Marian's Christmas Wish (16 page)

Marian nodded, not daring to look at him.

“After I expressly told you on several occasions that I
had no desire to go to Bath for Christmas?” he thundered.

She nodded again.

Lord Ingraham shook his finger at her. “And don’t go
giving me that soft-eyed look of yours! And threaten those tears! And quiver
that lip! Oh, Marian, don’t do that. Here, take my handkerchief.”

She accepted the hastily offered handkerchief and
sobbed into it. After a moment in which a series of emotions crossed his own
face, Lord Ingraham took her hand and pulled her over to the seat next to him
and tucked his arm about her. “I wish you would not do that,” he said, and his
voice was kinder. “Now blow your nose and tell me what is going on.” He
tightened his arm about her. “That’s my only handkerchief right now, so be
economical, my dear.”

Alistair cleared his throat again and Lord Ingraham swiveled
his body carefully to look at him. “Oh, if my memory serves me, I believe you
were about to tell me something about your drinking habits, Alistair.”

“I blame this event entirely on Papa’s Lafite.”

“Don’t be so harsh, lad! That was an excellent year,”
Gilbert said. “I even remember it. Which is more than I can say for last night,”
he continued dryly.

A thought piqued him and he leaned closer to Marian. “But
tell me first
...
I seem to remember
this morning. Did I . . .”

He stopped. “Oh, I could never have done anything like
that. No. No. It’s nothing, Marian.”

She moved closer. A chill was coming in under a crack
in the door. The earl began to run his hand up and down her arm. She shivered
and he looked down at her.

“Did I frighten you a moment ago?” he asked, his voice
soft.

She nodded.

“Good! Now, Alistair, pray continue.”

“I . .
.I
hatched a scheme, my lord, one that seemed damned near brilliant over wine.”

Gil smiled affably. “You’re not the first to solve the
fate of the nations over a bottle, lad. It’s just that most of us have the wit
not to follow through. But I ask too much, obviously, considering that streak
of insanity in the Wynswich family.”

Marian turned her head so the earl would not see her
smile.

“But, come, come, lad. Your sister grows colder by the
minute, I am none too warm, and I will have an explanation before I leave this
mail coach.”

“I went to Mare’s workshop and
...”
Alistair craned his neck around Ingraham for a look at his
sister. “Mare, what is that stuff?”

“Morphine.”

“Morphine,” Alistair squeaked. “Morphine! Mare, why
didn’t you tell me ages ago?”

Marian stamped her foot. “Alistair, you nod! I never
thought in my wildest imaginings that you would tip that in Gil’s brandy.”

It was the earl’s turn to stare. “Good God, Alistair,”
he said, “have I offended you in some way? Something I said?”

“No, no! It’s just that I thought if you were in a
state of euphoria, we—that is, I—could get you onto the mail coach and home to Bath. Mare told me she would be so happy to see you with your own family, and
...
I just took it from there,” Alistair
concluded miserably.

Ingraham shook his head slowly. “Tell me. When you were
a baby, did someone—a nursemaid, perhaps—drop you on your head? On the soft
spot?”

Silence ruled the mail coach again. When Alistair could
stand no more, he sighed. “But it was Mare’s idea that we come along. I was
going to put you on the coach with a note pinned to your coat.” Alistair
groaned and leaned forward, his head between his hands. “I see now that never
would have served.”

“Thank the Lord for that,” Ingraham retorted. “For all
you know, I could have been set upon by infidel Turks and forced to row my way
across the Mediterranean.”

Marian’s lips twitched. She tried to smother her
laughter, but it was a forlorn hope. She turned her face into the earl’s
overcoat and abandoned herself to helpless mirth.

Lord Ingraham leaned toward her. “Or kidnapped by
gypsies. Or abducted by Mohicans.” He started to laugh. “Marian Wynswich, where
do you get your crackbrained notions?” He pulled her away and held her at arm’s
length for a good look. “You’re faster on your feet than any a diplomat I have
rubbed shoulders with, but thank the Almighty that our country has been spared
your services.”

He pulled her back to him, held one hand to his head,
and laughed until the tears came to his eyes. Marian handed back his
handkerchief and he dabbed at his eyes and then made a face.

“Marian, are you totally and completely resolved that I
should appear before my dear mother as I am, looking like St. Lawrence the
Martyr, roasted to a turn over his grill?”

Her laughter stopped. She touched his face. “Totally
and completely resolved, my lord,” she said, and took his face in her hands. “Do
you think for one silly moment that she will love you less? Honestly, I think
men are the vainest creatures.”

He kissed her palms. “I bow to your superior knowledge
of my sex.”

Her face reddened. “Oh, Gil, I know nothing about men.”
After a moment’s sober reflection, she continued. “But if I were your mother,
my heart would be breaking about now.”

It was Lord Ingraham’s turn for a moment’s pause. “You
are the oddest collection of parts, Marian. You don’t flinch at attempting mad
schemes that would send most women into spasms, but you have such a sure hand
where emotions are . . .” He stopped. “Well, never mind. Here comes the
coachman again. And what’s this? He looks like the bearer of bad news.”

Marian glanced up from a frowning contemplation of the
floorboards. The coachman opened the door and the snow blew in. The expression
on his face was no warmer.

“I recommend ye find your way to the inn now, lady and
gents,” he said. “We’re snowed in.”

Marian gasped in dismay. “Oh, never say that,” she
exclaimed, and looked at Lord Ingraham. “What are we to do?”

“The first thing ye can do is get your bones out of my
conveyance,” said the coachman impatiently.

“Very well,” she grumbled, and drew her cloak about
her. The coachman held out his hand for her, but she stopped. “Gil, can you
walk?”

He shook his head. “I’m doubtful. Here, Alistair, give
me a hand up. Jump down, Marian.”

She did as he said, and stood outside in the snow as
her brother helped Lord Ingraham to his feet. The diplomat paled noticeably and
grasped Marian’s shoulder as he descended. She put her arm around his waist,
and the coachman did the same on his other side.

“Laddie, you’ve suffered a lot at the hands o’ them
heathens,” grunted the coachman.

Lord Ingraham managed a smile and a wink over the coachman’s
head to Marian. “Yes, I was in some danger from the greatest rascals I have
ever known.”

“Be that as it may, me lad, you’re almost home now. And
with a brother and sister like these to help you, what more could a man ask?”

Lord Ingraham had the good grace not to look at Marian.
“Yes, what, indeed?” he murmured, and then stood still, leaning forward. “Alistair,
take Marian’s place. My dear, run on ahead. I must pause here now and make a
fool of myself.”

She did as he said and hurried toward the inn,
flinching at the sound of Lord Ingraham retching in the stableyard. Oh, I could
throttle Alistair, she thought. How dare he?

She had reached the door before she turned around and
marched back through the snow to the three men, who had not moved from beside
the mail coach. Without a word she ripped off a corner of her petticoat.
Wetting it in the snow, she wiped off Lord Ingraham’s mouth, wet the cloth
again, and applied it to the back of his neck.

His eyes were closed, but he opened them long enough to
look at her. “I don’t understand why you always know what to do,” he murmured.
His words slurred together.

“Hold that cloth on his neck, Alistair,” she ordered, “and
keep him moving toward the inn.” Marian ran ahead, hopeful of a room.

A room was out of the question, a bed laughable, Marian
discovered in a brief consultation with the innkeeper. “We’re full, miss, and
have been since earlier this afternoon. I can give you a blanket and a pillow
and a corner of the taproom.”

She took the blanket and pillow without a murmur and
plunged into the taproom, which was full of other travelers, mostly
workingclass men and women, bound for home and Christmas on the mail coach.
Bags and parcels were perched in every corner. Pipe smoke was as thick as Devon fog, and she heard men hawking and spitting on the floor.

Marian made a rapid about-face and cornered the
innkeeper again in the kitchen. “This will never do,” she said. “Have you
nothing else?”

“Have you any money?” he countered as he hacked great
slices of meat off a half-done joint.

She touched the coins in her reticule, their coach
money back to Picton. “Yes, I have,” she declared. “Please, is there not a
room?”

The innkeeper examined the coins she extended to him
and shook his head again. “I can find you a spot under the stair landing, and
even that will cost you, miss,” he said. He put his face close to hers and she
drew back from the smell of stale beer on his breath. “Of course, a pretty girl
like you should be able to find a bed anywhere.”

Marian’s fingers itched to slap his red face, but she
did no such thing. She handed him a coin, and then another when he still stood
there. She parted with another coin. “And please bring some warm milk,” she
said, waiting for him to move off.

He stood where he was and reached for her waist.

“Touch her and you’re a dead man,” said Lord Ingraham.

Marian hadn’t heard them come in. The earl was still
supported by the coachman and her brother, but the look in his eyes was enough
to send a little frizzle down her spine.

“I think he means it,” Alistair offered, apology in his
tone but a look no less venomous on his face.

“I expect he does,” added the coachman. “Laddie,” he
said, addressing Alistair, “I’ll be more than happy to take my ease on the
stairs here, if you should need an extra arm with a fist on the end of it.”

“Thank you.” Alistair said. “I’ll sing out if I need
you.”

Marian raised her chin and looked the innkeeper in the
eye. “Lead us to that landing, sir, and we’ll want the milk directly.”

They followed the innkeeper to the stairwell and waited
while he shifted a barrel out of the little space. He swiped a dirty rag around
and stepped back. “Of course, if I get a better offer for this spot, I’ll be
moving you.”

The coachman rubbed his chin and eyed the innkeeper. “‘Twould
be a pity for me to have to blow my yard of tin in someone else’s inn yard for
the coming year of Our Lord 1815, but I could arrange it.”

He stared at the innkeeper, who blanched, looked away,
and then disappeared into the kitchen.

The coachman sighed. “Don’t just stand there, miss.
Help this poor cove.”

Impulsively, Marian reached up and kissed the driver on
the cheek. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Oh, thank you,” she whispered, and
spread out the blanket.

“And I think I can find another blanket in the stable,”
the coachman went on, his face fiery red. “Nothing fancy, but it’ll be warm.”

Alistair laughed. “Better back off, man, or Mare will
peg you again.”

“Lucky devil,” croaked Lord Ingraham, and then his head
flopped forward.

Alistair and the coachman laid out Lord Ingraham on the
blanket. “Brother, pull off his boots and unbutton his pants,” Marian directed.

“Marian, my blushes,” protested the earl.

“Oh, hush,” Marian said gruffly as she untied his
neckcloth and placed the pillow under his head. “Drat! This pillow is no better
than a block of wood. Alistair, hold up his head for a moment.”

Marian scrambled back under the landing and sat down
with her back to the wall. “There, now,” she said as Alistair lowered Lord
Ingraham’s head into her lap. She tucked the blanket up higher on his chest. “You
will sleep now, and feel much better in the morning.”

“And if I do not?” the earl asked, and his eyelids
began to droop.

She touched his chest. “You will. I promise.” She
hesitated. “And forgive us, Gil.”

“Done,” he said. He grasped her hand as she rested it
on his chest, and closed his eyes.

Marian settled herself against the wall and listened
carefully to Lord Ingraham’s breathing. It was deeper than his shallow breaths
in the coach. She moved her hand across his chest to his heart and smiled in
satisfaction. Impulsively, she kissed his forehead.

“Do that . . . when I’m awake . . . sometime, Ingraham
said, and tightened his grip slightly on her fingers.

She chuckled. “No! Whatever would your lady-love think?”
She looked about her. “Besides, I thought you were asleep.”

The earl only smiled. “Don’t waste them.” He slept
then.

The wall grew no warmer, but Marian’s legs were
comfortable from the heat of Lord Ingraham’s body. In a moment the coachman
returned with two more blankets and Alistair on his heels, followed by a gust
of snow.

“Mare, there’s a coachman outside who’s going to
attempt Lyme Regis. I could stay with Gil and you could be home.”

She shook her head. “I cannot leave him. Go, if you’ve
a mind to.”

“Mare, you won’t be home for Christmas,” he reminded
her, “and Ariadne told me you had such plans.”

“I suppose I did. Thank you, sir,” she said to the
coachman, who draped the horse blanket over Lord Ingraham. “But they are of
little consequence now.”

Alistair shrugged and accepted the other blanket from
the coachman, sitting down Indian-fashion.

“If you’re needing me, I’ll be in the stable with the
horses,” said their self-appointed guardian.

“Sir, you are so kind,” Marian said. “We cannot repay
you.”

“Tush, it’s Christmas, little lady,” he said with a
smile. “And I did enjoy that look on the innkeeper’s mug.” He tipped his hat to
them and went back outside into the whirling snow.

Alistair wrapped the blanket around himself and
hunkered down in the narrow space. Marian thought he slept, but then he spoke
out of the depths of his blanket.

“Marian, I’m sorry. I should never have done what I
did.”

“No, you should not,” she agreed in a low voice. The
earl stirred and mumbled something and she placed her hand on his neck and
pulled him closer.

“It was foolish and ill-advised.”

“I’ll not argue with that, brother,” she said. “And I’ll
tell you one thing more: you could have done Lord Ingraham serious damage.”

Alistair said nothing.

“It is time the tricks ended, brother,” Marian said.
She reached out with her foot and touched him. “It is time we both grew up.”

She knew that sleep would entirely elude her, but she
slept anyway, Lord Ingraham clasped protectively in her arms. She woke only
because someone was staring at her.

It was
Lord
Ingraham. “Oh,” she exclaimed, looking down into his
eyes.

“You can turn me loose now, Marian,” he said. “There
are no gypsies, Mohicans, or infidel Turks in sight. And I would like to sit
up.”

She did not let go, but gazed into his eyes. “Your
eyes, my lord,” she said. “They are much improved.”

He grinned. “They were never my best feature, Marian.
Usually my classic nose and aristocratic cheekbones are commented upon. So glad
my eyes meet with your approval.’’

“Silly,” she declared, and let go of him. “Yesterday
the pupils were the merest dots.”

The earl grasped the stair tread above his head and
pulled himself upright.

Marian watched him closely. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry.” He glanced around at her. “But that is your
office, is it not, my dear? If I am hungry, you must be on the outer reaches of
starvation.”

“Well, I am a trifle sharpish,” she confessed,

“I know. Your stomach has been rumbling in my ear for
the last quarter-hour, at least.”

She blushed.

“But what a comfortable lap, dear Marian,” he continued
smoothly. “I suspect you were not as comfortable, but I thank you.”

Alistair peeked around the stairwell, a glass of milk
in his hand, which he thrust at Lord Ingraham. “Here, my lord, Marian insists.”

He drank it without demur. “What, now?” he asked.

“Now some porridge.” Marian said decisively.

“Then you must turn loose your purse strings, sister.
The innkeeper looks with no particular favor on us.”

She handed over her purse and Alistair departed.

Ingraham moved out from under the stairwell and stood
up. Marian watched him closely. “How do you feel?”

“Much, much better. My eyes are only six feet from my
toes now,” he said. He looked about him. “Where are we?”

Marian got to her feet. Sharp pains dug into her back
and she straightened up with difficulty. “A back stairwell. And it took some
persuasion to convince the innkeeper that we were good enough for it.”

“No room at the inn, eh?” the earl asked, his eyes
lively. “Marian, you’re hobbling like an old woman. Sit down and turn around.”

She did as he said, perching herself on a stairstep
while Lord Ingraham rubbed her back. “From the sounds overhead in the taproom,
we are still snowed in. Surely these people do not stay here merely because
they love the keep, Marian? You’re not going to sleep, are you?”

“Gil, you’re so good at that.”

“A diplomat’s art, my dear. I wish I had a crown for
every back rub I’ve given and gotten from traveling about the continent in
less-than-commodious carriages. Hold still.”