Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (38 page)

‘I wish we could say goodbye to them again ourselves,’ she said
wistfully. ‘Who knows when or even if we’ll see them again?’

‘They’ve been good friends to us, aye,’ he said, ‘and our best
friends with come through our lives again and again. Come, sweet, dance with
me, and then it will be our turn to leave.’

She set the still-full cup of punch on the tray of a passing
footman. ‘I don’t think I can dance, James. I’m too uneasy.’

‘Then dancing will show the world how brave you are,’ he said
easily, taking her hand to lead her to the floor. ‘That’s what Lady James would
do. Make everyone recall when she was here, but not the time she left. She’s
vastly clever that way.’

She frowned. ‘Lady James?’

‘That’s you, my dear goose,’ he said. ‘Or at least it will be
later this evening.’

‘I suppose it will,’ she said, and finally grinned back at him.
‘I’d not realised that. Lady James Richardson! How grand!’

‘Soon to be Captain Lady James Richardson,’ he said. ‘Though to
me you’ll always be my Abbie, wading barefoot to shore without a thought for
your gown.’

‘Oh, James,’ she said. ‘How I do love you!’

‘And I you,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Now, come, dance with
me, and let everyone here remember you as the most beautiful lady here tonight.
It’s almost Christmas, you know, and this will make for good practice before
you dance at my mother’s.’

And, with her head high, Abigail danced, gloriously buoyed by his
love for her and hers for him. When the dance was done, he tipped her back into
the crook of his arm and kissed her again, with such passion that afterwards
her head spun, and others around them applauded with amused appreciation.

‘Surely they won’t forget us after that?’ she said, still
deliciously wobbly as she followed him through the room.

He smiled down at her, and winked. ‘I don’t care if they do or
not, Abbie,’ he said. ‘I did that for us.’

They hurried to the cellar stairs, gathering their cloaks and his
pistols from where they’d hidden them earlier, and made their way through the
shadowy tunnels beneath the house. They were the last to leave, and the candles
in some of the lanterns had already guttered out. There would—or should—be one
more boat waiting for them on the beach, ready to ferry them to the Vanguard.
It seemed easy enough, yet still Abigail was sure the entire world must hear
the thumping of her heart, and not even James’s hand in hers was enough to calm
her.

At last they came to the door, old and worn with rusted locks.
Cautiously James drew a pistol and cocked it, his ear close to the door as he
listened before opening it. Satisfied, he pulled it ajar, looked again, and
beckoned to Abigail to follow. Once again he took her hand, and together they
crossed out onto the sand, already churned that night by dozens of footsteps
before theirs.

‘The boat should be waiting behind those rocks,’ he told her
softly. ‘Almost there, love.’

‘You there—halt!’ The order in crude Italian came from behind
them, in a rough voice that meant to be obeyed. ‘Halt, or I’ll shoot!’

At once James stopped, and Abigail stopped, too. ‘I’m Lieutenant
Lord Richardson of the
Vanguard
, and this is my wife,’ he announced in
Italian, without turning. ‘We are bound for the
Colossus
, there in the
harbour, and for England. We mean no harm to you, or anyone else.’

‘Toss your gun in the sand to your left,’ the man ordered. ‘As
far as you can—and no tricks.’

James obeyed. ‘No tricks.’

‘Turn about, both of you. Slowly, slowly.’

Again James obeyed, and Abigail did as well. Over the last months
her Italian had improved dramatically, but even if she’d been unable to
understand the man’s words she’d have been in no doubt of the danger they were
in. It was almost as palpable as the salt in the sea air—and if she’d been
frightened before, it was nothing to the blinding terror she felt now.

This man must be one of the few soldiers left behind to guard the
city, or possibly even a deserter—his uniform was shabby and his hair
dishevelled. But the musket in his hands glinted cruelly in the moonlight, and
Abigail didn’t doubt for a minute that he’d use it. He’d never be caught if he
did, and nor would anyone care—not in this lawless place.

But their lives couldn’t end here on this empty beach. Not
before she and James had fairly begun. It couldn’t end before they were
married, or had returned to England, or he’d become a captain and she’d become
a mother, and, oh, a thousand, thousand other things she still wished for them
both.

It couldn’t end before she told him she loved him at least one
more time—not tonight, not before Christmas…

The man stepped closer, squinting at them. ‘If everything is as
you say, then why are you skulking about here at night? Why not go by day, like
a gentleman would?’

James sighed. ‘Very well, if you must know the truth, this lady
is not yet my wife. She is a high-born lady, and we are eloping against her
father’s wishes.’

Unprepared for the audacity of his lie, Abigail gasped, and
without thinking touched the two charms she wore around her neck.

‘A lady, you say?’ Greedily his gaze followed her hand. ‘Then
you’re wearing jewels, aren’t you, signorina? A necklace of diamonds or
pearls?’

He took another step closer, and Abigail shrank away. Neither the
gold heart nor the new cameo that James had given her were of sufficient value
to please a thief, but to her they were priceless. Desperately she tried to
think of a way out—something to say or do that would let them escape.

‘Leave her alone,’ James ordered. ‘She’s nothing of value.’

The man laughed. ‘Oh, yes? That’s a sure sign of the opposite.
Give me what’s round your throat, hussy, before I take it for myself.’

‘No!’ she cried in Italian, pulling away before she dropped to
her knees in the sand. ‘Oh, no—not my ring! Oh, James, I’ve dropped my ring—the
diamond betrothal ring you gave me!’

Frantically she pretended to search for the non-existent ring in
the sand, hoping both that the man would understand her words and that James
would play along.

He did. ‘That ring was my mother’s, Abigail, and worth five
thousand if it was worth a farthing. You can’t have lost it.’

‘But I have!’ she wailed. ‘I had it on my finger, and when the
man startled me it slipped off and into the sand!’

‘A diamond worth five thousand, you say?’ The man’s greed
overcame his sense, and he bent down beside Abigail to hunt for the ring.

At once Abigail threw her handfuls of sand into his eyes, and the
man yelped with pain and surprise. James grabbed the musket from his hands and
struck the back of his head with the butt, knocking him face-first into the
sand at Abigail’s feet. Groggily he struggled to rise, then pitched forward and
lay still.

‘Are you unhurt, Abbie?’ James asked, without turning away from
the soldier to look for himself. ‘You’re all to rights?’

‘Of course I am,’ she said, and strangely she was. Perhaps James
had been right about excitement being good for the constitution, for now that
they’d outwitted the thief she felt strangely exhilarated. She ran across the
sand to retrieve James’s pistol from where he’d tossed it, and returned holding
the gun gingerly with both hands. ‘Here’s your gun.’

‘You
are
a brave lass,’ he said with admiring approval.
‘Brave and clever, truly. You deserve a real diamond ring worth five thousand
for such inspiration. I should tell the admiral that I’m worried about being
worthy of you, not the other way round.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said, staring down at the unconscious man. ‘I was
more frightened than I’ve ever been.’

‘But that’s what real bravery is,’ he said, standing beside her.
‘Only an idiot doesn’t know fear. Bravery’s no more than knowing where you’re
weak and how you’re strong, when to stand alone and when you need another by
your side.’

‘Like love, then,’ she said softly. Over her shoulder, she could
see the longboat pulling towards the shore, ready to carry them out to the
Colossus
and, at last, their wedding. ‘At least how love is for us.’

He laughed, a deep, warm sound that she knew she’d never tire of
hearing. ‘Then surely we’re the bravest lovers of all time. And I can swear to
you, Abbie, that I wouldn’t wish it otherwise.’

The captain of the
Colossus
proved to be every bit as
sentimental as Admiral Nelson had predicted. With a white bridal cockade pinned
to his coat, Captain Peters served as cheerful witness as his chaplain married
them by candlelight that night. He toasted them at supper afterwards—with wine
captured from a French smuggler—and had even, at short notice, had his cook
concoct a passable English wedding cake with candied fruit. But, most generous
of all, he’d shifted his belongings from his cabin and given it over to them
for their wedding night—or, more accurately by then, their wedding morn.

Morning or night, they still managed to put the swinging cot to
most excellent use, celebrating their marriage in the way only they could.

It was still dark when Abigail woke. Beside her James slept
still, his arm curled endearingly around her waist. She clung to that pleasant
state between sleep and waking as long as she could, cosy beneath the coverlets
with her husband. Her husband James: ah, how she liked the sound of that, and
how well she loved him!

‘James,’ she whispered softly. ‘My own dear, perfect husband.’

Like all sailors, he woke at once, and leaned over to kiss her.
‘Good morning, Lady James.’

‘Not just any morning, but Christmas—and already it’s a merry one
at that,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘Listen! I hear the bells!’

‘Those are the bells to mark the watch, goose, not Christmas
bells,’ he teased. ‘But perhaps today they mark Christmas as well.’

‘I say Christmas,’ she said, then stared at the curving stern
window across the cabin. ‘Oh, James, it cannot
be
!’

She slid from the bunk, wrapping herself in one of the coverlets,
and padded across the deck in her bare feet to peer through the glass. By the
light of the stern lantern there was no mistaking what she saw.

‘Look, James,
look
,’ she said with awe. ‘It’s Christmas,
and it’s
snowing
.’

He chuckled, his head propped on his elbow as he watched her from
the bunk. ‘A pretty fancy for the day, sweet, but I know it never snows in
Naples.’

‘I’m not fancying,’ she insisted, watching the fat flakes spin
and fall. ‘It’s Christmas, and we’re still in Naples, and it
is
snowing.’

‘Oh, love,’ he said, sliding from the bunk to join her. ‘I know
we’ve pretended it’s Christmas between us all along, but now—Damnation, it’s
snowing
!’

‘And more than that, James,’ she said slowly. ‘Look over there,
at Vesuvius.’

Through the swirling snow, the crown of the volcano’s black
silhouette glowed orange in the early-dawn sky, lit by shooting flames and
sparks as spectacularly bright as any skyrockets.

‘Fireworks and snowflakes and you to love as my husband on
Christmas Day,’ she said, turning her face up to his. ‘Why should I ever have
to pretend again when my life is so glorious as this?’

‘I told you I’d surprise you,’ James said, and kissed her warmly,
passionately, perfectly. ‘And I don’t ever mean to stop. Merry Christmas, my
love. Merry Christmas!’

ISBN: 978-1-4268-0841-8

CHRISTMAS WEDDING BELLES
Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Books S. A.

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders
of the individual works as follows:

THE PIRATE’S KISS
Copyright © 2007 by Nicola Cornick

A SMUGGLER’S TALE
Copyright © 2007 by Margaret McPhee

THE SAILOR’S BRIDE
Copyright © 2007 by Miranda Jarrett

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