A Christmas Keepsake (27 page)

“It’s all right,” he murmured against her hair. “Christy, it didn’t work, and I’m warned, now. I’ll take all precautions.”

She drew a shuddering breath. “I—I’ll stay with you.”

She was his for the taking—but for the wrong reason. Hunger for her wrenched his heart, but he shook his head and forced a smile. “You should go, now. You know perfectly well it’s shocking for you to be in my room. If anyone saw
you, you
wouldn’t have a shred of reputation left to you.”

“What does it matter?” Her voice sounded hollow. “I don’t exist in this time.”

Only in his heart—and that was one place she didn’t want him to keep her—yet. He escorted her to the door, promised he would see her downstairs in a few minutes when they departed for the village church, and shut her out in the hall. If only she would come again...

He turned back to his notes and glanced over the account of the house party. He wrote it just as Christy predicted. But would it stay that way? He had thought ail he had to do was get this down on paper, and the possibility of revolution would be avoided. But what if the print in his book altered because he wrote first one account, and then the other? Frustrated, he gathered the pages together and shoved them into the drawer.

Twenty minutes later, the party departed for the small church located less than a mile from Briarly. Sir Dominic and Lady Sophia rode in their carriage, along with Sir Oliver and Margaret. The rest elected to walk through the snow to enjoy the crisp morning air. They passed others, all of whom waved and exchanged Christmas greetings. The peeling of the bells rang clear and loud, summoning them to worship on this joyous morning.

James gave himself over to the pervading spirit. For a little while, at least, he lost himself in the celebration, and raised his rich baritone to join in the anthems and carols that filled the church. Closing his eyes, he listened to the vicar’s words of hope, and almost he could forget the difficult decisions awaiting him on the morrow—or the possibility of death which awaited him at every turn.

All too soon, the organ struck the final chords of the closing Christmas hymn, and with regret he returned to his present concerns. With the others, he filed down the aisle, exchanging felicitations with total strangers. It gave him a warm feeling. Christy, though, would be missing her family—and probably blaming him and his muddled affairs for taking her from them during this season.

He glanced back, to where she had been walking with Sir Oliver, and saw the old man alone. In fact, he realized after a few minutes of searching the crowd, he didn’t see her anywhere. He turned, his fears rising, and found Sir Dominic watching him.

“Is something wrong?” The elderly gentleman hurried forward.

“Christy. Miss Campbell. Do you know where she is?”

Lady Sophia, who had followed her husband, shook her head. “She was with me a few minutes ago. Then I believe she went toward the carriages.”

James set off in pursuit, following the line of motley assorted vehicles. He reached the end without catching so much as a glimpse of her. Had she started back to Briarly? She might have experienced the melancholy which came from spending Christmas so far from those she loved, and sought solitude.

A few of the churchgoers broke away from the milling crowd and headed for their carriages. James circled about the ancient stone building, making one last check before starting the trek back to the manor. Still no sight of her met his searching gaze. As he reached the front, a piercing scream rent the serenity.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The fear for Christy James had held in check broke loose, and he took off at a run, his heart pounding in his chest. Christy ... If something had happened to her—He rounded the corner of the church to see the milling crowd turned in the direction of the carriages. He pushed through, oblivious to everything except reaching the landau with several people gathered about it.

“C
or’ blimey, is she dead?” he heard an uncouth voice ask.

Unceremoniously, he thrust a little man aside and reached the carriage’s door. A middle-aged gentleman knelt on the step, looking at a crumpled figure within, wrapped in an all too familiar pelisse of brown wool. In his hand, the man held a vinaigrette, though he didn’t seem certain what to do with it.

“Christy?” James took it from him and clambered into the vehicle. His fingers found the pulse point in her neck, and relief flooded through him at the gentle beat.

Sir Oliver’s head appeared in the doorway. “What—” He broke off. “I’ll fetch Lady Sophia.” He disappeared.

James checked Christy for obvious injuries, and found none.

By the time Lady Sophia and Margaret joined him, he had opened the vinaigrette and held it to Christy’s nose.

“How did she get in here?” Margaret chafed Christy’s wrist.

“I don’t know.” He looked out the door. “Sir Dominic, is your barouche ready?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The man looked about, uncertain. “I’ll get it.”

St. Ives, who stood just outside, strode down the line of vehicles to the Briarly conveyance. James gathered Christy into his arms, then realized he couldn’t maneuver them both through the carriage door. Lord Farnham appeared below, and together they eased her inert form outside. James took her once more, and Farnham accompanied them to the now-readied vehicle.

“What happened?” Farnham demanded.

“There’s a swelling on the back of her head,” he said.

“My God,” Farnham breathed. “First you, and now—” He broke off.

James clenched his jaw. “I presume this was in light of a warning to me. Will you be kind enough to spread it about that nothing that happens to Miss Campbell will affect my decisions?”

Farnham gaped at him. “Do you mean you would allow some ruffian—”

“The devil with some ruffian!” James stopped at the Briarly carriage door. “This is the work of a member of our house party, not some mohawk. If I give in to this sort of intimidation, there will be no stopping it.”

He glanced around and saw Lord Brockenhurst and Sir Oliver just behind them. “You may be very sure I will find out who did this, and whoever is responsible will regret it very much indeed. But neither this, nor any possible future attack on Miss Campbell, will be allowed to influence my decisions. Is that understood?”

“Oh, quite clearly.” St. Ives opened the door. “May I be of assistance to you—Sire?”

James glared at him, then at Brockenhurst who stood nearby. He didn’t want any of them to touch her. And for all his bravado, if she were to be held hostage, he very much feared he would acquiesce to any demands to keep her safe. He only hoped these men would not guess as much.

A soft moan escaped her lips, and she stirred in his arms. Farnham pushed past him and climbed into the carriage, then held out impatient arms for her. With reluctance, James released her.

“What—?” Christy’s eyes fluttered open. “Ow!” she added, as Farnham laid her on the seat.

“Who hit you, Christy?” James joined them in the carriage, leaving no room for Margaret, who hesitated just outside.

Christy’s long lashes fluttered, her eyes opened, and she winced. It took a moment before her gaze settled on James’s face. “You’re safe,” she murmured.

His lip twitched. “Indeed I am. And what of you?”

“Me?” She shook her head, then grimaced. “I feel like a horse kicked me. A horse!” Her blue eyes widened. “James, that man on horseback—not the one Sir Dominic had watching you, but another. He was lurking among the carriages, and I tried to get a better look at him. Then—someone must have knocked me out.”

“And shoved you into a carriage so you wouldn’t be seen.” The thought of some villain touching her, manhandling her into the landau, set his fists clamping into punishing bunches of fives. When he finally caught up with this curst rum touch, he intended to supply him with a bit of very satisfying homebrewed. And he was not a man who normally took pleasure in violence. For this, he would make an exception.

“Did no one see anything?” Farnham demanded. “That hardly seems possible.”

“The line of carriages stood between Miss Campbell and anyone who might have been watching. If some of the coachmen weren’t with their vehicles, and her assailant caught her as she began to fall—” Brockenhurst shook his head.

Margaret touched James’s arm. “Let us take her back to Briarly. She will be far better once she is settled comfortably in her own chamber.”

James glanced at his erstwhile cousin’s wife. Her worry-filled gray eyes appeared unnaturally large against the pallor of her complexion. “You look all knocked to flinders. Come.” He extended his hand to assist her. “Get in, Margaret.”

Farnham jumped down, and ushered the countess inside. James settled beside Christy, his arm still about her. Margaret positioned herself on the facing seat, and Brockenhurst climbed up and settled beside her. Sir Dominic waved the driver on, and the carriage lurched forward.

“You are accompanying us?” James raised a questioning eyebrow at the viscount.

Brockenhurst shrugged. “You need someone to help you assist Miss Campbell down at the other end. Devilish bad
ton
to leave you in the lurch. You are, I believe, a man who understands duty?”

“I am.” James watched him with growing distrust.

Brockenhurst nodded, as if to himself. “Yes, duty. More like than not, it proves an unpleasant mistress. It is not often the observance of one’s duty can bring power and status. Ah, and so many other rewards. Really, you are quite to be envied.”

“Indeed? Yet my sole specific request, not to have this matter broached until
after
Christmas, has not been honored by a single person.”

Brockenhurst stiffened. “If I have given offense, sir—”

“Major,” James snapped. “Until this matter is settled, I would have you all call me ‘Major.’ ”

Duty. His gaze strayed to Christy, who leaned back against the squabs, her eyes once more closed. What happened when duty strayed so far from desire? To take a royal bride, when Christy filled his heart, was as unthinkable as Christy said.

But why should he marry—just yet, at least? He was only eight-and-thirty, and his own father hadn’t wed until he was almost sixty. James could do the same. Then he would have twenty years with his beloved.

Provided she remained in his time. If he lost her ... no, then it wouldn’t matter to him whom he wed. Duty would be all that would carry him on.

As they pulled up before Briarly, Christy roused. Stoutly she refused the assistance of either gentleman from the carriage, and descended on her own. “I’m much better,” she assured James, and caught herself as she wobbled.

James steadied her, his hands cupping her upper arms, guiding her up the stairs. Brockenhurst trailed after them. With a murmured excuse, Margaret hurried ahead, anxious to reach her own chamber. The probable date of her confinement loomed barely weeks ahead, James realized. She must feel the strain terribly. The carriage set off down the drive, returning to the church for more passengers.

“What happens now?” Christy asked as they entered the house.

“You rest,” James said.

She shook her head—though with care. “Do you think I intend to miss a single minute of Christmas? I’m a lot better, now. I want to stay here, where I can see you.”

And where he could see her. He led her to a sheltered alcove, partially hidden by a trailing tapestry, and settled her in a chair. She leaned back, eyes closed, and becoming color once more crept into her cheeks.

The servants, who had walked back from the church, swarmed into the Great Hall. They rearranged tables, brought out bowls of punch and plates heaped with delicacies, lit the decorated Christmas candles, and straightened the bows and berries which were strewn amid the holly, bay, and ivy. A maid hung fresh bunches of mistletoe while a footman placed more logs in the hearth. No winter chill would long linger here.

The house party had barely returned to the festive hall when the first of the visitors arrived. James folded his arms and stood beside Christy like a dog guarding his mistress, while about them, the country gentry mingled with the government officials, exchanging pleasantries and devouring the elaborate collation. This would go on for hours, he realized, with more guests stopping by, until at last the growing dark or the renewed snowfall brought the celebrations to a close.

Christy leaned forward, and he looked down at her at once. Lines of strain marred her features, and pain pinched her brow.

“Are you all right?” he asked quickly.

“Just a headache. What I wouldn’t give for some aspirin.”

James let the strange word pass. “How about some plum brandy? I believe I saw some a few minutes ago.”

He caught a passing footman, who obligingly fetched him a couple of glasses—poured, the lad assured him, from the same decanter from which the other guests drank. The servants, it appeared, had been alerted to James’s danger.

He carried the crystal goblets filled with their deep purple liquid to where Christy waited, and he toasted her before taking a sip. The sweet liquid burned down his throat, warming, easing his tension. She managed a half smile in response.

“What do you think of our Christmas?” he asked.

“It makes me homesick.” She twirled the stem between her fingers. “If I were at my mom’s, we’d be building snowmen and taking presents to friends and decorating more cookies because Matt and the kids would have eaten all of them. Then Jon and Gina would get out their guitars again and we’d sing—” She broke off and shoved her hand toward the side of her gown, but apparently couldn’t find what she sought. “Damn, I wish I had some chocolate.”

“I am sorry if you have been disappointed in our celebrations.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m enjoying your Christmas, but there are things I miss.
My
traditions. I want to string cranberries and popcorn,
in spite
of the fact I always prick my fingers and get salt in the cuts, and get sore from forcing the needle through the hard berries. I want a
tree,
and I didn’t get to hang up a stocking for Santa Claus. I didn’t even make my annual new decoration this year.”

He reached toward her, then allowed his hand to smooth over her unruly hair. “You have happy memories.” He could wish the same for himself.

Her lips twitched. “I suppose that’s all they’ll be, now, unless I can find a way home. At least I can have a tree—once Victoria marries Albert, of course.” Her half smile slipped awry. “She hasn’t even been born, yet.”

Against his better judgment, James asked: “Who is Victoria?”

“She’ll be queen after her father William dies. He’s king after your Prinny.”

“And she’s responsible for some of the customs you like?”

Christy nodded. “There’s nothing that says I can’t do them on my own, of course.”

He regarded the impeccable shine of his glossy Hessian boots. “And what if your Victoria never becomes queen?”

Very slowly, Christy turned to look up into his face. “James, do you really
want
to be king? History manages very well without you.”

“Did you, in your time, know of my existence? As the Stuart heir, I mean?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But then I never studied much British history, either. I only know the regency is given to Prince George, with no trouble attached. You weren’t mentioned in any of the books I checked.”

He paced a few steps away, then back. “History
could
follow a completely different course.”

She nodded. “To revolution instead of empire.”

“Christy—” He broke off. There it was again, their irreconcilable point of contention. He could forget it—briefly—in the pleasure of her company—and of sharing Christmas with her. But always it would loom up again between them.

Margaret came down the stairs, and James took the excuse to escape Christy. He needed time to think. Assured Margaret did as well as could be expected, he saw the woman into the care of Sir Oliver, who stood in conversation with Lord Farnham. St. Ives glanced in their direction and nodded, as if satisfied his wife stood in no need of him. James remained at her side, his polite smile in position but his thoughts drifting far away.

This Christmas season stood apart, unlike any in his past, unlike any he might experience in the future. No happy recollections lay behind him—but what loomed ahead? What would his Christmases—his entire future—be like, now he knew himself for a royal Stuart? The life he had known, he realized with a sense of anger, had been irrevocably taken from him.

Throughout the remainder of Christmas day, visitors continued to flow through Briarly. James kept Christy constantly in sight, though she shied away from him, avoiding any resumption of the intimacy they had shared earlier. He would win her back, he vowed, convince her she harmed no one by being in his arms, in his bed. With an effort, he wrenched his mind from the conjured image. Right now, he needed to concentrate all his attention and energy on keeping them both alive.