Once Upon a Winter's Eve: A Spindle Cove Novella (8 page)

“It sounds like torture.”

“It was, but it was necessary. For my own safety, and to guard the safety of others.” He kissed her hand and kept it in both of his. “They thrashed that carefree, callow duke’s son straight out of me and left a lowly farmhand in his place. But they never beat you out of my heart.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “I love you.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“I love you, Violet. I loved you then. I love you now. I don’t expect to ever stop.”

His words overwhelmed her to the point of mute paralysis. Oh, how she wanted to believe him. But it made no rational sense.

Finally, she managed a tiny shake of her head. “It can’t be true.”

“It’s true. Believe me, love. I’ve shoveled so much actual horseshit in the past year, I’ve lost all patience with the figurative sort.” He turned her hand palm-up and stared into it, as though he might read his fortune there. His thumb traced a circle in the center of her palm. “I have been humbled, in many ways. I’m but a tiny gear in a vast machine, expendable and unimportant. I’ve learned what it is to labor hard, for long hours, on very little food.”

She believed this part, without question. The evidence was written all over him. When she’d been pressed against him in the larder, she’d sensed how his body was leaner now, all muscle and sinew. His face was tanned and weathered from regular exposure to the sun. And his hands… She felt the calluses on his thumb as he caressed her palm.

“Most of all,” he said, “I have been humbled by the comprehensive and inescapable quality of my own stupidity. My colossal arrogance. I thought that I could share that night with you and then go on to fulfill my mission, unaffected. I was wrong. So damnably wrong. Violet, I’ve thought of you daily. Dreamt of you nightly. Longed for you in every private moment and scoured my letters from home for any word of your—”

“Your letters from home? But you said your family didn’t know where you were.”

“They don’t. They write to an address in Antigua, and the letters are diverted. Once every few months or so, I’m given leave to ‘visit my mother,’ which means a trip to our regional base. There, I sit in a small room, read their letters and pen replies. It’s the only chance I have to read or write English. For that matter, it’s the only chance I have to read anything. I haven’t read a book in a year.”

“Oh. Such deprivation.” She spoke the words without any hint of irony. For her, going without books would be as great a trial as going without food.

“In one of her letters, my sister mentioned that you’d come to Spinster—” He bit off the derisive moniker and began again. “Spindle Cove.” He released her hand and reached to stroke her cheek. “I loved thinking that you were just across the Channel. Mostly, I loved knowing you weren’t married to another man.”

“I’m not married
yet
, you mean. The family’s lost patience with me now. My mother is adamant that I return to London and find a husband. The family carriage comes for me tomorrow.”

“I know.” He drew a raspy breath. “That’s why I was determined to come tonight. I think I would have swum the Channel, if there’d been no other way.”

“But how on earth
did
you get here?”

“Last week, I had my regular day for correspondence. And there was this letter from my sister. She said you were coming back to London, and it was meant to be her grand project to marry you off this spring. When I read those words, my heart just sank like a stone. We had a small craft making the crossing to Hastings. I traded every favor I was owed, dropped my father’s name several times. I did everything short of get down on my knees and beg. Finally I was given permission to make the journey, and when we reached spitting distance from Spindle Cove, I took the jollyboat to row in. That part didn’t go as planned. Wrecked the cursed thing on a boulder. Somehow I must find a new boat in time to rendezvous with the departing ship at dawn. But before I go…”

He moved close to where she sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapping his arms and legs around her. “Can I convince you to wait for me? I’m a third son, due to inherit nothing. My material prospects were always modest, and now I’ve ruined my dashing good looks.”

She started to speak, but he interrupted her with a swift bee-sting of a kiss. It left her stunned, throbbing. Just a little swollen in places.

“I can’t imagine a life without you, Violet. I won’t press you for your hand just yet. But if you could tell me you’ll wait—just wait until this mad war is over—and give me a chance to win you, I should consider it the best Christmas gift I’ve ever received.”

She stared at him, trying to make him out. He’d spun a pretty tale for her in this ballroom. A tale that made him out to be quite a hero—serving the Crown to avenge his fallen brother, secretly loving her all the while. She wanted to trust him so badly. And it was precisely that desperate wish to believe that made her doubt her own judgment. He’d done this all before—made her feel cherished and adored one night, then left with barely a word the following day. It had taken her almost a year to recover.

Perhaps she wasn’t the real reason he’d come here. Perhaps he was just using her again, feeding her the words she wanted to hear, giving her the sensations she wanted to feel…all so he could get what he wanted and be off. With her own perception so clouded by years of infatuation, how could she be sure?

Above them, the chandelier shivered and swayed.

Christian’s eyes grew wide.

Footsteps
.

They pushed away from each other in silence. Christian extinguished the candle with his fingertips. The acrid scent of candle smoke filled the air.

The chandelier’s tinkling rattle went quiet as the footsteps paused.

Violet held her breath, uncertain what to do.

She could scream for help. They’d capture Christian, detain him, question him. She would have the truth.

Or she could trust him, against all previous evidence. She could trust him and help him escape.

“Swear,” she whispered. “Swear on Frederick’s name you’re telling the truth.”

His eyes met hers, as sincere as the Sussex night was dark. “I swear it. I swear it on my brother’s grave. And on the life of our future son.” When her jaw dropped, he shrugged. “You know we’ll have to name our first boy Frederick.”

“Don’t complicate matters,” she pleaded. “I can’t think when you speak like that.”

“Wasn’t that a lovely moment earlier, between Rycliff and his wife? I couldn’t help but wish it was us.” He touched her arm. “Someday.”

Her heart blithely skipped about her chest. She put a hand to her breast, trying to calm it.

And then—just when his words had made her forget them—the footsteps resumed. Louder, and in a more deliberate rhythm. Someone was headed for the stairs.

Without discussion and in perfect unison, they shot to their feet.

He beckoned for Violet to pass him the gun. “That’s my signal to leave.”

“Oh no, you don’t.”

She tightened her grip on the pistol and grabbed for his wrist with her other hand, tugging him toward the same set of garden doors he’d burst through some hours ago.

“This time, you’re not leaving without me.”

Chapter Six

As they raced through the night, headed for the small village of Spindle Cove, Christian worried. He worried that they would soon be missed. He worried that Violet didn’t have her cloak, and those impractical silk slippers couldn’t possibly guard her toes against the hoarfrost coating the ground. He worried that she’d never forgive him, and that he didn’t deserve her forgiveness anyway.

But he didn’t worry about allowing her to lead.

Violet knew exactly where she was taking him. She knew how to avoid barking dogs and ice-crusted puddles as they made their way. She didn’t stumble or cringe or pull up breathless, clutching her side and begging for a rest. She moved swiftly and surely through the night. Relentless.

Somewhere an owl called, “Who?” and Christian echoed the sentiment.

Who?
Who was this fearless, pistol-wielding woman, and what had she done with sweet, quiet, next-door Violet?

She’d changed, she said. Of course she had. Hadn’t he been altered in the past year? It had been stupid of him to dream otherwise. He’d stuck a pin in her memory, put it under glass to treasure and admire it, as though she were some desiccated specimen. But Violet was a live creature. Changing, growing, adapting. And beautiful in motion, with that emerald silk flowing in the night.

Christian had to face facts. He didn’t want Violet the same way he once had.

He wanted her more. Much, much more.

When they reached the village, they slowed down. They kept their steps quiet as they moved from shadow to shadow.

“Lord Rycliff sent Rufus and Dawes to guard the rooming house,” she whispered. “We’ll have to watch out for them.”

She directed him to slink around a corner near the village square, and together they huddled in the doorway of a shop.
Brights’ All Things
, the lettering on the door read.

Christian hoped the promised “All Things” included small boats.

Violet tried the door latch. Locked, of course. Wordlessly, she pulled a hairpin from her wind-mussed chignon and handed it to him.

He stared at it. “What makes you think I know how to pick locks?” he whispered. “Just because I’m a spy?”

“No. Because you were forever stealing pocket money from your father’s top desk drawer.”

Bloody hell. She truly
had
been paying attention.

“I haven’t done that in a decade.” Nevertheless, he took the hairpin. After a few minutes’ gentle exploration and some overt persuasion, the lock responded. “That’s a good girl,” he murmured, turning the door latch and swinging the door open on its thankfully well-oiled hinges.

They entered the shop. Moonlight washed the room with a milky glow. Peering at the shelves, Christian spied bolts of fabric piled ceiling high. Ink bottles lined neatly as soldiers. Rows up on rows of ribbon spools.

No boat.

“What is it we’re here to get?”

“A lamp,” she said, setting the pistol aside. “Of sorts. Sally Bright showed it to me one afternoon. Said it once belonged to her ne’er-do-well father.”

Hiking her skirts to her knees, Violet scrambled up a small ladder and reached for an object on the top shelf.

“Almost have it…” she muttered. Then she announced triumphantly, “There.”

She climbed down and laid the lamp on the counter between them. Christian recognized it at once. It was a small cylinder fashioned from hammered tin, tightly capped by a pleated metal disc and fitted with a long, tapered spout that stuck straight out. It looked like a rather like the head of a mismatched snowman. Smallish face, round hat, enormous carrot nose.

“A smuggler’s lantern,” he said.

She nodded. “I’m going to use it to guide you out of the cove. We’ll work out a system of signals. Otherwise, you’ll only wreck and founder again.”

Christian considered. That cove had more boulders than a shark had teeth. He had to acknowledge the cleverness of Violet’s idea, but… “I can’t let you take that risk. If we’re seen from the castle, the men might shoot.”

“The light won’t be seen from the castle bluffs. That’s the entire point of a smuggler’s lantern.”

“I know.” He picked the thing up and turned it round in his hands. The device was designed to throw a narrow, pinpoint beam of light out to sea. A signal someone on a passing ship might view, if he were looking for it—but one that couldn’t be seen by others on the shore. “Still, I don’t like the idea of you—”

“Christian, if I’m helping you escape, I’m going to truly
help
you. Not just bid you farewell and send you to your watery doom.”

“Thank you.” He put his hand over hers. “For not wishing me a watery doom. That alone is more than I deserve.”

In a brisk motion, she pulled her hand away. “I haven’t made up my mind on the rest of it yet.”

In the stillness, he gave voice to his worst fears. “You can’t forgive me. You won’t have me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She didn’t refute it, either. She simply went about filling the lantern’s small reservoir with fuel and preparing a wick.

In his chest, desperation tangled with despair.

“Damn it.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Why on earth
would
you have me? Just look at tonight. Once again, you’re risking your health and reputation for me, when I should be the one championing you. Fighting a duel to preserve your honor. Pulling you from a burning house. Rescuing your kitten. Something, anything, to prove myself. Instead, I’ve given you nothing but pain.”

She paused. “Well. You did save me from a fire once.”

He frowned. “I did? When was this?”

“I was eight. That would have made you…fourteen? It was an autumn night near All Hallows, and we girls tromped up to the garret with the idea to play fortuneteller. Surely you recall it?”

He did recall it, now that she painted the picture. The game had been the girls’ idea. His sister Annabel had always been close with Poppy Winterbottom, and the two of them let Violet join sometimes. Christian, as always, had been glad for the chance to make mischief. He and Frederick hid in the dormer window, laughing into their sleeves while the girls solemnly lit tapers and invoked the spirits of the beyond.

“I was already terrified just being there,” Violet said. “My nursemaid had told me so many dreadful stories about ghouls and beasties lurking in the attic. To warn me off exploring, I’m sure. And then Frederick, bless him, jumped out from behind that curtain…”

“Yes. I remember.”

Surprised, little Violet had shrieked and turned—and in so doing, whipped the fringe of her shawl straight through the candle flame. In a matter of moments, the cheap printed fabric had come ablaze. Fortunately, Christian had been in just the right position to yank loose the dormer draperies and smother the flames.

“If not for you, I could have been badly burnt,” she said. “As it was, I lost a good six inches off my braid. The house smelled of burnt hair for days. Oh, my parents were furious.”