"I'm old enough to be your wife," she retorted.
He edged toward the shadowed end of the room, trying desperately to keep his defenses from crumbling. "I never wanted a wife."
"But you have one," she said softly. "Why do you run from me, James? I know I'm not clever, but I love you. Is it so unthinkable that we be truly married?"
"Love?" he said, unable to suppress his bitterness. "How could a beautiful girl like you possibly love a man like me?"
His words acted like a spark on tinder. "How dare you!" she said furiously, looking like a spun sugar angel on the verge of explosion. "Because men think me beautiful, do you think I have no heart? Do you think I am so superficial, so blinded by my own reflection in the mirror, that I cannot see your strength and kindness and wit? You insult me, my lord."
Helplessly he said, "I meant no insult, Ariel, but how can you love a man whose face you have never seen?"
Her blues eyes narrowed. "If I were blind and could see nothing, would you think me incapable of love?"
"Of course not, but this is different."
"It's not different!" Her voice softened. "I fell in love with you because of your words and deeds, James. Compared to them, appearance is of no great importance."
When the black folds of his robe quivered she knew that he was deeply affected, but not yet convinced. She knelt by the tree and pulled out the portfolio of drawings she'd brought for him. "If you want to know how I see you, look at these."
Hesitantly he took the portfolio and laid it on a table.
Ariel stood next to him as he paged through the loose drawings. If any of her work had magic, it was this, for the drawings came straight from her heart and soul, The images made up a modern Beauty and the Beast and showed exactly how she had seen her husband, from her first glimpse of him at Gardsley to the present. Under each picture she had written a few spare words to carry the story.
James was the focus of every picture, forceful, mysterious, larger than life. Though his face was never shown, he was so compelling that the eye could not look elsewhere. He was the enigmatic Black Beast of Belleterre, his dark robes billowing about him like thunderclouds. He was the compassionate, patient Lord Falconer, caring for everyone and everything around him. And he was James, surrounded by adoring birds and beasts, for every creature who knew him could not help but love him.
Then he sent Ariel away. The last drawing showed him lying in the Belleterre woods on the point of death, his powerful body drained of strength and his great heart broken. Ariel wept beside him, her pale hair falling about them like a mourning veil. The legend below read, "I heard your voice on the wind."
He turned to the last sheet and found a blank page. "How does the story end?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"I don't know," she whispered. ''The ending hasn't been written yet. The only thing I know is that I love you."
He spun away, his swift steps taking him into the shadows at the far end of the room. There he stood motionless for an endless interval, his rigid back to Ariel, before he turned to face her. "I was ugly even as a child. My mother used to say what a pity it was that I took after my maternal grandfather. But that was normal ugliness and would not have mattered greatly. What you will see now is a result of what happened when I was eight."
She heard his ragged inhalation, saw the tremor in his hands as he raised them to his hood, then slowly pulled the folds of fabric down to his shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw that he was entirely bald. That explained why she'd had the fleeting impression of a skull when she'd glimpsed him in the library.
Yet the effect, though startling, was not unattractive, for his head was well shaped and he had dark, well-defined brows and lashes. He might have modeled for an Asiatic warlord in a painting by one of the great Romantic artists.
Voice taut, he continued, "My mother was taking me to Eton for my first term, and we spent the night at Falconer House in London. That night there was a gas explosion in her bedroom. I woke and tried to help her, but she was already dead."
He raised his damaged left hand so Ariel could see it clearly. "This happened when I pulled her body from the burning room. The smaller scars on my scalp and neck were made by hot embers that fell on me." He touched his bare head. "Afterward I was struck with brain fever and was delirious for weeks. They thought I would die. Obviously I didn't, but my hair fell out and never grew back. I was never sent to school, either. It was considered 'unsuitable.' Instead my father installed me at a minor estate in the Midlands so he wouldn't have to see or think about me."
James closed his eyes for a moment, his expression stark. "Can you be as accepting in the particular as you were in the abstract?"
Ariel walked toward him, and for the first time their gazes met. His eyes were a deep, haunted gray-green, capable of seeing things most men never dreamed of. Coming to a stop directly in front of him, she said honestly, "You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
His mouth twisted. "And the rest of me? My father refused to look at me, my tutor often told me how lucky I was to have my hideousness visible rather than concealing it as most men do."
She smiled and shook her head. "You're a fraud, my love. I'm almost disappointed. I'd expected much worse."
His expression shuttered. "Surely you're not going to lie and call me handsome."
"No, you're not handsome." She raised her hands and skimmed her artist's fingers over the planes of his face, feeling the subtle irregularity of long-healed scars, the masculine prickle of end-of-the day whiskers.
"You have strong, craggy bones. Too strong for the face of a child. Even without the effects of fire and fever, it would have taken years to grow into these features. Did you ever see a picture of Mr. Lincoln, the American president who was shot a few years ago? He had a similar sort of face. No one would ever call it handsome, but he was greatly loved and deeply mourned."
"As I recall, the gentleman did have a good head of hair," James said wryly.
Ariel shrugged. "A bald child would be startling, almost shocking. Yet now that you are a man, the effect is not unpleasant. Rather dramatic and interesting, actually."
She stood on her tiptoes and slid her arms around his neck, then pressed her cheek to his. As tension sizzled between them, she murmured, "Now that you have nothing to hide, will you promise not to send me away again? For I love you so much that I don't think I could survive another separation."
His arms came around her with crushing force. She was slim but strong, and so beautiful that he could scarcely bear it. "Unlike the Beast in your story, I can't turn into a handsome prince," he said intensely, "but I loved you from the first moment I saw you, wife of my heart, and I swear I will never stop loving you."
Her laughter rang like silver bells. ''To be honest, in both the books Mr. Howard sent me, the handsome prince at the end was quite insipid. Your face has character. It has been molded by suffering and compassion and will never be boring." She tilted her head back, her shining gilt hair spilling over his wrists. Suddenly shy, she said, "Did you notice what's above your head?"
He glanced up and saw mistletoe affixed to the chandelier, then looked back at her yearning face. Curbing his fierce hunger so that he wouldn't overwhelm her, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers. It was a kiss of sweetness and wonder, a promise of things to come. His heart beat with such force that he wondered if he could survive such happiness.
Instinct made him end the kiss, for they risked being consumed by the flames of their own emotions. Far better to go slowly, to savor every moment of the miracle they had been granted.
Understanding without words, Ariel said breathlessly, "It's time we changed for dinner, for it's going to take some time to decorate the tree. I brought some lovely ornaments from London. I hope you'll like them."
He kissed her hands, then released her. "I'll adore them."
Christmas Eve became a magical courtship. He discarded his robe. Then they dined close enough to touch knees and fingers rather
than being separated by a dozen feet of polished mahogany. Laughing and talking, they turned the tree into a shining, candlelit fantasy. And the whole time, they were spinning a web of pure enchantment between them. Every brush of their fingertips, every shy glance, every shared laugh at the antics of Cerberus and Tripod, intensified their mutual desire.
When they went upstairs, he hesitated at her door, still not quite able to believe. Wordlessly she drew him into her room and went into his arms. As they kissed, he discovered an unexpected aptitude for freeing her from her complicated evening gown.
Her slim, curving body was perfect, as he had known it would be. With lips and tongue and hands, he worshiped her, as enraptured by her response as by the feel of her silken skin under his mouth. She was light and sweetness, the essence of woman that all men craved, yet at the same time uniquely Ariel.
She gave herself to him with absolute trust, and the gift healed the dark places inside of him. He could actually feel blackness crumbling until his heart was free of a lifetime of hurt and loneliness. Such vulnerability should have terrified him, but her trust called forth equal trust from him. Already he could scarcely remember the haunted man who had been unable to believe in love.
In return for her trust, he gave her passion, using all of his skill, all of his sensitivity, all of his tenderness. Their bodies came together as if they were two halves of the same whole that had finally been joined, and when she cried out in joyous wonder, it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.
After passion had been satisfied for the first time, they lay tranquil in each other's arms. He had never known such rapture, or such humility.
In the distance, church bells began to toll. "Midnight," he murmured. ''The parish church rings the changes to celebrate the beginning of Christmas Day."
Ariel stretched luxuriously, then settled against him again. "Christmas. A time of miracles and new beginnings. What could be more appropriate?"
"Indeed." He brushed his fingers through her hair, marveling at the spun-silk texture. "I'm sorry, my love. I didn't get you a present."
She laughed softly. "You gave me yourself, James. What greater gift could I possibly want?"
Potato Kale Soup Recipe
This is my version of a Portuguese peasant soup that I often make in the winter. It's robust and full of flavor.
This makes a very large batch—at least 16 servings, and requires a very large pot. You may prefer to halve ingredients. It helps to have a food processor for chopping the onions and garlic, and slicing the potatoes. Saves a lot of time.
1 pound (or more) hot Italian sausage, either bulk or squeezed from casings, browned, and drained. (Chorizo sausage can be used if you prefer—it's more authentically Portuguese, but I like the bite of the Italian sausage.)
2 large onions, chopped
12 cloves of garlic, peeled and mashed
2 T. olive oil
3 to 4 quarts chicken stock
4 pounds of potatoes, sliced. (If you use young, thin-skinned potatoes like Yukon Gold, they don't need to be peeled. If old and tough, peel them.)
1 to 1 1/2 pounds of kale, approximately, washed, cleaned, and shredded. (Collard or mustard greens can be used, I'm told.) Or—use a one lb. package of loose leaf frozen kale, or two 10 oz packages of frozen chopped kale. Thaw, drain, and mix in. Almost as good, and a lot less work.
Salt and pepper to taste (For this quantity, I use about a tablespoon of salt and a half teaspoon of freshly ground pepper.)
Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil until translucent, 5 to 10 minutes.
Place all ingredients except the kale in a large soup pot, bring to a boil, then simmer until potatoes are tender and have started to break down. If you're using fresh kale, you can use the simmering time to wash the kale, strip out the tough stems, and send it through the slicer on the food processor.
When potatoes are tender and crumbling a bit, stir the chopped kale in and simmer for about 5 minutes more. Adjust seasoning and serve. Tastes good with corn bread, which is the traditional Portuguese way, but is also great with whole grain bread. Freezes well. Enjoy!
Introduction to The Kissing Bough
Patricia Rice
The Kissing Bough first appeared in A REGENCY CHRISTMAS in 1989. At the time, I was mostly writing American westerns with my characters making an occasional sailing stop in London. Due to my fascination with English literature and my need to know more about the historical events in the books I was reading, I'd been studying English history for years. The thought of having one of my stories appear in an anthology with Mary Balogh and the late, great Edith Layton inspired my imagination.
I happily dug into obscure pamphlets on English Christmas traditions to research my story, but to my dismay, Christmas as we know it now was more Victorian than Regency. My soldier heroes wouldn't be coming home to huge fir trees adorned with hand-made ornaments. But kissing boughs are steeped deep in medieval English tradition, when a small tree top was hung at the entrance as a symbol of the holy trinity. The practice became more elaborate over time—and thus Diana could decorate the drawing room with greenery to her heart's content. And even with his one good arm, Jonathan could match her love and determination by hauling in the Yule log.
I hope my first Regency story inspires a lovely green Christmas of your own!
Patricia Rice
The Kissing Bough
By
Patricia Rice
Diana Carrington balanced a fragrant bundle of evergreen roping in one hand and precariously clung to the ladder with the other. Holding her breath, she lifted one kid slipper from the second rung to the third.
She had seen her father do this for years, and it had always seemed so simple. She just needed a little practice. Only it seemed such a long way down.
"Mama won't approve," her sister Elizabeth announced the instant she entered the drawing room.
Diana leaned toward the chandelier and swung the end of the greenery in what would have been a graceful arc had their father done it. The evergreen branches caught in the full sleeve of her black mourning gown and the whole loop tumbled. She shoved a disheveled brown curl out of her face and sighed in exasperation at the tangle.
Diana glanced down at Elizabeth's neat golden curls and sighed even louder.
Even in the black of deep mourning, Elizabeth's sunny coloring brightened the shadowed room. Diana felt like a crow despite the violet satin ribbons trimming her modishly cut black velvet. Black was simply not her color—or a Christmas color.
With another abrupt tug at the recalcitrant greenery, she almost succeeded in making the second loop match the first. "I am determined to make this a happy holiday. Papa would have wanted it," she said, as much for herself as Elizabeth.
"Papa would have wanted what?" The harried voice drifting in from the hall became a gasp of horror as Mrs. Carrington entered to see her eldest daughter swinging precariously near the crystal chandelier. "Diana, get down from there at once. I vow, I should think the twins nuisance enough without you adding to their deviltry. Elizabeth, fetch Goudge and have him bring down this nonsense at once!"
"No, Mama." Diana set her lips in a manner that she knew resembled her late father's stubborn expression. "Papa would have wanted to have the kissing bough just like every other Christmas. It's a tradition, and he wouldn't want us to break tradition."
"Diana, we're in mourning. Such decorations are inappropriate," Georgina Carrington remonstrated without conviction, reaching for her handkerchief to hide the tears.
Diana finished securing the garland without looking down at her mother's matronly figure. She wanted to cry herself, not just for the loss of her father but for all the heart-breaking losses of her twenty-two years. She had drowned her pillow with tears too many nights to count, and they had never made the pain go away. What she needed now was happiness and light, and she was determined to have it even if she must go against her mother's wishes.
"And what if Charles is allowed to come home? Do
you want his first Christmas home in four years to be without candles and greenery? After all this time at war, should he be greeted with gloom?" Diana asked with the independence she'd learned these last months while her mother grieved.
At this mention of her eldest child, Mrs. Carrington surrendered the argument. "Don't raise your hopes, either of you," she warned. "And don't mention it to the boys. We don't know for certain that Charles can come home. It's been two months since he sent the letter, and he hasn't come yet. Maybe there is some difficulty in selling out his commission, and he hasn't wanted to worry us."
Or maybe he'd had the ill fortune to be wounded or killed after writing he was coming home, but Diane did not say the words they were all thinking. They had suffered one loss already these last months. To bear another would be too cruel a fate.
"He'll be here for Christmas if he can. Charles always loved Christmas. And who would carry in the yule log if he didn't come?" Elizabeth asked defiantly.
The ten-year-old twins burst into the room trailing the cold, fresh scent of the outdoors and carrying a basket of apples from the cold cellar. Oblivious to the solemn atmosphere in the dim drawing room, they bounced excitedly beneath the ladder, both talking at once.
"It's snowing, Di! Can we go sleigh riding?"
"Here's the apples, Di. Can I hang one, can I, Di, please?''
Mrs. Carrington closed her eyes and shuddered while Diana backed down the shaky ladder.
"We can't hang the apples until we tie on ribbons. Freddie, go ask Goudge what Father used to hang them. Frank, you need to fetch a box of candles. We can't go sleigh riding until there's enough snow for runners."
Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter Page 15
