Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages) (3 page)

The man reached across her to tuck in the blanket and she reached out and grabbed his arm.

“I’d have died if you hadn’t come along, Mr. Ferguson. I mean, actually
died
. So, thank you.” She yawned. “Maybe I can do a better job of thanking you when my shock wears off.”

“Rest yerself, lass. In the time it takes to pull this carriage back up to the castle, you can have yourself a nice wee nap. Forget your troubles. We’ll just leave them in the drink, along with Ol’ Bess. What say ye?”

“Sure.” That was all the sense she was capable of since her mind kept catching on the word castle. “Um, did you say castle?”

“Aye. We’ll head there straight away. It’s a little surprise, y’ see. When I meet our travelers at the pub, I give them the news that they won’t be stayin’ in a  Bed and Breakfast after all, but a castle the first night. Most folks are tickled, o’ course. I think it a grand place to begin your tour of the Heart of Scotland. And the beds are comfortable to boot. Lovely goose down. I can honestly say they don’t make them like that anymore, more’s the pity.” He closed the carriage door and a few seconds later, the carriage lurched forward.

She leaned back but doubted she’d be able to sleep. Her adrenal glands were running overtime and she wasn’t quite ready to appreciate the fact that her tour of Scotland was back on track. She needed a big fire and a warm bed, maybe in the morning she’d be able to digest everything that had happened in the last few hours.

She
had
been driving for hours. But if so, even at a snail’s pace, how could the guy be stumbling onto her so far away from Burnshire? Unless she’d been going in circles...

The jingle of chains sounded like sleigh bells, and she wondered why the man had been so offended she’d called his vehicle a sleigh. Maybe he just resented being called Santa Claus.

After a bump and a slip sideways, she gathered her blanket close and wondered if she could make it into a dress if she suddenly found herself soaked again. Of course, she’d need scissors. The silly image made her smile, and she started to relax to a slow and steady rhythm.

Clop. Clop. Whoosh. Jingle.

Clop. Clop. Whoosh. Jingle.

Adding to that rhythm was the sound of the coachman’s voice warming up a tune. It was as if he was singing just above her head. Not a Christmas song. More like a dirge—slow and low and melancholy—a lonely kind of song that ma2kes you wonder at the depth of the singer’s sadness, but it enchants you just the same.

He hummed an entire melody, then started again with words.

Let not yer cries...call down the moon.

Let not yer prayers...be led astray.

I’ the coachman’s guise, he’ll grant yer boon,

And ye shall rue...the price ye pay.

Take back the breath... Take back the sigh.

Give not yer name... Yer boon deny.

The Foolish Fire...comes not in twain.

‘Tis the coachman’s lanterns

Come for ye.

With hands of white...and horses matched.

He’ll guide thy love...to broken heart.

Of measured dreams...he’ll grant behalf.

And take from thee...e’en the beggar’s part.

Then he hummed the chorus once more. Bree was intrigued by the obviously old-fashioned tune, but she couldn’t stay awake. The warmth was seeping into her bones and her blinks were stretching longer and longer. Finally, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the words, wishing she’d be able to remember even a line or two.

He’ll calm the hounds... The wind he’ll wield

When the Moon he walks...’mong beasts and man.

So be still yer hopes... Trust not the yield

‘Til the hounds behowl...the night again.

Again, the coachman hummed and Bree struggled to hold on, to see if there might be another verse, if maybe there could be a happy ending, somehow.

Then her thoughts slid into a comfortable, inky blackness.

CHAPTER THREE

Heathcliff barred the window against the wind and quit the tower room. He’d find no answers there. As he passed the child’s room, he could not help but peek inside, to assure himself she fared well. His heart stopped when he spied the covers pushed aside, but it started again when he found her at the window, no doubt looking for the self-same moon to which he’d addressed his pleas but a wee while ago.

Her golden hair glowed in the candlelight, as if the moon now hid behind the strands.

Blond hair. So different from his own black mane. But he’d heard of children’s hair turning darker as they grew. It meant nothing.

Whatever she saw in the storm clouds seemed to make her happy, and she turned her smile on him. Awkwardly, he reached out, placed his hand on her head, and gave her a careful pat.

“I’m sorry, lassie. Your nurse had to leave us for a wee while. ‘Twill be but the pair of us to fend for ourselves for a few days.”

Her little hand snaked its way into his and she squeezed, as if sensing he needed comfort more than she.

“We’ll be fine, cherub. Just fine.”

Once he’d banked her fire and tucked the wee lass beneath her heavy covers, he had to pull the drapes to coax her eyes to close and prevent her from watching out the window. He was afraid that whatever it was she wished for, she was not going to get.

There was no need to start yet another fire, so instead of retiring to his study, he returned to the parlor where glowing coals awaited another bit of wood. Once there, however, he doubted the chill in his bones had aught to do with the storm and forbore tossing on another log. He poured himself a whiskey, hoping the burn of it might reach that deep chill, but his hand stopped before the glass reached his lips.

Should a father drink spirits with a child in his sole care?

He set the glass aside and scrubbed his face with both hands. Neither should he sleep, he thought, just in case he was needed. After all, the delicate cherub might not be able to rouse him from a deep slumber. Perhaps he should have given her a large bell. Perhaps he should have arranged a pallet for her there, in the parlor, so she would not need to look far to find him. But that was nonsense. She wasn’t a puppy, she was a lass. She needed a bed, did she not?

Dear lord, he was going to go mad trying to learn this fathering business on his own.

He forced himself to calm, to sit and watch the flames that popped up in defiance of the dying embers. He imagined slumber overtaking the wee lassie and lulling her troubles away with a silent flute. Sleep was no doubt a precious boon for one who’d just been abandoned to a man supposed to be her father. Surely the girl would have nightmares this eve, with her nurse having fled. The rumors from the village likely scared the woman off, for who would wish to be pent up with the grandson of a Muir Witch, laird or no? Christmas was a holy holiday, not one to be spent near one rumored to dance with the devil.

He had to own the wee lass had done well thus far. She was quick with a smile, no matter the news he gave her. A lovely sweet charge no right-minded nurse would abandoned into a strange man’s hands.

Again, he remembered bending down to greet the child, and when he’d stood once more, the woman was gone. He might have chased her to ground and bribed her to confess all—heaven knew he had coin to spare—but there had been none to watch after the child. And how could he have left the wee lassie alone?

Silence settled in his mind. A coal shattered under the weight of another and sparks escaped and fled up the chimney. A flame roused, then worried itself to death over a stick too green yet to burn.

Could she be mine?

For the hundredth time that day, he thought back six, seven, eight years, trying to remember a woman he’d loved, a face he recalled with fondness, but there was no one. Eight years ago, he’d been as lonely as he was now. But oh, how he wished she was his. How he wished there might be something of himself to carry on once he was laid low in the kirkyard. How he wished he’d found someone to woo and wed before the reputation of his grandmother and her twin sister ruined his own. Someone who cared not for the color of his coin.

Could he buy a wife? Certainly. But he’d never want a wife that could be bought. Better to have no children at all, than give them such a mother.

He determined to make sense of this new predicament. If it meant proving the child was sired by another, no matter. After the New Year, he would hunt down the nurse and have the truth. By then, the wee lassie might well choose to stay with him in any case. Perhaps he could find a way to make her the daughter of his heart.

A ruckus stirred at the front of the house and he rushed to the entryway to make certain the noise would cease before it could wake his would-be daughter.

He flung the door wide, just as an older man reached for the knocker.

“Are you mad?” Heathcliff whispered harshly. “There is a wee lass above stairs trying to sleep. I’ll not have ye wake her!”

The man bowed and turned his top hat in his hands. “Beg yer pardon, yer lairdship. I’ve got a lass here as well. Miss Brianna Colby. You’ve been expecting her I think.” The man winked and moved back.

Heathcliff was about to insist that he was expecting no one when he caught sight of the sturdy lass who stumbled forward with a shove from behind. His denial died on his tongue, leaving him temporarily unable to speak.

She was stout, to be sure. And given that she was a woman, she might have proven helpful considering his current dilemma. After all, he’d sent his staff away to spend the holidays with their families, not knowing he’d have a wee lassie to care for. But this woman would not do. No matter the pleasant look of her face, the woman was daft and clearly so, what with the hats she wore on her head. And not just one; he saw at least three brightly colored things perched there, possibly four. And not only were they inappropriate for the current weather, they were defective as well, sporting large holes, every last one of them. It was a fact the hats failed so completely, her fair hair was near to dark with the wet of the snow.

Even if he could see past her daft hats, she had tied silk stockings about her head, perchance to keep her ears warm, as if she did not know they were meant for a woman’s legs. But from the look of her, perhaps her legs were far too large for the stockings to fit. Poor thing.

But he had enough to worry over with the child. He would not take on another responsibility and this one with perhaps a broken mind. Why, he would never be able to allow her near the bairn!

“Nay.” His tone offered no invitation to argue.

The woman frowned at him, confused.

“Nay,” he said again, looking pointedly at her head.

Her eyes flew wide and both hands made quick work of the odd hats and stockings. She hid them behind her back and blushed a deeper shade of red beneath her cold cheeks.

“I crashed into the water,” she said. “I came very close to freezing to death. I promise you I’m not an idiot. And I don’t usually go around with underwear on the top of my head.”

Underthings? Truly?

He took his imagination in hand and concentrated on other details. Her speech was strange. Clearly foreign. She looked past him, trying to peek inside his home, and his heart tripped. Had he just been presented with a pair of thieves?

The lass turned about her, no doubt looking for her cohort’s support with her storytelling, but the man had scurried away. When she gave Heathcliff her back, he took advantage.

“Away with ye now,” he said, then shut the door. She would have no choice but to get back in her carriage and move on to the next town.

“Wait!” Her cry was barely discernible though the heavy oak, but again, he was forced to open it, to stop her from waking the child.

“Shh!” He gave her his fiercest frown. “Madame. Ye will climb back into yer...”

But the carriage was gone.

She pointed to the place it had been only a moment before. “He left me! He just...left me,” she repeated. “I didn’t even hear him go!”

It had to be a ruse to ensure she got inside the castle. No doubt the man would be back in the wee hours of the night to help her load up what booty she might pilfer whilst the household slept. It gave him only a moment’s pause that he, too, had taken no notice when the four-in-hand had departed. And there were no tracks by which to judge, thanks to snow falling even heavier now than when he’d first opened the door.

“Please, sir. Can I just come in and get warm? And use your phone? There has to be someone willing to come get me and take me to a hotel.”

Ah, she had a clever tongue. He knew not what a phone was, but there was only one Inn in the village and she likely had passed it on her way up the hill. She needed only lie down on the road and slide her way back. She looked to have enough heft to keep her warm along the way. And even if she was of sound mind, he’d not allow a sneak thief near any child, his or not.

“I’ve a child in the house, madam. I’ll not allow a woman of yer sort around a child. Now be on yer way. There is an Inn at the bottom of the hill, as I’m certain ye know. If ye but stumble and fall, ye will find yourself very near its door. No doubt yer coachman awaits ye there.”

Her mouth dropped open and lingered while he stepped back to shut the door again. But it struck something—an odd red boot stuck just inside. Worrying he might have harmed the woman, he opened the door yet again and found genuine worry on her brow. She gave no attention to her foot. At least he’d not caused her pain.

“Please. I’ll die out here. I’m not the type to beg, but I’m begging you now. Please. I have to get warm. I nearly froze to death once tonight, and I’m absolutely sure I’ll end up a popsicle on your doorstep if you leave me out here.”

Popsicle
sounded ominous. And despite his sure knowledge that she was up to mischief, he could not assign the shake of her form to acting. The lass was freezing, no question now. If her coachman showed his face again, Heathcliff would see to it the man paid for putting a woman’s life in such jeopardy, no matter her character.