A Christmas Bride

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  She wished it had been the woman’s voice, but she turned her head to see a man leaning over her. His soggy brown hair clung closely to his scalp and curved along his gaunt face. The intensity in his dark brown eyes threatened to pierce her, and she closed her eyes again. She should scream out her dismay at seeing a stranger leaning over her while she was so vulnerable in this bed, but she did not have the strength.

  “I know you are awake,” he said.

  He was petulant. He could have the decency to lower his voice to a whisper that would not careen through her head.

  Slowly opening her eyes again, she murmured, “Barely.”

  “How do you fare, miss …?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. She knew how she fared. Poorly. What she did not know was the name she should give him.

  “Miss …?”

  Closing her eyes, she took a careful breath. “I am sorry. I cannot seem to recall my name.”

  “Is that so?” In a mutter, he added something else, but she could not understand what he said.

  She looked across the bed at him. He now had his back to her. Sagging into the pillows, she forgot him as she was overwhelmed with pain again. It dragged her down into the darkness once more.

  Not a silent darkness, but one filled with screams and the sounds of a horrible crash. Wood splintering and horses screeching in terror. No escape, nothing but death and pain and more darkness.

  “Hush, child,” murmured a voice that drew her out of the morass of horror. “’Tis all right. You are safe now.”

  She gazed up at a woman who was nearly as round as she was tall. A smile stretched the woman’s apple red cheeks beneath her gray hair.

  “I am the innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Bridges,” she said, wringing out a cloth.

  She sighed with delight when the cloth brushed her cheeks. Her relief vanished as she heard the irritating man’s voice from the other side of the room.

  “I need to speak with her alone, Mrs. Bridges.”

  “But, Mr. Wayne—”

  “Alone.”

  The innkeeper’s wife’s cheerful expression became a scowl, but she turned away from the bed. The door closed softly in her wake.

  “Do you think you can stay awake more than a minute this time?” asked Mr. Wayne as he came to stand by the bed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I shall explain this to you quickly. Tell me your name.”

  “I told you. I don’t remember it.” She winced, but pushed herself up to sit against the pile of pillows. Looking past him, she saw that the rest of the room was as spare as the ceiling. Plain boards ran along the walls, and the only other piece of furniture than this narrow bed was a washstand by the door. No window broke the wall, but she could hear the sound of something hitting the roof. Something icy. It had been raining when … She was not sure when, but she knew it had been raining.

  “What do you remember of the accident?”

  “I am not sure.” Were the nightmare images and sounds memories or just something dredged from her pain?

  “Do you remember the names of the people you were traveling with?”

  “No.” She dampened her lips. “Are they hurt?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. They are dead.”

  She pressed her hand to her bodice. Realizing she wore only a nightgown, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. She saw a pile of soaked clothing on the floor. When she looked up at Mr. Wayne, his smile was cold.

  “Mrs. Bridges put you to bed here.” He sat on its edge. “Listen closely to what I have to say, because I must say it before Timothy returns.”

  “Timothy? Who is he? Another passenger?”

  “Just listen.” He smiled as he leaned toward her. “Just listen, and I can guarantee that you will be glad you did.”

  Timothy swung down off the borrowed horse in front of the Old Vixen Inn. He handed the reins to a stable lad who looked as drenched as he was. For the past two hours he and Jenkins had been helping the local constable and vicar deal with bringing the dead to the village. His pockets were lighter by the cost of three burials. Even though they would be temporary, for their families would want to claim the bodies once the young woman could tell them the names of the dead coachee and the man and woman in the carriage, the corpses could not be left out in the storm.

  Nothing in the carriage had given them a clue to the passengers’ identities. When he had seen all the footprints in the frozen mud around the carriage, he had guessed thieves had helped themselves to anything of value in it before he was able to return.

  “Thank you, my lord, for your assistance,” the pudgy vicar said from within his closed carriage. His smile warned that he did not intend to step out into the snow piling up in the yard in front of the inn.

  “I wish it had not been necessary.”

  “The young woman—”

  “I left her in Mrs. Bridges’s care.”

  He nodded, both of his chins bouncing together. “Please let her know that I would be glad to speak with her if she wishes.”

  “And the constable is sure to want to speak with her.”

  The vicar shrugged. “I doubt if she can tell him anything other than the names of her companions. Then he can contact their families and deal with transferring the bodies. From what we saw on the road, it is clear that your coachman was right. The man in the box on that carriage lost control in the storm. A terrible calamity, but nothing of interest to the law.”

  Timothy was about to ask another question, but the wind rose, firing snow at him as if from a cannon. The vicar ordered his carriage to hurry him home across the narrow green.

  Stepping onto the wide porch, Timothy shook clinging snow and ice from his cape. This storm was not a good omen for his journey to bare his soul to his grandfather.

  “Don’t be a widgeon,” he grumbled to himself as he ducked his head to enter the inn. Superstition had no place in his thoughts, which must be clear when he spoke with Grandfather. Tonight he would enjoy the best this inn had to offer. Even if it was not much, a trencher of beef and some stout would ease the cold left by the storm and the tragedy on the hillside.

  Mrs. Bridges hurried to him and held out her hands for his cape. He undid it and shook it again before handing it to her.

  “How does she fare?” he asked.

  “She is awake.”

  “Is she?” His smile threatened to crack his taut face. “What has she said?”

  Mrs. Bridges frowned. “It was very strange. Mr. Wayne shooed me out of the room before she could say more than a pair of words.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She stepped aside as a lad held out a tankard of beer. “I went to check on her a few minutes ago, and the door was barred.”

  Timothy glanced at the stairs. “That is odd.”

  “I thought so.” She rubbed her hands together. “Do you know the lass, my lord?”

  “No.”

  “Does Mr. Wayne?”

  “I doubt it. He seldom ventures far from London.” He took the tankard. Tilting it back, he let the warmth of the beer counteract the hours in the snow and wind. “Why do you think he knows her?”

  “No reason. Just the way they were looking at each other.”

  Timothy cursed and shoved the tankard back into the lad’s hands, spilling beer over both of them. Felix had been lamenting for the past week that his latest mistress was boring him. Not wanting to believe that his cousin would take advantage of a lass in such a perilous state, he reached for the rough railing on the stairs.

  “They were not looking at each other in that way, my lord,” Mrs. Bridges hurried to say, warning him that his reaction had been too obvious.

  “Then how?”

  “Don’t know how to explain it exactly.”

  “Try.” Blast it! He did not want to stand here playing a guessing game with the innkeeper’s wife after he had spent too much time outside on this frosty afternoon.

  “As I said, ju
st as if they thought they might know each other.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bridges,” he said, as he climbed the stairs.

  As dusk drew him up, he wished he had brought the beer with him. The one sip had not been enough to rid him of the chill. His toes were awash in his boots. Once he checked on the young woman and discovered what had unsettled Mrs. Bridges so, he would send his boots to be dried and polished, so they would be ready in the morning when they left. He did not want to delay here any longer than necessary. The sooner he reached Cheyney Park and told his grandfather what he must, the better it would be.

  He hoped.

  The upper floor was so silent, he could hear the ice pelting overhead. The snow must have warmed to sleet again. It was a good thing he had made arrangements with Mrs. Bridges to spend the night here. Traveling would be even more treacherous as night closed in around them.

  The second door on the left was where he had carried the young woman. He knocked on it, but got no reply. Opening it, he saw it was empty. Mayhap it had been the third door. He had been in such a hurry to leave her here and go to the authorities that he had not paid that much attention.

  He rapped on that door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Felix,” he said, resisting the temptation to shout, “’tis Timothy.” What silly thing was Felix about now? He lifted the latch, but the door would not budge. This was absurd. “Open up.”

  The door opened only far enough so Felix could peer out. “Are you alone?”

  “Of course. I do not need someone to come up here with me because I am afraid of the dark.”

  “The constable?”

  “He and the vicar are back in their comfortable houses. I would like to be equally comfortable with dinner in front of me, but first I would like to speak with the young woman.” He put his hand on the door and shoved it and his cousin back slowly. “I understand she is awake.”

  Felix jerked the door back so suddenly that the wood burned Timothy’s hand. “See for yourself.”

  He took a single step into the room, then paused as he stared at the young woman sitting among the pillows on the bed. Her hair had dried into a cascade of ebony curls around her shoulders. The bandage across her forehead had more color than her wan face, so her lips appeared a vibrant wine red. With the blanket pulled up to her chin, he could not see the rest of her, but he had held her close enough to recall the lithe curves that were hinted at beneath the blanket.

  He noticed all that in a single heartbeat. Then he was caught by her wondrous eyes. Not quite blue, not quite gray, they glistened like polished steel in the glow of the single lamp. Even in his imagination, these silver-blue eyes had not been so lustrous.

  Felix chuckled, but Timothy could not pull his gaze from the woman on the bed. Those eyes had depths only a fool or a brave man would dare to explore.

  “It seems,” Felix said with another laugh, “that no introduction is necessary, but, Timothy Crawford, Lord Cheyney, allow me to present to you your fiancée, Serenity Adams.”

  Three

  That man was Timothy Crawford? She must have misunderstood. How could this be Lord Cheyney? Why would such a handsome man be in such need of a fiancée that he had to hire a stranger to play that role?

  Even in the dim light, his hair glowed as gold as an angel’s wings. His firmly drawn face was as appealing as the devil’s own, and the excellent cut of his clothes could not disguise muscles that appeared to come from long hours of hard work—mayhap outdoors, for his face had a healthy bronze that did not seem to match the life of a London gentleman. A viscount who worked like a laborer? None of this made the least bit of sense.

  The man in the doorway continued to stare at her. Why did he look so shocked at Mr. Wayne’s pompous announcement? Mayhap Lord Cheyney had not guessed that she would agree to this want-witted scheme.

  She would not have, if Mr. Wayne had not brought to her a water-stained letter that had been in the apron of her skirt. It addressed her only as “Dear Sister,” but it spoke of how her younger sister and brother were depending on her to send them money to continue their schooling, so they did not have to be sent to the almshouse. The ink had run together, so it had revealed little more than that she had been an abigail to some nameless peer’s wife and had planned to send money to her siblings to pay for their next term before the year’s end.

  Her hope that the letter would give some clue to the identities of the others in the carriage with her had been for naught. If there had been another page with an address on it, that page was not in her apron pocket.

  Because of that letter, she had heeded Mr. Wayne’s endless prattling about how Lord Cheyney had spun a tale for their mutual grandfather, the Earl of Brookindale. His voice had taken on a wheedling tone that was irritating and seemed to pierce her skull with each word. She could not earn the needed money to send to her brother and sister if she could not recall where she had been in service. When Mr. Wayne had offered her an alternative, she had known she had little choice.

  Lord Cheyney rounded on Mr. Wayne. “This young woman has taken quite a knock to her head. What is your excuse for this absurdity?”

  “Trying to help you.” Mr. Wayne gestured toward her with all the exaggeration of an inept actor. “You need a fiancée, and I have provided you with one. This woman has agreed to pretend to be Serenity Adams for the duration of Grandfather’s birthday and Christmas celebrations.”

  “Why?”

  She realized that question was aimed at her. Bother! She knew Lord Cheyney was right to ask it. After all, she had asked it as well. Although something churned in disgust in her stomach, she lifted her scratched chin higher as she said, “Because of the five hundred pounds Mr. Wayne has told me you will gladly pay for my help.”

  “Five hundred pounds?” Lord Cheyney scowled at the shorter man. “Have you completely taken leave of your wits?”

  “I am thinking only of how you did not want to upset Grandfather during the celebration of this important birthday.” Mr. Wayne’s voice was as soothing as if he were speaking with a dim-witted child.

  She wondered why Lord Cheyney endured it. When the viscount’s brows lowered in a fearful expression, she knew he had heard the condescension as well.

  “I do not need you to tell me how best to protect Grandfather from my folly.” He came into the room, leaving wet footprints in his wake.

  She flinched when he turned to close the door, but he did not slam it. He was unquestionably angry, for each motion was as stiff as if he had been frozen by a winter wind, but he controlled his emotions with an ease that was almost frightening. She could not govern a single one of hers, because each was as new as if she had been born only this morning.

  “Are you mad?” Lord Cheyney asked. “I intend to tell Grandfather the truth of my miserable lies.”

  Mr. Wayne put his hand on the viscount’s arm. “But now there is no need. Look at her. She has the appearance of the woman you described to Grandfather.”

  “Mayhap, but I am going to Cheyney Park to be honest with Grandfather, not to—”

  “Ruin his birthday?” Mr. Wayne’s voice grew as icy as the sleet striking the low roof. “Timothy, think for a minute, if you will. Why distress Grandfather to the point that he might suffer apoplexy and be bedridden for his birthday celebration? Here is a woman who can prove your lies are the truth.”

  “But they are not the truth! They are lies.”

  She stared at the viscount. No one could accuse him of being willing to seek an easy solution to the quandary he found himself in now. If he had those good looks plus this sense of integrity, why had he cluttered up his life with falsehoods? She understood none of this.

  Mr. Wayne glanced at her, then back at the viscount. “Timothy, I know that. You know that. She knows that. However, Grandfather does not. Why do you want to ruin his birthday gathering simply to alleviate your guilt?”

  “And this”—Lord Cheyney gestured toward her—“this is supposed to make everything all
right? You are mad!”

  Mr. Wayne grabbed the viscount’s sleeves before he could walk away. “Once Grandfather’s celebration is past, you can arrange an argument with Miss Adams that will put an end to your betrothal. You can stage something that will persuade Grandfather that the betrothal was a mistaken thing right from the beginning. That will give you time to find yourself a real fiancée.” He laughed tersely. “After all, Timothy, this woman is a lady’s maid. Grandfather may decide on his own that she is not the proper one for you to marry.”

  “But he will not know she is an abigail.”

  “How many abigails do you know who could act like a lady among the beau monde?”

  Lord Cheyney arched his brows. “I shall leave the answer to that question to you and your superior experience in knowing the staffs of various ladies’ boudoirs.”

  “So will you look at this as a gift of Providence and take advantage of it?” Mr. Wayne chuckled again. “How many times have you told me that the difference between success and failure is recognizing an opportunity when it comes along?”

  Instead of answering, Lord Cheyney looked back at her. She could see distress etched into his face. If he had been on his way to confess his lie to his grandfather, he must be, at heart, an honest man who had been caught up in a single mistake that had compounded to threaten disaster.

  Dismay struck her. What if he decided not to accept her assistance in this masquerade? How then would she provide for her sister and brother? She wanted to plead with him to listen to Mr. Wayne, but feared that anything she might say would compel him to decide just the opposite.

  Lord Cheyney sighed. “Felix, I should have listened to my instincts weeks ago and told Grandfather the truth straightaway.”

  “Mayhap, but what are you going to do now?”

  Taking another deep breath, Lord Cheyney sighed. “You are right. I would be a beef-head to allow this chance to pass me by when revealing the truth before Grandfather’s birthday celebration might cast a horrible shadow over everything that is planned.” He scowled at her. “I do not like this a bit.”

  “That is because you are far too honest.” Mr. Wayne slapped him companionably on the arm. With a broad smile, he asked, “Aren’t you going to greet your beloved Serenity?”