A Timeless Romance Anthology Part 17

She wanted to reach out and touch him, ached to comfort him, but knew he'd probably rebuke her efforts. Besides, she'd only met him this morning. Yet she longed to bring him out from behind all the barriers he'd built around himself and show him what a grand adventure life offered if one would only step outside his invisible walls.

Softly, she said, "Perhaps if you replaced bad memories with good ones..."

"No." His tone suggested no room for argument.

Her appet.i.te fled. How could one not celebrate Christmas? And worse, how could she stand to be here in this dismal castle, with its equally dismal lord, on what was supposed to be the most joyous time of the year?

He continued as if unaware he'd completely dashed her spirits. "The storm stopped, so I sent a messenger to bring word to your family that you're here."

Through the lump in her throat, she managed, "Thank you. I'm sure that will bring them peace of mind." But it wouldn't bring her home in time for the Christmas Eve feast, the lighting of the Yule log, or any of the other family customs. Nor would it reunite her with those she loved.

Aunt Tilly squeezed her hand, a comforting, familiar gesture. Clarissa swallowed and pushed back her disappointment. She had her beloved aunt and a kind host. That would have to be enough for now.

Lord Wyckburg's voice gentled. "I had the carriage brought into the coach house so the wheel could be repaired. Do you need any of the parcels from inside the carriage?"

Clarissa shook her head. "No, they were Christmas gifts."

He nodded, then looked past her with a faraway look in his eyes. Shame at her selfishness wound through her. Missing Christmas with her family mattered little compared with the losses his family had suffered over the years. Besides, she'd fulfilled her lifelong dream of meeting Lord Wyckburg. Though he hadn't been the monster she'd feared-hoped?-he would be, he'd been a fascinating diversion. His being handsome didn't hurt, either.

After dinner, Lord Wyckburg and Henry excused themselves, leaving Clarissa and Aunt Tilly to amuse themselves in the drawing room part.i.tioned off to serve as a sitting room. A fire and an abundance of candles cheered the room. In one corner sat a pianoforte and a harp.

Clarissa moved to the harp and caressed the carved column. "What a lovely instrument. Do you think he'd mind if I play?"

"I'd mind if you didn't," Aunt Tilly said with a sniff, settling by the fire.

Smiling, Clarissa ran her fingers across the strings in an arpeggio. Though out of tune, it had a lovely, rich tone. After painstakingly tuning it, she sat, brought the soundboard to her shoulder, and played. The soothing tones washed away her woes, and her mind drifted. Lord Wykburg's face, one moment stern, the next soft, danced before her eyes. How could anyone suspect him of being a murderer? He was too honorable, too kind, too sad.

And that curse. If there really was a curse-and it was getting harder to deny the possibility-there had to be a way to lift it. If only she could return home and question her relatives, search out old family journals, seek out any sign that might help her discover what really happened. As her mother's aunt, Aunt Tilly wouldn't know. Her father might, or Great-grandmother Fairchild.

But first she had to get home. Even her sense of adventure stepped back in favor of the cheer of home and family during Christmas.

Chapter Six.

Christopher stood outside, his breath puffing in great clouds as he looked up at the likeliest-looking fir tree near the castle. Illuminated by faint moonlight filtering through clouds, the tree seemed to hold its breath in antic.i.p.ation. A cloud drifted over the moon, obliterating its light. At least the snow had stopped. Christopher gripped a lantern in one hand and an ax in the other. Hobbs eyed him patiently.

Why was he doing this? Christmas meant nothing but grief and sorrow and loss. Yet here he stood, considering chopping down a tree and bringing Christmas into the house for a girl he'd only known a matter of hours, and the daughter of the witch who'd cursed his family, at that. He was about to betray his family-his wife, mother, grandmother, his ancestors. Henry in particular would hate the idea of doing anything kind for Miss Fairchild.

Yet, how could he not? The loss in her eyes when she spoke of her longing to be with her family for Christmas tugged at his heart. When he'd informed her that his family never celebrated Christmas, she'd gone white with dismay and nearly burst into tears. If this simple gesture of a traditional Christmas Eve would bring another of her enchanting smiles to her face and make her day bearable despite her separation from her family, then so be it.

He glanced at Hobbs. "Think this one will do? It's the only fir tree in sight."

"Ye'd haf' ta go deeper into th' forest to find one better, mi'lor'."

"I'm not that mad. This one will do." Christopher set down the lantern and hefted his ax.

They swung their axes, and within moments, the tree fell. Standing on either side, they grabbed the tree by a large, lower branch and began hauling it back to the house, tramping through knee-deep snow. The thaw in his heart warmed further at the thought of her smile. As they returned to the house, he scanned every tree they pa.s.sed, looking for mistletoe.

Christopher stopped underneath an oak. "Is that mistletoe?"

Hobbs held up his lantern. "I think so, m'lor'."

"I'll take a look." Christopher jumped for the lowest branch.

"Oi, m'lor', lemme get it. We can't have ye fallin' and hurtin' yesself."

"It's been a while since I've done this, Hobbs, but I'm not exactly an old man."

He climbed upward, surprised at how exhilarating it was to climb a tree, the danger and the pleasure of antic.i.p.ating Miss Fairchild's happiness mingling into a heady euphoria. Calling himself a great fool, he reached one of the top branches and examined the plants hanging from it.

He let out a satisfied grunt. "It's mistletoe, all right."

With a small knife, he cut several bunches. They plopped in the snow as they fell. After sheathing his knife, he carefully climbed down, grateful his st.u.r.dy boots had good soles and that he'd worn a pair of leather gloves to aid his grip.

Hobbs gathered up the bunches. "That's a lot o' mistletoe."

"Take some. Maybe you can coax a kiss out of some of the maids."

"I migh' at that." Hobbs grinned.

Once inside, they dragged the tree to a corner of the great hall where the servants waited.

A maid curtsied and held out a box of bright ribbon. "'Twas all we could find, milord. And these are the smallest candles we found." She gestured to a box on the floor.

Mrs. March, the head housekeeper, shook her head in confusion. "I don't understand, my lord. Why now?"

"Because we have pair of houseguests who are missing their family. If we can give them a Christmas of sorts, it might help."

Mrs. March shook her head again. "She's bewitched you."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's time to end the hatred."

Just then, Henry crossed the hall, glanced their way then halted, staring. "You aren't."

Christopher drew himself up. "I am. You can either join us and remember what Christmas is about, or you can sulk in your room, but you aren't to do anything to make our guests unhappy."

Henry stared at him, aghast. "No, not after-"

"This topic is not open for discussion."

Henry clamped his mouth shut. As he stalked away, he said, "As you wish. My lord."

Christopher stared after him, wanting to call him back. He'd probably handled that badly, and he knew how traitorous a Christmas celebration must seem to Henry, but he couldn't explain why he felt so compelled to do this for Miss Fairchild, how happy she made him, and how he couldn't wait to see her beautiful smile.

He addressed the servants in the hall. "When I give the signal, come in and bring all this-" he gestured to the boxes "-with you. Build a fire in every hearth and light all the candles."

Christopher moved to the drawing room. Sweet harp music floated through the air to him, coaxing him near. In the doorway, he stopped. Miss Fairchild sat at the harp, her hands floating gracefully over the strings, her lovely face serene. She played with such beauty, such pa.s.sion, that his soul stirred. The scene took his breath away. How long he stood there, drinking in the peace and beauty of the music, entranced by the angel who created such loveliness, he couldn't say, but when she stopped and set the harp upright on its base, he wanted to beg her to continue.

"Exquisite," he breathed. "I seldom hear such pa.s.sion in music."

Standing, Miss Fairchild smiled. "I hope you don't mind."

"I am rewarded many times over just for the pleasure of hearing you play."

Her smile brightened, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement rather than pretending to be demure. Drawn to her, he moved to her side. His hand lifted as if it had a mind of its own, and he had to fist it and bring it back to his side. Her lips drew his gaze, and his cravat seemed to strangle him.

"Are you betrothed, Miss Fairchild?" he heard himself ask. He nearly cursed out loud. What had possessed him to ask such a thing? He'd sworn off marriage. Such a thing would only lead to death for the unfortunate bride. And he couldn't bear to lose a wife again.

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. "No, my lord. I haven't found a man to whom I am willing to pledge myself." She chuckled. "My aunt fears I'll die a spinster if I don't choose someone soon."

Her aunt let out a grunt. "She's turned down half a dozen offers."

He grinned at Miss Fairchild. "A spinster at what, eighteen? Nineteen?"

In exaggeratedly mournful tones, she said, "I'm nearly twenty, my lord."

"Ah, yes, quite in your dotage."

She laughed, the sound seeping into him like the warmth of a soft blanket. Again came that terrible urge to touch her face, her lips.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. "I have something for you. A poor subst.i.tute for your family, but I hope it will make your stay here more pleasant."

He nodded to a servant who hovered at the open doors. A footman dragged in a log. Two more brought in the fir tree. Others carried boxes. She stared as if she didn't quite comprehend.

He made a grand bow. "For you, my lady." Grinning, he glanced at the girl's aunt who had arisen and stood with tears s.h.i.+ning in her eyes.

A servant approached. "My lord, Cook says it's time to stir the pudding."

Christopher glanced at Miss Fairchild to watch her reaction. She didn't disappoint. She looked at him first with surprise and then delight. Her smile lit up the room more brightly than the fire in the hearth.

"A Christmas pudding? Truly?"

He grinned. "Yes. Should we go stir it and make a wish?"

"Oh, yes!"

He chuckled at her enthusiasm. How gray his life had been until she came. Now his world exploded with color and joy, with Clarissa Fairchild in the middle of it. It would be a dark day, indeed, when she left.

After stirring and wis.h.i.+ng on the Christmas pudding, they spent the remainder of the evening decorating the drawing room until it looked more festive than the castle had been in his lifetime. Miss Fairchild directed all the servants, who lost their hesitation of helping a Fairchild, and scurried to please the lady whose contagious enthusiasm and smiles spurred them on. When all was done, they stood back and admired their handiwork.

"It's perfect," she whispered as if she stood on holy ground. Her eyes shone.

"It is, indeed." He turned to her. "I'm sorry there are no gifts for you on the tree."

She touched his arm, her eyes alight with the purest joy he'd ever beheld. "You have given me a wondrous gift. A knight of old could never have been more chivalrous or more generous." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, so softly and gently, it might have been the touch of a snowflake.

Tingles spiraled outward at her touch, and the last of the ice inside his heart thawed. If he didn't watch himself, he'd tumble irrevocably in love with this Christmas angel who'd brought light into his dark world. "Is there anything I've overlooked?"

"No, nothing. Unless you have musicians, that is, for dancing." Her eyes twinkled.

"Dancing. Er, yes. Well, I suppose we could. Do you have a suggestion?"

She smiled impishly. "The waltz comes to mind."

"May I? Unless you prefer your imaginary prince." He grinned back.

She laughed. "No, I gladly accept you over him."

Her aunt went to the pianoforte. "I'd be happy to play for you." She began playing a slow waltz.

Christopher took Miss Fairchild into waltz position and lead her the steps. She followed beautifully. How could he ever let her go? In a few short hours, she'd transformed him from a brooding recluse with no hope into a man who smiled, laughed, danced-and the biggest surprise of all-a man who celebrated Christmas.

When the tune ended, they stopped but he didn't release her. Her fingers tightened on his arm, and her gaze searched his eyes. A current crackled between them.

Hobbs sidled up to him and cleared his throat. Grinning, he held a sprig of mistletoe over Miss Fairchild's head. "It is traditional, m'lor'."

Christopher didn't know whether to laugh or run in terror. He watched the emotions play on Miss Fairchild's face-surprise, embarra.s.sment, expectation, hope.

She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. At his hesitation, she blushed but made no move to step away. "You needn't feel obligated, my lord."

"No." He drew a steadying breath and put a finger underneath her chin. Gently, he lifted her face upward. His heart thudded as he leaned downward. Her eyes widened, and her pulse throbbed in her neck. Her fragrance of winter roses mingled with the unique scent of her wrapped around him in a sweet coc.o.o.n. He leaned closer. Her lips parted and she closed her eyes. He kissed her. Her velvety lips grew soft and pliant under his, and she followed his lead as instinctively as she'd followed him in the waltz. Years of emptiness, sorrow and bitterness melted away as her kiss healed him. He poured his heart into that kiss, hoping she'd feel what he couldn't tell her.

And knew he'd never be the same.

Chapter Seven.

In all the books she'd read, and in all the whispering, giggling conversations Clarissa had shared with her married friends and sisters, nothing had prepared her for the intensity, the pa.s.sion, the purity of Lord Wyckburg's kiss.

Her heart soared, and she knew, at long last, she was home. The man she'd sought among the suitors in London was here, kissing her as if he'd never let her go. He slid his arms around her and pulled her against his solid chest. She clung to him, praying he'd never stop. Warmth and tenderness swept over her.

"My lord," Aunt Tilly's voice broke in. "Really, I must protest!"

Clarissa swallowed a moan. Lord Wyckburg ended the kiss, but his lips moved first to her eyelids and then her forehead. With a sigh, he drew back. Cold air rushed in where his warm body had been seconds ago.

Christopher's eyes glowed with quiet joy and tenderness. "I should apologize, but I'm afraid I'm not sorry, not one bit."

Neither am I, she wanted to say, but instead summoned a playful smile. "We could blame the mistletoe."