Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2)

by Collette Cameron

  Two whole hours.

  He rubbed the seat of his coat.

  For one bloody spoon. Even God wouldnae have had the patience that he’d had with Mrs. Douglas this morning.

  Water trickled into his gloves.

  For the love of Heaven. Just how much snow was he carrying in on his arse?

  Splat.

  He really didnae care to look back, as whatever amount of thawing ice was now melting on the floor behind him, it was sure to be making a mess. And he kent all too well what that would cost him as Edgar was a stickler for keeping the Abbey primed to perfection, especially its wood plank floors.

  Damn me now.

  Niall shook his head, attempted to squash his rising agitation before it caused his blood to boil. If nothing else, this morning’s task had completed his promise to Robert. Save of course for the matter of delivering the lad’s inheritance to Rose Cottage. Wherever the hell that house and its Wolf Lane might be. Grandfather’s ledgers were a mess at best, and that was only after he’d found the missing pages. He couldnae even begin to imagine how much money the man really had considering how careless he’d been with it.

  Across the room, heat escaped the hearth’s fire.

  Reveling in the house’s warmth, Niall divested himself of his snow-drenched greatcoat and draped it over a nearby chair. He then flopped down on the settee and covered his eyes with his hand. He was definitely going to need a change of clothes before venturing out again.

  The squeak of turning wheels, as well as the clank of china vibrating against silver, disturbed the room’s quiet air.

  Food.

  And Edgar.

  He swore the man must have either the nose of a bloodhound or the ears of an owl based on his impeccable timing. Though Niall wasnae certain he cared to eat at the moment. He could barely move a muscle after battling all that snow.

  “Ye really should take better care of yerself, sir,” Edgar said.

  Niall dropped his hand from his eyes and sat up. He glanced at the floor, a wet spot fanning out on the Aubusson carpet under his boots. Wasnae the floor’s wood, sacrifice enough? The gods of old obviously had it in for him this morning.

  A whiff of ham teased his nose. “Yer lovely Grace is too good to me, Edgar.” He rose from the settee, his still-chilled bones aching in protest.

  “I will make certain to tell her ye said so, sir.” Edgar proceeded to remove the silver trays from the cart and place them on the table. “I know ye dunnae fancy taking yer breakfast at the card table, but after seeing the wet trail ye left—all the way from the side door—I didnae think ye would be concerned with formality this morning.”

  The butler’s mild show of annoyance almost made Niall want to bite out that it was he who owned the Abbey and nae the other way around, but then thought better of it. “Please also inform Grace that I willnae be requiring a midday meal.”

  Edgar straightened, the lid to one of the silver trays still grasped in his hand. “For the sake of Saint Andrew’s soul, please tell me ye are not intendin’ to go back out there today.”

  “I am.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I must.”

  “I doubt yer cold arse would agree. Sir.”

  “It doesnae, but...” He stopped and quirked an eyebrow at the man. While he should be angered at the butler’s bold choice of words, he and Edgar had never had the typical servant and laird relationship. “And how, Edgar, do ye know about my cold arse?”

  The butler put down the tray lid. “Me Grace insisted I keep an eye on ye. Of course if ye would have confided in me first, before ye went out in the dark, I could have told ye that Mrs. Douglas takes her tea at the front window every morning. And that she is as slow as a sloth at drinking it, too.”

  “And how do ye know what Mrs. Douglas does every morning?”

  “My Grace takes her tea at our bedroom window every morning. It has a clear view of Mrs. Douglas’s house.”

  For the love of God. And here he thought he was laird of a first-rate manor, nae laird of a house of spies. “Well, regardless of what I did and didnae do this morning, I am still going out after I finish my meal. Alone.”

  “Grace willnae be pleased.”

  No. He imagined she wouldn’t be. “Tell her nae to fash herself. I am only going into town and then I will be back.”

  Edgar fiddled with the items still on the meal cart. “Venturing out in the midst of a brewing storm, never does a soul good.”

  He glanced at the window. “It stopped snowing almost thirty minutes ago.”

  “’Tis a ploy.”

  Turning back, Niall reached his knife for the butter and slathered a good portion over the hot biscuit on his plate. “I wasnae aware ye were so well-schooled in the weather, Edgar.”

  “’Tis my Grace’s warning, sir, nae mine.”

  “Well, tell Grace I willnae succumb to a bit of harmless snow.” He paused and considered that damn snowbank he’d endured this morning. He kent nothing about Rose Cottage or its owner. What if delivering Robbie’s inheritance, along with the letter he’d discovered the lad had written, turned out to be more of a problem than had been Mrs. Douglas’s bloody spoon?

  “Mayhap ye should read Mr. Robert’s letter before ye go off searching for Rose Cottage, sir.”

  “I see ye’ve kept a verra good eye on me, Edgar. Perhaps a wee too good?”

  “Och, sir. ‘Tis for yer own wellbeing. And ye ken it.”

  How was it his butler made more sense than he? “I will nae read Robbie’s private thoughts. I dunnae have a right to.”

  “Ye are a good man, sir. Even if a tad daft.”

  Yes, he was daft, but with Robbie dead, the lad couldnae defend whatever the bloody hell he’d written in that letter. And Niall had no desire to get his emotions riled up because of it. He was better off not knowing the note’s content.

  Putting down his knife, Niall glanced up at Edgar. “However, in the event I do get caught in a storm, dunnae come looking for me unless I fail to return by tomorrow evening.”

  “Are ye certain of that?”

  He prayed he was, as he couldnae imagine settling up Robbie’s final affairs would take more than a day. “Aye. And ye may even fetch Lord Lycansay at the time. For if the weather does get the best of me, ye ken what to do with the Murray situation. And Lycansay needs to be a part of that as he was a witness to Mother’s last words.”

  Edgar nodded, but said nothing as he placed the teapot on the table and then wheeled the cart off to the side of the room and left.

  Niall leaned back in his chair. The sudden realization that this would be the first Christmas he’d truly be alone, slowly settled into his brain. And while the holiday had never been a huge celebration at Dundaire Abbey, Mother never failed to make the house a cheerful place this time of year. She especially loved weaving the boughs of greenery into beautiful garland which then adorned the hearth mantles throughout the Abbey.

  The thought of having no one to share that with this year socked Niall in the gut stronger than had any punch he’d ever taken from Robbie in the ring.

  God, but he missed the lad. Even the worry he’d caused him as he’d give anything to have Robbie back. But Fate didnae work that way.

  He pushed back his chair and then stood, his stomach no longer having an appetite. Finding Rose Cottage was a must. And not only so he could fulfill his promise to Robert, but because he needed a distraction to make him forget the loneliness he was suffering.

  Grabbing his still wet coat from the nearby chair, Niall headed out of the drawing room. Grace may think she knew all about the weather, but he put more trust in what he saw with his own eyes. And last he’d checked, there wasnae a snowflake in sight.

  He hesitated at the stairs, torn between going up to his rooms and changing clothes, or riding out, taking his chances that the air would dry him off. He really didnae care to waste more time, especially with the shortened amount of daylight he was facing.

  Aw, bloody hell. W
et clothes werenae going to kill him.

  He turned away from the stairs and proceeded down the corridor.

  At the back door, he slid on his greatcoat, grabbed a dry scarf from the rack in the corner to wrap around his neck and face—just in case Grace was right about the bloody weather—and then plucked the wolf-headed hunting whip he favored, off the nearby shelf.

  A whiff of simmering pear teased his nose. One didn’t know heaven until they’d sampled a slice of Grace’s pear tart and after the morning he’d had, Rose Cottage wasnae going to keep him from getting a piece of that delectable dessert. He’d be back in no time. And just to ensure his speed, rather than ride out on his own stallion, Waterking, he was going to take Mischief, Robbie’s favorite horse. After all, it seemed only fitting he take the horse that more than likely had been Robbie’s companion on his trips to Rose Cottage. Maybe Mischief would even bring him luck in finding the dratted little place.

  He slipped out the door and glanced up. Warmth greeted his face, the shining sun forcing his eyes to squint.

  Brewing storm my arse.

  Chapter 2

  Rose Cottage

  One hour later…

  The aroma of herb-basted chicken forced Catrina into the kitchen and to snatch a slice of carrot from the chopped vegetables heaped on the table. Even with limited stock, Mrs. Ramsay never failed to cook up a meal that bewitched one’s taste buds.

  A slight groan rose from the floor.

  Cat glanced down. Three sharp prongs protruding out from under the table—and coming quite close to her right boot toe—greeted her gaze. “Forgive me, Mrs. Ramsay, but I do not believe pitchforks used for shoveling stables aid in making chicken soup. In the least they do not belong in the kitchen.”

  “Och, child, of course the soiled things dunnae belong in the kitchen. But this one is clean. And I am nae using it to cook.”

  That much, she’d gathered. “May I enquire as to why you have a pitchfork in the kitchen?” She offered her hand to Mrs. Ramsay.

  With a slight struggle, the woman accepted Catrina’s help, then rolled out from under the table and stood, her chubby cheeks, flushed.

  “Are you all right?” Cat asked.

  “Aye,” Mrs. Ramsay answered, brushing her free palm down the front of her apron.

  Cat had to admit, overall, her treasured cook did appear no worse for the ordeal. Save, of course, for a few strands of her copper curls which were acting like mutinous pirates escaping the confines of their white cotton cap.

  Looking up, Mrs. Ramsay gave Catrina a concerned stare. “I was preparing meself for when ye go out, in case The Christmas Rebel shows up to rob us. I take pride in the fact I can defend this house and our wee bairn.”

  She was certain the cook did. “I appreciate your efforts, Mrs. Ramsay, truly I do. But Rose Cottage is not exactly a house that eludes to riches stored inside.”

  “We do have yer mother’s silver teapot.”

  So they had, but only because no one else in the family wanted the old scrap of silver. “I highly doubt The Christmas Rebel will be coming out in this weather, let alone hike all the way up Wolf Lane for a teapot with a severed spout. We’re lucky the postman knows we exist.”

  Mrs. Ramsay bit her bottom lip, appeared to be thinking over the situation, though not the pitchfork. That darn thing remained firmly in her hand. “I just wish they’d catch the bloody bastard. He has me and all the other women in town unable to sleep.”

  “Well, I don’t want you worrying about the man today. It’s Christmas Eve and I have every intention of making sure our little home is secure.”

  “I must admit, Cat, I dunnae like ye going out there on those lonely roads pretending to be a highwayman to hunt down the real thief.”

  She didn’t care for it either, but with The Christmas Rebel being so secretive, especially this year when he had not yet even started his seasonal thieving, she had no choice but to go out and stalk all the places the brute had been known to have visited in the past. One way or the other, she was going to find the man who was responsible for Moira’s death. And then make sure he paid for his sinful act. “I won’t be gone long.”

  Mrs. Ramsay frowned. “I trust ye, child, but if ye wouldnae mind, I would verra much like to keep the pitchfork within reach.”

  “Of course.” A calm Mrs. Ramsay would benefit them all, especially Little Fergus who was sleeping upstairs in the nursery. Though Cat did not expect Rose Cottage to be on any thief’s list this Christmas. It was too small and too far off from the main road to be worth the trip.

  She tugged on her favorite pair of black leather gloves, which she’d retrieved from the waist of her breeches where she’d earlier stuck them. “I shan’t be gone long.”

  “I wish ye wouldnae be gone at all.” Mrs. Ramsay said. “But I ken ye must.” The scratch of the pitchfork’s handle dragging against wood, echoed through the air as the stout little cook crossed the kitchen to lean her trusty weapon against the wall. “I will have the chicken soup ready by the time ye return. Along with yer favorite bread.”

  “I would starve if it were not for you, Mrs. Ramsay.”

  “Och, child!” The cook’s cheeks reddened as she smiled and waved her hand in dismissal of Cat’s statement. “Ye are making me blush.”

  Cat winked at Mrs. Ramsay and then headed into the hall.

  She snatched her greatcoat off the peg rack and slipped it on, the worn wool rough against her arms.

  Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t thought of Moira. But there was a piece of her that sometimes did wish she could just let it all go. Return to London with Little Fergus and Mrs. Ramsay and forget about Dundaire completely. This hunting down a phantom-like highwayman was taxing—both physically and mentally. The more days that passed, the more she worried she’d never find the bastard. If it weren’t for the fact her promise to Moira was a deathbed promise, she’d pack it all in now and make a new life for herself.

  She crouched and opened the hidden panel under the niche next to the door. From the box stored inside, she withdrew her ladies’ flintlock pistol as she wouldn’t dare go after a highwayman without first arming herself.

  The weight of the gun rested in her right palm. Running her left hand over the fine walnut grips and brass barrel, her thoughts wandered back to Moira. The gun originally belonged to her, a gift from The Christmas Rebel. Cat prayed to God when she found the man, he’d recognize the weapon. Who bought off a woman with a damned pistol? And more importantly, what sort of woman agreed to such a thing? Moira was worth far more than bloody gun! Cat shook her head. She had failed her sister in so many ways. So, so, many ways.

  Mrs. Ramsay stepped into the hall, a dishcloth in her hand. “Ye ain’t going to shoot the gent, are ye?”

  She would never let The Christmas Rebel off that easy. “Have no fear, Mrs. Ramsay, my intentions are not to kill the beast, but only to drive a bit of fear into his soul.”

  “He deserves far worse.”

  “Agreed.” Cat stood. “But first I must find the bastard. Pray that I do.” She slipped the flintlock into the small pocket she’d sewn into the side of her greatcoat.

  “Ye have a wise head on ye shoulders, Cat. I’m more of the mind to poke him square in the arse with my pitchfork and ask questions of him after the fact.”

  Catrina stifled a laugh as the expression gracing Mrs. Ramsay’s round face was one of seriousness. “I’ll be back soon. Hopefully Fergus will remain sleeping until I return.”

  “Dunnae fash about the bairn. We get along just fine, the two of us.” Mrs. Ramsay offered a slight nod, then took to the stairs, dishcloth now tucked into her apron pocket.

  Cat hated leaving Fergus and Mrs. Ramsay, especially being it was Christmas Eve, but she would not rest unless she knew the perimeter of Rose Cottage was safe. And if something should happen to her, at least her nephew would be in good hands with Mrs. Ramsay.

  With a sigh, she headed out the side door.

  Wind battered her face.


  Rubbing her glove-covered hands over her cheeks, she trekked across the field to the barn. God, but she wished she were still in London. The brutal wind that rolled down from the hills to the glen had no mercy on the people of Dundaire. And not just in winter. The elements in this part of Scotland were unlike anywhere else in the country. Visitors often described Dundaire as a strange and odd place. And they had good reason to do so.

  The essence of horse, mixed with dried grass and wood, wafted under Catrina’s nose.

  She entered the barn and immediately began saddling up Sprite, her sole highway-stalking companion this past year.

  The horse neighed, as he always did.

  “Today’s ride won’t be long. I promise.” Gliding her hand along Sprite’s smooth midnight coat, she leaned in toward the horse. “And when we get back, I’ll see what extras Mrs. Ramsay can spare from the kitchen. Maybe an apple or a few carrots.”

  Sprite turned his head toward Cat. He gave up a loud nicker as his ears bent her way.

  “Aye, carrots it is, then,” Catrina said with a laugh.

  Retrieving her eye mask and the worn-out neckerchief she kept stored on the peg on the post next to Sprite’s stall, Catrina covered up the better part of her face.

  Sprite watched her every move, a soft neigh falling from his mouth.

  “I know I look funny. But it’s the only way to keep my face from being recognized.”

  A barely-there neigh followed her comment.

  “Aye, but to keep your identity secret, I’d need a lot more than merely a mask and old cravat.”

  When all was ready, Cat mounted Sprite and rode out of the barn, circled the house, and then took off down Wolf Lane.

  She prayed Moira watched over her.