A Christmas Keepsake (23 page)

“Now look who is being noble,” he said softly.

She tried to ignore his words. “From now on, I’m just your bodyguard and advisor. We have a revolution to prevent, remember? I’m here in your time for a reason.” She had to concentrate on that, keep her thoughts from her hopeless love, from all she was losing. Last night—“James! I—I actually forgot! I think I know who’s trying to kill you.”

He froze. “Who?”

“Brockenhurst.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he startled her as a reluctant chuckle broke from him. “That
dandy?
My love, you’ve had some wild notions, but this one knocks the others all to flinders. What possible reason would Brockenhurst have for wanting me dead?”

“He mocks your helping the poor, doesn’t he? He’s probably afraid any country under your regency would play Robin Hood.”

His brow snapped down. “You are being absurd.”

“Am I? James, if you become regent—”

“Oh, no, Christy, not today. I have enough to assimilate as it is, without considering my next actions.”

“No, just listen to me. Brockenhurst went
out
last night. And he was
sneaking.
And he’s been cultivating Nancy. Why else would he do it if he wasn’t trying to spy on you?”

“Possibly because Nancy is a very pretty girl.”

“James—”

“Not today!” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Not today. This is Christmas Eve, Christy. Let’s try to enjoy the season, while we can.”

She drew a steadying breath. “I wish we were back at the Runcorns with the boys. Christmas should be spent with children.”

He looked away, but not before she glimpsed the bleakness of his expression. Her heart went out to him. Poor, dear James. He suffered, sacrificing his personal happiness to his sense of duty. He was so vulnerable—and right now, so was she.

She picked up her mistletoe. “ Tis the season to be jolly,” she said, and tried to smile.

“Then let us try.” He also gathered his greenery, and determinedly they set about decorating the room.

She lacked any joyous spirit, though. At least she could be near James, know he was safe and unharmed. That would have to be her comfort.

By the time she trailed him back to the Great Hall, Lady St. Ives had joined the group there. While two maids sorted the piles of greenery, the countess assisted her hostess in weaving garlands. Already, several long strands waited.

As Christy crossed the marble tiles, Lord Farnham bore down on James. That gentleman stopped short and awarded the major a deferential bow. “Sir,” he said. “We have much to discuss this day.”

“We have nothing to discuss today. This is Christmas Eve. I intend to spend it in an appropriate manner.” He selected one of the finished garlands and began to wind it about the mahogany banister.

Farnham shook his head, his gaze resting thoughtfully on James. Slowly he turned and saw Christy, and his brow furrowed. He strode up to her, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low. “Miss Campbell, it seems the major is reluctant. He must be convinced, for the sake of our great England.”

“You’re telling me.” She didn’t bother pointing out, though, that they hoped to influence him in opposite directions. She said nothing more, and after a moment, he wandered away.

Next down the stairs came Brockenhurst. Christy stiffened as he approached James, but he merely greeted the major with a marked degree of respect and moved on. Christy watched him, her gaze narrowed, but he made no other move toward James.

At last she relaxed her vigil and joined in the decorating. Within the hour, the other members of the house party joined in the morning’s labors. Sir Dominic called for his valet, who was an accomplished fiddler, and soon the Great Hall filled with the strains of Christmas carols. Christy listened, trying to identify the unfamiliar tunes.

Where were her favorites? She needed them to cheer her, to remind her of home—and happier times. “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” though, began life as a Victorian memorization game, and Franz Gruber didn’t get around to composing “Silent Night” until 1818. At last the man played one she recognized, and she blended her voice with the violin strains on “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” After a few seconds, the others joined in, as well.

This was more like it. Almost, if she closed her eyes, she could envision her sister Gina playing her guitar, her family about her instead of these strangers. It was Christmas, a season of hope. She looked toward James and saw his brow less furrowed, his expression less troubled. He, too, it seemed, found a measure of comfort in the message of the season. She hoped it would sustain them both through the difficult days ahead.

Sir Oliver handed her a sprig of mistletoe. “Can you find a suitable place for this, Miss Campbell?”

“Indeed, I can.” She tucked it into a bare spot in a holly garland. “There, that looks better.”

“A very capable young lady, I see.” He eyed her in a contemplative manner.

Another one. Her heart sank. “Not very.”

He shook his head. “Now, I feel quite certain, if you put your mind to it, you would be able to use your influence with the major to encourage him to declare his right to the throne.”

“Do you? That’s funny. I get the distinct feeling he isn’t easily influenced by anyone.” At least, she hoped so. She gave Sir Oliver a false smile and moved away, joining the violin with “Adeste Fideles.”

She had barely reached what she mistakenly thought of as safety when someone touched her arm. She broke off her stumbling rendition of the Latin words and turned to see Viscount Brockenhurst.

A serious expression marked his undeniably handsome countenance. “Miss Campbell, you count yourself a friend of Major Stuart’s.”

She managed a smile. “Too much so to bring any pressure on him at the moment. Give him time.”

Or should she suggest they pursue him with relentless vigor? Her lips twitched. That might turn him against the whole scheme. And somehow, he had to be turned against it. With a sigh, she wondered if all of them would try to get to him through her.

She learned the answer to that question all too soon. Before the party retired to the breakfast parlor for a cold collation at two o’clock, every person present had approached her, including Lady Sophia. Lady St. Ives, admittedly, did so with reluctance, but her pleas held a discouraging ring of sincerity. To each of them, Christy returned a polite refusal, and no longer blamed James in the least for demanding a day or two of peace.

She could, of course, tell them the truth, that they were on the wrong track. Yet without proof of the success of Prinny’s regency—of the potential danger of James’s very existence—no one had any reason to believe her. And on one point she had to agree with these men. James would make a far more worthy ruler than Prinny in every respect.

But would he ever get to prove it? What if, after all, only the two possible versions of history existed? Then either James would quietly disappear, unheard of by anyone outside these walls, or his appointment as regent would trigger a revolution that would destroy the England they all loved.

James drummed his fingers on the table. If he remained indoors one more minute, he might start throwing things. Admittedly, he had enjoyed the decorating—or at least he would have, had he not contended with five gentlemen’s gazes boring into his back. Their determination was almost a tangible force, and an infectious one at that.

Almost, he conceded the good he could do as regent. Almost Christy’s warnings troubled him, and he found he could not dismiss them. Were there only the two choices for history, though? If there were others, if he could make a better life for the poor, if his struggles for social equality could actually take on reality...

Yet at what cost? The Stuart name always stirred controversy. And here he was, a Stuart yet a Protestant, with a chance to retake the throne for his family honor. A Stuart...

Hell and the devil confound it, it was enough to make his head ache, trying to determine the possible consequences. He slammed down his mug of ale and came to his feet in one fluid movement.

“Sir?” Sir Dominic rose, leaning heavily on his cane. “What is it you wish?”

To be left alone! But he didn’t voice that thought. He wanted to escape ... “Are there horses? I would like to ride.”

“Of course. I will have mounts brought around for us all as soon as you are finished with your meal.”

James smiled with what grace he could muster. A crowd wasn’t what he had in mind, yet how could he avoid it without being rude?

Christy looked up, frowning. “I’m not very good—”

He threw her a rueful smile. “Stay here, then, where it’s warm. It seems I will not lack for chaperonage.” But he’d far rather have her at his side. He could teach her to ride—only she’d refuse, and try to keep a distance between them.

His lips twitched with the irony. Somehow, they had changed places. No wit would be he, trying to undermine
her g
ood intentions. She was stubborn, his Christy. Yet so was he. He would win her back to his arms where he needed her, warm and caring.

He turned and strode from the room, and the others scurried in his wake. Lord help him, was that another thing to which he would have to grow accustomed? This damnable deference? Was Christy the only one still prepared to argue with him and risk his displeasure? If they but knew it, they did their cause no good by this treatment of him.

He took the stairs two at a time, headed for his chamber to change into riding dress. He took no pleasure in the fact that those of the gentlemen able to bound after him, did so.

Thirty minutes later, all six men set forth, five on horseback and Sir Dominic in his curricle. The bright, clear day, the crisp wind blowing in his face, everything about the glorious afternoon beckoned James to take the nearest fence flying and gallop across the heath. He set his teeth and resigned himself to a dull trot along the road. This was almost as bad as driving with the Four-in-Hand Club to Salt Hill.

Before twenty minutes dragged by, he found himself wishing heartily for a blizzard, anything that would drive the others back indoors. His companions rode in a respectful silence that further distanced him from them. Even St. Ives’s acidic tongue remained still.

If he raised a finger, would they fall over themselves, fawning, to ask his bidding? He didn’t want to find out. He had more important problems to puzzle through, such as the relative good he could do for England weighed against the probable alterations to the history Christy knew.

Right at this moment, though,
her
history lay far in
his
future. It could all happen differently, not at all as she knew it, and for the better. Would that not be worth any risk?

Yet Christy didn’t think so. He dug his heel into his mount’s side, and it swished an annoyed tail and lunged forward into a canter. He guided it over a ditch solid with frozen mud, then onto the verge beyond. Ice crackled beneath its hooves.

He drew a deep breath of pure freedom, leaned low, and urged the animal into a gallop. Behind him, hoofbeats pounded in pursuit. He started to push his mount faster, realized he tried to escape his escort, and drew in, annoyed with himself. After a few more paces, he reigned to a halt, and regarded his self-appointed court.

“There is no need for us to stay together, if any of you would rather turn back. Forgive me, Sir Dominic, I find myself in the mood for a long gallop.”

“Of course.” Sir Dominic glanced at Sir Oliver.

His friend nodded. “With your permission, sir, may I accompany you?”

“I do not require attendants,” James said, as gently as he could through his rising irritation.

“Not as an attendant. I, too, enjoy a good gallop.” Probably, he did. Advancing middle age had done nothing to slow this robust man. He could not refuse the company.

St. Ives also elected to join the cross-country run, leaving Brockenhurst and Lord Farnham to turn back with Sir Dominic. Three down, two to go, James reflected, and urged his horse forward.

St. Ives pulled abreast of him. “Have you been thinking about what they said, yesterday?”

“I have. You must have been delighted to discover I am not really your cousin.”

St. Ives laughed, but it contained little amusement. “ ‘Dear Coz,’ ” he said. “It has a far more familiar ring than ‘Sire.’ ”

“Good God,” James said, and shuddered.

A slow smile almost disguised St. Ives’s sneer. “Just so. I believe I shall return, as well. It’s devilish cold, and I find what little mud has melted is spattering my top boots. With your permission, Sire?”

“Go to the devil,” James told him, only joking in part. He turned his horse toward the fence that bordered the road and cleared it, without looking back.

Sir Oliver followed, but his shout brought James to a halt. He turned back to find the older man swinging to the ground.

“I think he may have strained a tendon” Sir Oliver frowned. “I’m afraid I’ll have to lead him back. I am sorry to curtail your exercise, sir.”

“There isn’t any need. I’ll go on by myself.”

The other shook his head. “I should not leave you.”