A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella Page 7

  “It’s not the same as this house where your ancestors have held sway since the Wars of the Roses.”

  He placed his bare hand over hers where it circled his arm. His touch jolted her with raw shock. “Exactly. I knew you’d understand. So when it comes to this place, I appreciate your thoughts. I’m used to handling a ship, not a great estate.”

  They walked toward the stable doors, arm in arm again. “I’ve run my father’s household since I was twelve. I’m rather in the habit of taking charge. After my mother’s death, I had to. Papa will happily go without eating for a week when he’s on the hunt for some obscure reference about Julian the Apostate.”

  “Not very exciting for a young girl.”

  “I’ve been left to run wild, my aunt says.”

  “Your aunt?” They entered the snowy yard behind the house.

  “Yes, my mother’s sister. She lives in Newcastle, along with my four beautiful cousins, all of whom made advantageous marriages.”

  “She never tried to find you a husband?”

  “She brought me out in local society, but I didn’t take.” Bess cringed to recall how gawky and provincial she’d felt at the Newcastle assemblies.

  Channing’s bewilderment went some way toward soothing the sting. “I can’t imagine why not. You’re utterly charming.”

  She stopped so sharply that his hand dropped from her arm. “Nobody’s ever called me that.”

  “You’ve charmed me into fixing the Abbey and holding a Christmas dinner and, most horrifying of all, playacting.”

  “I made you do all that,” she mumbled, even as her heart expanded under his praise.

  “No, you made me want to do it. There’s a difference.”

  She studied him. Low cloud hid the sun, but the snow’s white glare threw him into stark relief. “You’re a kind man, Lord Channing.”

  It was his turn to look uncomfortable. “Nonsense. It’s blatantly obvious that if Newcastle didn’t fall at your feet, there’s something wrong with Newcastle, not you. How old were you?”

  “Sixteen the first time, eighteen the last.” In all the busy years since, she’d almost forgotten the ignominy of failing to cut a dash, and of her aunt’s bitter and voluble disappointment.

  “You’re an original, Miss Farrar. Believe me, in London, you’d be the toast of the town. As a humble second son, I’d have been completely below your lofty notice. You’d cut me direct and waltz away in the arms of a handsome marquess with fifty thousand a year.”

  She laughed wryly. “What nonsense you talk.” Especially as she was positive that even as a humble second son, he’d stand out as exceptional.

  “At least my nonsense has made you smile. Did no fellow have the brains to see what a jewel you are?”

  Her cheeks heated under his admiration. If they hadn’t been in the open, with interruption likely at any moment, she’d kiss him again.

  She decided then and there that the next chance she got, she’d ask him to kiss her. Surely that light in his eyes indicated that he’d cooperate.

  And what if he doesn’t want to stop at kisses?

  Wicked excitement weighted her belly as she contemplated more than kisses. Although she knew she steered into dangerous waters. “There was a gentleman my aunt favored.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “No. He was forty-five and had six children.”

  “There must have been someone else.”

  “How do you know?”

  His glance was mocking. “You said you’d been kissed before.”

  How very interesting. It seemed his mind dwelled on kisses, too. “There was a very nice man without prospects.” She hadn’t thought of Tom Wilson in years. “He liked me, but he needed to marry money. My portion is respectable, but not enough to restore a tumbledown estate and support an extended family of indigent relatives.”

  “Did he marry money?”

  “I heard he wed a rich widow from York.”

  “And I’ll wager he’s spent every day since cursing his fate.”

  She laughed. “I doubt it. Our little romance was very boy and girl, not something you eat your heart out over for a lifetime. I can’t even remember what he looked like, although at the time, I thought he was breathtakingly handsome.”

  “I’d never forget you. I’m sure he hasn’t either.”

  She tried not to seize on Channing’s remarks as a sign that he cared about her. It would be so easy to mistake his kindness for something more. “I hope he has. It was all so silly. Although I convinced myself it was a grand passion and cried into my pillow for weeks when I came home. But then I just got on with things here.”

  “Waiting for your Prince Charming.”

  Although the joke bit too close to the bone, she forced a laugh. She had a strong inkling that Lord Channing’s kiss had woken her from enchanted sleep. “He must have lost my address.”

  “These princes are deuced careless coves, by God. You’d better stick with earls.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she said lightly, telling herself again that she’d be an idiot to lend too much weight to his teasing.

  Lord Channing looked strangely pleased with himself as he stood back to let Bess precede him inside. Confused and unsettled, Bess stepped into the crowded kitchen, full of rich, spicy scents as Mrs. Hallam and her assistants baked puddings and pies for Christmas dinner.

  Today Bess and the earl had spoken as friends, as equals, and he’d been quick with some pretty compliments. Then the flirtatious, almost bristling banter between them had briefly vanished and they’d touched on something deeper.

  Did that mean more kisses, or a different sort of closeness where kisses had no place? And if she chose kisses, would they blight this fragile, precious friendship before it had a chance to bloom?

  Chapter Six

  Rory’s boots squeaked as he tramped through the snow, Bess by his side. He tugged a sledge half full of holly, ivy, and pinecones. They were both dressed as they’d been on their first afternoon together, in coats, boots, scarves and thick gloves. Again, Bess had borrowed a spare greatcoat to wear over her own more feminine pelisse.

  Around them, the woods were dim and silent. It was midafternoon, but heavy cloud turned the light to gloaming. Senses honed through a thousand storms at sea told him bad weather was on the way. They probably shouldn’t stay out much longer, but he was loath to end these private moments with Bess.

  They’d joined a group collecting greenery for the house. Then as had so often happened these last few days, the others had drifted away to leave him alone with Bess. If his courtship failed, he couldn’t blame local opposition. The villagers had done everything they could to promote his wooing.

  A wooing that left him puzzled and frustrated and enchanted. The more he saw of Bess, the more he liked her. And the more convinced he was that she was the woman for him.

  But this burgeoning respect grated against his burning need to have her in his bed. His strongest impulse was to tumble her, then sort out a quick wedding. And she deserved better than that. Not to mention that after all the villagers’ conspiring on his behalf, he’d pay them back in false coin if he dishonored their darling.

  But the prospect of months suffering at this pitch of desire left him fit to explode.

  He wasn’t even sure she’d accept him. Aye, she liked him well enough, and she accepted his touch with gratifying ease. But did that mean she wanted him? Even if she did, would she marry him? The discovery that she’d refused a string of eligible gentlemen, including his brother, had dented his confidence.

  Damn it, he wasn’t used to agonies of doubt—over anything, least of all a woman. But then, Bess Farrar was the first woman who had really mattered. It was impossible to plot his course with his usual unshakable élan.

  “There’s some mistletoe.” She pointed to a high branch. “We’re lucky to see any at all. It usually doesn’t grow this far north.”

  If she’d been like every other lighthearted conquest, he’d
make a joke about kissing her—then kiss her. Instead he crossed to cut down her find, using a saw attached to a long stick.

  “Well spotted,” he said, deriding how jolly and avuncular he sounded when he felt so horribly hot and bothered. “I haven’t gone out after Christmas greenery since I was a lad.”

  Bess regarded him curiously as she collected the tangle of leaves and berries from the snowy ground and packed it onto the cart. After a couple of hours, they’d fallen into an efficient work pattern. She was cheerful company. But he already knew that from sharing the Herculean task of setting up the house. She was cheerful company with everyone. It was a humiliating admission, but Rory reached a point where he was ready to go on his knees and beg for some sign that he was special.

  He knew he was unreasonable. They’d met less than a week ago, and while he’d immediately recognized the flaring attraction, she was much less used to dalliance. The day after he’d kissed her, she’d hinted that she’d be happy to do it again. But since then, she’d backed away from anything overtly flirtatious. Perhaps closer acquaintance made her decide she didn’t want to kiss him after all.

  Right now, he’d cut off his left leg for one word of encouragement. For some physical contact she initiated, he’d cut off both legs.

  “What did you do on the ship at Christmas?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing on this scale. We’d have something nice for dinner and share out extra rum. I’d read the nativity story from the Bible to the crew, and if the men were keen, they’d sing a few carols. And of course, it all depended on weather and the enemy. Once gales off the Azores kept us jumping for a fortnight. Nobody did much celebrating that year.”

  “What an adventurous life you’ve led.” Her expression was wistful. “You might find things at Penton Wyck dull in comparison.”

  He picked up the sledge’s handle, trudging a few yards deeper into the woods. “It hasn’t been dull so far.”

  “You’ve arrived at a busy time. Things go quiet now until spring.”

  “Then I look forward to enjoying my spectacular new house and getting to know my tenants.” One tenant in particular.

  She stopped to cut a few branches off a holly bush. Balancing his long-handled implement on the sledge, he crossed to help and noticed her shivering. “It’s getting colder. And darker. Perhaps we should go back.”

  He made the offer reluctantly, because despite the constant hum of frustration, he was enjoying himself. Tramping through the snow with a pretty lassie and the promise of a blazing fire when he returned home made for a braw afternoon. The scent of the dormant woods sharpened his senses, and the air was crisp as a new apple.

  Bess peered up through bare branches at the leaden sky. “We probably should. The weather is closing in.”

  As if to confirm the wisdom of returning, a gust of icy wind whistled through the trees. Rory took charge of the sledge. “Hold on to me so you don’t slip.”

  She immediately hooked her gloved hand through his arm. His blood warmed despite the worsening chill.

  After slogging through the intensifying gale for an arduous hour, Rory realized that they were much further from home than he’d thought. And now they contended with snow as well as wind. “It’s a perfect day for rum punch. I’ll make some when we get in.”

  Bess smiled, but he noted the worry in her eyes as they pressed on through thickening snow. When he glanced behind him, their tracks had completely disappeared.

  “The villagers will enjoy that.”

  Rory blinked away snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes. “And you?”

  “I’m one of the villagers.” She shifted closer. He hoped it wasn’t just because the temperature plummeted. “I’m sorry. I’ve brought you too far.”

  Not far enough, he thought wryly.

  The weather deteriorated with alarming swiftness. Only minutes ago, he’d clearly seen the path ahead. Now even the huge oaks on either side loomed as gray, indistinct shadows.

  “We need to find shelter until the worst of it is over,” he said, shouting through the blasting wind, even though Bess struggled on right beside him. “Is there anywhere?”

  “There’s a woodcutter’s hut near here if we haven’t wandered too far out of our way.”

  He abandoned the sledge and grabbed Bess’s hand. Be damned if having found her, he’d let her freeze to death. “Let’s find it.”

  They forced their way forward against the wind. It made a mockery of his thick clothing, slicing through to freeze his skin. He angled Bess behind him so he took the brunt, but he knew from her uneven progress that she found it hard going, even using him as a windbreak.

  Eventually she tugged him to a panting halt. “There should be a track off the path here. Oh, this snow is such a nuisance. I’m not even sure where I am anymore.”

  He flung an arm around her shoulders. Through her thick coat, he felt her shaking tension. “We’ll find it. I haven’t studied Joseph’s lines to be stuck in a blizzard over Christmas Eve.”

  Even through the gloom, he caught her sardonic glance. “Next year, I’ll make you the Angel of the Lord. Then you’ll know about lines. That part is pages.”

  He gave a huff of laughter, even as he saluted her courage. Miss Farrar wasn’t a girl to have hysterics at the first sign of trouble. “Nobody in their correct mind would cast me as an angel.”

  ”You’re right about that. What a pity there are no pirates in the Christmas story.”

  “I’m not—”

  “There it is, the track to the hut.”

  They turned direct into the frigid north wind and he needed all his breath to keep going. Bess led as drifts of snow piled up around them, deeper with every minute. He tied his scarf more securely around his stinging ears. Not an easy task one-handed in the middle of a blizzard. But no way in hell would he let go of Bess’s hand. And not just because if she got too far ahead, he’d likely lose her.

  Rory’s logical mind told him the trek was mere yards. It felt like miles. The wind was powerful enough to force him backward unless he applied all his strength against it. The heavy snow blinded him so that only when he stood in the lee of the hut did he realize they’d reached their destination.

  He pushed the door. It didn’t budge. His brain was so frozen, it took several seconds to fumble for the primitive string and nail latch.

  “Come on,” he said breathlessly, staggering inside and finally releasing Bess.

  The room was dark as a coalmine. The wind tore at the wooden building, so it wasn’t much quieter inside than out. Through the elements’ roar, he heard Bess stumbling around and reached for her.

  His hand landed on something soft and round. Even before her startled gasp, he knew he’d touched her breast. Suddenly he wasn’t cold at all. For one burning instant, his hand curled to shape her flesh before he snatched it away.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Farrar.” It was difficult to sound sorry, but on the other hand, he didn’t want her fleeing into the snow to escape his attentions.

  After some scraping, a soft glow chased away the darkness. She’d lit a lamp. “It was an accident.”

  That time, maybe.

  Avoiding her eyes so that she wouldn’t see how desperately he wanted her, he glanced around the wee hut. It was unexpectedly well set up. Shelving covered the walls, mostly filled with tools, but he saw some food and basic medical supplies. Even better, there was a hearth and a good stock of wood.

  “By God, this is a palace.”

  She laughed, shaking off that awkward moment when he’d touched her breast with an ease that he found disheartening. His hand still tingled with heat.

  “Not quite. But the weather here changes in the blink of an eye. Available shelter can mean the difference between life or death.”

  “I was surprised how fast the snow came in.”

  She went to check the food stocks. “This is Northumberland. It’s no place for weaklings.”

  “So we could be trapped for a while?” He hoped he didn’t sou
nd too happy about that.

  The furnishings were adequate, but basic. A rough table, four spindly chairs with rush seats. And a truckle bed against one wall. Two shuttered windows and the chimney breast.

  He bent to build a fire as Bess lit a second lamp. And he tried devilish hard not to think about that bed, and being alone with her for hours on end.

  “At this time of year, the weather usually blows itself out. In January and February, people can be stranded for days if things turn nasty.”

  Days? And one bed? It became even more difficult to concentrate on getting a spark from the tinderbox. “We’ll miss the play.”

  “I hope not. I hear a new performer makes his debut with a spectacular turn as Joseph.”

  Rory laughed from where he kneeled before the hearth. She really was a brave soul. His years at sea had given him a deep appreciation for courage. This lassie would put his stalwart shipmates to shame. “He’s good with the donkey at least.”

  The kindling caught most satisfactorily, the flames licking greedily at the larger logs. At least they were unlikely to freeze.

  “He’s good with a fire, too.”

  “I’m no useless aristocrat,” he said drily. “Life on a ship prepares a man for any circumstances, including finding himself alone with a beautiful girl in the middle of a snowstorm.”

  She cast him a mocking look. “And teaches him a smooth line in flattery, too, it seems.”

  He merely spoke the truth, but if he started telling her how wonderful she was, he didn’t trust himself not to offer physical proof of his admiration. “What on earth are you doing?”

  She’d wrestled the door open and wind cut through the room. He leaned over the fire to keep the frail flicker of heat alive.

  “I’m getting some snow to melt for water. We’ve got the makings for soup. Are you hungry?”

  Yes, and not just for soup. “Something warm would be nice.”

  She was outside only moments. The door slammed shut behind her as she fought her way back into the hut. He crossed to take the heavy iron pot she’d filled with snow and set it on the hook above the flames.