A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella (12 page)

“Ned?” he asked wonderingly when his friend came into the hut, stamping snow from his boots. “What the devil are you doing out in this blizzard?”

Ned shut the door behind him. “It’s now a beautiful night. You’ve chosen a dashed unpredictable place to settle.”

Rory realized that the wind no longer howled. “How did you find us?”

“When you and Miss Farrar didn’t come back, people were worried, but couldn’t go out in the weather. Once the snow eased, I came after you. When I found the sledge, I knew you couldn’t be far away.”

Bess had stirred when Ned came in and now she sat up without sparing Rory a glance. She looked disheveled and exhausted. Rory’s gut contracted with stabbing guilt when he saw tearstains on her cheeks. He’d hurt her when he’d brought that wild encounter to an end, and that had never been his intention. Damn him, he should have let her down more gently, but at the time, he’d been a million miles from equanimity himself.

When Rory tore his gaze from Bess, he caught a speculative glint in Ned’s eyes. She looked like she’d survived a blizzard. Unfortunately she also looked thoroughly bedded.

“Are you on your own?”

“Yes, I tried to get here ahead of the crowd. But they’re not far behind me.”

Ned’s words were a warning. Rory and Bess had been alone for hours, and unless he was careful, they’d be irretrievably compromised. He wanted her to marry him, but not because she had to. And he couldn’t bear to think of people sniggering about her.

“Good evening, Mr. White,” she said, standing and smoothing her hands down her creased skirts. “Thank you for coming to find us.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Farrar.” Ned liked Bess, and he appreciated her liveliness and competence. Neither of which would save them from scandal if the villagers chose to interpret this evening’s events in a prurient light. Guilt stabbed Rory anew as he recalled how close he’d come to making any prurient thoughts reality.

“What time is it?” Bess ran her fingers through her tumbled hair and divided it into three strands for plaiting. Her movements were quick and deft as she confined the rumpled golden mass. Rory’s fingers itched to touch that lovely mane. His tiresome principles didn’t stop him wanting.

“Just past midnight,” Ned said, straightening his spectacles.

Rory looked squarely at his friend. “If people know we’ve been together all this time, there will be the devil to pay.”

Bess moved around the hut, tidying away traces of occupancy. Despite their dire circumstances, Rory found her quiet housewifery mesmerizing. Any man would be lucky to come home to such a wife as Bess. Good and faithful and bright.

And right now, a million miles out of reach, even if she stood mere feet away.

“I’ll say I saw nothing untoward,” Ned said.

“Not good enough.” Rory studied his friend’s scholarly features. “A lady’s reputation hangs by a thread, and I swear Miss Farrar is as pure now as she was when she stepped into the hut.”

It was almost the truth. But as she straightened the bed and folded away the blankets, Bess’s shoulders stiffened.

“What would you like me to do?” Ned asked.

“Tell people you found me in the hollow of a tree or sheltering under a bank, and you and I arrived together at the hut to find Miss Farrar. I’ll say she and I were separated in the storm. All hell was breaking loose, so there’s no reason for anyone to doubt our story, especially if you back me up.”

“Of course I will.” Ned smiled at Bess who had stopped to watch them both with a troubled frown. “I’ll never allow anyone to question your virtue, Miss Farrar.”

She managed a smile for Ned. Again she avoided Rory’s eyes. “Thank you, Mr. White. You’re very kind.”

Ned turned to Rory. “Go and roll in the snow until your coat’s wet. Nobody will believe a word of this story if they see you looking so warm and dry.”

Rory bit back a sardonic laugh. If only Ned knew how close he’d come to diving headfirst into the snow after he abandoned Bess at that crucial moment. Grimly he headed outside and tugged at a low-hanging branch. The freezing wet snow that cascaded down his neck seemed suitable penance for his trespasses.

By the time their rescuers arrived, the hut was pristine, and Bess and her two companions sat around the table, the picture of innocence. Only Rory noticed that when she shared a lighthearted narration of her adventures with the villagers, not once did she glance in his direction.

Bess’s subdued air hadn’t lifted by the time the participants gathered at the Abbey the next day for the Christmas Eve procession. Rory, coming downstairs ready to play St. Joseph, felt a very unsaintly urge to smash something when he saw her drawn, tired features. The woman dressed in Mary’s sky blue robe looked like she’d travelled a long, hard road to reach Bethlehem.

She’d been working with his servants this morning, supervising placement of the lush greenery to mark the Yuletide, and checking arrangements for tomorrow’s party. But she’d kept at least a room away from him. He could only assume by choice.

Wisdom indicated that with scandal hovering, discretion was the best course, even if he itched to corner her and make her tell him what was wrong. After holding her in his arms, it was torture pretending they were mere acquaintances. Was she shy after last night? She’d been an innocent after all, and he’d done more than enough to shock a virginal vicar’s daughter.

“Miss Farrar, are you all right?” Rory asked under his breath as everyone else crowded around the blacksmith’s wife, and her baby who was the play’s Jesus.

“Perfectly,” Bess said in a flat voice, without looking at him. He was devilish tired of that opaque blue gaze skating across him as if he was another piece of furniture.

Worse. Bess always paid attention to the furniture.

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, that’s…good,” he said, not believing her for a moment. He eyed the mistletoe suspended above her head and wondered how she’d react if he caught her around the waist and kissed her. She’d probably say “perfectly” in that polite little voice that didn’t sound at all like the woman he knew.

Dr. Simpson, dressed as the innkeeper, approached to ask a question and she turned to him with barely hidden relief. Rory slouched discontentedly against the wall and observed proceedings with a jaundiced air. He wasn’t yet in costume, but seeing he only had to pull a striped robe over his shirtsleeves, he wasn’t bothered.

His gaze tracked Bess as she moved around the cast, straightening a crown on a Wise Man, reminding the chief shepherd of his lines, checking with the choirmaster. Children and villagers milled about outside the house. They’d sing Christmas carols accompanied by recorders and drums as the procession wound its way through the village.

Everything except Bess Farrar was in cracking shape. The house smelled like a forest, fresh and green and sharp with aromatic pine sap. Thank heavens yesterday’s foul weather had cleared, and Christmas Eve dawned clear and cold. Through the open doors, Rory saw how the sun struck the snow to blinding white.

Bess spent several minutes calming the Angel of the Lord who had the longest part. Sally Potts was counted the village beauty, and this was her first year in a speaking role. Perhaps Rory was biased, but he couldn’t help comparing her to Bess. Even today, when his darling looked like she hadn’t had a wink of sleep, she was still the prettiest lass he’d ever seen.

The only player who escaped a few words of encouragement was the lord of the manor. Did Bess mean to convey the impression that nothing untoward had happened in the hut? This morning he’d noticed a few speculative glances, but so far their story was generally accepted.

He puzzled over her attitude. Bess might be angry with him, or disappointed. Although surely now that the heat of passion faded, she must realize that he’d done the only thing a man of honor could.

Except that what he saw when he watched her—and he watched her as closely as a cat watched a bird fluttering in a bush—wasn’t pique, but a valiantly hidden unhappiness that made his gut clench with remorse.

He desperately needed to talk to her, to find out what went on inside her lovely head. Two years with his stepsisters had taught him that when females got a notion, their minds could whisk them away to the edge of doom before a man recognized he’d made a minor mistake.

The hell of it was that even if he could get Bess to accept his apologies, he wouldn’t have a second alone with her all day to make them. So he lingered, worried and frustrated, on the edge of a crowd which excluded him even as it embraced Bess.

“It’s time to go outside,” she said with a cheerfulness that struck false in Rory’s ears. “You’ve all been marvelous in rehearsal, so I’m sure this will be a special year.”

Dr. Simpson smiled at her, then sent Rory a meaningful glance. “It is indeed a special year. We welcome a new earl, and I couldn’t be more pleased that his lordship is already an indispensable part of our small community.”

To Rory’s surprise, everyone in the room burst into applause before a ragged but enthusiastic rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” with three resounding cheers to follow.

Touched, he stepped forward. He’d been wrong to feel excluded. His head was all over the place today with the chill between him and Bess. At least she’d joined in the song, he hoped not just for appearance’s sake.

“Thank you, Dr. Simpson. I couldn’t ask for a warmer reception. I’m happy that I’ve dropped anchor in Penton Wyck. For my money, there isn’t a finer lot of people in England.” He paused. “Or in Scotland either, which I never thought a true son of the Highlands would say.” Everyone laughed. Even Bess managed a smile. He gestured toward where she stood half a room away. “I’d like to thank Miss Farrar. Without her, I’d never have discovered the joy of preparing for a traditional Christmas, or had a livable house—or met the charming Daisy.”

Another laugh and three more cheers for Bess who looked damnably on edge. If she didn’t settle down, she’d be the nerviest Mary in history.

Rory signaled to the two footmen standing by the door. Within seconds they were circulating with trays of mulled wine. The players had a long afternoon ahead, mostly in the open. A wee bit of extra cheer wouldn’t go astray. The scents of cinnamon, cloves and oranges from the fragrant brew rose to combine pleasantly with the tang of pine.

“Thank you,” Bess said. “Now it’s time we set off, or Daisy will go without us. The idea of leaving her to her own devices is too terrifying to contemplate.”

Another laugh. Apart from that stormy pool of unhappiness around Bess, a river of goodwill flowed through the room.

Rory noticed that she hardly touched her wine. Which was a pity. If anyone looked in need of liquor’s bolstering effects, it was Bess.

Everyone trooped through the open doors. Outside, maids were collecting empty cups, and the festive atmosphere felt like Christmas started early. Even Daisy looked happy, decked out in ribbons, with her coat clipped and groomed to a shine.

Rory paused in the doorway to savor a sensation he’d never before experienced. That this was home and these were his people and he belonged here. His chest felt too small to contain the swelling emotion in his heart.

He’d never imagined his inheritance would change him. But it had. Irrevocably.

Since his arrival—no, in the last week—he’d sent down roots into this rich Northumbrian soil, roots that he hoped would nourish the rest of his life. A mere seven days ago, his fierce longing to step up to life as Lord Channing would have astonished him.

He had one person to thank for the transformation. The one piece missing in this picture of contentment.

Bess Farrar.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear to wait to heal the breach between them. He couldn’t bear to wait to stake his claim on her.

The maids and footmen traipsed toward the kitchens. Bess lingered behind in the great hall to soothe Sally’s stage fright. The girl looked marginally more confident as she slipped the harness for her glittering white and silver wings over her shoulders. Then had to ease sideways past Rory to fit through the door. Sally wasn’t the world’s cleverest creature, but with her masses of fine fair hair and delicate face, she appeared truly ethereal.

“You look just like an angel, Sally,” he said as she passed. “You’ll be the star of the play.”

Sally blushed bright red and lurched into a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

He caught her and helped her onto the steps before she dislodged the wings. Or worse, tore them. Then before Bess could escape, he stepped back inside, slammed the door shut and bolted it.

“What on earth are you doing?” she asked, astonishment banishing the well-mannered automaton who’d driven him to distraction. “We need to start.”

“They’ll wait,” he said, turning to face her and folding his arms implacably over his chest.

Displeasure lit her eyes. She stood in the center of the hall, exactly where he’d first seen her. He’d known then that she was the one for him.

“Well, that’s not fair. And after making such a nice speech, too.” At last, she sounded like that spirited lassie who had the nerve to lecture him about his duties.