Once they were mounted, Kaitlin leaned her head against his chest, unable to believe that she was in his arms, and that they were on their way home. "How did you manage to come for me? Black Eagle had warned that he would kill even you if you disturbed him."
Shane's arms tightened around her. "I was nearly insane when I realized that you were gone, and what had happened. I would have ridden straight in for you, except that I knew that I couldn't save you alone, and that there wasn't enough manpower here to make any assault on Black Eagle and the entire tribe. Then I realized that I could make an assault on that fool trapper who had taken Black Eagle's boy, and so I rode on into his camp."
"Peacefully?"
"Guns blazing," Shane admitted, "but I had to convince him that I meant business. He gave up the boy to me, because I promised him a whole-scale war and an end to his future business trade if he didn't. Of course, I also promised him a bullet through the head. That seemed the most convincing argument."
Kaitlin laughed softly. "Oh, Shane... And I thought that I was going to spend Christmas in a teepee, unloved, unwanted!"
"Never, Kaitlin, never," he whispered huskily. "It was a year ago you came into my life. A year ago today, remember? And I told myself that you were a Christmas gift. I just didn't realize then that you were the greatest Christmas gift I was ever going to receive."
"Oh, Shane!" She turned in the saddle, flinging her arms around him, nearly unseating them both. She gave him a sloppy kiss, and he kissed her in return. Somehow managing to keep them balanced in the saddle. In time they parted. Diablo snorted as if he were certain his master and mistress had gone mad.
"All right, Diablo," Shane told him, "we're almost there."
And they were almost there. Francesca was on the front steps despite the cold, waiting. When she saw Kaitlin, she gave a glad cry and came racing down the steps and into the snow.
"You're home, Kaitlin, you're home! You're all that I asked for for Christmas, I prayed for you every night, and now you're here! Oh, Kaitlin!"
She hugged Francesca, hugged her and hugged her. And when she was done, she held on to her still. And Daniel and Mary were there, eager to hug and hold her.
Even the Reverend Samuels was there with Jemimah, all ready to greet her.
She had come home for Christmas. She had truly come home.
There was so much commotion for the longest time. Mary had seen to it that a hot bath filled with sweet rose scent awaited her first in the kitchen. Mary was convinced that she had to feel awfully dirty after her stay with the Indians. The Blackfeet had actually believed far more in bathing than a lot of white folk Kaitlin knew, but since Mary had gone through so much trouble to provide the delightful bath, Kaitlin decided to enlighten them later about the tribe. She smiled. Mary was a good friend. So was Daniel. They were wonderful people.
Just not quite so wonderful as Shane.
When she was bathed and dressed—wearing that beautiful gown Shane had bought for her the year before, the night they had wed—she came back to the parlor. Everyone wanted to speak with her, to be with her. To Kaitlin, it was fine. She sat there in the parlor, before the fire. Mary served her mulled wine, Francesca curled up next to her on the sofa with her head in her lap. There was a big fir tree in the parlor, too. Chancey had dragged it in. "Ain't decorated much, ma'am," he told Kaitlin, "but I was thinking that maybe you and Shane and Francesca might want to get to that tomorrow. None of us ever gave up hope, you know. It was Christmas. And we just wanted you back for Christmas."
Kaitlin gave Chancey a big kiss, and that brought a blush to his cheeks. Then she realized that Shane had been very quiet all night. He was just standing there, leaning against the mantle, watching her.
Then, at last, it was time for everyone to go to bed for the night. They were all staying, the Newtons and their baby in one of the guest rooms, the reverend and Jemimah in another. It would be an early morning, with the lot of them traveling into town for Christmas services.
They'd have carols then, Kaitlin thought. She hugged Francesca close. There'd be carols in the church. And tonight, Santa just might come down the chimney.
Shane had said that he would give her Christmas. He had done just that.
And finally, she was alone with him. He hadn't let her walk up the steps. She assured him she hadn't been through any hardships, but he wouldn't let her walk up the steps anyway.
He carried her, his eyes locked with hers all the way. She wound her arms around his neck, smiling.
"Is Santa coming down the chimney for Francesca?" she asked softly.
"I think that Santa came tonight for Francesca, too," he said, smiling tenderly in return. "But yes. He's brought her a bright new dress and a beautiful doll. I'll have to see that he places it under the tree correctly very soon. He's coming for you, too."
"He came for me already," Kaitlin told him. "He came when I saw your face tonight."
"But there will be a present under the tree for you, too. I—" He paused. "I never gave up hope."
"Oh, Shane, I really won't have anything for you under the tree—" she began. Then she broke off. "Oh, but I do have something for you!"
They had reached their room. Shane still held her, closing the door behind them with his foot. Moonlight streamed into the room.
His eyes blazed down into hers. "I said that you were my Christmas gift. The finest gift that I have ever received. I truly need no other."
"But I have one, my love!" Kaitlin whispered. "I think we're going to have... no, I'm positive now. We're going to have a baby. Next year, I think that you'll have your son."
His arms tightened around her. "Kaitlin..."
For a moment he was utterly still.
Then he hugged her, set her down, and let out a cry, a joyous cry. It was something like a yell, something like a shout.
And Kaitlin was certain that it woke the entire house.
It did. There was suddenly a banging on their door.
Shane threw it open.
The Reverend Samuels stood there. "Shane, Kaitlin, is something wrong? Is someone injured—"
"No, no, we're fine!" Shane said quickly. "I was just receiving my Christmas gift."
The reverend gasped. Kaitlin giggled, realizing that the reverend had assumed that he was shouting about something indecent.
"Shane MacAuliffe, there's a child in this house—"
"And there's going to be another one! Good night now, all. No, not good night. It's past midnight. It's Christmas. Merry Christmas, everyone. Merry Christmas. Now go to bed!"
He closed the door with a firm snap. He smiled at Kaitlin. "Merry Christmas, my love!"
She smiled, and flew into his arms. "We do have the greatest gifts in the world," she whispered. "Gifts of love."
He held her tenderly, then kissed her lips. "Come, give me mine!" he whispered back.
And with the snow falling softly beyond the window, her home filled with the most wonderful Christmas spirit, Kaitlin curled her arms around him.
And gave him the gift of her love.
home for christmas
A note from the Heather:
Since my father was Scottish, my mother is Irish and my husband and in-laws are Italian, Christmas dinner at our house is usually an unusual affair.
I love Christmas. With four children or more, the day is wild and woolly and wonderful. The house is all decorated, and we usually build a fire, even if it is eighty-odd degrees in South Florida that day. We tend to have a lot of family and friends every year, from thirty to fifty people, and my mother, sister, mother-in-law and everyone else cooks up something and brings it. We have turkey and gravy and potatoes and a big ham, and we also have lasagna and meatballs and Italian cheesecake.
One of my favorite Christmas recipes is a clam sauce I learned from my cousin-in-law, and it's a favorite recipe because it always tastes great and takes little time and effort. When unexpected company drops by, it can be whipped up in less than half an hour. It's also just about foolproof!
4 cans of chopped clams
2 ¼ lb. sticks butter or margarine
1 large garlic bulb (yes, that much!), chopped
1 tbsp olive oil
Fresh parsley, chopped
Sauté garlic in olive oil. Add clams and juice. (Use a little water to make sure all clams and juice are rinsed from the cans.) Add parsley. Heat mixture to almost boiling. Add butter or margarine and heat until the mixture bubbles lightly. Sauce can be served immediately or allowed to simmer on lower heat for about an hour.
Serve over linguine, tortellini or any other pasta of choice. It tastes even better when reheated.
I like to prepare the sauce using butter, but when I'm feeling health-conscious, I like it just as well made with margarine, or sometimes made with a stick of each.
Another Christmas tip:
For those who like stuffing cooked on the stovetop just as well as inside the turkey, cook the turkey without the stuffing. Instead, insert a stick of butter or margarine wrapped in a number of lettuce leaves. Cooking stuffing inside the bird dries out the turkey, while the lettuce keeps it moist, and the butter or margarine bastes the inside.
Prologue
Christmas Eve, 1864
A soft, light snow was falling as Captain Travis Aylwin stood by the parlor window. He could almost see the individual flakes drift and dance to the earth against the dove-gray sky. It was a beautiful picture, serene. No trumpets blared; no soldiers took up their battle cries; no horses screamed; and no blood marked the purity and whiteness of the winter's day.
It was Christmas Eve, and from this window, in the parlor that he had taken over as his office, there might well have been peace on earth. It was possible to forget that men had died on the very ground before the house, that lifeless limbs clad in gray had fallen over lifeless limbs clad in blue. The serenity of the darkening day was complete. A fire burned in the hearth, and the scent of pine was heavy in the air, for the house had been dressed for the season with holly and boughs from the forest, and bright red ribbons and silver bows. Hawkins had roasted chestnuts in the fireplace that morning, and their wintry scent still clung lightly to the room, like the mocking laughter of holidays long gone. He had not asked for this war! He hadn't been home for Christmas in four long years, and no scent of chestnuts or spray of mistletoe would heal the haunting pain that plagued him today.
She could heal the wound, he thought. She, who could spend the holiday in her own home, at her own hearthside. But she would not, he thought. And no words that he spoke would change her feelings, for it was almost Christmas, and no matter what had passed between them, no matter how gently he spoke, Isabelle took up the battle come Christmas, as if she fought for all the soldiers who rested in the field.
From somewhere he could hear singing. Corporal Haines was playing the piano, and Joe Simon, out of Baltimore, Maryland, was singing "O, Holy Night" in his wondrous tenor. There was a poignant quality to the song that rang so high and clear. Two people were singing, he realized. Isabelle Hinton had joined in, her voice rising like a nightingale's, the notes true and sweet.
She had forgiven the men, he thought. She had forgiven them for being Yankees; she had forgiven them the war. It was only him she could not forgive, not when it came to Christmas.
The sounds of the song faded away.
He closed his eyes suddenly, and it was the picture of the past he saw then, and not the present. Not the purity of the snow, the gentle gray of the day. He could not forget the past, he thought, and neither could she.
He tensed, the muscles of his arms and shoulders constricting, his breath coming too quickly. She was there. He knew she was there. Sergeant Hawkins had told him that Isabelle had requested an audience with him, and now he knew she was standing in the doorway. He could smell her jasmine soap; he could feel her presence. She would be standing in the doorway when he turned, waiting for him to bid her to enter. She would be proud and distant, as she had been the first day he met her. And just as it had that very first time, his heart would hammer within his chest as he watched her. She was an extraordinary woman. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. It was almost over. The war was almost over. He knew it; the lean, starving soldiers of the South knew it; she knew it—but she would never concede it.
He straightened his shoulders, careful to don a mask of command. He turned, and as he had known, she was there. And as he had suspected, she was dressed for travel. Her rich burgundy and lace gown was dated; her heavy black coat was worn, and beneath her patched petticoats, he knew, she would be wearing darned and mended hose, for she would take nothing from him except the "rent" for the house, and that she put away each month behind a brick in the fireplace. Once she had put it away for two brothers, but now one of them lay dead in the family plot that was hidden by snow, and so she put the money away for Lieutenant James L. Hinton, Confederate States Artillery, the Army of Northern Virginia, in hopes that he would one day come home. She took the money because the United States Army had taken over her house. Because she was determined not to lose her home, she had no choice but to let them use it. The Hinton plantation lay very close to Washington, D.C., and though the army had been forced to abandon the property upon occasion when Lee's forces had come close, they always returned.
Isabelle knew that. That he would always return.
Travis did not speak right away. He had no intention of making things easy for her, not that night, not when he felt such a despairing tempest in his soul. He crossed his arms over his chest and idly sat on the window seat, watching her politely, waiting. His heartbeat quickened, as it always did when she was near. It had been that way from the first time he saw her, and now that he had come to know her so well...
She was pale that night, and even more beautiful for her lack of color. She might have been some winter queen as she stood there, tall, slim, encompassed by her cloak, her fascinating gray-green eyes enormous against the oval perfection of her face. Her skin was like alabaster, and the darkness of her lashes swept beguilingly over the perfection of her flawless complexion. Her nose was aquiline, her lips the color of wine. Tendrils of golden hair curled from beneath the hood of her cape, barely hinting at the radiant profusion of long, silky hair beneath it. Watching her, he was tempted to stride across the room, to take her into his arms, to shake her until she cried for mercy, until she vowed that she would surrender.
But he would not, he knew. He had touched her in anger before, had shaken her to dispel the ice from her heart. He held the power, and sometimes he had used it, in despair, in desperation, and once in grim determination to save her life. But he would not touch her tonight. He loved her, and he would not force her to stay.
"Good evening, Isabelle," he told her. He had no intention of helping her. He would let her go, because he had to, but he would not help her abandon him to the barren emptiness of another Christmas without her.
"Captain," she acknowledged.
He didn't say a word. She lifted her chin, knowing they were both fully aware of why she had come, and that he would not make it easy for her.
With soft dignity she spoke again. "I would like an escort to the Holloway place, please."
"The weather is severe," he said noncommittally.
"That does not matter, sir. I will go with or without your escort."
"You know that you won't go two steps without my permission, Miss Hinton."
Her lip curled, and her rich lashes half covered her cheeks. "You would prevent me from leaving, Captain?"
Why didn't he do it? he wondered. He could turn his back on her, could deny her request. If she tried to leave him, if she tried to ride away into the snowbound wilderness, he need only ride after her, capture her, drag her back. It would be so easy.
But he had fallen in love with her, and he could never hold her by force. If she wanted to go, he would saddle the horse himself if need be.
"No, Miss Hinton," he said softly. "I will not prevent
you from going, since that is your heart's desire."
He stood and walked to the desk, her brother's desk, his desk. It was a Yankee desk now, piled high with his paperwork, orders, letters, the Christmas wishes that had made it to him, the letters he had dictated to the parents and lovers and brothers and sweethearts of the men he had lost in their last skirmish, letters that had not yet been sent. He searched for his safe-conduct forms, drew out the chair, sat and began to fill in the blanks. Any Union patrol was to see to the safe passage of Miss Isabelle Hinton to Holloway Manor, just five miles southwest of their own location in northern Virginia. She would be accompanied by Sergeant Daniel Daily and Corporal Eugene Ripley, and she was not to be stopped, questioned or waylaid for any purpose.
He signed his name, then looked up. He thought he detected the glistening of tears behind the dazzle of her gray-green eyes. Don't do this! he longed to command her. Don't you see that in this very act you deny our love?
But she had never said that she loved him. Never, not while she was burning in the flames of desire, nor in the few stolen moments of tenderness that had come her way. And neither, God help him, had he ever whispered such words, for he could not. The war waged between them, and enemies did not love one another.
He stood, then approached her with the pass. Her gloved hands were neatly folded, but they began to tremble where they lay against her skirt.
"Isabelle..." He started to hand her the paper.
She reached for it, but her fingers didn't quite reach it, and it drifted to the ground. He meant to stoop to pick it up, but he didn't. His dark eyes locked with hers, and the room seemed to fill with a palpable tension. Suddenly he discovered that it was the woman he was reaching for, not the paper. He drew her into his arms and knew that she was not made of ice, that warmth flickered and burned within her. A soft cry escaped her lips, and her head fell back. Her eyes met his with a dazzling defiance, yet they betrayed things she would not say, that she would deny until the very grave if he allowed her.
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 17
