Through days of skating and treasure hunts, charades and riding, she maneuvered with the sole purpose of avoiding Ivanridge even though she had no clear evidence she was being stalked. She resented it deeply. The man was completely spoiling her Christmas. Even her father noticed how strangely she was behaving.
"Anything up, Alice?" he asked her on New Year's Eve. "You don't seem to be in the thick of things like you used to be. Not feeling quite the thing?"
"I feel perfectly well, Father," she said, knowing that any other answer would have the doctor at the door. "I just feel I have to keep an eye on things."
"Nonsense!" declared Lord Raneleigh. "Everything's going marvelously. No more of it, now. Roland's organizing Snapdragon for midnight. I expect to see you in there grabbing a few, my girl. All right?"
Alice sighed. "Yes, Father."
That night as everyone waited for the approach of midnight and the beginning of the Year of Our Lord, 1816, Roland entered the hall bearing a great shallow earthen dish. Rebecca followed with a lighted taper. There was clapping and cheering, but all Alice's attention was on Ivanridge to be sure he stayed on the other side of the room from herself. He seemed fixed in the company of Lord Gai-stang and Miss Travis, however, and so she relaxed a little and allowed herself to join in the fun.
Her brother ordered the lights extinguished. Soon the room was plunged into darkness, except for the glow from the fire at the far end and that from Rebecca's taper. There was expectant silence as she touched the flame to the bowl. When the eerie blue flames danced up, Roland carried the dish of flaming brandy-soaked raisins to the high table and Alice started the traditional chant,
Here he comes with flaming bowl.
Don't be mean to take his toll,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
Rebecca blew out her light and the lurid flames of burning alcohol were the only illumination as everyone gathered round to see who would be the first brave soul to risk their fingers.
Looking suitably devilish in the strange light, Roland flexed his hand. Quick as a flash he grabbed a raisin and popped it still flaming into his mouth and bit down. There was a cheer.
Take care you don't take too much,
Be not greedy in your clutch,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
Major Ewing went next, then the Duke of Portsmouth who fumbled and burnt his fingers. There was a groan of derisive sympathy.
With his blue and lapping tongue
Many of you will be stung.
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
Alice was about to demand a turn when she thought to check on Ivanridge again. He wasn't where he'd been before. She searched the crowd, but it was amazing how different people looked in the strange blue light. She felt a prickling between her shoulder blades but stopped herself from looking behind. She'd had enough of letting him spoil everything. If she wanted a raisin, she'd take one!
She stepped boldly forward and plucked a raisin from the flames. There was a cry. Before she could pop the raisin in her mouth it was slapped away. She was grabbed from behind, spun, and crushed to a hard chest.
"Damn you!" she cried in disbelieving fury that he would attack her so in public. She kicked at him, then understood.
The smell oT burning silk and velvet told the story. He relaxed his arms cautiously, and they both looked down to where her loose silk sleeve had burned away, singing his velvet where he'd smothered the flames.
Alice swayed with the shock of what might have been. She looked up at him numbly.
"Are you all right?" he asked as if he cared.
She nodded.
"Are you burnt?"
She felt a mild pain and looked down. "Just a little. It's nothing."
He relaxed. "Getting off lightly again," he said, the familiar edge returning to his voice. "You never learn, do you?"
By then her family and others were gathered around. "Good Lord, Alice," said Roland, "I didn't think I had to remind you to beware of trailing sleeves!"
"I didn't think-"
"I don't know what's the matter with you, Alice," said her father testily, which showed he was upset. "You're not yourself. Our thanks to you, Ivanridge. Damn quick thinking."
"I just happened to be closest."
"Nonsense. Fine bit of work. Learned it fighting Boney, I suppose." Lord Raneleigh looked at the younger man closely. "Fancy you were here a few years back in Hussar uniform, yes?"
Alice wondered if the sudden tension came from Ivanridge or herself. It was only then she realized that though she'd turned to face her father she had done so within the circle of Ivanridge's arms. She made a move to escape, but his hold was like steel and no inconspicuous movement was going to free her.
"Yes, Lord Raneleigh," said Ivanridge levelly. "That was before I inherited the title."
"Ah, that explains why I didn't recognize the name. Been bothering me. Don't usually forget people. Norman!" he announced with satisfaction. "That's it. TVr Norman. Fine name for a fighting man. Thought so at the time. The Norse god of battle and the warlike race that conquered this island. Heard you lived up to your name, too. Good show. Good show."
Roland had turned back to supervise the game again and cheers and squeals indicated success or singeing, but Alice's father had put his considerable bulk between her and the table so she could not see what was going on. It also meant that the small amount of light was blocked. In that private darkness, Tyr Norman's arms settled more thoroughly about her. Again she thought about struggling, but instead she gave in to temptation and relaxed back against his hard body.
"Thank you, Raneleigh," Ivanridge said smoothly, as if nothing was untoward. "But it was more the case of seeming to find myself in situations which called for heroics. I did not set out to gain a reputation."
"Just lucky, hey?"
Though she knew she shouldn't, Alice raised her hands and laid them on his over her midriff. Sweet heaven, but this felt so right. There was no reaction.
"You could put it that way, I suppose," said Ivanridge dryly. "Certainly my destiny was shaped by some force, malign or otherwise."
She wanted to turn in the circle of his arms and taste his lips again . . .
"Otherwise, my boy!" declared her father. "Look where you are today. A fine reputation, a title, and a pretty woman in your arms." He peered at Alice. "Still look a bit shaken, my girl. But you can't cling to your rescuer all night." Alice hastily moved her hands. "Let him at the raisins before these greedy people have them all!"
Ivanridge took his arms from around her, but before she could gather her wits, he grasped her uninjured wrist and pulled her forward to the bowl.
"I deprived you of your raisin," he said. "I'll get you another one."
Knocked off balance by the sweetness of those intimate moments, Alice didn't know what to say, and she still couldn't read him. Had he really been concerned for her safety? Had there been sincerity in that cherishing hold? "There's no need," she said.
"I don't want to be in your debt. Ready?"
Without waiting for her consent, he reached out and snatched a flaming raisin. He brought it rapidly to her mouth. Alice hesitated for a fraction of a second, thinking it would serve him right to burn his fingers but then repented of such petty spite and opened her mouth. She closed it quickly on the delicious burned-brandy sweetness.
He sucked his fingers, but she had no way of telling whether he was soothing a burn or enjoying the remains of the brandy. He looked at her and in the uncertain light appeared much more the warm-hearted young man with whom she had fallen in love. She recognized the danger of it. No, she told herself desperately. She wouldn't play the fool again.
"Now you should get one for me," he said.
"After I was almost burnt to a crisp?"
"You were only slightly singed." He smiled slightly and without bitterness. "I'd be interested to know whether such a brush with danger puts you off or whets your appetite for more."
He was trying to seduce her again. Alice lost control of her br
eathing. "I'd be mad to want to catch fire a second time . . ."
He released her wrist and slid his hand around her until it rested in the small of her back as if they were alone in the world, as they might as well be in this dim light and playful mayhem. "Rather depends on the fire, doesn't it, Miranda?"
His hand felt like a burning brand there, and flames were spreading from it along her nerves. No, she wouldn't let him do this to her! She moved away from the heat, but that only took her a step closer to his body. She looked up at him. "What do you want?" she whispered desperately.
"Sweet, spicy fire in my mouth," he said softly. "I thought you were a courageous lady."
Alice was at the end of her strength. "If I pick you a raisin, Tyr, will you please leave me in peace?"
Something flashed in his eyes—anger? pain?—then dark
lashes shielded it, After a moment he looked at her again and all she saw was kindness. "Yes, Alice. The war's over, isn't it? We all deserve some peace."
Alice nodded. He released her and she stepped close to the almost empty bowl. This time she made sure that her sleeves were well out of the way, then she picked a raisin and popped it in his ready mouth.
"Mmm," he said as he swallowed. "Delicious." He caught her hand and slowly licked the trace of sweetness there. "You have to admit, Miranda," he said almost wistfully, "we are very good together." His smile was gentle as he kissed her knuckles. "Pax tecum, deliciae"
With that he left her and Alice knew the persecution —if it had ever existed at all —was over. Everything was over, except the Twelve Days. There were six more to go.
Alice moved through the days as if her head, her heart, and her body were separate. Lack of comment told her that her body was doing all the appropriate things. Her head struggled with the fact that she still loved a rogue and would go to his bed again if he snapped his fingers. Her heart ached because she wouldn't allow herself to do it.
She survived by counting away the days until he'd be gone. But she couldn't stop watching him like someone who stores scraps against a coming famine.
She could see no dark side to him now. He was still harder and tougher than he had been six years ago, but he was more relaxed. He was very popular and was kind and warm to everyone.
Except herself. He ignored Alice as if she didn't exist.
On the fifth of January Rebecca came to Alice's room to share morning coffee again. With Rebecca being Queen of the Revels, they had not found much occasion for chat.
"So here we are at the twelfth day," said Rebecca. "I must say that you work your guests hard, Alice."
"The penalty of being a monarch," said Alice, staring into the fire.
"Are you sure you are quite well, Alice?" Rebecca asked
with concern. "You seem in very low spirits."
Alice looked at her friend, knowing Rebecca would see more than most. "I am perhaps a little tired, Becca. But please don't fuss."
"It's only that we care, dearest. I wondered whether you had burned yourself more seriously than we thought on New Year's Eve."
"No, honestly. It was nothing." Alice pulled back her sleeve. "See. There's not even a mark."
"Lord Ivanridge acted so quickly, didn't he? At first I thought him a little cold, but having to be with him to think up new mayhem, I have developed a warm regard for the man."
Alice looked at her friend in horror, aware of a stabbing pain suspiciously near her heart.
"Why do you look like that?" asked Rebecca, then she laughed. "Oh, not in that way, Alice, though why you should look as if I'd suggested self-immolation, I don't know. We have just become friends. I like him, and I think he's a man I could trust if I needed to."
"I suppose so," said Alice, feeling she had to say something.
Rebecca considered her. "It is my opinion that the gallant hero is not indifferent to you, Alice. I've seen him look at you once or twice in a very meaningful way. And it's amazing how often he turns the conversation to the topic of one Lady Alice Conyngham."
Alice felt her face flame. "You must be imagining it."
Rebecca grinned triumphantly. "You're not indifferent! I knew it. Why on earth are the two of you avoiding each other? It would be an excellent match on both sides."
"Heavens! Do you have us married already, and we've scarcely shared a sentence?"
" 'Methinks the lady doth protest too much'."
Alice scowled at her friend and sought a retaliatory weapon. "And what of you and Charlie, then? You're living in one another's pockets."
Now it was Rebecca's turn to blush. "I ... I do find I
like Charlie very much." She looked anxiously at Alice. "I have no desire to hurt you, though."
Alice gaped. She had taken in the fact that Rebecca and Lord Standon were often in company without truly absorbing it. "I have no interest in Charlie," she assured her friend. "But you said you liked Ivanridge, too. Are you becoming a flirt, Becca?"
Rebecca smiled thoughtfully. "I like Ivanridge, but if I were to never see him again after tomorrow, I wouldn't give a fig. If I never saw Charlie again, I ... I would miss him."
Alice absorbed her friend's words and stared into the flames again. She realized her feelings were the exact reverse of Rebecca's. The thought that Tyr Norman would leave Conyngham tomorrow, possibly never to be seen again, was unendurable.
"Oh, Alice," Rebecca said, interrupting these anguished thoughts, "you do care. You must know that I would never steal Charlie from you."
Alice felt as if she had been dreaming and had suddenly woken up. What had she been thinking of? She couldn't let Tyr Norman leave her life a second time or not without a battle. And she desperately needed to know what was behind the dark bitterness he had brought to Conyngham. She sensed that there she would find the key to her heart's desire.
She looked directly at her friend. "I don't want Charlie. I want Ivanridge."
"What?"
Alice leant over to take her friend's hand. "Becca, you are not to tell a soul. Promise?"
A wide-eyed Rebecca nodded.
"I jilted Charlie six years ago because I'd fallen in love with Tyr Norman."
Rebecca gasped. "But why did you never tell anyone?"
Alice lied without a twinge of conscience. "My mother wouldn't permit such a mesalliance." In spirit it was true. The Countess of Raneleigh would have had to be tortured in her own dungeons before she would have agreed to her
only daughter marrying a mere captain.
Rebecca knew this and nodded. "But everything's changed now, dearest. Why are you avoiding him?"
"Because everything's changed," said Alice cryptically, rising to her feet. She felt as if she were singing with new purpose and power. "But I can't give up without a fight. I intend to use every weapon in my arsenal. Don't ask questions, Becca, but will you be ready to help if I need it?"
"Need you ask?" Rebecca chuckled. "But this has the feel of one of those scrapes you were forever leading me into in our schoolroom days."
Alice shared a grin. "It does, doesn't it? But I promise, this one is going to be a lot more exciting. And a lot more rewarding."
The first thing Alice did was cut Charlie free. She drew him aside after breakfast. "Charlie, I am very flattered that you are still willing to consider me as a wife, but I think we both deserve better than mild affection." She did not miss the flash of relief in his eyes.
"I think you're right," he said, adding perceptively, "Is there finally someone else, Alice?"
Alice smiled. "Perhaps. You can be sure, if you hear of my nuptials, the relationship will not be based on mild affection." She reached up and kissed his cheek. On impulse she said, "Pax tecum, Charlie."
"Peace be with you too, Alice," he said and went off to speak to Rebecca.
Having tidied her house, Alice considered the next part of her strategy. She couldn't be sure that simply throwing herself in Tyr Norman's arms was going to do any good, despite the declaration of armistice, and she still had to solve the myste
ry of his behavior.
That was necessary in order that she know how to approach him. It was also necessary for her own peace of mind. Love, she discovered, had little use for pride, and she would forgive and forget his treatment of her if she had to.
She would prefer, however, to at least understand it.
The obvious point of attack was Gen. George Travis-Blount who had arrived two days before. She ran him to ground smoking a pipe in her father's study. He was a sinewy, hawkfeatured man who bore a great resemblance to Alice's mother.'
"Ah, Alice," he said without particular warmth. He'd never been a demonstrative man, and his manner to her had become stiffer as she had left girlhood behind.
"Good morning, Uncle," said Alice, taking a purposeful seat opposite him and arranging her flowing blue skirts. "I wanted to talk to you about warfare."
He scowled at her. "What the devil for? Not a suitable subject for a lady."
"Since men fight to keep us safe, Uncle, I would have thought it appropriate that we take an interest."
"Nonsense. Men manage war best without women dabbling their fingers in it."
That seemed to be said with some meaning, but Alice couldn't fathom it, so she stuck to her guns. "But when men return from war, it is often women who have to cope with the consequences." At his blank look, she added, "Wounds."
"Oh. I suppose so." He scowled at her. "Not thinking of marrying a wounded soldier, are you? Damned stupid thing to do."
Alice realized she didn't like Uncle George very much. "I would have thought it noble," she said.
The only reply he made was a snort of disgust.
Refusing to permit a distraction, Alice continued her advance. "Is it true, Uncle, that some soldiers are wounded in mind as well as in body?"
He puffed on his pipe. "Only weaklings."
"But some of the things that happen in war must leave horrible memories. Perhaps," she added, "give people nightmares."
A Christmas delight Page 5
