“I think,” he said slowly after a moment, “that Alice looks very much as she always did. One of a very lovely pair.” He turned back to Clarissa, who graced him with a smile that had stupefied a great many lesser men.
“How very gallant,” she murmured.
Alice felt something softening around her heart.
Their grandfather snorted. “Didn’t teach you such pretty speech in the navy.”
Gareth actually laughed. “There was nothing pretty about what I learned in the navy. In fact, had I stayed a week longer, I should have been wholly unfit company for these ladies, indeed.”
“Sold out, did you?” Sir Reginald demanded.
“I did. Several years ago.”
“Don’t suppose you made much money.”
“Actually, sir, I did quite well.”
“Did you, now? Well, that’s something. How’d you spend it?”
He hadn’t. Or at least very little. Not that he hadn’t tried, but he had been just responsible and sober enough during his first months back on land to make a series of investments that had done far better, even, than expected. He was a wealthy man. Somehow, that didn’t seem important to share. Instead, he announced, “I traveled.”
“Traveled. Hmph. To where?”
Gareth wasn’t quite sure where to begin. “Spain, Gibraltar, Morocco, Egypt.” He’d seen the great pyramids, stood in the shadow of the Sphinx. He’d shooed asps from his rooms. And thought of Alice with her sharp tongue. He’d dined with princes, discussed astronomy with learned men whose forefathers had been studying the stars while his were still living in stone huts and pounding each other with clubs. And thought of Alice, with her eyes shining in the night.
“Egypt,” Sir Reginald muttered. “Morocco. Running among the heathens and infidels. Enough to send your father spinning in his grave.”
That had only been part of the appeal, Gareth thought humorlessly. “Yes, I’m sure it would be.” He jumped when Sir Reginald slapped a bony knee.
“Daresay your grandfather would’ve been dashed proud of you,” he chortled. “A toast to adventure, boy!”
Bewildered, inexplicably gratified, Gareth lifted his glass.
One very satisfying meal and several glasses of port later, he found himself back in the drawing room. Dinner had been an unexpected pleasure. They had eaten in the small family dining room. Whether out of habit or necessity due to the piles of foodstuffs on the formal table, he didn’t know. And didn’t care in the least. There had been a cheerful fire crackling in the hearth, glinting off his grandmother’s crystal. Clarissa had prattled to the extent that Gareth could give most of his attention to the wonderful food. Alice had been quiet, thoughts clearly elsewhere, but she had responded when addressed, and smiled whenever their eyes met.
She and Clarissa had left as soon as the pudding was finished. Gareth had wanted to follow, but had instead passed the next hour with Sir Reginald plying him with port and questions about his travels. Only when the old man had eased back in his seat and commenced to snore, glass still dangling from his fist, could Gareth leave. He was more than a little disappointed to find the drawing room empty, only a discarded and, he decided, rather ugly square of half-embroidered linen to show that the ladies had sat there at all.
Well, they’d no doubt gone off to bed. Gareth supposed he could do the same. Nights in this house had always dragged endlessly. Except for those when he’d gone out one window or another. He was too old now to go climbing out a window. Beyond that, when he left again, it would be through the front door in broad daylight. He started up the stairs.
Alice was waiting for him on the landing. “Come with me,” she said and, not waiting to see if he followed, walked quickly down the hallway.
“Where—”
“Shh. You’ll see.”
Intrigued, a little drunk, he followed her, through a doorway, up another flight of stairs, and into a windowless chamber. Now he knew where they were headed. The ladder was in place, the trapdoor open to the night. Alice went first. Gareth managed not to look up her skirts. Within moments, they were on the roof.
His telescope was waiting for him.
“I found it in the attics last month,” Alice said as he circled the thing, running his hands reverently over the shiny brass. “I had it cleaned and brought up here while you and Grandfather were having your port.”
Gareth could only nod his thanks. This collection of metal and glass had been his first unshakable dream, his first love. When his father had refused to purchase it for him, he had saved the money himself. His pitiful allowance, the odd gift from his grandmother. It had taken him a year. The day before his fifteenth birthday, he’d commandeered the coach to take him to Dublin to collect his prize. His father had walloped him soundly on his return, but he’d had his telescope. As an adult, he had often thought that the hours he’d spent here on the roof, looking at the heavens, had saved him somehow.
His father had loathed the telescope, scorned the time Gareth spent with it, calling his son a stargazer as if it were a shameful thing to be. Had the earl been fit enough to climb to the roof, he would certainly have pitched the thing over the side. He’d ordered it destroyed more than once, but the staff had protected the telescope, protected Gareth.
He bent now, pressed his eye to the eyepiece. Tightened one knob, loosened another. And there, suddenly, was Ursa Minor, Polaris shining brilliantly. He heard himself laugh aloud and felt a small, quick squeeze at his shoulder, gone in an instant.
He had forgotten Alice was there. He stepped away from the telescope, grinning like an idiot, giddy. “Go on,” he urged. “Have a look. Tell me what you see.”
“Heaven,” he heard her whisper, almost before peering through the lens. When she straightened, smiling, eyes luminous, Gareth couldn’t help himself. He swept her off her feet and into a tight circle. She was soft, pliant in his arms, her laughter musical.
Gareth stopped. But he didn’t put her down. She braced her hands against his chest. But she didn’t push. Her face was nearly level with his, elfin and lovely in the starlight.
“Alice . . .”
There was the distinct thump of a door below them, followed by the crunch of gravel beneath hurrying feet. Suddenly Alice was pushing against him. With nothing to do but set her down, Gareth did. She promptly rushed to the edge of the roof and peered over.
“Oh, dear.”
He could hear her sigh from ten feet away. He joined her and looked down. He had a very clear view of Sir Reginald Ashe scurrying away from the house, gun case clasped tightly to his chest.
“Grandfather!”
Sir Reginald stopped as if he’d been shot. Then he turned slowly, glanced up. “Alice? What on earth are you doing up there?”
“Coming down, as it happens. I’ll let you back in the front door.”
“Now, Alice—”
“I’m on my way.”
Grumbling audibly, shoulders slumped, Sir Reginald turned and trudged back toward the house. Alice sighed again, briefly met Gareth’s eyes. “Well, that was perhaps a disaster averted,” she said quietly. Then she slipped past him and disappeared down the ladder.
He wasn’t quite quick enough to quash the fervent wish that she’d been speaking only of the thwarted duel.
5
Asennight later, Alice glanced over the last of the gift baskets and wondered if she had the energy left to deliver them. She had been determined to make this Christmas as traditional and merry as possible. With the baby arriving, she wanted everything to be just right. Side by side with Kilcullen’s staff, she had polished, washed, and scrubbed. She’d spent the morning on hands and knees, cleaning every claw foot on the dining room’s claw-footed chairs with sand. Ordinarily that would have been a maid’s duty, but as the entire staff was already stretched to its limits and it was a task Alice’s mother had performed herself, Alice had hunkered down and gotten to it.
Seated now, with a steaming cup of tea in front of her, she was stiff
, exhausted, and very slightly overwhelmed. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. The rest of the baskets had to be delivered today, and there was a join tonight. Most of the neighborhood would be gathered in the one inn’s banquet and ballroom for a night of drinking, singing, and storytelling. As much as Alice loved Kilcullen, land and town and people, she would have preferred to go to bed. Now. But someone from the great house had to attend. Clarissa was unable. Their grandfather had been secretive for several days; Alice was determined to keep an eye on him. And she wouldn’t ask it of Gareth. Even if she had any idea where he was.
Gareth had been scarce every afternoon all week. Scarce all day, to be honest. He slept late, breakfasted in his room, then disappeared in the direction of the stables. Occasionally Alice would look up from her work or a game of cards with Clarissa to see him riding past the house, coat flapping behind him. He appeared for several luncheons, was always home for dinner, and was invariably charming to Clarissa. He teased her, amused her, read Byron aloud to her with goodwill and appropriate flourish. He took his port with their grandfather. He rearranged Christmas decorations when asked, and met Alice’s polite conversation with equally polite responses.
He was pleasant, charming even, and the uncertainty of it all was driving her to distraction.
In those few minutes on the roof, Alice had felt the years fall away. She hadn’t seen so much as a flash of joy in Gareth since he’d come home. But she’d seen the joy then, a flash bright enough to warm her. To make her want to set him free—and hold him very, very close. In fact, she’d been on the verge of throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him until they were both breathless.
If she closed her eyes and concentrated very hard, she could actually feel the pressure of his lips on hers all those years ago. She could feel the heat emanating from him, smell the faint aroma of soap and leather that clung to his skin and clothes.
She had been closing her eyes altogether too much lately.
It wouldn’t work. It would never have worked. She was content, happy even, with her quiet life in Kildare. Her childhood, even before her parents were gone, had been too full of travel and upheaval. She’d had to adapt one too many times. Gareth craved change and adventure. Needed it. Even if, as she’d wished so fervently after he left . . . Even if, and it didn’t really merit a fleeting thought, they had somehow found a way to come together, it wouldn’t have worked. One of them would have been miserable.
No, she thought, much better this way. Whatever happened with the title, Gareth wouldn’t be home much, perhaps not at all. He’d been half gone as soon as he walked through the door. The morning after their time on the roof, Alice had walked by his chamber while the maids were tidying. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but it had been impossible to miss the leather valise propped beneath the window. It was empty, but it was there, rather than being stored away with the rest of his things. Ready to be packed at a moment’s notice. Whether in a day or fortnight or six months, Gareth would leave.
It was so much easier, safer this way. Calmer. The problem, of course, was that try as she might to deny it, she was on the edge of the storm. One more hour—one more minute, even—with Gareth as he’d been that night and she was in danger of falling every bit as much in love with him as she’d been eight years before.
Gareth leaned companionably on the fence next to Tommy Sullivan. He had been riding past when he spied the young farmer walking through his pasture among his sheep. Sullivan waved and Gareth had decided to stop. Within minutes, they were discussing sheep, Tommy with enthusiasm, Gareth with a combination of horror and amazement that he had anything at all to contribute. But he’d spent enough time in Greece among their never-ending sheep, enough time in tavernas with the friendly locals, to have learned more than he’d ever wanted to know. Language, it seemed, had not been an impediment. He found himself thoroughly conversant in ewe.
Without being aware of it, he had apparently become knowledgeable on the subjects of drainage, stone walls, and orchard maintenance as well. Over the past week, he’d discussed those subjects at length with several of the estate’s other tenants. He had even made a handful of suggestions that were met with consideration and approval. Of course no one had wanted to talk about camels, but he was forced to admit to himself that he could have conversed about them, too.
“You’ve a grand stretch of land far side of the forest,” Tommy was saying now. “Good for a large flock. And sheep are good for the land.”
Gareth wanted to disagree, out of sheer perversity. He couldn’t. Sheep were good for the land, controlling the vegetation and fertilizing the earth. Their wool was a profitable commodity, the shearing and spinning and weaving employment for the people. And while Gareth was not a lover of either mutton or lamb, a good part of Ireland was.
“Sheep,” he muttered, and Sullivan, as if reading his mind, chuckled.
“Think, sir. You might have been born to land that favors pigs. Now, will you come in for a drink?”
Sullivan’s pretty wife served them a pitcher of ale with plates of hearty brown bread and sharp cheese. Nearby, the couple’s twin boys sat sturdily on a brightly colored quilt, tugging at the ears of an old hound. The dog’s tail thumped rhythmically against the floor; its tongue darted out occasionally to lick a plump fist.
Sullivan followed Gareth’s indulgent gaze. “ ’Tis a good life I have here.”
Yes, Gareth thought it might be. The work was hard and unending, but there was a reward at the end of the day, support and assistance when it was needed. Kilcullen’s tenants looked out for each other. They always had. The earls had more or less looked out for the tenants. That was their duty, one that no doubt could have been performed better. Schooling for the children, Gareth thought. Surplus grains stored away on the earl’s grounds, at the earl’s expense, should a harvest be poor or a winter unusually hard. Funds for young men to marry, to study a trade when there were already enough brothers working the land, to join the army. If these were his decisions to make . . .
He halted that train of thought, drained his mug. “Thank you both for the hospitality. I have enjoyed myself.”
“I’m glad.” Sullivan rose with him. “You’re welcome anytime. Will you thank Lady Kilcullen, sir, for the basket. Miss Ashe delivered it yesterday and ’twas a treat to see. Mary’s already opened the cheese and the boys are halfway through the pudding.”
“I’ll be sure to tell . . . her ladyship.” He didn’t think he would be mentioning it to Clarissa. She would only yawn and roll her eyes. Alice would be glad to hear that her gift was appreciated.
Alice. As he swung onto Cinn and rode from Sullivan’s yard, Gareth tried to decide, for the thousandth time in only seven days, what he was going to do about Alice. It might have been all the damned mistletoe about, or how she looked in the moonlight. Or the fact that it had been a long time since he’d held a woman. Whatever it was, he was spending far too much time thinking about kissing her. Thinking about how soft and warm and right she’d felt in his arms.
But women like Alice weren’t for kissing and leaving. Bad enough that he’d already done that once. He wouldn’t do it again. Women like Alice were for marrying, for coming home to and cuddling in front of the fire.
Gareth supposed he would have to marry eventually. Certainly if he ended up with the title. But he knew he needed a woman who wouldn’t tug on his conscience too much. Alice did. She poked at his calm and his conviction when they were together and haunted him when they were apart.
He had stayed away from her as much as possible, out of the house during the day and trying to keep a stretch of carpet or expanse of table between them when in the house. Some vague sense of duty—and Cook’s marvelous food—had him coming home for meals. Then, he often felt compelled to spend the odd hour with Clarissa. She was confined to bed and sofa now, clearly uncomfortable and, wholly unlike her, taking pains to hide it. Perhaps, he thought, motherhood would be the thing to coax her out of her very extended childhood.
&nbs
p; He was on his way back now. He would stay until late afternoon. Then he would head out again, to Kilcullen village and the pub. He had discovered, more or less by accident, that the place filled as the day waned. Men would arrive: farmers, bakers, even the local solicitor and physician, lifting pints and spinning tales. On the first late afternoon Gareth had been there, he had stayed at his table in the corner, not wanting to intrude on their familiar camaraderie. But first one man, then another and another, had toasted him. It had seemed rude not to buy a round. And soon he’d been in the middle of the throng, chatting with men he’d known as a boy and with their sons, who had been boys themselves then.
Now he looked forward to his hour in the warm, smoky room. If he did receive more deference than he probably deserved, it was balanced with humor and the odd piece of advice. And as gratefully as the gathering accepted his rounds of drinks, there was always someone purchasing the next pint and pressing it into his hand. As it happened, he was drinking far less than he was used to, sipping each pint slowly so his companions would have less to pay for.
Several days ago old Manus Phelan had brought in his fiddle. Since then, he’d been joined by his son Padraig on the flute and Donal Clancy on the bodhran drum. The music was lively, provincial, and Gareth was very much hoping to have more of it today.
Whistling a lilting reel, he guided Cinn down a rocky hillock toward the stream. He’d been riding the horse long, if not hard lately, covering miles each day. Cinn wasn’t so young anymore and seemed to appreciate a few minutes with his feet and muzzle in the cold water.
Apparently someone else had the same idea. Several children, shabbily if warmly dressed, were watering a pony in the stream. Across the way, Gareth could see the brightly colored caravan of a traveler family. The children glanced up as Cinn waded into the stream, eyed Gareth with wary but not unfriendly eyes.
Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030) Page 11
