A Christmas Keepsake (24 page)

“Do you think I cannot sit a horse? I wish some exercise. I shall not run away or come to grief, and if I did either, I assure you there would be nothing you could do. I promise to return within the hour. It is my wish,” he added, exasperated.

Sir Oliver regarded him, his expression troubled. “If you would indeed rather be alone—?”

“I would.”

Before any more arguments could be put forward, he spurred his horse onward. For a full quarter of an hour, he allowed his mount its head as the mad dash eased his tension. At last the animal slowed, and James patted its streaming neck as he brought it to a walk.

Only then did the folly of his actions dawn on him. He’d permitted his temper to get the better of him, to drive away his protectors. Well, he could take care of himself, and so they would learn.

He’d come a good distance, but he would still have time to walk back, cooling his mount, before his watchdogs became anxious. He followed a stream, now frozen over and partly covered in snow, until he encountered a stone wall. For once he experienced no desire to jump it. Nor did his mount, which plodded along, head lowered, still blowing from their freezing dash through the countryside.

James patted the animal’s neck again. “Well, old man, shall we—”

A gunshot exploded, all too near. The horse reared, slid on the icy mud, and fell over backward, throwing James against the stones.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aching pain roused James back to consciousness. For a long moment he lay still, trying to discover a portion of his anatomy that didn’t hurt, then abandoned the unequal attempt. At least nothing seemed to be broken. Everything responded when he tried to move it.

With a concerted effort, he dragged himself to his feet and dusted off the clinging snow. Cold seeped through to his bones from lying in that muddy drift. His horse was nowhere in sight. Well, that didn’t surprise him. If it had any sense, it probably had gone home. Which was what he should do.

With only a few uncomplimentary thoughts about mounts which deserted their riders, he set off on foot for the journey back to the house. His head throbbed dully, as if the animal had delivered a swift kick to the back of his skull before departing. More likely he had struck the wall. He probed the area with a gentle hand and found an impressive goose egg already well developed. His fingers came away streaked in blood. Now how—

He came to an abrupt halt as memory flooded back. He hadn’t been clumsy, someone had fired a shot. Why hadn’t that person finished him off, while he was unconscious? It would have been all too easy.

He swore under his breath. He’d walked—or ridden—right into that one by shaking off his protectors. Still, the question remained of why he wasn’t dead.

Three possible answers occurred to him as he resumed walking. His assailant might have been pressed for time, or might have thought he’d succeeded. Or it might all have been an accident, caused by a careless hunter. The last seemed the likeliest. At any rate, he seemed safe enough at the moment.

Trudging through the mounds of snow proved close to impossible. Either he sank in past the tops of his riding boots, further drenching his leather breeches, or his heel skidded on the ice slick. Twice, he sprawled unceremoniously on a particularly slippery patch.

At last he reached another stone wall, and beyond it lay the road. By dint of gritting his teeth, he clambered over the obstacle, finding a few more protesting muscles in the process, and stepped gingerly across the ditch. With more confidence, he struck out along the muddy surface of the lane.

Some twenty minutes later, as he neared the shrubbery boundary of Briarly, three men on horseback cantered into the lane from the drive. Behind them came Sir Dominic in his curricle. Brockenhurst reigned in, effectively blocking the others, and allowed James to approach.

“Your horse came home without you ... sir.” Only the slightest hesitation sounded before that final word.

Deference might color his tone, but James also detected the amusement in the man’s eye. Could this have been a practical joke?

“What happened?” Sir Oliver demanded, his expression grim.

“Some poacher in the woods, I believe. My horse spooked at the firing, then had the misfortune to slip on the ice. Has he strained anything?”

Brockenhurst snorted. “Saint Ives is in the stable with him now.”

“Of course,” James murmured.

“Confounded poachers.” Sir Dominic, who had reached them in time to hear the account, glared down the road. “Damned rascally fellows.”

“Probably just trying to obtain something for their Christmas Eve dinner.” James winced as he climbed into the seat of the carriage.

Sir Dominic turned the equipage and started for home. “Miss Campbell is quite concerned.”

“What kept her from coming after me?” James asked, interested. It would take a great deal to keep his Christy away.

Sir Dominic chuckled. “My wife. She insisted Miss Campbell would only be in the way, and set her to tearing bandages to wrap your supposed wounds. Your Miss Campbell has an amazingly strong will for a female.”

“I’d noticed.”

They rounded the curve of the drive and came into sight of the house. By the time they pulled up before the front door, Christy had reached the porch. She ran down the front steps, then came to a halt barely inches from James.

“Are you all right?” Her anxious gaze searched his face.

“As you see. Somewhat bruised,” he added, as she showed signs of checking on the spot.

“That’s all? What happened?”

He eased himself down to the gravel drive, and instantly she caught him, as if she could bear his weight into the house. He waved her aside, but as usual she ignored him. As they went up the stairs, he told her.

In the hall he found himself confronted with Wickes, Lady Sophia, Margaret, and both the butler and housekeeper. He waved away all suggestions of potions, vinaigrettes, liniments, and pastilles, but accepted the offer of a stiff brandy and a bathtub to be carried to his room. What he wanted more than anything, he confessed, was a long soak in a hot tub to ease his muscles.

Christy trailed him to his chamber, but caught his arm before he entered. He studied her anxious face for a moment, then gestured for Wickes to precede him.

“Yes?” he asked softly.

Christy glanced through the doorway, to where the efficient valet laid a new fire in the hearth—out of hearing distance. “Damn it, James, I’ve been worried sick about you! Can’t you take even the simplest precautions? You
know
someone is trying to kill you. How could you be such an
idiot
as to send everyone home?”

His eyes narrowed. “I wanted to be alone. Obviously that was the wrong choice. Never mind, you may bear me company now.”

She regarded him, suspicion rife on her lovely face.

“Come scrub my back for me,” he suggested. She bit her lip, and the longing in her eyes set his pulse rate racing.

Determinedly, she shook her head. “All you need is a soak. If you have to dance tonight, you don’t want to be stiff.” Abruptly she turned and hurried away.

Before she could give in to temptation, perhaps? That thought made him feel considerably better.

Christmas Eve, Christy reflected, and she had spent most of the day among virtual strangers. And James ... No, she couldn’t give in to the love that filled her. Every minute she remained in his world proved to her she didn’t belong in it. Once the novelty of his new status wore off, and he no longer needed the security she offered, he, too, would begin to see how poorly she fit in among the elite. She couldn’t bear to see his love fade, or watch him turn to another, more suitable, woman.

Hands off, no matter how painful, was the safest policy.

She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t delay this any longer, she supposed. She was as ready as she could be without any makeup to give her confidence. She arranged the shawl she’d borrowed from Lady St. Ives about her shoulders, and headed for the door.

She reached the Great Hall as Lady Sophia, a vision in dull gold lace and silk, swept out of the salon. Three ostrich plumes decorated her soft, silvered curls, which clustered about her powdered face. Her husband, resplendent in a mulberry velvet coat and black satin knee breeches, followed, leaning on his cane.

“Ah, my dear,” Lady Sophia cried, seeing Christy. “You look lovely.”

Christy blinked. What she looked was inappropriate to the occasion, if these two were anything to judge by. She’d known there would be dancing, but the fact of it being a formal
ball
hadn’t sunk in until now. She should have stayed in her room.

She hadn’t realized how
elegant
these people could look in their old-fashioned clothes. She felt like a frump.

“Will there be many people here tonight?” She cast an uneasy glance at her amber crepe gown, and knew it to be lacking.

“Oh, no, my dear. It will be quite a small ball, under the circumstances. No more than twenty couples.”

She did some rapid arithmetic. Forty people. And she’d be standing out like a weed at an orchid show.

Sir Dominic clasped her hand. “Have no fear, Miss Campbell. The guests have been selected with care. Only those friendly to our cause—or in ignorance of it—will attend.”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes and turned away. Surely no one would dare try to assassinate James with so many people about. He must be safe, at least for this one night.

They sat down twenty to dinner. The others, Christy gathered, would arrive later. The meal, perhaps due to the addition of so many guests, all in a festive spirit, proved a far livelier affair than that of the previous night. The wine passed freely, and Christy found her glass refilled with alarming regularity. The dining room itself had been transformed, with boughs of holly, ivy, and bay draped across the sideboard, surrounding two thick candles wrapped with holly. Bright red berries glistened everywhere.

James, much to her dismay, sat near the head of the table with a beautiful young lady on either side. Sir Dominic must be regretting he hadn’t had the foresight to snare a European princess or two to dangle like bait in front of him. Though she feared James was already far too willing to listen to Sir Dominic’s schemes.

And why shouldn’t he? After all, he would be following in his family’s tradition. If it weren’t for the potential consequences, she would be behind this herself.

Christy buried her sorrows by sampling such delicacies as pheasant pie and preserved ginger, and a traditional dish of wheat boiled in milk and seasoned with sugar and spices, which Sir Oliver called frumenty. So that’s what the boys had gone “Thomassing” to get the ingredients for.

She had barely finished her minced pie when the footmen cleared the table and refilled her glass with a spiced wine. One of the older gentlemen near the head began a lively story, but the arrival of the first of the ball guests brought this to a rapid conclusion. Lady Sophia and Sir Dominic led the way to the ballroom, where they were kept busy for some time receiving the flow of visitors.

When the majority of the guests had arrived, the butler threw wide the huge double doors leading into the Great Hall, and two grooms, assisted by the footmen, wheeled in a barrow in which rested a gigantic tree root. This they conveyed to the cavernous hearth. With great ceremony, the butler unwrapped a charred brand, lit it from a taper, and held it to the Yule log until at last it caught. The guests gathered about, and Sir Dominic led them in the singing of a carol while the wood smoldered. For a minute smoke gushed, then the flames grew brighter and the draft drew through the chimney.

The musicians took their place in their balcony, and the cacophony of strings tuning and warming up filled the vast chamber. The guests mingled, arranging partners, and Christy found herself standing alone. She made her way to a refreshment table on which stood a bowl of spiced, but nonalcoholic, cider. She procured a cup of this and located a comfortable seat to watch.

“You are not preparing to dance?” Lord Farnham bowed before her. “May I have the honor of adding my name to your card?”

Christy shook her head. “I don’t think I know any of your dances. I’d hate to embarrass some poor—” She broke off. Not far from her, James bowed before a curvaceous blonde and took her hand. Christy gritted her teeth and turned back to Lord Farnham.

He shook his head. “There will be any number of gentlemen desolated.”

Christy managed a false smile as he moved on to Lady St. Ives. Just how hard
were
these dances, anyway?

The musicians struck up the first piece, and the couples arranged themselves in four long lines. Christy leaned forward, studying the movements as the participants bowed or curtsied, then changed positions back to back with their partners. They chassed, cast off, then changed face to face with their opposite corner. So this was where square dancing originated. But she liked this stately form far better than the livelier version. And as long as she kept an eye on the others, it couldn’t be too hard, could it?

James certainly knew how to dance. He moved through the steps with studied grace—as did his partner. They obviously enjoyed themselves, and the movements showed the girl off to her best advantage. Christy bit her lip, and watched as the blonde raised her laughing face to look at James.

The first dance ended, the gentlemen escorted their partners from the floor, then went in search of their next ladies. James led out a flame-haired beauty in a fluttering lace gown which left little to the imagination. Christy watched, temper smoldering, willing that brazen flirt to make a blunder.

“Miss Campbell?” Sir Oliver bowed low before her. “We cannot have you sitting alone like this.”

“You’re welcome to join me.” She managed a bright smile, and hoped he’d think she enjoyed herself.

He directed a speculative glance at her, then to where James took his partner’s hand and circled with her. “Do you find our dances so very different?”

“I wish I’d taken a few lessons,” she admitted.

“There are only just so many basic steps, which are combined in different ways. That is a half poussette,” he said as the couples took hands and exchanged places once more. “And this is four hands around,” he added as groups of four joined hands and walked in a circle.

By the time the dance ended, Christy recognized a number of moves. She thanked Sir Oliver as he took his leave of her, then studied the next dance as it began.

Periodically over the next two hours, Sir Oliver or Lady St. Ives, whom the older man appeared to have recruited, sat at her side to continue her instruction. Christy’s confidence rose as she recognized the repeated movements, until she almost felt ready to try herself.