the reason walk in behind him. Lilliana.

  “Maggie.” She rushed past Martin, pressing a takeaway cup into Maggie’s hand. “Are you all right? I heard what happened up at the castle.”

  “Fine. Thank you for the personal delivery.” Maggie normally preferred tea over coffee, but the scent revived her, and her first sip sent a zing of caffeine through her tired body. “We can talk later, okay?”

  “Of course.” Lilliana leaned in and kissed her forehead. “I have a plate of blueberry scones with your name on it. Come when you can. Hey, Spencer. I miss seeing you every morning.”

  “I’ll make more of an effort, now that I know you miss me.”

  “Spencer.” Maggie turned to him. “Why don’t you head over there now? I don’t want to keep you, with all the work you have to do.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” He winked, and kissed her forehead before he stood. “Ring me once you know more, all right?”

  “I promise.”

  Spencer studied her for endless seconds, then finally nodded. “I’ll be expecting that call, Maggie.” He took Lilliana’s hand, his humor coming back. “Did I hear something about blueberry scones? It feels like it’s been years since I last tasted one.”

  Lilliana shook her head, smiling up at him. “I believe I can find one for you.”

  Maggie watched them walk out, already missing Spencer’s easy presence.

  Martin sat beside her and took her free hand. “Is Ashton still in with Ian?”

  She nodded, and leaned against him, exhaustion draining her. “Do you think he—did this?”

  “I want to say no.” Martin let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her shoulders, tucking her against his side. “But we’ve only known him a short time, love. Who he was before he came here is a mystery. One that has followed him, and invaded our lives.”

  “That’s not fair.” She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. Behind the glasses, she saw the anger. “He was acquitted, Martin. He came here to start over.”

  “Someone wants him to pay. I will not have you involved, Maggie.”

  “And I won’t abandon him.” She pushed out of his embrace, out of the chair, standing over him. “What’s going on? You don’t judge people like this, without evidence—”

  “He was accused of murder, Maggie.” Martin stood, his quiet voice more unnerving than a shout. “He walked into our lives, lied about his past, and put you in danger. I want you to have nothing more to do with him, not until—”

  “No.” He looked surprised. Maggie took advantage of it, and kept talking. “I won’t leave him here, alone. It wasn’t all that long ago that you were in the same room, a stranger to Holmestead, accused of murder.”

  Martin stared past her, as distant as he had been before he finally told her about his past. She wanted to break through, take his hand, bring him back to her. Before she could, he turned away from her, and walked out of the station.

  “Martin—” She followed him. “Where are you going?” She hated the panic that edged her voice.

  “To pack.” He didn’t turn around, and that hurt more than the cold tone of his voice. “I have a dig to return to.”

  Maggie watched him stride down the sidewalk, his shoulders stiff, his hands clenched. She was afraid that with every step he took, she was losing him.

  Forgetting any pride, she threw her cup in the nearest trash bin and ran after him. “Martin!”

  He halted, his back to her, forcing her to move around him. For the first time, his height intimidated her. He used it to his advantage, looking down at her, his chin lifted. Now, finally, he looked like the haughty aristocrat, instead of the eccentric archaeologist.

  “I need to go, before the weather turns.”

  “Please don’t leave, not like this.”

  The wall of ice cracked, enough for her to see the pain flash in his eyes before he turned cold again. “I believe we both need some time apart. What is happening between us—it has been moving quickly. Perhaps too quickly. I will phone you once I arrive at the site.” />
  Before she could open her mouth to stop him, he walked away from her.

  This time, she let him go. Her heart ached too much to hear any other reasonable argument he might spout.

  With a sigh, she turned and headed back to the police station. At least she could be there for Ashton, and he would appreciate her support.

  “Stop it, Maggie,” she muttered. It would be easier just to let Martin go, no matter how much she ached at the thought.

  She had known going into this that his past could sabotage their relationship. What she’d never expected was to see the aristocratic side Martin always hated.

  She was so absorbed in her misery that she nearly ran into the man who stepped in front of her.

  “I’m sorry— I didn’t...” Her voice faded when she looked up at him.

  He was the man who had been fighting with the victim.

  “I know you saw me with him.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her forward. “Say anything to the local police, and I’ll know who to come after.”

  “Was he your friend?”

  He looked surprised, but he eased his grip on her arm, and answered. “He was. Circumstances eroded our friendship, and lies destroyed what was left. You never saw me, girl, do you understand?”

  She nodded, and after he stared at her for endless minutes, he seemed satisfied. He let go of her arm—and shoved her up against the front of the shop behind her.

  “Please,” she whispered. Terror threatened to choke her.

  “If I see any police sniffing after me, you’ll pay.”

  He shoved her against the brick wall again for emphasis, then let her go and stalked out of sight.

  Maggie clutched the rough brick, and fought to take in a full breath.

  She didn’t know that either of the men had noticed her. Obviously, she’d been wrong about that. The first thing she would ask Ashton was whether or not he recognized the man, after she described him.

  Once she felt more or less stable, she eased off the wall, and headed up the street.

  By the time she reached the station, all the shocks finally hit her. Hard. Her stomach hurt, and her heart felt like an invisible fist was squeezing it. She moved to one of the uncomfortable chairs, and lowered herself, clutching the thick plastic edge.

  It felt like an eternity had passed before Ian finally appeared. Alone.

  Maggie pushed to her feet. “Where’s Ashton?”

  “I let him go, for now. He didn’t want to wait for you, and said he would meet you at the shop. I will have more questions, but I want you to head home now, before the storm traps you.”

  “Thank you, Ian. You can phone me once the weather clears.” She managed to keep her voice level, but Ian still frowned at her.

  “Is there something I missed, Maggie?”

  “No.” She let out a sigh. “Martin’s heading back to his dig site.”

  Ian nodded, and she knew he understood. “Go on, now. I’ll check in with you later.”

  “Thanks.” She watched him head back to his office, then headed outside.

  Wind slapped her, icy and surprising. She looked up at the sky. The clouds had darkened more while she was inside, and the temperature had plummeted.

  The storm was coming, faster and colder than the news predicted. She had a feeling the earlier snow had been a tease, and she wanted to be safely inside before it slammed the village.

  “Maggie!”

  She whirled, and almost ran into Ashton.

  “We have to get inside,” she said. “Go ahead of me, open the door.” She handed him the keys, and pushed at him when he stared at her. “Go, Ashton. Now.”

  Her sharp tone snapped him out of his surprise; he took the keys, then grabbed her hand and started running down the sidewalk.

  He let go just before they reached the shop, and unlocked the front door as Maggie caught up with him. She dragged him inside and slammed the door—right before the sky opened up.

  Maggie hugged herself as she stared out the window. Snow fell, harder and faster with each passing second, until she could no longer see the other side of the street. Or the street.

  “Please be careful, Martin,” she whispered.

  Nine

  The storm hit as Martin reached the car park at the top of the high street.

  He cursed under his breath, and made a dash for his car. The snow blinded him, assisted by the screaming wind. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, never mind his car. There was no possible way that he was leaving. Not today, and most likely not for days.

  Now, all he had to do was find his way back to the antique shop—and hope that Maggie would accept his apology. He certainly owed her one, after his spectacularly horrifying treatment of her.

  His chance of reaching the shop to offer that apology looked grim. He used the closest vehicle as support, and what little cover it offered as he crouched beside it, and tried to orient himself.

  The wind shifted, and he got a glimpse of the line of shops at the edge of the car park Afraid to expose himself to the lash of the wind, he hiked his backpack over one shoulder, and crawled across the tarmac, headed toward where he saw the buildings.

  His head found the sharp corner of the first shop. He hunched against it, cursing under his breath as he rubbed his forehead. Step one was complete. Now, all he had to do was follow the shops down to Maggie.

  “Right, mate,” he muttered, his head throbbing from the impact. When he pulled his hand away, he saw blood on his fingertips. “That’s all you need to do.”

  He slipped the other strap over his shoulder, and wrestled with the waist straps, snapping them together. That was one less thing to deal with, while he made his way through the storm.

  The cold seemed to focus on the laceration on his forehead, and his head pounded every time he moved. He ignored the pain as best he could, kept one hand on the building next to him, and leaned into the storm as he inched forward. His fingers slid over glass; it felt like ice against his skin, and he wanted to snatch his hand away. Instead, he spread his palm over the glass and kept moving.

  A hard gust slammed into him and tossed him at the window. He feared for a moment that he would go straight through the plate glass. Finally, the wind let him go, and he sank to his knees, shaking from the shock, from the increasing cold.

  I will not give up, steps away from her.

  Martin knew he was more than steps from Maggie. Blocks would be a better indication of distance, but the words helped him stand, pushed him forward. He couldn’t see beyond his nose—and realized that part of the problem were his glasses.

  He took them off, and carefully tucked them in the pocket of his coat. Their removal improved his visibility, but left his eyes vulnerable to the assault of the wind and snow. He pulled his scarf up, until it covered most of his face, leaving just enough clearance for him to peer over the top of the ice crusted wool.

  After a few shallow breaths, he started moving again. His lungs ached from the cold, every old injury he had sustained in his career coming to painful life. He silently cursed his body, his temper, and the fact that he had left his gloves in the warm flat above Maggie’s shop.

  A flat he would be in at this moment, if he hadn’t allowed his foolish pride to take over when Maggie had refused to agree with him.

  It was as if his father had been speaking through him. Good lord, he had even looked down his nose at her. If Maggie did open the door to him, he would spend the rest of his life making up for his callous treatment.

  A strong gust knocked him against the building, and his throbbing head smacked the brick wall. A white-hot burst of pain nearly buckled his knees. He fumbled for his mobile, and prayed that he would have service.

  When he squinted at the screen, he saw one bar. It might be enough.

  ***

  Maggie kept herself busy by helping Ashton bring in wood for the woodstove near the front counter, and the two fireplaces in the shop. She wanted to stay downstairs, just in case. Once the fires were
stoked and crackling, she made a pot of coffee for Ashton, and plugged in the tea kettle. Her nerves were already frayed; caffeine would only make her jittery at this point.

  She moved to the window for the hundredth time­—and jerked back when a face appeared out of the snow.

  “Enid? Good heavens—” She ran to the door and unlocked it, shoving it open against the screaming wind. Enid huddled next to the window, covered in snow. “Come inside, quickly.”

  She helped Enid into the shop, tightening her grip when the older woman stumbled.

  “Thank—you, dear.” Enid’s voice shook. Her entire body shook, and Maggie was afraid the woman would go into shock before she could get to the fireplace.

  “Ashton—get me a blanket. There’s a stack of them—”

  “I know where.” He sprinted to the next room, coming back with several blankets. He dropped them on the floor, and helped Maggie lower Enid to one of the chairs they’d placed in front of the fireplace. “Stay right there, Mrs. Phillips. We’ll have you right as rain in no time.”

  With a care that surprised Maggie, he eased Enid out of her snow-covered coat, then wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, laying a second over her legs.

  Maggie crouched next to her while Ashton ran to get a hot cup of tea. “What were you doing out there?”

  “Oh, I am such a fool.” She huddled in the blanket, her cheeks red. Maggie took her hands and gently rubbed them, shocked by how icy her skin felt. “I was at The Tea Caddy when the storm hit, and I thought I could reach my shop with no problem. But the snow came in, so hard and so quickly, before I was halfway across the street.”

  She swallowed, and Maggie stood, pulling a chair closer so she could hug the older woman. “You made it here. You’re safe now, Enid, and you can stay as long as you need.”

  “Thank you, my dear girl.” She smiled up at Aston, accepting the tea with a steadier hand. “Thank you, lad. What a dear, kind young man you are.” She took a sip, and sighed. Maggie felt her shudder, and picked up another blanket, draping it over the first. “I can’t seem to warm myself.”

  “It’s going to take a little time. Stay by the fire, and drink your tea. There’s plenty more, as long as the power doesn’t go out. And if it does, I can fire up the generator in the back room, or heat water over the fire. Are you hungry?” She knew she was babbling. Thinking about Martin out in that storm terrified her.