A Christmas Keepsake (14 page)

The carriage had been designed to hold only two people, Christy realized, as the woman slid in beside her. Luckily, Mrs. Runcorn was a slender woman. Christy herself might be well rounded, but only in proportion to her minuscule build. She scooted over as close as she could to the other woman to provide room for the major. There was nothing small about him.

Quarters were close, and she found herself pressed against him, intriguingly so. Far too intriguingly. She studied the road before them with fixed concentration, willing herself not to be aware of every jostling bump that bounced them together.

The major cast a frowning glance at her. “About what are you thinking, Miss Campbell? You are far too silent and solemn for such a festive expedition.”

“I was only thinking how cold it is,” she said, improvising.

Thick clouds hung overhead, menacing, as they had been almost constantly since her arrival. There would probably be snow again before they returned. Fortunately, the curricle had a hood that could be drawn up, rather like riding in a convertible.

As they passed out of the disreputable district, she cast an uneasy glance behind them. No men on horseback tried to hide from her searching gaze. Their only shadow was Mr. Runcorn and the cart. Still, she kept watch, afraid to relax her guard.

The buildings became spaced farther and farther apart, until long stretches of heath spread out on either side of them. Christy shivered, and wondered if there might be any hope of a hot drink where they headed. Probably not. She huddled instead in her pelisse.

At last, they left the buildings completely behind and found themselves on an unbroken expanse of rolling ground with shrubs and woods. Other carriages sped past, filled with laughing passengers, probably bound on the same errand. The ancient cart plodded behind them.

The major turned onto a narrow lane and guided them deep into a wooded section. He drew up, tossed his reins to his groom, and helped the ladies down. A few minutes later, Mr. Runcorn’s unwieldy contraption pulled up behind them and the boys jumped forth, each armed with a knife. They took off with whoops of delight, and in moments disappeared into the underbrush.

Mr. Runcorn beamed after them. “A delightful expedition, James. I only wish there was more we could do with them in the countryside.”

The shrieks of laughter continued, punctuated by loud arguments over who discovered certain choice branches of holly and who was to carry the mistletoe back to the cart. Smiling, the major went after the boys to settle their disputes.

Christy followed, enjoying the crisp, cold air and the feeling of freedom, of being away from London. All too soon, heaping armloads of greenery filled the wagon, and the boys reluctantly climbed in on top.

“It’s a shame to go back.” Mr. Runcorn pulled himself onto the box and collected his reins.

“Why don’t we stop at Hyde Park?” The major kept his voice low. “I saw children ice skating on the Serpentine earlier, perhaps the boys would enjoy it.”

“How very kind.” Mrs. Runcorn cast a hopeful glance at her husband, who agreed at once.

The major called to the boys, asking if they would care for this treat, and instantly a fight broke out between two as to which was the better skater. The major commanded quiet, and announced it would be determined in a contest, with the other six boys being the judges.

It took some maneuvering to turn the cart, but at last Mr. Runcorn accomplished the feat and started back toward the city. Within a very few yards Major Holborn passed him, then led the way, wending through the maze of streets. At last, they pulled up before the orphanage.

Nancy opened the door for them, as the boys piled out waving branches of the holly and mistletoe at her. “A right regular time you’ve been ’avin’ of it,” she said, pleased.

“To the shed, boys,” Mr. Runcorn called.

Armed with their greenery, they headed toward the back of the house.

Mr. Runcorn watched them with a benevolent smile, then turned to the maid. “We are to go skating, Nancy. Do you care to come?”

The girl shook her head, setting her brassy ringlets dancing. “Not me, sir. Never could get used to them things. Miss can use my skates, ifn she’d like.”

“I’d love to,” Christy declared. “Thank you.” That left her with the task of finding shoes suitable for strapping on the blades. Her high-heeled boots wouldn’t work, of that she felt certain. Nor did her foot size, large by current standards, make borrowing easy.

Mrs. Runcorn came to her rescue, finding her a pair of boots outgrown by an older boy before he left the orphanage. She apologized for their bulky weight and shabby condition, but Christy waved that aside.

“They fit, that’s all that matters,” she assured the woman.

Twenty minutes later, loaded with a selection of skates, scarves, and gloves, they piled back into the vehicles and set forth to Hyde Park. Christy resumed her vigilance, but still she could detect no threats to Major Holborn’s safety. Almost, she began to relax as they pulled through the Grosvenor Gate and onto the carriage drive.

They completed almost a full half circuit before they came in sight of the frozen lake, on which children and adults alike skated. A collection of booths and stalls clustered together, with a large number of people milling among them, creating a fair like atmosphere. Was this a regular occurrence, Christy wondered, or did some wily vendors merely take advantage of a golden opportunity? Wonderful smells drifted forth. Gingerbread and cinnamon rolls—or the current equivalent.

The major took the boys for hot chocolate, and brought steaming mugs back for Christy and Mrs. Runcorn, as well. They settled on a bench, and Christy took a tentative sip, then wrinkled her nose at the bitterness. She could use a few marshmallows on top. She might be able to get cream and cinnamon if she really tried, but it just wouldn’t be the same.

Their drinks finished, all busied themselves strapping the blades to their shoes. Major Holborn finished his own, then knelt before Christy. He took her left foot in his hands, and shook his head over her clumsy boot. She could only be glad she didn’t wear her own high-heeled ones, with their zipper closing only partly hidden beneath the tabs.
That
would have taken some explaining.

With the skates fastened at last, and adjusted to the major’s satisfaction, he assisted her to stand. Already, the boys made tentative forays on the frozen lake, the elder skating with vigor, the younger with more awkwardness. They didn’t seem to mind.

“Miss Campbell?” Major Holborn offered her his arm.

She took it, and allowed him to help her across the uneven ground separating them from the Serpentine. As soon as they reached the ice, he struck forward with an even glide, and she clung to him, following perforce. The blades felt different from the shoe-skates to which she was accustomed.

They progressed in silence, his good arm supporting her, until she found her balance. She liked the feel of his hand pressing against her back, gently assisting her. Flakes of snow started to fall as he took her gloved hands and glided into the first movement of a dance.

“No.” She pulled back, effectively stopping him. “You’ll have to teach it to me, first. I don’t know the steps.”

“We have to adapt it to skating, as well.”

He demonstrated the first pass, then helped her through it. After one round of the cordoned off “rink,” repeating the steps, she announced herself ready to give it a try. He whistled an opening bar, then glided forward into the first step.

A dance. Skating. Snow. The enameled scene in the snowdome ... The shock of her realization numbed her. She stumbled, and landed on her tailbone.

“Are you all right?” Major Holborn grasped her elbow and drew her to her feet.

“Yes. I—” She steadied herself against him, shaken. “Yes.” She regained her balance and looked around. If he wanted to know what happened ... “Where are the boys?” she asked, hoping to divert him.

“Forming a whip.”

“Won’t the younger ones get hurt?” She moved forward, and discovered her muscles weren’t as young as they used to be. That fall hurt.

The major caught her arm and swung her back. “You need have no fear, they will be all right. They are far more resilient than you or I.”

“They’d have to be,” she admitted. “They could hardly be less. I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” She brushed herself off. “I suppose I shall have to teach standing up for the next couple of days.”

A soft chuckle broke from him. “My dear Miss Campbell—” He broke off, as if recollecting the impropriety of her comment. His gaze traveled back to the boys. “If it would make you less uneasy about them, I will join them and assure that their games do not get out of hand.”

“You do that.” She shook her head as he set off across the ice. If the man wanted to join a whip, why didn’t he just do it? Afraid of damaging his macho image by enjoying a child’s game?
Did
they have macho images at this time? She considered, and decided they undoubtedly did. That had to be a sex-linked male characteristic, as old as the race.

As he reached the boys, an argument broke out among them, which the major settled summarily by himself anchoring the whip. Keeping his injured arm close to his body, he held out his good one to the first of the boys. Others joined, not of their group, and soon Christy and Mr. Runcorn were among the very few skaters not part of that human chain.

Christy eased herself around the outer perimeter, wincing at the pain in her hip, stretching her injured muscles. The boys showed no such hesitation. The major skated a zigzag pattern in the lead, picking up speed, and the end of the whip swung wildly from side to side. He laughed and made a sharp turn, obviously enjoying himself every bit as much as the littlest of the children.

It was one of his most endearing traits, this ability to shrug off his fears and play the role of surrogate father. Emotion rushed through her, warm and enticing. He possessed a number of appealing qualities ... Watching him, she, too, could almost forget the danger that perpetually lurked just a step behind them.

The end of the chain broke lose, and three boys shot out toward a roped-off area. They recovered their balance, then headed off to explore, ducking beneath the boundary. Christy caught her breath as they skated toward an unfrozen portion of the lake.

With a word to the boy behind him, Major Holborn untangled himself from the whip and bent low, striking off in pursuit. Christy started after them, fear welling in her. The boys were light, they probably wouldn’t disturb the thin ice, but the major was another matter.

He was so far ahead, beyond the reach of any help. If he fell through, no one could reach him in time...

No, she wasn’t the only one chasing after the major. Relief left her weak. Mr. Runcorn sped across the slick surface with sure, easy strides, closing the space between them. At that speed, he would overtake him just beyond the ropes.

Christy’s heart lurched, as a vision of the Reverend Mr. Runcorn’s tentative, tottering forays on the ice rose in her mind. Frantic, she scanned the rink, and saw the clergyman sitting on a bench beside his wife. Then who—?

She peered at the man, barely able to make him out in the fading light that filtered through the heavy clouds. A voluminous greatcoat enveloped him, and a hat rested low on his head. They might keep him warm, but they also provided an ample disguise, one to which no one would pay any heed until later, when they tried to remember what he looked like...

Abandoning all caution, Christy struck out as fast as she could. He was a far better skater than she, much stronger, and outdistanced her with ease. Abruptly, he glided to a stop in a shower of ice shaved by his blade.

Major Holborn stood less than ten yards from him, bending over, talking to the three boys. The man raised his arm, and a stray beam from the vanishing sun glinted off the polished barrel of his pistol.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Major!” The scream tore from Christy’s throat. As if by instinct, James Holborn ducked, grabbing the boys and dragging them down with him, shielding them with his body.

A flame spurted from the pistol, and the explosion of sound ricocheted over the ice. For a split second, the man stood as one transfixed, then he struck out with swinging strides. The major launched himself in pursuit, his skate caught on the broken ice, and he went down on one knee. The shattering fractures spread beneath him, and he retreated with care. His assailant reached the far side of the lake, clambered over the bank, and ran through the snow to a waiting closed carriage. As the major regained his feet, the vehicle pulled away.

Christy, trembling and wobbling on her skates, reached the major’s side and threw her arms about him, holding him as tightly as she could, desperate to reassure herself he was all right. A broken sob escaped her and she buried her face in his greatcoat.

His good arm closed about her, and for a long minute he held her in his embrace, cradling her against his chest. He murmured something too soft for her to catch the words, but just the sound of his voice filled her with an emotion so intense it brought tears to her eyes. She raised her face to his, and forgot to breathe as she read there a reflection of her own growing need.

Abruptly he stepped back, releasing her. The excited voices of the boys finally penetrated to her as they babbled, demanding to know what happened.

“Did someone really let off a barker at us?” Sammy asked, obviously thinking this raised their status in importance.

The major forced a note of cheerfulness into his voice. “Not at you, at me.”

“Aw.” Sammy, at least, seemed disappointed.

Oh, for the resiliency of youth. Christy could use some of that right now. Her gaze strayed back to the major’s grim face; their gazes met, and she couldn’t look away. Tension, as intriguing as it was powerful, raced between them—a bond she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—deny. Vaguely she remembered they came from different worlds, from different times, but at this moment, what did that matter?

Major Holborn broke the trance, turning his attention to the boys with a determination that effectively blocked her out. He sensed it, too, this unbearable awareness. Of that she felt certain. Yet he intended to ignore it, refuse to give in to it. With his back to her, he collected the boys, delivered a stern lecture on skating near thin ice, then herded them toward where the others still skated.

The Runcorns stood on the snow at the edge of the rink, watching as they approached. Mrs. Runcorn stepped forward, her expression anxious, and beckoned her charges to her.

“No one looks worried about anything except the thin ice. Have they simply ignored the gunshot?” Christy demanded of the major. In her own time, it might have been mistaken for a car backfiring, but not here.

“They must have thought something happened in one of the stalls.” He helped her onto the bank. “It is amazing what people can overlook.”

He could have been murdered, and no one would have realized what went on right in front of them ... Cold seeped through Christy’s veins, as if her blood passed through a freezer unit. This attempt had been bolder, better planned ... “It was different,” she blurted out.

The major touched her lips with one finger and gave a slight shake of his head. He signaled the boys and announced: “Hot chocolate and gingerbread time.”

The boys cheered and scrambled off the ice, and for some time they all busied themselves removing their skates. The major pressed Christy onto a bench and knelt before her, grasping her foot.

“This man was different,” she repeated. “He was so confident. He never looked back, he never looked around, he concentrated on
you.
He never seemed to doubt he could kill you.” She forced herself to say the words.

“Then he should have taken better care of his weapon. Did you notice the flame from the barrel? He used too much oil.”

“Will you not take this seriously?” She clasped his hand between both of hers. “Next time, he won’t make that mistake. Or any other, for that matter.”

He released her foot, rotated his hand so his gloved palm clasped hers, and at last met her gaze. “Then I had better know who it is by then, and why he is after me.”

She shivered. It didn’t seem possible to be any more frightened or cold, yet she managed it. His enemy came too close, but at least now he openly acknowledged the reality of the danger. If only that could prove enough.

He rose, and she joined him in collecting the boys’ skates, which they sent back to the cart with Jem and Tom. When the lads returned, they all set forth for the hot chocolate stand.

Christy glanced about, and spotted a booth of far more interest to her. “There’s one with mulled wine,” she said. “I could use some of that, if you don’t mind.”

He nodded. “I think we both could.” After paying for the mugs of chocolate, he distributed coins among the boys and told them to buy gingerbread or brandy snaps or fairings, whatever took their fancy. They evaporated like a cloud of mist in the hot sun.

“James.” Mr. Runcorn caught his arm. “That man on the ice—Sammy said he shot at you.”

The major nodded. “They have made their attempt for today, we should be quite safe, now.”

He offered Christy his sound arm, and she took it, her hand closing tightly over it. “Major—” she began.

“Not now.”

She bit her tongue to keep back her words of warning, and clung to him for comfort.

The snow drifted down again as they purchased their hot spicy wine. They wandered through the booths, sipping the warming beverage, and she tried hard to savor the experience. Her thoughts, though, could not stray far from the major’s danger. Her fingers clenched on his sleeve as she glanced about, unable to shed her nervousness. “Don’t you think—”

“No, I do not,” he interrupted. “If that man was as confident as you think, he will not have provided for a second attempt today.”

“I’ll feel a lot better when you’re safely indoors.”

“If you think I intend to spend the rest of my life cowering in fear, Miss Campbell, you are much mistaken.”

She shook her head, and her lips twitched into a rueful smile. “No, that isn’t like you.”

They returned their mugs to the booth and found the boys had finished their purchases. One—Ned—showed off his proficiency with a ball and cup toy. The major sent Jem to obtain a container of roasted chestnuts, and went himself to where a bonfire burned. There he purchased several bricks which had been heating in the flames.

Christy continued to cling to him, knowing she provided inadequate protection, yet unwilling to let go. At last, to her relief, they returned to the carriages and the waiting Kepp. She and Mrs. Runcorn climbed once more into the curricle, the major placed one of the wrapped bricks at their feet, and Mrs. Runcorn fussed with her skirts, settling herself in comfort.

“So kind, such attentions,” she murmured.

The major waved that aside. “Nonsense, it is too cold to be without them.”

The boys, meanwhile, scrambled into the back of the wagon and argued over the remaining bricks. Christy huddled over theirs, glad for its warmth.

Darkness closed about them, and now she only could make out dim shapes of people and objects. Kepp had brought up the hood against the falling snow, and she hoped it afforded the major some protection—though she greatly feared it didn’t. As they started once more through the streets, she peered from one side to the other.

“Be still, Miss Campbell,” the major murmured. “Do not alarm Mrs. Runcorn.”

That lady apparently didn’t hear. She snuggled into her woolen pelisse, her hands clasped in her muff where they held a small heated rock wrapped in cloth.

“You’ve got to be more careful,” Christy whispered back, and knew she sounded like a broken record.

They reached the orphanage, and the major assisted Christy and Mrs. Runcorn down. Mrs. Runcorn hesitated, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression in her brown eyes. “I believe you should come in.”

He nodded. “I left my papers in the study.” He told Kepp to return in fifteen minutes, and accompanied them up the stairs.

The cart pulled up before the house, and the boys piled out. The two eldest again took charge of the wagon, and drove off to settle the horse for the night.

Mr. Runcorn mounted to the porch and ushered them into the house. “James,” he said without preamble, “I think you should remain the night.”

“Just what I was thinking.” Mrs. Runcorn turned in relief to her husband. “It would be the very thing.”

“There is not the least need.” The major looked from one to the other of them, exasperated. “Do you think I am not capable of taking care of myself?”

“I think you’re capable of being shot at, James.” Mr. Runcorn led the way into the sitting room. “You escaped this afternoon, but it wasn’t by much. By now, that man will have had time to recover and be ready to make another attempt.”

Christy clasped her hands before her. “It would be far too easy, while you’re driving. Your carriage is unmistakable. Your beautiful horses—they’re so distinctive.”

“What do we have to do to convince you?” Mr. Runcorn regarded him, his expression somber. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for us, for we will not be able to sleep a wink all night for worrying whether or not you are safe.”

The major shook his head. “It would only be to delay the next attack. If indeed someone lies in wait for me tonight, then what is to stop him in the morning when I leave here?”

“Daylight may prove your friend,” Mr. Runcorn said. “It will be best if you refrain from now on from going out toward evening. A man can hide in shadows even in the dimming light.”

“He can do that in broad daylight.” The major’s expression remained grim. “Do you think I fear the ghosts? They are said to walk from tonight until Christmas Eve, remember. I can hardly skulk indoors for the next four days.”

“Please, James.” Mrs. Runcorn laid her hand on his arm. “We have the extra room. I assure you, you will be quite comfortable. You may even send Kepp for Wickes. You need want for nothing while you remain with us. And you will be far safer than at your lodgings.”

“Your man can bring your night rail and shaving kit,” Mr. Runcorn added.

The major’s gaze rested on him a moment, traveled to his wife, then settled on Christy. “And you, Miss Campbell? Have you no entreaties to add?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never yet known a man to take sound advice, so why should I expect you to listen, now?”

A short laugh escaped him. “It seems I must stay, if only to prove you wrong.”

Mrs. Runcorn smiled in relief. “How handsomely said, James.”

“Indeed,” he admitted. He turned his softened gaze on Christy. “Do you, also, think it unsafe for me to go out this night?”

“This night, especially. Our friend from the rink will be furious with himself for failing. And that means he’s all the more likely to strike again, fast, without due reflection, if the opportunity is presented to him. And that might make him all the more deadly.”

The major crossed to the fire and stared into it for several silent minutes. “Very well, then,” he said at last. “I accept your hospitality, with thanks.”

Relief left Christy weak. For this one night, at least, he would be safe.

Noises in the hall announced the return of the boys. Mr. Runcorn opened the door and called to Jem.

“Aye, sir?”

“When Kepp returns with the major’s curricle, will you hold the horses for him while he steps in, please?”

Jem took off with alacrity, not, Christy noted, delegating the task to one of the younger boys. All of them seemed pleased to do the major the most trifling service. She could understand that. He inspired loyalty.

Kepp arrived a few minutes later, then took himself off to fetch Wickes. That matter settled, Mrs. Runcorn headed down to the kitchen to see how Nancy progressed with the dinner. Christy followed, wanting to be of assistance. With the major joining them, she felt certain something special would be prepared.

She was right. Major Holborn, she learned, had a fondness for vacherin, a mixture of strawberry preserves and whipped cream, spooned into meringue baskets. Christy set to work steaming vegetables, and as soon as Nancy finished basting the main course of roasted mutton, she set about fixing the special dessert with Mrs. Runcorn’s aid. Her own task completed, Christy, over their protests, took herself off to oversee the setting of the table by the boys.

She started back up the stairs from the kitchen, only to stop short at the sight of a strange and very elegant man in his early forties descending toward her. Thinning blond hair receded from his high forehead, and a broad, blunt nose dominated his square face. His black coat fitted smoothly across his shoulders, and the faint spicy scent of a cologne hovered about him. He bowed to her and stepped aside to permit her to pass.

She hesitated. He seemed too much at home to be an intruder. But who—?

“Miss Campbell, don’t you go—” Nancy stuck her head out of the kitchen and broke off, “Ifn it ain’t Mr. Wickes. ’Ere, now, don’t you go a-scarin’ miss by creepin’ around. You ups and tells ’er who you is.”