A Christmas Keepsake (29 page)

Here, in the tranquillity of the garden, the threat of an assassin seemed more imagined than real. Avery good chance existed he had temporarily eluded his assailants, and that none lurked within Sir Dominic’s inner circle. His riding accident might have been caused, as originally conjectured, by poachers. The wine might merely have been bad.

Still, he couldn’t quite convince himself. He strode through the leafless remains of the rose garden, down the graveled paths between neatly pruned branches. His thoughts raced in circles, over and over, until it seemed to him they followed a rutted track. He made no progress, no sense out of this morass, out of what he should do...

Before him he glimpsed a glimmer of white: the folly, where according to Christy, Brockenhurst had dallied with that maid. He headed in the other direction.

Here, a gardener had swept the stepping-stones clear of all but the most recent snow; apparently he now followed a well-trodden path. A shrubbery arch loomed ahead, trained from what appeared to be a giant, ancient hawthorn. Darkness spread out on either side, as if walls had been erected to channel a chance passerby into the leafy hold.

They
were
walls, he realized as he drew closer, living walls of branches and leaves. He stepped under the bower and found himself facing another wall, with walkways on either side. A maze. Unhesitatingly, he turned to the left and placed his hand against the scratchy surface. Maybe finding his way through this puzzle would help lead him through his own.

It must be winding him about, he decided after about fifteen minutes. He’d taken only left turns, yet still he hadn’t reached the center. He came to another junction of paths and headed left again.

From somewhere all too near came the sound of footsteps crunching over the snow-covered gravel. James froze, every sense alert to danger. Someone had followed him into the maze. He glanced over his shoulder, but could see no likely shelter beyond the darkness and the unpredictability of the paths. His pursuer would be following his tracks, but would catch on to the continual left bearing in a very short time. Then he would undoubtedly quit straining his eyes and proceed with less caution.

A grim smile touched James’s lips. He would backtrack, with care, and take that last right fork instead of the left, and wait...

He positioned himself, crouching low, ready to spring. The footsteps approached at an uneven rate. Sometimes they faded from hearing, only to come louder as the winding passage brought the person near. Once, it sounded as if he must be directly opposite the wall beside which James waited. Then a dark shape emerged, little more than a shadow, enveloped in a dark cloak against the blacker shrubs.

James coiled his muscles and sprang, knocking the figure to the ground. He knelt over him, pinning his shoulders to the gravel, and dragged away the hood that covered his face.

Not his. Her. With a sigh half of exasperation, half of relief, he stared into Christy’s terrified eyes.

“James.” Her voice came out ragged, hoarse. “You scared me.”

He shook his head. “You deserve to be beaten! What the devil are you doing out here? I thought Sir Dominic was keeping everyone inside.”

“I just needed to see you. James, I—” She broke off.

The yearning in her expressive eyes said more than enough. He brushed the tangled curls from her face, then trailed his finger along her cheek to her lips. Their soft moistness brushed against his flesh in a kiss. The temptation proved too urgent to be ignored.

Slowly, he lowered his head, seeking her mouth. She pulled free of his hold, wrapped her arms about him, and dragged him down to her side with a desperation that sent fire shooting through him, overriding any other thought or consideration. He only knew how much he wanted her, that despite his duty, despite her coming from another time, they belonged together.

The crunch of gravel, right beside them, brought James to his feet in one swift movement. Christy scrambled after him, and he caught her hand. On the other side of the hedge, he realized. Someone else approached—and must have a fairly good idea where they were. He’d moved with amazing stealth until now. This time, he feared, an ambush wouldn’t work.

Gesturing Christy to silence, he drew her along the path, away from that junction. If he could leave her where she would be safe, he might be able to lay another trap. He rounded a corner, realized they had taken several jagging turns, and knew himself to be lost within the maze. If their stalker was familiar with the key, that placed them at a severe disadvantage.

“I didn’t
mean
to lead anyone to you,” she whispered, and her grip tightened on his hand. After a moment, she added: “You haven’t been writing anything lately, have you?”

“Why?”

“Well, if you haven’t finished the section about the house party, then you should be all right. Shouldn’t you?”

He drew a deep breath, and a chill crept along his skin. “I’ve been making notes. I’m afraid a publisher could easily polish it up after my death.”

Her hand clenched on his, and a quaver sounded in her voice. “Oh, God, James, what if that bloodbath I saw in your book is averted only because you’re killed?” They reached the next intersection of paths, and a shadowy figure completely enveloped from head to toe in a dark cloak stepped in front of them. Faint light flickered off the metal tracings on the flintlock pistol he pointed. The slightest click sounded, and fire flashed from the pan as a deafening explosion filled James’s ears.

Christy heaved herself against James, knocking him sideways. A cry escaped her, and she
c
rumpled to the ground.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Complete numbness gripped Christy, then pain exploded through the side of her head. The snow-covered gravel flew up to slam into her face—only she lay on it, the icy sharpness of the tiny rock digging into her hands and throat. Something heavy dragged over her legs—a boot, as someone stumbled over her.

Her senses whirled, and sound, even awareness, grew hazy, as if caught in an ebb and flow. Grunts, the sickening thud of fists beating into midriffs and jaws, the scrape of heavy shoes finding uncertain footing on loose gravel, all rose and receded as the two men struggled on top of her. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t help James, she couldn’t even drag herself out of his way ... Silence closed about her like a muffling cloak of cotton wool, and she floated, weightless...

The pounding of running feet burst into her world, and she lay once more on the icy ground, something sharp digging into her shoulder blade. Branches snapped as someone crashed through them, forging a new path, and she floated once more, spinning in circles, high above the landscape.

She really did rise. Her head lolled back, and with an effort she rotated it until her cheek came to rest on soft fabric, not sharp stone or snow. Strong arms held her. In the distance, men’s voices shouted, the crunch of running footsteps came nearer.

James’s voice murmured something unintelligible in her ear.

James. She snuggled her aching head against his bulky greatcoat, knowing herself safe with him, and consciousness faded away.

The throbbing brought her back to her senses, and in vain she tried to slip once more into oblivion. It didn’t work. She lay on something soft, enveloped in warmth. James—

With an effort, she opened her eyes, and blinked into the sunlight streaming through the window. A small room, familiar...

“Christy?” James caught her hand in a sustaining clasp.

“You’re all right,” she breathed, too weak to manage more. He sat beside her bed; from his appearance, he seemed to have been there for some time.

“Lie still, dear.” Mrs. Elinor Runcorn bent over her and touched her aching head. “You received no more than a scalp wound, though you bled a great deal. The major quite feared for your life, even though we assured him you were in no danger.”

They had wrapped a cloth about her forehead, Christy realized. That’s what felt so strange. She should be glad her wound was minor, she didn’t want to subject herself to the doctors of this era. What did they do for blood loss, draw more? Yes, and with leeches or something disgusting like that...

“There, I’ll leave you now, dear.” Mrs. Runcorn rose and went to the door. “James, don’t keep her talking for long. You should try to get some rest, too, you know.”

Christy’s wandering mind clicked back into gear, and she struggled into a sitting position. For a moment the room spun, then it settled once more right-side up. “What happened?” she demanded.

Gently, he pressed her back down. “Our attacker escaped last night, I’m afraid.”

“Last night...” The significance of the sunlight at last hit her. Not mere minutes had passed. She must have slept the dark hours, with James at her bedside. His haggard countenance told clearly the worry he’d endured during that time. “Go on,” she managed.

He nodded, still clasping her hand between both his own.

“He’d brought only one pistol, which he intended for me. I don’t think he’d expected you to be there—at least finding he’d shot the wrong one of us unsettled him. It gave me a moment before he went for a knife in his boot, so I was able to get it away from him. Then he ran. Unfortunately, I tripped, and he disappeared in the maze.”

“Then we still don’t know who it was.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Christy sighed. “Have you told the Runcorns about yourself—about being a Stuart?”

He ran his thumb over her fingers, his expression solemn. “I warned them last night, when I brought you here.”

“Did they mind?”

He released her hand at last, and paced to the window. “I don’t know. It changes nothing, as far as I am concerned, yet still—”

“I don’t think it will with them, either,” Christy assured him. “They’re friends.
Real
friends.”

He turned slowly to face her. “Like you?”

For a long minute she gazed into his eyes. He was so vulnerable, so very much alone. It tore at her, making her want to offer comfort, yet she knew his masculine pride would revolt at the thought he had betrayed emotional need.

A knock sounded on the door, and the Reverend Mr. Thaddeus Runcorn’s balding head poked around the frame. “James, we need to talk.”

“In here?” James gestured toward the chair, and himself perched on the end of Christy’s bed. “I believe Christy must be included, under the circumstances.”

“Terrible circumstances,” Mr. Runcorn agreed. “James, you are no longer safe anywhere, you know that, don’t you? Now that you know who you are, those who oppose you must have you dead as quickly as possible.”

“That fact has been made abundantly clear to me. There are only the three of you I can trust, and my presence here places you all in danger. I want you to shelter Christy for me.” He drew several folded sheets of paper from an inner pocket of his coat. “Take these to my solicitor, will you? This will ensure the orphanage will be taken care of, no matter what happens.”

“James—”

“No,” he silenced Mr. Runcorn. “I am being practical, you know that.”

The elderly man nodded. “What I fear is the orphanage can no longer afford you sufficient sanctuary. It would be far too easy for someone to find a way in here.”

“It’s true, James.” Christy leaned forward. “And there are the kids. We can’t risk anything happening to them,
or
the Runcorns.”

James’s jaw set. “I’ll leave under cover of darkness, I promise. If you’ll take care of those papers for me, I won’t have to emerge again for some time. Will you do that?”

“Of course, James.” Mr. Runcorn clasped his hand. “Where will you go?”

‘“Into hiding, until I make up my mind what to do.”

Mr. Runcorn’s solemn gaze rested on the major’s face. “You have been granted by God the opportunity to do much good for a great many people, James. There are some causes for which it is worth risking all.”

James nodded, but he glanced at Christy. “I might also bring much harm to those who would support my claims. I need to know more. This is not a decision to be made lightly.”

“You may have little to say to the matter.” Mr. Runcorn rose. “Remember, your very existence poses a threat. Your choice may well lie between fleeing the country to live in exile, or claiming the throne. It will not be possible for you to continue as you have before.”

James stood also. “I am well aware.”

So was Christy—all too aware. No matter which of the two choices he made, the result would be rioting. Only his death would prevent that. The ache in her heart spread, becoming unbearable.

For a long moment, Mr. Runcorn clasped James’s shoulder. “Take care. I’ll arrange for your escape tonight.” On that, he left the room.

“James?” Christy held out her hand to him. “What do you have in mind?”

“I am going to find out how people really feel about Prinny. I have only Sir Dominic’s word for how much he is hated. For what I must decide, I cannot have any uncertainties.”

“And what if you choose exile? Where would you go?”

A slight smile touched his lips, easing his expression. “My father lived in Rome. Yet I have little taste for anywhere but England.”

“And what will you do with your life? Continue your writings?”

He seated himself at her side, and brushed her hair away from her bandage, a sad smile reflecting in his dark eyes. “My duty as a Stuart is to marry a princess and beget more pretenders to the British throne, which will be the fate of my son and his son after him. What a damnable life.”

“What if you refuse to play that game?”

“I doubt I will live long enough to make that choice.”

“James—”

He took her into his arms, and for a very long while she clung to him, seeking what comfort they could share together.

The door opened, and James released her as Nancy bustled in, bringing Christy’s luggage with her. “Good morning, miss, sir.” Nancy bobbed an awkward curtsy. The sight of a gentleman in Christy’s bedchamber she seemed to take in her stride. “Cor, don’t you look—” She broke off, then proceeded with painstaking enunciation. “I’m glad to see you was not ’urt bad, miss.”

“Did our leaving like that create a stir?” Christy asked.

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Lor’ bless you, miss, ifn that old roast—” Again she broke off, her expression vexed. “Yes, miss. That worried, Sir Dominic was. And their ladyships. Such a to-do, what with the gentlemen and footmen and grooms all runnin’ around the garden, bumpin’ into each other and findin’ not a trace of you.”

“Was anyone else missing?” James asked quickly.

“No, sir. All them other guests, they was runnin’ about and shoutin’, and askin’ each other what was a-goin’ on.”

“Whoever did it must have slipped in among them,” Christy said. “Damn, if only you’d managed to mark him in some way, we could have figured out who it was.”

“Blame my slow-wittedness,” James remarked, his tone dry. Nancy started to unpack, but Christy stopped her. “Don’t bother. I’m leaving this evening.”

“No, you’re not,” James declared.

“I
am
.”

“Christy—”

She shook her head. “ ‘Wither thou goest, I shall go.’ You don’t think I’m leaving you to fend for yourself, do you?
Someone
has to know what becomes of you.”

“No, Christy—”

She pretended to pout. “And I thought you wanted me with you.”

“I do, but it won’t be safe—”

“Can’t you see I’m far too weak to argue with?” She fluttered her lashes at him. “You’ll just have to humor me. So don’t unpack, Nancy,” she added. “And make sure the major has a change of clothes ready, too.”

“Will I be goin’, miss?”

Christy hesitated. “No, I shouldn’t think so. This is going to be dangerous, and I’ve deprived the Runcorns of you for too long already.”

Nancy folded her arms, her expression grim. “What about Mr. Wickes? If
e’s
a-goin’, so am I.”

“ ‘Whither thou goest,’ ” James murmured, an ironic twist to his lips. “No, Nancy. This is one time I fear I must leave him behind.”

He retired to the window until the maid left, then turned back to face Christy. “Have you considered the fact it will not be easy leaving tonight?”

Christy nodded, refusing to acknowledge the tingling of fear his words caused. “Mr. Runcorn called it ‘escaping.’ ”

“That’s exactly what it will be. Until then, we must hope no direct attack will be made on this house, for their sake as well as ours.”

“Like holding the fort until the cavalry gets here. Only this time, there isn’t going to be any cavalry.” She shivered. “I wish this didn’t feel so much like the Alamo.”

A slight smile eased the tense lines of his face. “One of these days, my dear, I would love to discover what you are talking about.”

“It’s not important. So,” she tried to force a note of cheerfulness into her voice, “do we make a dash for it, guns blazing?”

“I would rather make as quiet an exit as possible. If you don’t mind, that is?”

“Oh, I’m all for it. I’d just like to know
how.
The minute you set foot outdoors, someone’s going to take a potshot at you. You’re a walking target.”

“What a delightful way you have of phrasing things. We will have to create a diversion.”

“Yes?” She waited with an elaborate air of expectancy.

His deep, enticing chuckle sounded. “Yes, my dear, I am beginning to have a plan. But if you can contain your curiosity for a little while longer, I believe I had best consult with Mr. Runcorn.”

He left her chamber, only to return fifteen minutes later with that smugly satisfied smile that drove her up a wall.

“Well?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “You are to rest for the remainder of the day. If you really intend to leave with me, you had better be a great deal stronger.”

“I will probably worry myself into a breakdown if you don’t tell me what’s up,” she threatened.

“We are to go in disguise.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. As if they won’t be expecting that. No matter what we dress like, we’re going to be unmistakable, you know that, don’t you?”

“Why should we? We’ll be lost in a crowd, after all.”

“Lost in a—no, you can’t mean to send the boys out with us to give us cover?”

His brow snapped down. “Of course not. I wouldn’t so endanger them. Nor is there any need. What do you think the effect will be if at least twenty people come to a meeting here this night?”

“Will they?” she asked, skeptical.

“Mr. Runcorn is even now sending the boys with messages, summoning his friends. He anticipates no difficulty in smuggling two people out of his house without in any way endangering the other occupants.”

“I see. Two more than came will leave. Very good. What about our things? Will we be able to lake our valises?”

He nodded. “Most of the people will carry a bandbox or valise of some sort. You and I will leave separately—without luggage, I might add—and meet later.”

“Where?” She didn’t like the idea of letting him out of her sight at all.

“The Boar’s Head. Your escort will take you somewhere else first, where he will hand you over to another of Mr. Runcorn’s friends who will take you to a second inn. Eventually, we will both arrive at the same one.”

Christy touched his cheek. “What if you—if you
don’t
come?”

“I will.” He cupped her face between his hands and gently kissed her. “How could I let anything keep me away when you’re waiting for me? Now, we must stay in here for the next few hours. Piquet?”

They spent the remainder of the day in Christy’s room with a deck of cards. At intervals, James paced the limited space, restless, and Christy couldn’t blame him. She didn’t like being cooped up, either. Yet they had little alternative at the moment. She would like being shot again a great deal less.

By evening she felt stronger, though her head still ached. When she removed the elaborate bandage, she found her skin just over her eyebrow badly torn and with a tendency to seep. A flesh-colored plastic bandage would be useful at the moment, instead of strips of cloths tied together, but that wasn’t one of the options. She put on a new pad and allowed James to fasten it in place with the strips of torn muslin.