Mischief and Mistletoe

by Jo Beverley; Mary Jo Putney; Patricia Rice; Nicola Cornick; Anne Gracie; Joanna Bourne; Susan Fraser King; Cara Elliott

  Snow fell peacefully through the darkness, calming her. She watched her frosted breaths, listened to the wind, the whicker of the horse, the creak of leather. Her gloved hands and booted feet were cold. She desperately wished this night was over.

  Finally she heard hoofbeats and wheels. She straightened, heart pounding, sitting tense upon the horse hidden by trees along the roadside. Soon she saw a vehicle and two horses rounding a curve in the road, coming closer at a good pace.

  She wanted to turn and run—but thought of her great-great-grandmother’s bravery and felt fresh resolve. Lady Grisell Cochrane had waited like this, too, and had accomplished her goal. That gave Cristina hope. With a gloved finger, she touched the small locket for luck.

  Now the snow mixed with sleety rain, pelting the ground, the trees, her hat, her shoulders. She saw that the approaching vehicle was just a gig drawn by two horses, with two men on the crossbench. She narrowed her eyes, judging the distance to the road, waiting.

  Now, Kirstie, she told herself. Now! Drawing a breath, she urged the horse into the path. “Hold!” she shouted, deepening her voice. “Hold there!”

  The lead horse neighed, her mare sidestepped nervously. The driver pulled on the reins.

  “What is this!” he shouted. “What d’ye want, there?”

  She pulled out her riding whip, brandished it, reluctant to reveal the old, useless gun unless necessary. “Please, sir, give over your valuables!”

  “Be damned! A highway thief, here?” the driver said.

  “Where’s me pistol—” The second man reached into his coat pocket.

  “Stop!” Cristina snapped the whip, which only fluttered. “You carry something of worth, I hear! Please give it over and go safely on your way!”

  “We carry papers, not coin!” the driver said.

  “It’s a lad,” the other muttered. “Or a girl, I swear. You! Go home to Mama and suckle some milk!” The driver laughed at that.

  She had expected resistance, but not rude dismissal. Suddenly a pistol appeared in the second man’s hand, its long, fierce barrel glinting. Terrified, she wanted to race away. Her horse sensed that and pranced anxiously.

  She drew out the antique pistol, hands trembling. “Put that down or I will shoot,” she called, trying earnestly to deepen her voice.

  “You put that one away! Does yer da know you have it? Let us pass or you will be hurt!” the driver called. “It’s a wee brat what ought to be sleeping,” he growled to the other man.

  “Toss your valuables to me now!”

  “ ’Tis papers, ye nitwit.” The driver waved a leather satchel. “What d’ye want with these?”

  “Best run off before I shoot!” the man with the gun shouted.

  “I do not want trouble,” she said hastily. “Just the papers, if you please, sir.”

  “Please, it says, with its fine wee manners,” the driver mocked. “Go on!”

  “Give me the papers and save yourselves!”

  “What, from a wee bairnie?”

  “Aye!” she shouted, training the pistol on them, praying her bluff was convincing.

  The men muttered, shrugged, and then the driver launched an object at her. She reached out for it, balancing pistol, whip, and reins. As the missile brushed her gloved fingers, she realized it was a bottle, not the packet of documents she wanted. What she had believed was a gun was in fact this very bottle. She leaned back quickly, but it clipped her brow and grazed the horse’s flank before falling to the ground. Startled, her horse sidestepped and reared. Cristina slid out of the saddle, then hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from her. She rolled away just as the mare dropped its hooves and spun, bumping into the lead horse, which neighed and lurched.

  The gig careened off suddenly, the men shouting. Cristina’s own horse cantered away.

  Standing, tripping on the greatcoat, she saw a packet lying in the road and threw herself on it, snatching it up, cramming it inside her waistcoat. As she got up again, her foot turned sideways in the overlarge boots, and sharp pain shot through her ankle. She ran, wincing, desperate to catch her horse and get away while the gig rattled down the road.

  She limped after the mare, which hesitated for a moment. Cristina hurled herself forward and grabbed the dangling lead before the horse could take off again. Bouncing on her injured foot, she scrabbled into the saddle, grabbed the reins, and turned the horse’s head toward Craigiston.

  The weight of the parchment-wrapped packet tucked inside her waistcoat was reassuring. Despite all, she had grabbed the documents intended for the sheriff. Now for home—

  She glanced over her shoulder just as another horse and rider emerged from between the trees and thundered toward her.

  Chapter 4

  What the devil?

  Edward guided his black stallion through the darkness, intent on pursuing the thieving rascal he had just spied along the highway attempting to hold up the courier. But the gig’s horses had startled, running off with the vehicle in tow, and the brigand’s own horse had thrown its rider to the ground. The fellow had grabbed something up from road, then regained his mount and took off in the opposite direction.

  He was astonished to see a highwayman here, of all places, of all nights. Swearing under his breath, he followed at a brisk pace. Not only was he sheriff, but likely the one robbed.

  The thief was rapidly vanishing into the shadows. Passing the spot where the encounter had happened, Edward saw a leather satchel on the ground. Halting the horse, he leaped down and snatched it up. The thing was empty.

  Bloody hell. His papers were gone. They were irreplaceable documents—not the court papers safely tucked in his pocket now, but the packet he had given the courier not a half hour earlier. Knowing the recipient expected it forthwith, he had paid dearly for its quick transport to the Lowlands, adding something extra for the two couriers to enjoy a good supper and rooms for the night at the Drouthy Wench Inn along the Stirling road.

  Then he noticed the pistol lying in the road. After snatching it up and noting its old-fashioned shape and the fact that it likely could not fire, he dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he remounted and went after the brigand. He wanted those papers back, and he meant to make an arrest for the crime that had been committed under his very nose. Best hurry, he told himself; the insolent rascal was far along the road despite a mix of snow and sleet.

  Edward urged the black onward over a surface hardpacked but not slick where earth and stone roughened the way. Ahead, he saw the dark, fluid shapes of horse and rider.

  Cold wind, the horse surging powerfully beneath him over the frozen turf, and the excitement of the chase invigorated him after the wine and rich food. He followed as the thief turned off the highway onto a moorland track that he knew led past Dunallan.

  All had gone awry, from the arguing couriers to the stumbling horse and her own fall and injury. Now she was being followed. Was one of the drivers chasing her?

  At least she had the documents. If she could escape into the darkness, the highway thief and the orders for her brother’s trial would vanish with her. And then this Yule Eve would be best forgotten, Cristina thought, leaning forward, encouraging her horse to a quicker pace.

  The highway was too open, so she left the road for the shortest route, a track over the moor past Dunallan toward Craigiston. Then she glanced back over her shoulder—

  Her pursuer was still there, lessening the gap between his horse and hers.

  Heart pounding, she leaned close, knees tight, feeling the horse thunder ahead, mane brushing her face. If she was caught, it would go badly for her and Patrick, too, if their kinship was revealed. She had to lose the persistent rider behind her.

  A cluster of trees to the right would provide cover, she thought, and a place to hide the parcel. Urging the horse down a dip in the moorland where the pursuer could not see them, Cristina slowed the horse to enter the thicket of pines. Sliding from the saddle, she winced as her ankle took the weight. Then she pulled the parcel fro
m her waistcoat and stuffed it under a carpet of pine needles at the base of a tree. The fragrant piney smell came away with her.

  She waited, patting and shushing the horse. In the quiet, she heard the distant rhythm of hooves over the moor. The rider was there. Heart pounding, breath held, she waited as the thudding faded. Relieved, she knew he was taking the moorland track onward.

  When she was sure he was gone, she used a stone to remount. She was glad that her father had fostered independence in his daughter as much as his son. He had even taken her on smuggling runs that he deemed safe enough, and proudly told her the story of Lady Grisell. Cristina had loved the stories, the adventure and excitement, and Da’s attention, too.

  What would Da think now? She thought he would understand. He had always told her to take care of her little brother—and that was precisely what she intended to do.

  Guiding the mare out of the pine break, Cristina felt again the anticipation of earlier days, a breathless sense of balancing on the dangerous edge of life. She never truly enjoyed demurely sewing or serving tea to friends in the parlor. She wanted adventure. The only other place that lent her a sense of freedom, boldness and risk existed in books, where her imagination could keep pace with stories and histories.

  Riding once again over the dark moor, she hoped that the spirit of Lady Grisell was proud of her, too, and hoped the lady might even look after her great-great-granddaughter this night.

  Perhaps so. The sleet had ended, though snowflakes still floated down, and the pursuer was gone. Cristina headed for the village, satisfied that she was safe, with the documents in hand. Soon Patrick would be free, and no one would ever be the wiser—

  Out of shadows and nowhere, the rider appeared, a black form winging alongside her. She urged the mare faster, just as a wickedly strong arm whipped out to hook her about the waist and drag her out of the saddle and toward him, though she struggled.

  Edward reached, but the thief, nimble and lightweight, twisted free and clung to the other horse. Then the fellow slipped, plunging to the ground between the moving horses.

  Deftly sidling the stallion to avoid a hoof strike, Edward peered down. The thief lay still, a slight shape with greatcoat, hat, sprawled legs. The other horse cantered away, but then stopped to graze nearby. The animal would have to be captured; Edward would not leave it to wander in the cold and the sleet, which had resumed, icy and slick.

  First, the brigand. Edward dismounted and prodded with a foot and got no response. He knelt in cold muck to shake the fellow’s shoulder and tap his cheek. The face was pale and soft beneath the black hat and concealing scarf.

  A beardless lad, Edward thought, up to mischief on a holiday eve—but why? Scooping the boy into his arms, he carried him back to the stallion, lifting him easily over the saddle pommel. Setting a foot in the stirrup, he leaped up after him.

  Concerned that there might be a head injury, he leaned the unconscious lad against his shoulder. Thinking of his own nephews, his brother’s children, Edward felt a twinge of compassion. What had driven the lad out tonight of all nights, when most people were with their families?

  Well, he had no family himself this holiday—but now he had a lost soul in his keeping. Knowing he ought to toss the lad in the tolbooth with the other young prisoner, he paused due to a sense of caution as well as compassion. The ride to Craigiston could cause more harm if there was indeed an injury.

  Through pelting snow and sleet, Edward rounded his stallion, caught the second horse’s lead within moments, and headed for Dunallan Castle.

  The brigand stirred, moaned, set a gloved hand to his head. The eyes opened, beautiful in the snowy light—and familiar. Seeing Edward, the thief gasped and subsided in a faint.

  Edward frowned. He knew those eyes, that face.

  The vicar’s niece—Johnny Shaw’s daughter—was a highway robber.

  Swearing low, riding fast as he dared while cradling his charge, he took the castle’s slope carefully as he guided the horses over a long swath of frozen grass toward the entrance.

  The girl woke and began to struggle, thrashing, kicking to get away. She half slid from the horse, forcing Edward to dismount with her. He managed to land on one knee, still holding the girl. Then the packages roped to the back of the saddle burst free, jostled by the ride, strings loose and contents dumping.

  He had forgotten about the pies.

  As the sweet fillings dripped in dollops over his head and shoulders, he hauled Miss Heron-Shaw to her feet and tossed her unceremoniously over his shoulder.

  Chapter 5

  He kicked the door open, rusty latch giving, and strode across the hall and up the stairs. She was a featherweight, this trouble-making girl, he thought as he pushed open the door of his bedchamber. The intimacy of the location hardly occurred to him. He was preoccupied with the horses still waiting to be stabled, the wicked weather, the pie sliding over his brow, the fact that the vicar’s niece was a blasted bandit.

  He dumped her on the red satin coverlet, muck and pie on her coat making a mess that the housekeeper would likely fuss about later, and he stood back. His grandfather’s dogs bumped against his legs, for the white terrier and old deerhound had followed him up the steps.

  The girl sat up, setting a hand to her head. She had lost the hat somewhere, and her hair fell in a golden tousle, smeared with apple custard. Turning, Edward lit an oil lamp on a side table, then snatched a linen towel from the washbasin stand and returned to hand it to her.

  In silence, she wiped the glop from her hair. He fisted hands to hips. “There’s crust over your ear,” he said.

  She reached, but the piece dropped to the floor and was snatched by the terrier. The girl looked up at Edward. “I am sorry about the pies. I’ll make more for you.”

  He huffed. “The tolbooth lacks a kitchen, and that’s where you’ll be.”

  She blinked, eyes wide and blue. “You’ve custard on your nose.”

  “Miss Heron-Shaw,” he said, rubbing his face, “first, are you hurt? How is your head?”

  “Aches a bit.” Touching her brow gingerly, she winced. “I am fine. I should go—” She began to stand, but sat abruptly.

  “Rest a moment,” he advised. “Then explain yourself. What the devil—”

  “I cannot tell you, exactly,” she said, rubbing her brow. “Please do not swear.”

  “Pardon. We will stay here until you are ready to talk.”

  She glanced around. “But this is . . . a bedchamber!”

  “With the servants away, this is the only heated room in this blasted—sorry, this old—castle. Just what were you about tonight?”

  “The servants are gone?” She picked the desserty bits from her hair and let them drop to the dogs. They gobbled up and eagerly awaited more.

  “Aye. Now talk.”

  “If I do, it might go badly for others.”

  “Worse than for you?” He hooked his foot around a chair, drew it to him, and sat so close that his knees nearly touched hers. He reached up to extract gooey pie from his hair and brushed at clumps on his coat sleeves. “So, you rode out this evening with a plate for a neighbor, and then decided to rob a courier. Do not deny it,” he said, when she was silent. “I saw you.”

  “I did bring something to Mrs. MacDonell.”

  “Dressed like a brigand?”

  “It is cold outside.”

  “I see. Perhaps the scarf about your face gave you an irresistible urge to waylay a gig.”

  “I am not a thief! I only meant to help someone.”

  “By taking my papers?” he asked abruptly.

  “P—papers?” She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Impatient, Edward plucked a wedge of crust from her hair. His fingers smoothed over curls so fine and soft that his heart bounded. “You took a valuable parcel that belongs to me, and I want it returned,” he said.

  Silent, she touched his cheek to wipe away a sweet drizzle, and her touch nearly made him jump. He took the cloth from her hand to scru
b it vigorously over his hair, where glop and crust were caught in the insufferable curls. Tossing the cloth aside, he reached into his greatcoat pocket and produced the pistol. “What did you intend to do with this?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “It is old and broken and does not shoot.”

  He grunted. “I saw it in your uncle’s library. He said it had belonged to an ancestor.”

  “Yes. Lady Grisell Cochrane.”

  “I know of her—the brave young lady who once saved a man back in the days of the Covenanting army. So there is more than one virago in your family. But which is the wilder wench . . . bold Lady Grisell or troublesome Miss Cristina?” He cocked a brow.

  She frowned. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “I caught you in flagrante delicto. I am the sheriff. I daresay it’s done.” He shoved the pistol back into his pocket. “I intend to find out what this is about, Miss. And I want my deuced parcel back.”

  “Sir,” she said, “may I use a washbasin?”

  “Shall I draw a bath and fetch clean clothing, too?” He felt growing frustration.

  “I do have a change of clothes packed on my horse, if you allow me to get them.”

  Damn! “The horses! I will be back. Do not leave this room, I warn you.”

  He hurried for the stairs, pie bits still shedding from his greatcoat. The dogs trotted after him, licking the floor.

  Cristina stood quickly, wincing at the sear of pain, and looked around. She needed to escape, but could barely walk. Nor would Dunallan let her go—if she ran off, he would go straight to her uncle. Frantic, she wondered what to do.

  Without the essential papers, the sheriff had no order to send Patrick away. Dread decided her: she could not stay. If she could reach Craigiston and the tolbooth before the sheriff thought to go there, she might be able to claim Patrick for the vicar and get him free that way. Removing the heavy greatcoat, slimed with mud, custard, and pastry, she hobbled to the window to tug on the casement. Through the thick glass, she saw snow swirling in fat, white flakes.