by Cheryl Bolen
“Our son,” he corrected.
Doubt crept over her features. “Are you sure? He looks so like…”
“I’m sure. He’s a part of you. How could I not love him?” Marcus sat up and began to button his trousers while Sabine reached for her robe. Marcus took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her palm. “We will be a family. A family filled with love. And soon, perhaps we will have a child of our own.”
She kissed his check. “I’d like that. In fact, I suggest we start on that tonight. I couldn’t think of a better wedding gift than conceiving your child.”
“Those are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard. I intend to take you up on that invitation. Now, let’s go and introduce me to Alfredo.”
“Don’t be nervous. He’ll love you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure, because he’ll see that you make me very, very happy. He’ll love you simply for that.”
EPILOGUE
Some four weeks later, they were married by special license in the chapel at Marcus’s country estate, Lanreath. The couple kept the ceremony a private affair with only close friends and family in attendance.
Collette, Marcus’s mother, treated Sabine like the daughter she’d never had. The pair of them got along famously, sometimes too famously for Marcus’s comfort. At times he felt he’d definitely lost control of his home, but it was a feeling he greatly enjoyed.
He looked across the room at where Alfredo was playing happily with his five year old spaniel, Tudor. His glance continued to sweep around the room, and as he gazed lovingly at his wife and child, he felt a wave of contentment engulf him. He walked over to Alfredo and kissed his forehead. “Tudor likes you. Would you like him to be your dog?”
Alfredo looked up at Marcus with awe shinning in his eyes. “You’d like to give him to me?”
He tousled the boy’s hair, and in a voice choked with love said, “You’re my son. I’ll give you anything your heart desires.”
Alfredo threw his arms around Marcus’s waist. “Thank you, Papa. I’ll take special care of him.”
Papa. What a sweet word! “I know you will, my son.”
Sabine joined them and whispered, “Thank you,” tears of love shining in her eyes for both the boy and the man.
Marcus slipped his arms around her shoulders and pressed her close to his side, while taking Alfredo’s small hand in his.
The boy looked up at him in awe. Marcus was his hero. Life was good.
Harlow and Caitlin had made the journey for the marriage and celebration and the Duke was delighted to see his friend content at last. Henry and Harlow couldn’t apologize enough for their mistaken maligning of Sabine and proposed to spend the rest of their lives in service and fealty to her, as if they were her personal white knights.
Caitlin, although younger then Sabine, instantly became her new best friend. Caitlin had news of her own. She let slip that she was with child, and soon everyone at the reception was celebrating the new generation to come.
However, all the friends noticed how quiet and withdrawn Henry had become.
Marcus said, “It’s your turn next, Henry. I’m sure love is getting ready to turn your world upside down too.”
Henry looked pointedly at the ladies present. “It’s not love that I’m lacking.” As the ladies drifted off, the men were left to their discussion.
“I love Millicent.”
“She’s your mistress. Loyalty is not love, Henry,” Harlow argued. “Don’t confuse the two.”
“Leave him, Harlow. I know what it’s like to love a woman you think you can’t have. It’s hell on earth.” Marcus smiled understandingly at his friend. “You’ll see; you’ll find a way. It will turn out all right in the end.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.”
The men raised their glasses “To love,” said Henry.
“To love and, my friends, look at me if you ever need confirmation of the power and potential of love.” Marcus smiled sweetly across the room at his wife and son, and his chest puffed out with justifiable pride. “I’m truly the luckiest man in the world now. I’m living proof that love conquers all; that love, with time and forbearance, overcomes all wickedness.”
Henry raised his glass. “Yes. Let’s drink to the power of love.”
The End
ABOUT BRONWEN EVANS
USA Today Bestselling Author Bronwen Evans grew up loving books. She writes both historical and contemporary sexy romances for the modern woman who likes intelligent, spirited heroines, and compassionate alpha heroes.
Her debut Regency romance, Invitation to Ruin won the RomCon Readers’ Crown Best Historical 2012, and was an RT Reviewers’ Choice Nominee Best First Historical 2011. Her first self-published novella, To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield, was a FINALIST in the Kindle Book Review Indie Romance Book of the Year 201,2 and a finalist in the RomCon Readers’ Crown Best Historical 2013. Her first contemporary released December 2012, The Reluctant Wife, won the RomCon Readers’ Crown Best Category 2013.
THE CHRISTMAS KNOT
Widowed and destitute, Edwina White takes a position as governess in a remote village in the north of England—in a haunted house. She’s so desperate that she’ll take anything, and besides, she doesn’t believe in ghosts. Little does she know that her new employer is the seducer who lied and deceived her many years ago.
Sir Richard Ballister inherited an estate with a ghost and a curse, and every governess he hires leaves within a week. Finally, a woman desperate enough to stay arrives on his doorstep—but she’s the seductress who dropped him many years earlier for a richer man.
The last thing Richard and Edwina want is to work together, but they have no choice. Can they overcome the bitterness of the past in time to unravel a centuries-old knot and end the Christmas curse?
Copyright © 2014 by Barbara Monajem
CHAPTER ONE
Wanted: respectable, fearless widow to serve as governess to two children in remote Lancashire location. Spartan conditions, haunted house, fair pay. Inquire at the Duck’s Head, Rawden.
As the stagecoach neared Rawden, Edwina White withdrew the advertisement from the agony column of the Times and perused it again. Not that she needed to—she already knew it by heart.
In her mind, she put check marks against the requirements, as she’d done many times before.
Widow—yes.
Fearless–no, not precisely. Desperate was a better word for it, but desperation breeds courage, so…yes.
Respectable—almost. She’d behaved badly once, but that was nearly twelve years ago. Since then, she’d been married and widowed in the most tedious, ordinary fashion, and besides that, no one knew about her one idiotic peccadillo.
Children—of course; she was a governess. Spartan conditions–she’d been brought up in the north, so in a way this was like coming home. As for haunted houses, that was sheer nonsense. Her greatest fear was that the advertisement might be a jest.
Well, if all she encountered at the Duck’s Head was mockery, she could hire herself out to serve ale and tup the customers. Since all she had left in her reticule was a ha’penny, she wouldn’t have much choice.
The coach lumbered into the yard of the Duck’s Head. Her heart beating rather more quickly than she liked, Edwina tried to smooth her wayward hair. At the last stop, she had tied it back as tidily and severely as possible, but already a number of wisps had escaped her bonnet and refused to stay confined. Hopefully, in spite of having gone several days without bathing, she didn’t smell as unpleasant as some of the other passengers.
The guard opened the door and let down the steps, and she eased her way into the chill December wind. Shivering in her pelisse, she took stock of her surroundings while waiting for the guard to unload her valise. Late afternoon sun struggled through gathering clouds to light the village. Apart from the Duck’s Head, nothing but a church and a string of cottages lined the sides of the road. The ancient church was of Saxon vint
age, the vicarage behind it little more than a cottage itself. The Duck’s Head was a ramshackle Tudor building with age-blackened beams. All about Edwina rolled wintry-grey fields, but for a hill which loomed to the north. A bleak stone manor house lay tucked against the hill, one wall in ruins, judging by the pile of rubble and the jagged remains of the wall. There was no respectable house in sight of the sort that might need a governess. Her heart sank into her boots.
She dragged it back up, snatched the valise that held her worldly goods, and strode toward the inn door. How mortifying to have not even a penny for the guard! She held her head high and marched into the taproom.
All heads turned: a few tables with men nursing their ale, others playing draughts, and the tapster wiping tankards. The landlord, a tall fellow with a beard and a belly, lounged against the banister of a narrow staircase, chewing a straw.
He spat out the straw and came forward politely enough. “What may I do for you, missy?” As was the usual case with strangers, he took her for much younger than her actual age.
She swallowed hard. “I have come in answer to an advertisement in the Times,” she said. “For a widow to serve as governess.”
The landlord’s eyes widened. He whistled. “You’ve come to work for Sir Richard? You’re a brave woman, to come live in a haunted house.”
Sir Richard. That sounded somewhat promising. But where in God’s name did he and his family live?
“You don’t look like a widow to me,” the landlord went on. “Much too pretty, if I may say so myself.”
Edwina bit back a sharp retort; she might need this fellow’s help. Besides, although she spoke like a lady, her worn clothes proclaimed her poverty. “Nevertheless, it’s the truth. Married ten years and widowed almost two, and I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Immediately, the landlord turned serious. “You will, ma’am. You will. The Grange is cursed, it is. A lady ghost walks, guarding her treasure.”
“I see,” she said. “Since I’m not interested in treasure but merely a position as governess, I expect I shall do fine. Where, may I ask, is the Grange?”
“That’s it, ma’am.” He angled his chin in the direction of the gloomy-looking ruin. “Aye, that pile of stones. I don’t wonder that your mouth is hanging open.”
She clapped her mouth shut and opened it again. “But–”
The landlord grinned. “The rest of the house hasn’t tumbled down yet, but there’s no saying when it will, doing away with Sir Richard and his poor motherless children, and anyone else foolish enough to stay there. The curse has killed many over the centuries. Not long ago, two poor souls had to be dug out from under the rubble.”
“Good heavens,” she said involuntarily, glancing at the other inhabitants of the taproom. No one contradicted the landlord.
“Take my advice, ma’am,” the landlord said. “Turn around and go back where you came from.”
If only she could. “Thank you, but since I have traveled all the way here, I should like to see for myself before making any such decision.”
The landlord tsked, shook his head, and finally said, “Joseph! Hitch the pony to the trap and be quick about it. Looks like we’re in for more rain.”
Edwina let out a silent sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t be stranded in this inn. “It’s not far—surely I can walk there,” she protested, as one of the draughts players stood and ambled out the back.
“Sir Richard’s orders, ma’am—all the governesses must be conveyed to the Grange in proper style, as suits a lady.”
“All the governesses?”
“Aye, ma’am, five of them have come and gone in the past few months, since Sir Richard and his children arrived. That’s why he advertised in the London papers this time.” He turned to the tapster. “Ale for the lady!”
Hurriedly, Edwina put up a hand and declined. She was near perishing of thirst, but he would expect payment, which she didn’t have.
“Again, Sir Richard’s orders,” the landlord said. “If any lady had the courage to answer the London advertisement, I was to provide refreshment at his expense.” He chuckled. “You’ll need a little fortification before going to the Grange.”
Edwina controlled her annoyance, wondering once again if she was to find herself the butt of some horrid jest, but if it came with a free drink, she would put up with it. “Some small beer then, if you would be so kind.”
“Not much fortification in that,” the landlord said, but the tapster obliged, and she took a long, blissful swallow.
“Take Freddy here.” The landlord indicated a wiry, ginger-haired man. “Used to tend the gardens, until the ghost stopped him digging.”
Edwina swiveled to eye the gardener. “How could a ghost stop you? I assume you weren’t digging at night.”
Guffaws greeted this remark. Freddy reddened. “Not I, not like some others, but the ghost pays no heed to night or day.”
“Afraid someone will get her treasure, you see,” the landlord said.
Yes, Edwina had gathered that, but it was sheer nonsense, although the poor condition of the house clearly wasn’t.
“Aye, but it’s not right when a man can’t do his proper job—planting new bulbs in broad daylight, I was, when she came out of nowhere, all cold and white and screeching.” Freddy shuddered. “Never ran so fast in my life.”
Two men, who were sitting apart at a table in the corner, chuckled at this, but surprisingly no one else laughed. Edwina drained the cup of small beer just as the pony trap drew up in front of the inn, Joseph slouching at the reins. The landlord carried her valise and helped her into the trap. “Never say Samuel Teas didn’t warn you,” he said, waving as they drove away.
Edwina’s spirits sagged as they drove toward the gloomy manor house. Being destitute was worse than usual at this season. With only a few weeks left before Christmas, how could she help but long for a home filled with holiday cheer? Even if she could afford to return to relatives, she wouldn’t do so. None of them wanted her except an uncle who desired her in an entirely improper way.
She could not afford to succumb to the hopelessness that weighed on her. She pulled herself together and sat up straight. “Do you have a ghost story for me, too?” she asked Joseph, who was young, large, and bashful.
He shook his head but said seriously, “Not I, ma’am, but my brother Jemmy went to the Grange to dig for treasure after old Sir Richard died. Before young Sir Richard came, that was.”
“The Grange was empty for a while, until young Sir Richard came to take over?”
“Aye, six months or more,” Joseph said. “The lady ghost came at Jemmy, a-howling and a-screeching, and he won’t go back for love or money.” He nodded decisively. “You won’t stay long, missus. Nobody does.”
*
“Papa! Someone’s coming!”
Sir Richard Ballister glanced up from the detailed drawing of the unoccupied wing of Ballister Grange to follow the direction of his daughter Lizzie’s pointing finger. Sure enough, the pony trap approached the overgrown drive. Beside Joseph sat a woman in a drab pelisse and gown and a poke bonnet.
“Do you think it’s a governess, Papa?” Lizzie asked.
“A fearless one?” added her twin brother, John.
“Unlikely as it seems,” Sir Richard said, “I am encouraged to hope it may be. If they didn’t scare her away at the Duck’s Head, she must possess a fair measure of courage.” The last one had ordered Joseph to turn the cart around halfway between the inn and the Grange.
“She won’t stay,” John said glumly. “They never do.”
“I should really prefer it, Papa,” Lizzie said, “if we could keep one of our governesses for a while.”
They all did, but until Richard found the blasted treasure and got rid of the ghost, it wasn’t likely.
“I’ve been pondering how to manage it,” John said seriously, scratching his ear as he often did when thinking hard.
Richard’s heart twisted. He wasn’t sure whether he believed
in either the ghost or the Ballister Curse, but young John did. The boy’s conviction that his days were numbered showed in his feverish eagerness for study since Richard had inherited the baronetcy. John was a born scholar, but he seemed to have forsaken childhood in favor of cramming all the knowledge he could into his brain before the curse took him.
“I’ll bet a dose of laudanum every night would do the trick,” John said.
Lizzie opened her eyes at her brother. “What an excellent notion! If the ghostly voice doesn’t wake her, she’ll have no reason to be afraid.”
“It doesn’t occur to you that it might be somewhat unethical to drug the poor woman?” Sir Richard said.
“If it comes to that,” John said, “It may be unethical to bring her here in the first place.”
Richard’s children were far too grown up for their years—probably his fault; they hadn’t had much of a childhood since their mother’s death a few years earlier, and particularly not since they’d moved to the Grange. “Not at all. She has come of her own free will and may leave of it.”
The pony trap pulled around to the side door of the right wing, which was as far from the rubble as possible. Sir Richard set down his pencil and stood. “Lizzie, light some candles to make the place a little more welcoming, and stay here.”
He left the children, who might or might not obey him, and strode toward the side door. He’d put that atrocious advertisement in the Times after a number of useless females had come and gone. He needed someone with a stout heart who was willing to believe in ghosts but didn’t fear them. Instead they all pooh-poohed the notion that the Grange was haunted but left a few days later, babbling about voices crying at them in the dark.
