‘I do not want you to feel guilty any more,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I understand you were trying to demonstrate that you intended to go on living exactly as you would have done were you not married. Although…’ She frowned. ‘How you expected me to believe you were that dissolute, when I could see how uncomfortable the behaviour of the other gentlemen made you…’
‘Could you? Then you were the only person who has ever guessed what a half-hearted rake I was.’
‘That is because I was used to observing, rather than joining in. I always knew…at least I hoped that you were a better man than the way you behaved led others to believe. After all, they believed totally wrong things about me.’
‘As did I.’
‘Yes, but I had the advantage of knowing that you were a victim of my aunt’s plot, so it was easier to understand how trapped and angry that had made you.’
‘Nell,’ he said irritably, ‘all you have said has reassured me that you have forgiven my past treatment of you. But it is not enough. It means…’he ran his hand over the crown of his head ‘…almost nothing!’
Nell flinched back from his angry gesture, her insides clenching in a cold hard knot.
‘You took me in and nursed me back to health simply because it was the right thing to do! And fighting to get me recognised has had the effect of securing Harry’s future.’ He looked haggard. ‘It does not mean you care about me at all!’
He turned towards her, grabbing her hands and looking into her face with a kind of desperation. ‘Nell, don’t leave me without hope. Tell me that one day you might come to feel some affection for me.’
‘Have you not heard a single word I have said?’ she replied softly. ‘I already love you. With every fibre of my being.’
‘Nell…’he gasped. ‘Nell!’ He seized her and crushed her to his chest. ‘I love you too. So very much!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She pulled away from him, her eyes wide with shock. ‘You barely know me! You have scarce been here six days…’
‘Six days is quite long enough to fall in love with a woman as brave and loyal and clever as you.’ Especially, he reflected, now that he knew the woman he’d been dreaming of, who’d kept him warm through all the long, lonely nights of his imprisonment, his perfect bride, was this angel. Oh, in the cold light of the morning he had pushed her away, replaced her in his mind with an image of the scheming woman he thought he’d married—Helena. But each night Nell had loved him all over again. How could he fail to love her back now that his eyes had been opened to see her as she really was? The embodiment of all he had ever wanted in a wife.
‘The trap you set for Peregrine this morning…’He shook his head, his eyes lit with such admiration it warmed Nell to the core. ‘It was quite a brilliant piece of strategy to get both the Squire and the Vicar to overhear Peregrine ordering you to murder me.’
‘No,’ she demurred, ‘it just came to me after Harry confessed he had been lurking in the garden with you, eavesdropping. What was brilliant was the way you convinced Peregrine you would stop at nothing to wrest the title back.’
It was Carleton’s turn to shake his head. ‘Mere posturing,’ he disclaimed. ‘The truth, if you will hear it, is that we make a good team. Nell,’ he whispered, lowering his head to drop a kiss into her sooty palm ‘give me the chance to make amends. Let me spoil you. I want to replace this threadbare homespun—’ he fingered the folds of her skirt ‘—for satins and silks. I want these work-worn hands—’ he ran his thumbs gently over her callused palms ‘—to never have to lift anything as heavy as a garden fork again. You will have your own maid, Nell, to care for your clothes and dress your hair. And you shall have jewels too—whatever your heart desires. Only tell me what you want, and I will make it my life’s mission to give it to you!’
Nell turned her head away, blushing rosily. ‘A baby,’ she said. And then, when there was no immediate response from her husband, she plunged on. ‘I do not think it is right for Harry to be an only child. I have been inclined to spoil him, and have begun to fear he will grow up a hellion. Now, if he had a little brother or sister…’
Her homily ended in a muffled squeak as Carleton seized her and kissed her passionately. Only when she had wound her arms about his neck did he pause.
‘A little girl,’ he mumbled against her mouth, as though he could not bear to be more than a whisper away from her skin. ‘I hope we have a little girl next, who looks just like her beautiful mother.’
‘I shall not care what she looks like. I shall love her for herself!’
‘As you have loved Harry,’ he agreed. ‘Even though he was my son.’
‘No,’ she murmured back. ‘It was never that way. When I thought you were dead, I mourned you. It felt as though all I had left of you was Harry.’
‘Oh, Nell,’ he said, crushing her in his arms. ‘I do not deserve such happiness. I cannot believe I have been so fortunate as to find my way back to you.’
‘Well, Christmas,’ she said, ‘is the season of miracles.’
Outside in the passage, Harry punched the air, doing a silent dance of victory. He had a father, a proper father, who could see how wonderful his ma was at last. They would all go to live in a big house, where he would have as much to eat as he could ever want, and play in woods where nobody could tell him he was trespassing.
Then suddenly he realised how significant it was that his ma had said Christmas was a time for miracles. His pa had come back right after he had challenged God to send him a father for Christmas. Dashing to the kitchen, he stuffed his feet into his boots, then ran, slithering and slipping over the icy ruts, all the way down the lane to the churchyard.
This time he paused long enough to snatch off his cap before he barrelled in through the door.
He was greeted by the smell of freshly cut greenery. A group of village women were tying bunches of holly onto the choir stalls in readiness for the Christmas services. When they saw who had come in, they turned back to their work, contemptuously ignoring the outcast son of, as they believed, the village’s scarlet woman.
Wouldn’t they be sorry when they found out he was going to be a viscount when he grew up!
His heart swelling with emotion, Harry made his way down the central aisle until he stood beneath the stained glass window of the Madonna. He grinned up at her as she smiled serenely down at the Christ child in her arms.
Very quietly, so the gossiping women could not hear him, he said, ‘Last time I came in here I told you I didn’t believe in Christmas. But I do now. You sent me my pa back—my real pa—which is even better than what I asked for. And he’s going to give Ma a baby, so we will be a proper family. Thank you.’
Having paid his dues, Harry turned, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and sauntered back down the aisle. He had just got to the door when his face lit with a mischievous grin.
‘Phew!’ He chuckled, glancing one last time over his shoulder. ‘When you decide to answer somebody’s prayer, you don’t do it by halves, do you?’
BLAME IT ON THE MISTLETOE
Terri Brisbin
Dear Reader,
Although I’ve always loved the holiday time of year and all the parties, presents, decorations and festivities, I think the real reason that Christmas is my favorite holiday is the feeling of hope that surrounds us then. Hope that we’ll see family members and friends we haven’t lately seen. Hope that we’ll find just the perfect gift for that special person in our lives. Hope that the coming year will be filled with health, happiness and everything important to us.
So it is with that hope in mind that I invite you to read my novella “Blame It on the Mistletoe.” It has all the elements I think are so important during this time—family, friends, presents, hope and, most important, love.
I wish you all the happiness and health and good things that this season can bring to you and hope that you find yourself among friends and family to celebrate.
Merry Christmas and h
appy holidays to you!
Terri
I’d like to dedicate this story to another pair of
young lovers, my son Matt and his wife, Carrie. They
fill my life with reasons and opportunities to be a better
person and a better mom, and they fill my holidays with
fun and love and hope for a fabulous future. To Matt
and Carrie—may your love fill your life together with
the same happiness you’ve brought me.
Chapter One
The flames soared over the wide bowl, sending blue transparent sheets of searing heat above and distorting the faces of those bending closest to plan their attack. As Julia Fairchild watched the antics of the young men gathered around the table in her brother-by-marriage’s drawing room, she wondered if they’d lost their wits as a result of too much imbibing of spirits, or if they’d simply been born without them.
Well, they were Englishmen, she thought with a sigh, so it could be either.
The next one designated—a Mr Jeremy Stockton, if she remembered his name correctly, pulled up his sleeve and wiggled his fingers, readying them for his attempt. Waving his arm over the flaming brandy, he then plunged his hand in and successfully plucked one of the floating raisins from its surface. Those watching and those awaiting their turn cheered him on for his achievement as he popped the heated sweet in his mouth.
Julia was about to turn away from the frivolous behaviour when she glimpsed a familiar face above the flames. She dreaded giving the appearance of interest in the antics being played out in part because of her, but she wanted a closer look at the man across the drawing room, and stepped closer to the group surrounding the table and bowl. He stood stiffly next to one of the windows, peering out at she knew not what, and leaning slightly against the ornate carved trim around the ceiling-to-floor window.
Julia studied his face from the side and tried to decide if he truly was Iain MacLerie. Before she could, those playing Snapdragon cheered, and she glanced over to see what had caused this new uproar. Apparently Mr Stockton was not satisfied with one successful grab; he’d gone again and burned the hair on his forearm.
Stupid fop, she thought. She might even have mouthed the words to herself, never dreaming someone would notice her impolite behaviour. But in that moment the man across the room chose to turn and meet her gaze. Even from here she could tell he fought the smile that tried to alight on his face as he recognised her words.
It was Iain! He was here!
Now Julia could see his whole face, though he was older and more changed now than the last time she’d seen him, she knew him immediately. Without much thought to proprieties, she left the small group of women with whom she stood and walked across the room to speak to him. Only when she moved closer to him did she spy the thick walking stick in his left hand.
There was so much more than a few years between them now, for that piece of wood spoke of his months and months of pain and recovery after a carriage accident had nearly taken his life four years past. It had taken his parents’ lives. Four years during which he’d withdrawn from his family and from life to work diligently on his recuperation—one that physicians had thought impossible. Now he stood before her so much more a man than the boy she’d been half in love with for as long as she could remember.
A man who’d seen her discourteous insult a few minutes before. A man she wanted to throw her arms around and welcome back to their annual Christmas gathering. A man who, as though he could read her thoughts, gave her a warning glance from his steely grey eyes that said he would not or could not accept sympathy or pity easily or well.
Julia dipped in a polite curtsy before him, and watched as he bowed in reply. The years of struggle and pain were etched on his face and in those eyes, and the changes were obvious to anyone who had known him as a younger man.
‘Miss Fairchild,’ he said softly. So formal, then?
‘Mr MacLerie,’ she answered. Damn the man!
‘You have just thought something wicked, have you not? I saw that familiar flash that usually speaks of a regrettable lapse in your behaviour.’ His words teased and spoke of a shared past, even if his tone wasn’t as welcoming as she’d hoped when she’d spied him.
‘A lady never tells, sir.’ Julia peered round at the others in the room, before leaning in to offer a conspiring whisper. ‘And neither would a gentleman if he were to witness a lady’s indiscretion.’
‘I could write a book about your—’ he began, before she placed her hand over his lips.
‘Iain, please!’ she whispered.
He lifted her hand away, but did not release it immediately. Instead he held it out and tilted his head, inspecting her from the tips of her pale blue slippers to the matching ribbons entwined in her hair.
Such things had never mattered to her; she wore them more as a favor to her sister than because of any real interest on her own part. But now, after seeing the strange glint in Iain’s eyes as he took in her appearance, Julia was gladdened that she had taken time at her toilet for this evening’s festivities.
‘You look lovely, Julia.’
She felt the unwelcome heat of a blush creeping into her cheeks and lifted her hand from his. ‘And you look well.’
Was it the wrong thing to say to him? His expression seemed to harden before her eyes, and he appeared ready to bolt from her side at this reminder of his condition.
‘Iain, wait—please,’ she said. ‘It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I simply wished to greet you and tell you that I am…I am…’ The words swirled in her brain, and each one sounded more personal and pitying than the last. At last she settled on the plainest. ‘I am glad you are here, Iain.’
He nodded at her words, and shifted his position as though uncomfortable. ‘And I am glad to see you too, Julia.’
Just as she was about to enquire of his plans—plans she’d already learned of from his aunt, Lady MacLerie—and express her unbecoming curiosity, the very same person approached.
‘The Countess has announced there will be dancing in the red parlour, Julia, and she wishes you to join her there. This game is nearly done—and none too soon for my tastes,’ she continued. She scorned stupidity as much as Julia did, and this game seemed the very height of it. ‘Will you escort us there, Iain?’
She’d said it so matter-of-factly that Iain seemed to take no notice, and certainly no offence at it. He smiled, revealing the face Julia had known before, and shook his head.
‘No, Aunt Clarinda. I fear my journey here today has done me in. I am sure,’ he said, as he motioned to someone standing nearby, ‘that my uncle will no doubt like that honour.’
‘And will claim several dances for myself before relinquishing you to any other man,’ Lord MacLerie said, smoothly taking hold of his wife’s hand and offering his other arm to Julia. ‘Anna has promised waltzes in addition to the customary country dances, and I know how much you like to waltz.’ Somehow he’d managed to say the words so that he referred to both women, but Julia knew it was Clarinda of whom he spoke.
‘Until the morning, then, Iain?’ Clarinda asked as they began to walk away. ‘The staff here know what a real breakfast meal is, and it is something not to be missed.’
‘Until then, Aunt Clarinda, Uncle Robert.’
Julia slowed her steps, hoping to hear one more name. If Lord or Lady MacLerie noticed they did not indicate so. And then it came at last.
‘Miss Fairchild.’
She nodded without looking back, and then picked up her pace once more, unable to comprehend why hearing Iain say her name should be so important to her. It was not as though she had been waiting for him or watching for his arrival at the Christmas festivities. It was not as though she’d asked anyone about the possibility of his attendance here.
She had not. But once the chance of it had been mentioned, in a casual comment made by her sister Anna to Lady MacLerie, it had been all she could think upon. At last she would have a chance to s
ee how he had fared since his accident.
Her letters to him had been returned unopened, and reports on his condition had come only through her sister or Lady MacLerie. They had been vague and sometimes disconcerting. Julia had always been certain they were keeping the worst from her, and his appearance now only confirmed her suspicions.
As they walked down the long corridor and up the stairs leading to the large parlour that would host the dancing this evening, she realised that Clarinda and her husband whispered only between themselves, and did not press her for any comments. Which, considering she had none to offer, was a good thing.
And that worried her even more—for she was never without words on a subject. Be they comforting or sharp or witty words, as the situation needed she had them. Until now. Try as she might to convince herself that she had no other reason for feeling a tightly wound sense of anticipation within her, Julia could feel that Iain’s attendance here meant something more than just renewing an old acquaintance. She would put her mind to it and discover the reason for these strange feelings in the pit of her stomach.
They entered the parlour just as the musicians tuned their instruments, and the younger son of Lord and Lady Sutcliffe greeted Julia. He’d reserved a dance as soon as dinner had finished, and he held out his hand to guide her to the dance area in the centre of the room.
Soon the room whirled in time to the music, and Julia lost herself in the dance and the company and the evening’s festivities—without ever realising that Iain watched her from the edge of the door.
It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.
She’d spoken the words out of simple consideration but the pain of seeing Julia now tore a hole through his heart. Uncomfortable would never describe the humiliation he suffered knowing that he was less a man now than when last they’d met.
Iain had been hoping that the silly game would cover his arrival, but then she’d looked over and made that mischievous comment meant for no one to see, and caught his gaze. He’d prayed through every moment of their encounter that his leg would not fail beneath him, and that he would be able to smooth the grimace his face usually wore into something more appropriate for polite company.
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