Summons From the Castle, Regency Christmas Summons Collection 3

by Catherine Gayle

  “Pardon me,” he hastened to say, taking the young lady by the shoulders and setting her back to rights. “I am terribly sorry. Are you all right?” But before she could answer him, he rushed on. “I wonder if you’ve seen a young lady about. Brown hair? Not too tall. All in black.”

  “Oh,” the auburn-haired lady exclaimed. “Yes, the lady in mourning? I believe she’s in the courtyard—”

  The girl was still talking, but Wesley rushed away from her. “I’m sorry, but I must find her!” he called out over his shoulder, not even slowing to say that much. He barreled through the walkways and bolted out a side door, then skidded to a stop.

  Abby was sitting in the courtyard beneath a frozen rose trellis. Both she and the trellis were covered in a light dusting of snowflakes. He took a step towards her and his Hessians crunched against the ground. Her head shot up, and she saw him.

  “Abby?” he said softly.

  She brushed a lone tear aside with her gloved hand and turned away from him.

  He couldn’t let her hide. Not now. Not when he could finally bare his heart to her. Wesley closed the distance between them and took a seat next to her on the stone bench. The warmth of her body heated him through. “Abby?” he said, more softly this time, somehow controlling his voice even whilst his pulse raced through his veins like the rapids rushing out to sea.

  She sniffed and stared resolutely down at the folded hands on her lap.

  With a single finger, he tipped her chin up until her hazel eyes—so full of hurt and grief and love and fear—were on a level with his. “May we talk?”

  “What is there to discuss, Mr. Cavendish?” she choked out, though she kept her tears at bay. Her breath coiled out in harsh bursts, like smoke in the chilled air.

  “Wesley.” He chucked her beneath the chin, much as he used to do when she was a young girl chasing after her brothers. “You’ve called me Wesley for many years now.”

  That brought the familiar flash of fire to her eyes. He refrained from unleashing a celebratory smile.

  “Yes. I also thought, for many years now, that you cared for me. That you might someday come back for me. That you intended to keep the promises you made to me all those years ago.” She inched away from him on the bench. “It seems I was also a gauche fool these many years.”

  Abby started to rise, but he took her hands in his own and tugged, keeping her seated.

  “You are no fool, Abigail Goddard.”

  She shook her head and laughed half-heartedly. “I am! I thought you would find a way—that we could find a way…” This time, she successfully separated herself from him, moving to stand beneath a holly wreath in the archway. “Tell me, will you marry Lady Isabel? She’s quite pretty, you know. I met her briefly on my way down here, and she seemed a perfectly lovely lady, a bit young, perhaps, but very well spoken.” Abby spun around again, somewhat wild-eyed. “Or will it be one of his other granddaughters? His Grace has a fair few.”

  Stepping towards her, he shook his head.

  “No? Well, I’m sure you needn’t wait too long for whoever she is. Lady Isabel mentioned that her grandfather had commanded them all to descend upon the castle for Christmas. Perhaps if he sends someone out for a license, you can be married before the end of the holiday.”

  He was close enough to touch her. Cautiously, Wesley reached out and took her hand. She tugged against him, but not hard enough to pull away.

  “There is no need to send anyone to fetch a license,” he murmured. “We’ll be marrying tomorrow morning.”

  A great torrent welled in her eyes and spilled over. “Tomorrow?” Abby tugged harder against him, but he wouldn’t let her go. Not now. Not ever again. “So soon?”

  “Not nearly soon enough.”

  She gasped and a wave of pain shuddered through her, so volatile as to be visible. “Unhand me. Right this instant.”

  But he couldn’t. He was powerless to stop the need to hold her. Wesley dropped his hands to her waist and drew her close, as he’d done so many years ago and as he’d longed to do every moment since. Abby pressed against his shoulders, but she was no match for him. With each shove of her balled up fists, he drew her in more intimately.

  “What are you doing?” she sobbed. “Please, Wesley.” She pushed against him a final time and then she collapsed against him, crying on his shoulder and leaving a wet spot on his greatcoat. He could do nothing but hold her until the tempest subsided.

  So he held her, and stroked her hair, and whispered soothing words in her ear, and rained kisses along her cheeks and forehead, and told her again and again that he loved her more than life itself and would until the day he died.

  Finally, slowly, her tears slowed to a trickle and her sobs changed from wracking heaves to mere whimpers.

  Wesley kissed one of her eyelids, his lips coming away covered in hot, salty wetness that rapidly cooled on his lips in the chill air. “I love you, Abby,” he said again, then kissed the other. “I love you. I love you so much it hurts me to see you hurting. I want to marry you, if you’ll have me. Please say you’ll marry me in the morning.”

  She hiccupped. Then she sniffed. Abby looked up at him with a queer expression, blinked, and then blinked again. “What did you just say?”

  “Marry me, Abby. Please, do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  ~ * ~

  She couldn’t possibly have just heard him correctly. It sounded like he was asking her to marry him, but he was supposed to marry one of the Duke of Danby’s granddaughters in order to appease his brother. Abby stared at him, studying the depth of emotion in his eyes. They were no longer the cold, hardened, intractable eyes he’d had since his return. They were vivid and bright, and he implored her with them. He truly meant it. There could be no mistaking the ardor of his gaze.

  “Are you addled?” she finally asked. “You have to marry one of the duke’s granddaughters or your brother—”

  “I know this is all relatively new to you, but you are one of his granddaughters.”

  Abby chuckled, a hollow, mirthless sound. “Technically speaking, yes, I suppose I am. There is no doubting that nose, after all. But legally…”

  “Whether you’re considered his granddaughter in the eyes of the law or not doesn’t matter. Tristan was sure that Danby would deny you or he never would have agreed to it, but he only insisted that His Grace must acknowledge you publicly. Danby intends to do that, and more.”

  She shook her head, her jaw hanging slack. “But in his study…” Abby closed her eyes, befuddled and disgruntled, and trying to sort it all out in her head. “He only asked me such odd questions about whether I intended to have children, Wesley. Why on earth would he decide to acknowledge me?”

  “Because you said you would have children. It seems he’s desperate to have great-grandchildren running about. Indeed, he’s ordered each and every one of his wayward grandchildren to return home for Christmas so he can marry as many of them off as possible.” Wesley drew her closer to him, snuggling her against his warmth, which seeped through her all the way to her very bones. Only then did Abby realize how cold she’d become. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I believe he has a stack of special licenses sitting on his desk, just waiting on their arrival. For whatever reason, he even had a blank one.”

  “A blank one?” Abby didn’t think such a thing possible, yet it all started to come together in her mind. Wesley had asked her to marry him—tomorrow morning. “Are you saying…?”

  “Yes. He wants us to marry in the morning. Here, at Danby Castle.” He took her hand and led her through the archway, so that they stood in one of the grand walkways, under cover from the snow. “He’s granted you a dowry, and he wishes for us to live in one of his smaller estates here in Yorkshire.”

  Abby stood there, staring at him for what felt an eternity. She could scarcely believe it was all happening. Oh, sure…she’d dreamed of it for as long as she could remember, but it had been many years since she’d allowed herself to believe suc
h dreams could ever come true.

  Not for her. Not for little Abby Goddard, a simple maid working in Lord Pritchard’s employ. Not for the daughter of a bastard.

  Those sorts of things happened to high-born ladies, to princesses and the like.

  She was nothing like them.

  “So will you?” Wesley asked. His voice was ragged, as though he couldn’t bear to hear her reply, but couldn’t bear to go without it, either.

  “Will I what?”

  “Marry me, you ninny.” The scar on his cheek stretched taut when he smiled, and his black-as-night eyes lit up in a manner she hadn’t seen in many years. “Tell me you’ll marry me before I catch my death in the cold from waiting to hear you say it.”

  A flood of emotion built within her again, as it had so many times the last several days. It pressed against her chest and churned the contents of her stomach and set her heart to galloping. Yet this time, it didn’t spill over in a gush of tears.

  Instead, she reached her hands up to pull Wesley’s head down to meet hers and caught his lips in a kiss. Tangling her fingers in the curls of his hair, she drew him closer, reveling in the strong arms about her waist and the gentle press of his mouth to hers.

  On a groan, he touched the tip of his tongue to the seam of her lips. She parted them, allowing him entrance to her heart. To her life.

  He’d kissed her before, before his father had taken a knife to his face and sent him away. But she’d been hardly more than a girl then. She hadn’t known the pain of loss yet in order to fully savor the sweetness of life. Those kisses had been altogether different.

  This was more. This was fuller and warmer and deeper, and entirely more consuming.

  This was love.

  Wesley broke off the kiss, but rested his forehead against hers, dragging ragged breaths deep into his lungs for quite some time. He placed a chaste kiss on the bridge of her nose, one that left her trembling with need. How could something so simple be so profound?

  “Is that a yes, then?” His fingers traced lazy patterns on the backs of her arms, leaving trails of frozen fire in their wake. “Will you marry me, Abby?”

  The longing to tease him struck her suddenly, with a force she was powerless to resist. She pulled away from him so she could look up into his eyes, striking her most serious expression. “If I say no, will you return in three years to ask me again?”

  His face fell, with the most downtrodden countenance she’d ever seen taking over for just a moment. Then the spark was back in his eye. “Three years? I doubt I could survive three hours without asking you again. Three minutes might test my limits.”

  Abby laughed, possibly for the first time since Grandmama died. “Three minutes? You’ve no self-control.”

  “None at all, when it comes to you,” Wesley said, all earnestness returned to his tone. “I don’t intend for that to ever change, Abby.”

  “Good,” she murmured. Turning to head back into the castle, she brought his arms around her from behind so they were walking in a sort of backwards hug. “Shall we tell my family there will be a wedding tomorrow morning?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure Danby has already taken care of it.”

  And so he likely had. Such an odd thing, to lose a grandmother and gain a grandfather…and a husband…in a matter of a few days’ time. Abby could only wonder what else this Christmas held in store for her. For some strange reason, she looked forward to it.

  A Caribbean Jewel For Christmas

  Suzie Grant

  Dedication

  To my kids for giving me the adventure of a lifetime and one I'll never forget.

  ~ Suzie

  ~ 1 ~

  Barbados - Fall 1812

  Smuggling had its disadvantages, especially inside a tavern full of British soldiers. The crackle of the fire filled the silence. Captain Randall Whitton eased back in his seat as the proprietress filled his tankard. He nodded his thanks and returned his gaze to the man seated across from him.

  Unease snaked its way up Rand’s spine. This prearranged meeting hadn’t gone quite as planned. First, had he known he would be meeting in a tavern filled with British officers, he would have never come. And secondly, had he known it was a British commander who’d requested his presence, he would have run like hell in the opposite direction.

  Commander Blythe studied him through dark blue eyes narrowed in the dim light. “Would you care for anything to eat, Captain? It’s on me.”

  Glass clinked in the establishment and a soft drone of voices carried through the public house. They were the only two people in the upper balcony of the tavern, but it didn’t alleviate Rand’s anxiety in the least. He shook his head. “No, thank you. Why don’t we set aside all pretenses, Commander? I find I’m rather curious about your reasons behind the invitation.”

  The slightest smile brushed the commander’s features. “Indeed.” Silence descended once again as the man sliced through his mutton chops. “I hope you’re comfortable. I would hate to think I’ve not made you feel welcome.”

  Rand glanced over his shoulder at the only visible exit in the main hall. Comfortable? Indeed, like a mouse being pawed by a cat.

  The clatter of dishes brought Rand to his feet and a hand on his Rigby flintlock pistol. When all eyes turned in his direction, Rand cleared his throat and reseated himself with a muffled apology. “I must confess to being on a schedule and I’m anxious to get on with my errands.”

  The commander smiled. “Understandable. This was a rather spontaneous meeting. I do hope you’ll forgive me. After all, we’ll both profit from this encounter, or at least that’s my wish.”

  “Excellent, what can I help you with?”

  The uniformed soldiers resumed their previous endeavors one-by-one, and the normal drone of voices continued. Rand leaned back in his seat and sweat trickled down his temple.

  Reputation colored him a criminal and being in a roomful of “His Majesty’s finest” made Rand extremely nervous. He wiped his moist palms across his black knee-breeches but kept one hand close to his weapons.

  “I’ve brought you here, Whitton, because I hear you’re the best.”

  How often had he heard that phrase? Pride bloomed in his chest as he realized the truth of those words. He’d taken a useless skill and perfected it until there was no equal. The Admiralty must know of his reputation. He was a legend in Barbados. He’d made sure of that.

  Money made the world go ‘round, and he had plenty of it. But it would never be enough. Not for Randall Whitton. He refused to die a lonely, old man living in squalid conditions like his father before him. Never again would he be indebted to anyone.

  Blythe placed the silver utensils down and peered closely at him. “You’re the man to do business with, or so I hear. You get the job done, no matter the cost.”

  “All of this is true, Commander, but forgive me for being blunt. What has this to do with you? And let’s dispense with the polite conversation, because we both know what I am and what I do. So why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you want? Otherwise, I have a previous engagement that requires my attention.”

  The commander chuckled. “You’re a man who doesn’t mince words, Whitton. I like that. And as to what I need, I need a man of your skills for a special mission. I have a delivery—a rather important delivery—and I need a man who’ll make sure it gets there.”

  Rand nodded. “Sounds good. What is it and where is it headed?”

  Commander Blythe winced. “That’s the problem. No one can learn of its contents, nor can they learn who funded this little venture. Understand?”

  Disquiet settled over Rand. Something seemed out of place, and an alarm inside his head warned him of what was yet to come. “I’m listening.”

  “I have a business partner in Charleston who will be looking for this shipment by February of next year. I’m offering fifteen hundred pounds. Half now and half once the shipment arrives.”

  Rand stilled. A small fortune. For a single run?
His heartbeat suspended and then barreled ahead like a race horse. That was more money than he’d made in the last three runs put together. He didn’t move. To show any sign of distress could mean certain death, but warning bells clanged inside his head. Whatever his next words were, he must consider them carefully. Any mistakes now could be disastrous.

  Pretending interest, he leaned forward. “Are you sure you wish to discuss this now?”

  The commander smiled. “These are all my men. You have nothing to fear here.”

  “What kind of shipment, Commander? Don’t give me any lines about secrecy. Nothing gets loaded on my ship without my knowledge. I refuse to risk my life for a run where I don’t know all the details. If that’s the kind of captain you’re looking for, then I suggest you find another.”

  The commander wiped his mouth with the sullied cloth napkin, a stark contrast to the conjoined line of white eyebrows across his forehead. “Indeed.”

  Rand laid down the battle lines. “Those are my stipulations, Commander. Take them or leave them.”

  Commander Blythe chuckled and placed the napkin in his lap. “All right, Captain. We do this your way. For now. When my business partner gets the shipment, I’ll be paid—more than you can ever imagine in your lifetime.”

  “I can imagine a lot.”

  “It will be more money than I’ve ever received from the British government. Do you comprehend now?”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “Weapons. We’re at war with the Americans, and I plan to get paid. I’ve commandeered a shipment of guns from the War Office that were supposed to come to my regiment. I plan to tell my superiors the shipment was stolen out from under our noses and sell the weapons to our enemies, Captain. And then I plan to retire here in Barbados and never wear this blasted uniform again. I need a man of your caliber to pull this off for me. Like I said, you will be well-paid for your service, as will I.”