By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) (22 page)

To cheers—and laughing jeers from the “other lads”—Christopher took a bow.

Then he stood with the other five as Sebastian, in the center, spread his arms and said, “Our journey home was slow, but without incident. And so that’s our Christmas tale for you—how we were called upon to aid in bringing a new life into the world, with help from all the saints and deities involved, on Christmas morning.”

Sebastian bowed low and the others bowed with him, and the Great Hall erupted with cheers, clapping, and the stamping of booted feet.

Many called compliments, and the Cynster elders beamed proudly on the future of their house—the leaders of the next generation—as they smiled and acknowledged the compliments, then made their way back to their seats.

At the high table, Catriona nodded to the waiting servers; they’d all gathered in the archway from the kitchen to listen to the tale. Within minutes, flaming plum puddings and jugs of rich custard were ferried out, and the hungry hordes quieted.

Seated beside Daniel and marveling at the luscious taste of the pudding—she’d never had better—Claire seized the moment when Daniel looked across the table to study his profile.

How could she tell if he loved her? There had to be a way.

She returned her gaze to her plate before he caught her staring. She accepted that she had to go forward and, one way or another, learn what she needed to know; somewhere in the dark watches of the night, she’d moved past the point where she might have backed away. Whether that had been due to Melinda’s advice or some element of her own determination, she didn’t know, but she no longer viewed simply turning away from Daniel as a viable path.

She had to find out what was possible between them or she would regret it for the rest of her life.

But how was she to find the answer to the question on which everything else seemed to depend?

She consumed the pudding and custard in silence, that thought revolving in her mind.

Daniel viewed Claire’s silence with increasing misgiving. As matters stood between them, he had no idea if he was on the cusp of success or abject failure.

On the one hand, he was hopeful and counseled himself to patience; pressing her at this point might not be wise. Their day had been full of shared emotions—not the same emotions he hoped she felt for him and that he most definitely felt for her, but quite other emotions; trying to shift their focus to the personal in the midst of such communal engagement would, he felt, be a serious misstep.

But what if Alasdair or Rupert was summoned south tomorrow, and he or she had to leave with their respective families? What if she didn’t agree while they were at the manor?

If he didn’t gain her agreement to, at the very least, allow him to formally court her, then he didn’t know when he might get another chance to press his suit.

And given the nebulous hurdle that, courtesy of her previous marriage, stood between them, pursuing her from a distance was not going to work.

He had to make headway in learning about the dragon he needed to slay, and as soon as possible.

But for today… As the banquet, for it had been that, finally ended, he helped her to rise and climb over the bench seat.

And seized the few seconds when everyone around them was likewise absorbed with sorting themselves out; holding onto her hand, he gently squeezed her fingers and murmured low so that only she could hear, “I want to know everything about you—I want to know your demons as well as your desires.” He caught her gaze as, eyes widening, she glanced up at him. “I will never give up pursuing my dream—pursuing you…” He searched her eyes. “Unless and until you say me nay. Until then, I’m yours, regardless of whether you move to claim me.” Pressing her hand, he released it. “Remember that, my dearest Claire.”

Claire held his gaze for a moment more, then had to yield to the press of bodies around them and turn toward the door.

I want to know everything about you—I want to know your demons as well as your desires.

As she strolled with the crowd, with Daniel behind her, she replayed his words. Let them sink into her heart. Into her soul.

Drawing in a breath, as she passed under the mistletoe and into the front hall, she decided she might just hold him to them.

* * *

Before Lucilla could join the others in heading for their rooms and their beds—their performance before everyone had drained the last of their energies; they’d all actually admitted to feeling wrung out—she was hailed by Algaria.

“You go on,” Lucilla said to Prudence. “I doubt this will take long.”

And if it did, she might fall asleep where she sat.

With an exhausted nod, Prudence went.

Lucilla stepped onto the dais; her parents and the other Cynster elders had already repaired to the drawing room or the library. Making her way past the empty benches, she reached the end of the high table and perched on the end of one bench so that her gaze was nearer to level with her grandmother’s and Algaria’s, both of whom regarded her with bird-bright eyes, one pair palest green, the other black.

McArdle was asleep and snoring softly in the armchair closer to and angled toward the hearth.

“So tell us.” Algaria resettled her shawl about her stooped shoulders. “I want all the details you left out about the birth, and your grandmother isn’t likely to have the vapors from overhearing, so talk.”

Lucilla managed to keep her lips straight, but the laughing, indulgent look the dowager cast Algaria very nearly overset her. Carefully, she drew a long breath, then, her voice steady, she described the birth in the detail she knew Algaria wanted, adding what she’d observed about Lottie and the details of the tisane she’d brewed, and the mead- and gin-based potions she’d left behind for Lottie to help with the aftereffects.

Both old ladies listened without interrupting, their gazes locked—rather unnervingly—on Lucilla’s face.

But when she reached the end of her recitation, Algaria nodded with patent approval. “Excellent. You did precisely as you should have throughout.” Algaria bestowed on Lucilla one of her very rare smiles. “I taught you well, and you remembered when you needed the information. That’s all any mentor can ask.”

Somewhat taken aback by what was, from Algaria, richly fulsome praise, Lucilla hesitated, then asked a question that that been circling in her brain for the past twelve and more hours—ever since she’d come close enough to Thomas Carrick to realize that he was Lady-touched, too. “I wanted to ask…” She looked at Algaria. “Indeed, I’m surprised I haven’t thought to ask this before, but how far around the Vale does the Lady’s protection extend?”
Into the lands to our north? The Carrick lands, for instance?

Algaria’s brows arched as if she, too, hadn’t previously thought of that point, but then the old woman shrugged. “I know it’s not limited to the Vale but spills into the surrounding areas. However, I’ve never known it to have precise borders.” She trapped Lucilla’s gaze. “Better ask instead how far Her mantle extends. Were you out from under it—did you lose your link to Her—in that cottage? You know what it feels like when you travel to London.”

“Ah—I see.”

“And?” Algaria prompted.

“No, I wasn’t out of touch while in the cottage—or, indeed, anywhere we rode on Christmas Eve—so the mantle extends at least that far.”
Into Carrick lands.

“Well, then. You have your answer.” Algaria sat back. “And now you’d better go and rest. You’re at low ebb, I can tell.”

Letting her weariness show, Lucilla smiled and rose.

Stowing away the knowledge that, as she and Marcus were, Thomas Carrick was also under the Lady’s direct protection—and she had to wonder why that was—Lucilla bobbed a curtsy to Algaria and her grandmother. Only as she turned away did she realize that Helena had listened quietly throughout, and, unlike Algaria, Helena had
heard
.

Deciding she was too tired to even speculate as to what her unnervingly perspicacious grandmother might do with whatever knowledge she’d gained, Lucilla headed for her room and her bed.

CHAPTER 9

In the quiet of the afternoon, when the manor lay somnolent in the aftermath of the huge meal, Daniel finally tracked Claire down to a window seat high in one of the manor’s turrets. When he first spied her, she was looking out of the window, but hearing his boots on the stone, she turned. And smiled, although there was a hint of wry resignation in the gesture.

He smiled back—as lightly as he could, yet tension had been building inside him all day; it chose that moment to grip and tighten. His chest felt like iron bands had locked about it, restricting his breathing. He waved at the cushioned space alongside her. “May I?”

Lips curving gently, she inclined her head. “Indeed, you may.”

He sat. Then he angled his head and looked at her, met her eyes. He held her gaze for several seconds, then he lowered his. To her hands, resting in her lap.

On impulse—one he didn’t question—he reached over, picked up her nearer hand, and drew it across to cradle between his. She didn’t resist, neither his touch nor the claiming. Driven by burgeoning need and emboldened by that acceptance, he said, his voice low, “I know I shouldn’t press you, that I should give you whatever time you need to consider…whatever it is you need to consider.”

She must have heard something in his voice; she swiveled on the seat to face him. She placed her other hand over his, gripping lightly.

He drew breath and turned his head. Met her eyes, briefly searched them. “But I have to ask—I have to know. Is there any hope for me? For us?”

Claire looked into his warm hazel eyes and saw—was allowed to see, openly and clearly displayed—a devotion she could count on, a depth of commitment that would always be there. Solid, dependable, unwavering.

And she sensed—felt—an answering response, the reality of a reciprocal commitment that was already there, in existence and real, a connection to another she’d spent her adult life dreaming of finding.

“I…” Searching his eyes as he had searched hers, she reached—for honesty, for the simple truth. Feeling as if she was teetering on the brink of taking some ineradicable step, she swallowed her hesitancy and said, “I need to know—”

A shrill scream cut her off.

Both she and Daniel reacted instantly. Turning to the window, rising so they could better peer down, they looked, saw—froze for just a second—then both whirled and plunged down the turret stairs.

Daniel was in the lead, and with his longer legs, he quickly outstripped her. Her heavy skirts hiked to her calves—modesty be damned, she couldn’t risk falling—she ran on in his wake, praying they would get to the riverbank in time.

The scene they’d looked out on had been one of incipient disaster. A large group of children—not Cynsters but of the household families—had slipped out to play in the heavy drifts of snow. Sparkling overlays of ice had transformed the tiered terrace gardens between the manor and the burn into a winter wonderland. Inevitably, some of the children had been drawn to the banks of the burn—the treacherous banks, for despite the icy weather, the burn still flowed beneath a crust of ice and snow. Later in the season, perhaps it would freeze enough for skating, but at present, it was a trap waiting for the unwary.

One boy had fallen in, and at least two more were stranded.

Two girls, screaming and sobbing, were clinging to a crumbling snowdrift, their boots dangling in the icy waters.

Panting, Claire reached the ground floor and raced into the corridor leading to the side door. At the corridor’s far end, the door stood open, no doubt thrust wide by Daniel as he’d raced through.

Ahead of Claire, heading toward the door, Polby exclaimed, “Great heavens! Leaving doors open in this weather—”

“Polby!” Claire reached him and grabbed his arm. “Leave the door.” Meeting the butler’s startled gaze, she gasped, “Children—several—have fallen into the burn. Mr. Crosbie rushed out to help. I’m going, too. Get others—everyone you can. We especially need more men who can fish the children out.”

She could help, but in her heavy winter skirts, she couldn’t risk going in deeper than her knees.

Polby’s eyes flew wide, but he understood. Without waiting to see more, Claire released him and rushed to the doorway.

She went straight through, paused on the stoop to swiftly take stock, then stepped off the porch onto ice-slicked snow. She’d been to the manor often enough to know the layout of what was, in other seasons, a large productive herb garden. She could remember where the paths were, but snow covered everything and was made yet more perilous by patches of ice; she had to pick her way carefully.

Clenching her jaw against the first assault of the cold, she sternly told herself she’d be no help if she broke a leg. She was experienced enough to rein in the impulse to rush precipitously forward, yet a pounding urgency to reach a spot where she could see what was going on and then help Daniel—and ensure that he was safe, too—thundered in her blood.

Looking down from the turret, they’d been able to see the whole scene laid out below them; coming from the house, she had to clear a lip of the gardens about halfway down before she could see what was occurring along the burn.

Finally reaching the spot, she paused in what had become a mad scramble and surveyed the scene. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Oh, God.”

Daniel had plunged into the burn’s icy waters. He was holding a little boy up against his chest, flailing to keep both their heads above water.

The burn was a lot deeper than she’d thought; worse, she could glimpse rocks—dark gray and jagged—protruding here and there, silent threats lurking within the churning water.

Two other boys were half submerged in the rushing waters; they were desperately clinging to a large rock, fighting to hold on and keep their heads clear.

The two girls in danger of slipping in had been grabbed by other children and were being held suspended half in and half out of the icy burn; the other children weren’t strong enough to pull the girls to safety.

The cold was intense, the chill sharp enough to cut.