Sometimes interviewers ask if I listen to music while I write, or if my stories have a soundtrack. Usually I say no, since I like quiet while I write, but in this case, there is a soundtrack. Loreena McKennitt is one of my very favorite musicians. Her Christmas CD To Drive The Cold Winter Away is filled with Celtic and Old English carols, many recorded in a church. When I hear them I picture lords and ladies sitting around a fire in an old castle great hall like Collingwood, listening to visiting mummers and musicians. So that is the soundtrack for this story. Here’s the link so you can hear some of Loreena’s incredible music for yourself!

http://www.quinlanroad.com/explorethemusic/todrivecoldwinter.asp.

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On The Third Day of Christmas my True Love Gave to Me…

Three Deer Marauding

I love the fact that our backyard has always been filled with wildlife. At our old house in Ottawa, we had squirrels, raccoons, skunks, and birds, not to mention visiting cats. They were all welcome.

Here in Calgary, we have one single neighborhood squirrel, nervous jackrabbits with bulgy eyes (not your adorable eastern bunnies by any means), and burrowing voles, as well as birds. Raccoons don’t live this far west, apparently, and skunks haven’t invaded the neighborhood to date. We get hawks at our birdfeeder, hunting the sparrows, which we didn’t see in the east.

We also didn’t get roving herds of deer behaving badly.

Our deer remind me of the gangs from West Side Story, hoodlums standing on street corners, looking for trouble. They leap the fence at night, and knock down our birdfeeders, stomp on them until they break and eat their fill. They blatantly ignore the carrots and the apples left to bribe them.

Since this is Christmas, we’re simply hanging the feeders a branch or two higher, and leaving some seed and nuts on the ground for the deer. The jackrabbits can have the carrots (if Santa’s reindeer don’t take them).

Love they neighbor, especially at Christmas, even if your neighbor is a marauding deer. 

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THE CHRISTMAS KING

By Lecia Cornwall

Part 4

CHAPTER NINE

Edward was hopelessly lost. He had wandered up and down dark, icy corridors for an hour or more, fighting the caress of cobwebs even more determined to claim him than Millicent. Every turn led to another, to whistling arrow slits, and icy drafts. The stone walls swallowed his calls for assistance.

At long last he saw a light, a fragile lantern flame ahead of him. He moved toward it, half afraid he was about to meet more of Collingwood’s odd residents, these ones long since dead. Perhaps it was Caradoc Colley himself, come to welcome his successor—or maybe it was an older, more sinister specter with a darker purpose in mind. The figure floating before him wore white, stood in the darkness staring down over a balcony. Edward prided himself on being brave and sensible, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and dread crawled up his spine. An icy breeze brushed past him, and his candle guttered and died.

 “Hello?” he said, the word catching in his throat.

Slowly, the shadow turned toward him, and  he almost cried out with relief. Celyn.

He saw the surprise on her face, even in the half-light of the snowy night, and watched her hand go to her throat, to the pulse point there. “My lord. You startled me. I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you’d retired for the night.” She opened the lantern and took his candle, her fingers brushing his momentarily, warm and soft. His breath caught in his throat, though the touch had been innocent, and simple.

He stepped back and looked over the railing at the hall. “I thought I’d explore a little before I went to bed. I thought—” he saw the disbelief in her eyes, and knew there was no point in putting a brave face on it.  Actually, I’ve been looking for my rooms for some time. I was beginning to wonder if the old place was haunted.”

 She smiled. “You’re in the old part of the castle, I’m afraid. It’s full of cobwebs, and stories, and—well, it does rather encourage—imagination.”

She turned to stare into the room below, a great hall, untouched by time, it seemed. “Is that what you were doing, discussing things with Collingwood’s ghosts?” Edward asked. “If not, I’ll have to assume you are doing the duties of the night watch, on top of your roles as chatelaine, steward, butler, footman, and governess.”

“And tour guide,” she quipped.

“Or rescuer of lost souls.”

She picked up the lantern. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

She stepped aside to let him pass, but this time he indicated that she should go ahead of him. “I believe it would be more prudent to let you lead, Miss Beauchamp.”

She swallowed. He watched the bob of her throat in the lantern light, and his mouth watered. He followed her along the gallery and back into the current century, and the modern section of the castle.  At last she paused by a set of double doors. “These are your room, my lord.”

She made no move to open the doors, and he stared at the latches for a moment, loathe to open them himself, since it meant going inside, shutting the door, finding himself alone once again. He had never been unhappy with his own company before now.

“Where are your rooms?” he asked. 

She blushed. “Nearby. Down the hall.”

“The countess’s apartments, perhaps?” he asked. Those would be attached to his own most likely, connected by a shared dressing room perhaps. What would she do if he invited her in, or followed her to her rooms, or found his way to her bed in the dark?

He took a step toward her. She held his eyes, and didn’t step away. “Arabella is in the countess’s rooms. It was more comfortable you see, and easier to tend her and Caradoc, close together,” she whispered. “Phoebe and Louisa are next door to her.” She pointed along the hall.

“And you? Where do you sleep?” He drew his finger down her cheek. Her skin was smooth as marble, but as warm and soft as silk. She shut her eyes, drawing a sharp little breath, and leaned into the caress for a second.

He moved closer, set his other hand on her waist. Would she allow him to kiss her?

She gasped and opened her eyes, moved out of reach. She raised her own fingers to her cheek where he’d touched her, and stared at him. In the lantern light, her eyes flickered with a dozen emotions—surprise, desire, suspicion… then her lashes swept down, and she looked away. He clenched his fist at his side, resisting the urge to reach for her again, draw her close. He stepped toward her, but her eyes shot to his, and the chatelaine was back, as formal and correct as his own housekeeper.

 “Good night, my lord,” she said crisply, her posture rigid, her knuckles white where they clutched the lantern.

He put his hand on the door latch, ice cold and hard after the feel of her skin. “What if I need——something?” he said.

She met his eyes firmly now. “I could ask Davy to come, make sure you have all you need for this evening.”

 “No. Never mind. I can make do for one night.”

“Then I shall see you in the morning, at breakfast” she said.

“I prefer coffee,” he said, though she hadn’t asked.

“I’m afraid we haven’t got any,” she said. “There is tea.”

He frowned. “My things should arrive soon, if they haven’t already. No doubt my staff thought to include coffee. ”

She looked surprised. “You brought coffee?”

“My staff is aware of my requirements. They packed everything I might conceivably need.” 

She looked surprised again. “I see. We shall endeavor to ensure that you receive the same kind of excellent service here that you’re used to.”

Was that a rebuke? He wasn’t sure. Was it wrong to enjoy the pleasures and privileges one was born to? She took the lantern and set off down the hall without looking back, her spine stiff, her head high. He stood and watched her go until she turned a corner and the light disappeared. He was tempted to follow, but he stayed where he was. Christmastide lasted twelve days, and he had plenty of time. There was no need to rush. He had never failed to win a woman he wanted—or to rebuff those he did not, such as— he frowned. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of any other woman’s face but Celyn’s, lit by lantern light and snow.

CHAPTER TEN

Celyn climbed the steps to the tower, and opened the door to her chamber. She loved this room, had chosen it as a girl, when Caradoc had said she could have her choice of any room in the castle. On a clear day, her windows offered views of the surrounding countryside, including mountains, rivers and lakes. Caradoc had modernized it, added a dressing room and a small sitting room, too, so the tower was her own. She felt like a princess.

Soon, she supposed, she may have to leave it. She had been trying to reconcile herself to that since Caradoc died. And now, Edward might wish to bring a wife here, or a daughter, and that lady may very well want this room, and would be within her rights to insist on having it.

She touched the side of her face where he’d caressed her cheek. She could see in his eyes what he’d wanted, expected. For a moment, she’d wanted it too. She looked at the unappealingly cold sheets on her bed.

She’d made a wish, and here he was, Edward, Earl of Wintercross and Collingwood. It would be too easy to believe he had indeed come for her, too tempting to see what it would feel like to kiss him, let him kiss her.

She began to unpin her hair, tossing the pins into the dish. She didn’t believe in magic, or ghosts, or fate, and a brief affaire de Coeur wouldn’t solve anything, or make it easier for her to leave Collingwood when the time came.

If Caradoc had taught her anything, it was to avoid romantic entanglements. They only led to a lifetime of heartache. It was far better to marry for sensible, tangible reasons, such as money or land. She had no hope of any of those, and assumed that she would end as Caradoc did, unwed, with only memories to keep her warm. Memories of what? A caress on the cheek, a hand on her waist? She unbuttoned her gown, let the chill of the room drive the foolish frill of heat away.

She would find work—a genteel position as a companion to a lady like Arabella, or as a housekeeper or governess. She imagined traveling through her life with her heart locked away in a snuffbox—or a locket perhaps—with nothing more than a lock of Wintercross’s fair hair inside.

No. His arrival had nothing to do with true love. Wishing it so was insanity, and would only lead to pain. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Edward opened his eyes the next morning to find three pairs of eyes regarding him with wide-eyed interest over the edge of the mattress. The first pair was as blue as a lake in summer, under a thatch of unruly yellow hair. The second pair was as brown as wet earth in spring, with hair to match. The third pair was green, fringed with red-gold lashes, and almost obscured by a riotous mop of russet curls. To his horror, the child—a girl of undetermined age, since he had no knowledge of children under the age of five, though surely she could not be more than three. Or perhaps four. Or two, possibly—climbed up onto the bed, crawling over the wide surface until she was snuggled against his side like a pet cat. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and shut her eyes contentedly. Edward stiffened, afraid to move in case she began to shriek. Isn’t that what children did? 

One of the other two, the lad with the blue eyes, raced to the door and threw it open. “He’s awake!” he bellowed into the hall. The dark haired boy continued to watch Edward like a hunting dog guarding an intruder until the authorities arrived.

“What the devil is going on here?” Edward asked, sitting up carefully. The little girl did not shriek. She made a small cooing noise and moved over to take the warm place on the bed.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” the first lad said, bowing from the waist. “Celyn sent me to wait and see if there was anything you needed this morning. Do you need anything?”

Edward ran a hand through his hair. “Your name for a start,” he said crisply. How did one deal with children? His half-brother had two—or was it three? He avoided them as he had avoided his infant sisters when they arrived. Children were loud, destructive, and disobedient until they grew up. Actually, as in the case of his sisters, there were some that remained loud, disobedient and destructive even after they left the nursery.

The two lads looked him soberly, with far more intelligence in their young faces than was evident in all five of his sisters put together. “I’m Colin,” the oldest said, “And this is Bran.”

“That’s Corrie,” Bran added, pointing to the girl in the bed. She said not a word, just stared silently at him.

Edward shifted over to give her more room, and she followed, clinging to his side. “Why are you here at this hour? Where is your nurse?”

In his opinion and experience, children were presented in the drawing room, briefly, with a trained nurse holding firmly to their sticky little hands, ready to lead them out of polite company at the first whimper. Other staff usually hovered nearby, in case a tantrum occurred, and sterner action was required. Edward was quite alone and unprotected.

“Our nurse?” Colin asked.

“Your minder,” Edward said impatiently. He reached for the robe at the end of the bed, and discovered to his surprise it was his robe, not the borrowed one that had lain there when he went to bed. He pulled it on, sighing at the soft, rich warmth of silk and cashmere.

“I’m minding her,” Colin said, pointing at Corrie. “Bran just wanted to look at ye.”

“Look at me?” Edward bridled. “Why?” 

“I’ve never seen a king before,” Bran shrugged, pulling on an enormous scarf he wore bundled about his neck to free his lips to speak.

“I’m not—”  Edward glanced again at the boy. The scarf looked familiar. He turned over the trailing end of it and saw his monogram embroidered there. “That’s cashmere!” he muttered.

“Is that its name?” Colin asked. “What’s this one called?” He pointed to the paisley waistcoat he wore, also unmistakably one of Edward’s.

“Silk! I take it my things have arrived. Where is Miss Beauchamp?”

“Celyn?” Colin asked. “She’s taken a gentleman to bed.”

Edward felt a moment’s irrational jealousy. It did not fit well with his anger, making both mount. “What gentleman?” he demanded.

“Don’t know. Celyn took him to bed as soon as he arrived at the door. My mother said she didn’t like the look of him.”

The door opened before he could question the child further, and Mrs. Jones came into the room bearing a tray. Edward could smell hot coffee, and bacon, and sweet buns. His stomach growled.

The children immediately grasped her skirts. “He’s awake, Mam.” Colin said.

“I can see that,” she said, setting the tray down on the bed. “I trust you slept well, my lord?”

“Why are these urchins wearing my clothes?” Edward asked. He watched as her face broke into a wide smile.

“You’ve noticed! I just want to thank you for all the wonderful things— the coffee, the sugar, the oranges. I haven’t seen oranges for so long I’d almost forgotten what they looked like! It’s a blessing, and it couldn’t have come at a better time than Christmas! I will make the most wonderful Christmas dinner you’ve ever seen!” She grasped his hand in her own meaty fist and kissed it soundly. “And the little ones are warm at last. This old place gets so drafty in winter, not like a snug cottage! Straighten your scarf, Bran.” 

The protest died on Edward’s lips. He watched a tiny hand creep out from under the covers and steal a piece of bacon from the tray. The boys eyed the food hungrily. “Do help yourselves,” he said tightly, unsure of the etiquette in such a situation, and they fell on the food.

“Are some of my things still available for my own use?” he asked Mrs. Jones stiffly.

“There are trunks of things—all in your dressing room as we speak,” Mrs. Jones said happily.

“And my valet?”

“Mr. Cow Otters is it?”

“Carruthers,” Edward corrected.

“That’s not how he said it,” Colin said around a mouthful of sweet bread. Edward watched the lad drip honey onto the rest of the steaming roll.

Mrs. Jones chuckled. “He was dreadfully ill when he got here, sounded dreadful. We weren’t sure for a time if he was actually speaking English at all. We thought he might be a Scot, lost in the snow. Celyn insisted he be taken to bed at once. She’s dosing him with willow bark and hot soup.”

“And a mustard plaster for his chest.” Bran said, wrinkling his nose.

Edward grabbed a piece of bacon before the children had devoured the whole plate of food. “He’s my valet,” he said. Had he ever known a servant to get sick and neglect his duties? Did servants get sick? He wasn’t sure it was allowed, or that it had ever happened before. He would ask his father when he saw him again, but at the moment, he needed Carruthers.  “Please send for Carruthers at once, and order me a hot bath.”

Mrs. Jones jerked her head at Colin, and the lad set off running to do Edward’s bidding. “There’s plenty of hot water in the kitchen,” she said, and set about pouring the coffee. She slapped Bran’s hand away when he reached for it. “There’s milk in the kitchen, too.”  The lad stepped back wistfully.

Colin returned. “Celyn says he can’t come.”

“Can’t come?” Edward stared at the boy.

“Celyn says he’s too sick to get up today. She says you’ll have to make do with Aled or Davy for now.” The lad made the pronouncement as if Celyn Beauchamp’s word was final.

Edward ran a hand over his jaw. He needed shaving. “Has Miss Beauchamp got medical training?” he demanded of Mrs. Jones.

“No, but she tended Caradoc when he was ill,” the cook mused. And look how that turned out.

“Is there no doctor hereabouts?”

“There’s Old Gwen,” Mrs. Jones replied.

“Fetch her!” Edward ordered, and Colin was sent out again. “And send Miss Beauchamp to me at once!” he called after the boy.

Bran’s face fell, and Mrs. Jones stiffened, drawing herself up to full height above her pregnant belly, an inch or two taller than Edward, and tucked a protective arm around her son.  “There’s no need to take that tone, my lord. We’re not deaf. You may wish to get properly dressed before you see Celyn. Since you are not ill, it would be inappropriate to meet her here, in your bedchamber! I will direct her to the library.”

“Come along Bran,” she said, and took the boy in one hand, and the empty tray in the other. Edward realized he hadn’t had a single bite to eat, and Corrie was still snuggled up in his bed, fast asleep.  

The Christmas King, Part 4

The Christmas King, Part 3

Are you wondering what Collingwood Castle might look like? In looking for the perfect setting, I came across the lovely Gwydir Castle in Snowdonia, Wales. It’s perfect—a combination manor house and a castle, full of ancient charm, and the perfect place to set a Christmas love story. Check out the pictures, and see if you can imagine Celyn and Edward falling in love here! ttp://www.google.ca/search?q=gwydir+castle&hl=en&tbo=u&tbm=isch&source=univ&sa=X&ei=0o7QUJKrLKO1igLF2IDACg&sqi=2&ved=0CDsQsAQ&biw=1325&bih=843

Are you looking for Parts 1 and 2 of the story? Part One began on the website Ramblings From This Chick on December 12, 2012. Scroll down and Follow the link at the top of Part 2 to read the beginning of the story. Here's part 3. 

Part 4 will be up on Thursday, December 20.

Today’s Cornwall Christmas Carol:

On the Second Day of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me…

TWO TURTLENECKS

“What does mom want for Christmas?”

“The usual, books and turtlenecks.”

That conversation takes place at my house every year. My family complains that my Christmas lists are by far the least imaginative things I write.

The books take me places, transport me, and have always been my favorite gifts (along with Lego and Barbie Dolls). I remember the books I received best of all when I look back at Christmas gifts past—Nancy Drew, The Happy Hollisters, Lord of The Rings, and even one year, my first romance, from an aunt, a book by Dorothy Spicer I’ve forgotten the name of, though I remember the story, a suspenseful love story set in Egypt.

Okay, maybe the turtlenecks are getting dull, but I get chilly when I write. I literally wear two sweaters—both turtlenecks, one over the other, a scarf, and some fingerless gloves I bought at Cawdor Castle in Scotland. I work better warm, I suppose I do look a bit like a turtle, only popping out of my layers for questions like “What do you want for Christmas?” And so it starts again…two turtlenecks, and a big pile of books.

  

CHAPTER SEVEN

           

“My lord?” Edward kept his eyes shut, clinging to the warm vestiges of sleep, though they were already dissipating, and he wondered who was calling him. The voice was soft, gentle, sweet as Christmas music—not a servant then, and his sisters didn’t have gentle voices. They screeched.

“Lord Wintercross?” Edward opened his eyes, remembering he was at Collingwood Castle, in the library. He must have fallen asleep in the chair by the fire. Celyn Beauchamp was standing beside him, staring down at him, her hand extended as if she were about to touch him.

She took his breath away. She’d tidied her hair. The long braid was gone, tucked up into a proper bun. She probably wished to look older, more matronly, but the severe hairstyle only served to emphasize the delicacy of her cheekbones and the length of her neck. Celyn Beauchamp was beautiful. He had the oddest desire to reach out and touch her cheek, take her hand and pull her down onto his lap and stay right where he was, but she lowered her gaze and stepped back, blushing under his scrutiny, as if she could read his thoughts.

He sat up, tasting the lingering pleasure of Mrs. Jones’s gingerbread on his tongue, and straightened his cravat. He was as much the master here as at any other of his estates. A prickle of warning climbed his spine. He’d come all the way to Wales to avoid feminine entanglements and marriage. Not that Celyn Beauchamp could be considered marriageable by any definition of the word, as a mere servant or former mistress. But beddable, yes. Would she…“What is it, Miss Beauchamp?” he snapped.

She stiffened. “I’ve come to announce that dinner is served. We, um—haven’t got a butler.”

“I’m not surprised, since there is a complete lack of any proper staff.” He watched a bloom of indignant color wash up over her cheeks.

“If you’ll follow me?” she said, indicating the way with a wave of her hand, her expression as flat and proper as a real butler. There was none of the joy on her face now that she’d shared with the lads outside. He frowned, feeling the chill of being shut out of the fun yet again.

He rose and smoothed a hand through his hair, over his stubbled chin. He’d be glad when his valet arrived, hopefully by morning. Or did Celyn plan to offer that service as well? Shoes shined, cravats tied, earls shaved—the idea almost made him laugh out loud. Those long slender fingers could probably tie very intricate knots in a man’s cravat, among other things.

He let her lead the way, trying not to stare at the sway of her hips. No, she was most certainly not a butler. He couldn’t remember ever looking at Beckwith and thinking he’d like to bury his nose in his hair to identify the perfume he was wearing.

Celyn opened the door and stood back, as a good footman might, and waited for him to exit.

Beyond the library door, the hall had been transformed. The laundry was gone, and the polished slate floor was now covered with the turkey carpet he’d seen rolled up against the wall. The tallow candles had been replaced with beeswax, and the fragrance of old wood and honey filled the ancient hall.

            “How old is Collingwood Castle?” he asked her.

            “The land was given to the first Lord Colley, a Welsh comrade of Henry Tudor’s. That Colley helped him win the throne and become Henry VII. He built the old castle,” she said. “Other earls have added to it over the years. Caradoc’s grandfather built the new wing, with modern apartments and bedchambers, and the grand dining room.”

            “It must be beastly to maintain,” Edward said, looking around, imagining the army of servants it took to keep his manor at Wintercross perfectly polished, properly repaired, and running smoothly to his exacting standards. Yet, even though Medieval arms hung on the walls here as decoration, instead of the Italian paintings that graced his own home, the floors were just as clean, the paneling glowed just as brightly, and even if the ancient tapestries were faded with age, they were free of dust. He looked again at Celyn’s delicate limbs. Surely she didn’t do it all herself.

She paused to straighten a framed piece of embroidery that hung on the wall, and cast him a sideways look, appraising his opinion of the place. “We do our best,” she said proudly, and he smiled a little at her vanity.

            They passed by a towering archway that led to a grand staircase. The oak banisters were carved with fanciful animal faces, and the snow light filtered through mullioned window of leaded glass, casting an eerie glow over the worn stone steps. He could almost see the first Lord Collingwood descending the steps, clad in his armor, ready to win the Wars of the Roses for his side.

“That leads to the tower, and the great hall, and the rest of the old castle,” she explained as she led him past the archway without pausing. “This hallway marks the divide between the oldest part of the castle and the newest.” He could se that—on his left, the walls were old stone, pitted and scarred by age and battle. On the right, brick and plaster and paneling. Celyn opened a rather ordinary oak door on the right hand side, a modern, recognizable oak door, without defensive iron studs or the black patina of age.

She stepped aside to let him enter a warm and well-lit dining room, every bit as modern and well appointed as his own. He found himself staring down the length of a polished mahogany table, set for just five people, though there was space for at least thirty. The place at the head of the table stood empty, waiting for him. Lady Arabella was seated to the right of his place, Louisa and another young woman across from her. Celyn crossed the room to stand beside the last empty chair as the two girls rose to their feet.

            Louisa was still grinning at him as if he were a candied torte, and the other girl, who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, regarded him with wide eyes. 

            “Lord Collingwood, may I formally present Lady Arabella Niven, and Miss Phoebe and Miss Louisa Niven?” Celyn said, and the girls instantly dropped into the kind of deep curtsy meant for royalty. The old lady beamed, and tried to do likewise, but Celyn gripped her arm when she faltered part way down, and helped her back to her seat.

            Edward bowed and kissed each lady’s hand, and took his place. There were no surprises. Everything was perfectly correct, the silver polished, the napkins of pristine linen, the crystal glasses sparkling in the soft candlelight.

            “It is a pleasure to meet you all,” he said, unfurling his napkin. He wasn’t certain what to say after that. At Wintercross, he dined alone. At Kingscott, his sisters would have taken over the conversation and there would have been no need—or opportunity—for Edward to speak at all. Here, the silence lingered, and the ladies looked at him expectantly.

            “Lovely weather,” he said without thinking, resorting to the safest, most usual topic. He could have bitten his tongue at how foolish it sounded—no doubt by now there was another foot of snow piled up outside the door by now—but the girls continued to grin as if he’d said something utterly charming, and Arabella merely nodded her head with a faint smile. Only Celyn shot him a quizzical look before she turned to nod at a young maidservant waiting in the doorway. The girl entered with a terrine filled with something that smelled delicious. She was followed by the old man he now understood must be Aled. The former steward regarded him suspiciously as he bore the wine on a silver tray.

            “No footmen either?” Edward asked Celyn.

            “Not for some months,” she replied pleasantly.

            He watched as she gave the two servants the kind of subtle signals that would do an English countess proud. The girl served a rich stew, scented with wine and herbs, swimming with carrots and potatoes. “Rabbit stew, Your Majesty,” she murmured.

            The old man filled his glass with red wine. “Are you really the king?” he asked, squinting at Edward.

“No,” Edward said sharply, tired of the question.

The old man shrugged. “If you’re sure. I’ve heard the king is mad, and who else would venture out in a snowstorm like this one? Lovely weather indeed. It’s hardly that.”

“I’m not—” Edward began feeling his neck heating under his cravat.

“Will you be staying with us long, my lord?”  Miss Phoebe Niven asked, fluttering her lashes.

“I had planned to stay for the whole of Christmastide,” Edward murmured, though he was now weighing the potential perils of Christmas at Kingscott with Millicent against the problem of remaining in this unusual household.

“I must warn you that we’re used to a simple life and simple celebrations. It won’t be a grand holiday,” Celyn said.

He frowned. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Miss Beauchamp?”

“No, of course not. Collingwood is your—” she faltered, trying to find the right word to describe it. Was there one? It wasn’t his home. It was merely his property, another estate he owned. Yet somehow it did not belong to him, or he to it. It was—

“Not grand? Oh, but it is!” Louisa chirped, interrupting his thoughts. “There’ll be mince pies and plum pudding, and fruit cakes, and wassail, and taffy, of course. And we couldn’t possibly want you gone again when you’ve just arrived. You’re the answer to Celyn’s—”

“And the decorations!” Celyn put in. “The holly and ivy, and the boughs!”

“It will be lovely! Celyn’s been hoarding candles and sugar for months,” Phoebe said, her careful debutante’s mask slipping to reveal an eager child.

Edward looked at their shining faces and felt a pang of longing for Kingscott. His sisters would be doing exactly the same things.

“In Cardoc’s father’s time, there was a Christmas ball every year,” Arabella mused, her eyes misty. “Or is it my father I’m thinking of?” Her hands fluttered like dismayed birds as she tied to remember. “No, it was at court, I’m sure of it now.” She looked at Celyn. “Will we be giving a ball this year? I must find a gown—”

Celyn clasped the old lady’s hand, squeezed it reassuringly. “You can wear your red gown, the one with the French lace, and your pearl earrings. You’ll look lovely.”

Arabella’s wrinkled face unfurled into a bright smile. “Of course! We’ll sneak into the kitchen and add extra rum to the cakes, and still more to the punch!” she said, and turned back to her meal.

Edward studied Celyn. Was it his imagination, or did a hint of worry cross her face? Was it the idea of planning such a grand party, or perhaps the concern that Lady Arabella would forget something important, a noble neighbor’s name, perhaps? Maybe the old lady mistook everyone for the king, and was considered somewhat embarrassing, like his own uncle, who sang bawdy ale house songs when he was in his cups at this time of year.

“I think I’ll go hunting tomorrow. Davy Price says the weather’s going to clear,” Aled announced to no one in particular. Edward was used to footmen that stood silently by, and didn’t join the conversation, but Celyn did nothing to rebuke him for his outburst. Aled hooked his thumbs in his vest. “I hope to bring down a stag, or a boar. Perhaps even a wolf.”

The maidservant wrinkled her nose. “We can’t eat a wolf, Aled, not even at Christmas!”

“Not for eating—for the fur,” he hissed back. “A Christmas present.”

“I’ll go out with you, Aled,” Celyn said quickly. “I want to gather some nuts.”

“Nuts? In all this snow?” Phoebe asked.

He watched Celyn blush, her fair skin turning pink in the candlelight. “I need the fresh air, and I’ll be safe with Aled.”

“You mean he’ll be safe with you,” Phoebe replied, and Celyn’s blush deepened.

“Perhaps I shall go as well,” Edward said, and Celyn’s gaze flew to his like a startled bird.

“Oh, no, my lord, that’s hardly necessary! The weather—”

Edward smiled dryly at her. “Is supposed to clear, I understand. I wish to see the estate, and I’ve been cooped up in a coach for a fortnight. A day’s hunting will do me good. Have you horses?”

“Horses?” Aled goggled. “We go on foot! Not the terrain for horses, here.”

Edward considered. His boots would be ruined. He saw the hope in Celyn Beauchamp’s eyes that he would change his mind, and that made him all the more determined to go out. “What time do we leave?” he asked.

“Dawn,” she said.

 “Noon,” Aled said at the same time.

He smiled at her. “I’ll be ready.” Aled grinned and refilled his glass to the brim.

He heard a whisper, then a giggle, somewhere up near the ceiling. He looked at the carved moldings around the ceiling, expecting angels, or bats, perhaps.

He started in horror. There was a gallery that ran the length of one wall, up near the ceiling. It was entirely lined with children, their thin legs dangling, their faces pressed between the railings as they watched the party below. They didn’t flee when he took note of them—they stared back, their eyes bright with curiosity, like squirrels, or monkeys. He frowned at them, but it did no good at all. He glanced at Celyn, saw her regarding him with interest.

Arabella laughed and waved at them. “Oh, the children! Shall we invite them in to visit with us?”

“Shouldn’t they be in bed?” Edward demanded.

Celyn folded her napkin and rose. “You’re quite right. Will you excuse me, my lord?” She glided out of the room, her back as stiff as a governess’s. When he looked up again, the children were gone. The color seemed to have leeched out of the room, and he blamed that on Celyn’s absence, not the lack of living cherubs in the rafters.

“They were excited enough, what with the fire, and staying here in the castle, and Christmas coming, too, but now you’ve come, they’ll never sleep at all,” Louisa predicted brightly.

Edward frowned. “Where are their parents?”

Phoebe sipped her wine elegantly and slid her gaze to Edward. “Upstairs. But there are some rooms set aside just for the children. Mrs. Jones has twelve herself, and one more coming. Davy Price has four, and no wife at all. They couldn’t all stay in just one room.”

“Then there’s the Stackpooles, with seventeen—or is it eighteen?” Louisa said.

“The King has fifteen children,” Arabella put in. “Most of them named Fredrick, or Augustus, if I remember correctly.”

“Or George,” Phoebe added. “Will you tell us about the Prince Regent, and London society, my lord?”

She leaned closer, had that starry look in her eyes he was used to from London debutantes who saw him as a fortune, a title and a marriage prize. Was every girl of marriageable age taught that look? His sisters were experts at appraising a man’s worth at a glance, and then drawing him in with that hypnotic and uniquely feminine dewy-eyed gaze if he proved suitably rich.

 “Yes, certainly,” he said as he leapt to his feet before Phoebe’s look mastered him. “Tomorrow at breakfast, perhaps. Or luncheon. If you’ll forgive me, it’s late, and I have had a very fatiguing journey.”

He bowed left the room, and only once he’d shut the door firmly behind him did he realize that he hadn’t a clue where he was going, and had no idea in which direction the earl’s chambers might be.

He took a candle from sideboard and returned to the archway. He looked up the stone steps, which seemed to ascend forever into the darkness. There was a draft issuing down the stairs like a cascade of icy water, and he cupped his hand protectively around the guttering candle and began to climb. 

           

                       

CHAPTER EIGHT

Celyn made sure everyone was comfortable, and the children were tucked into their beds, and warned to stay there, and be quiet. They were full of questions about the visitor, and she told them they would see him in the morning.

Celyn thought it was rather nice, having the castle so full of people and life, even if the new earl did not like children. It was a pity, since Caradoc had loved them, though he’d never had any of his own—well, just one. He’d never married, having found the love of his life too late, and discovered the lady was already wed to someone else. He’d never admitted it, never spoken her name, but Celyn knew his heart had been irreparably broken. Throughout his life, Caradoc had carried a small snuffbox, asked to be buried with it, though he’d never taken snuff in his life. The box contained a lock of shining dark hair.

Celyn shooed the children into their beds, and kissed the tops of their heads. How lovely it would be to have a grand Christmas celebration of the kind Collingwood used to see.

Caradoc told marvelous tales of the parties held in his father’s time. Once, visiting mummers and musicians, came for Christmastide. There was a party for the villagers, and a ball for the local gentry. The merriment and misrule went on for twelve days. Of course Caradoc himself did little in the way of lavish entertaining, and eventually, no one at all came to visit and the traditions died away.

She walked along the corridor, and opened the door that led to the old part of the castle. It was cold here, and dark. She took a lantern, and used a candle to light it. The long gallery crossed between the ancient great hall and the dining room, marking a kind of dividing line between the two parts of the castle, old and new. The builder had left the gallery open so one could look down into the great hall of the original castle on one side, and then cross to peer into the modern dining room on the other. It was here the children had come to get a look at the new earl, as mysterious a creature to them as if he’d come from darkest China. She looked down into the dining room herself, hoping to catch a glimpse of him at table herself, but he was gone, and only Catrin remained, clearing away the remains of the meal. 

He’d obviously retired for the night. She hoped Edward Kingsley found Caradoc’s apartments to his liking. They were comfortable, but probably not up to the elegant standards of an English earl used to the most modern conveniences and all the luxuries his money could buy. That was obvious by the cut of his coat, the quality of his boots, his very attitude that he was a man who enjoyed the privileges of his wealth. He wasn’t likely to remain long in the rustic charms of Collingwood Castle. She felt a twinge of regret at that. The old place deserved a master, and a mistress, for that matter, and children. She frowned and wondered what would happen to the place now he’d come. She loved it here, but it was the only home she’d ever known.

She crossed the gallery and stared down into the great hall. The ancient hammer beam roof was shadowed in the dark. The high windows let in the white light of the snow, illuminating battle flags and banners that still hung proudly from the ceiling. The huge fireplace took up the whole wall at the end of the room, and was once used on nights like this for roasting whole stags, and heating ale or wine punch while knights and ladies told stories and laughed in the firelight.

 Celyn could imagine the floor cleared, so people could dance, or perhaps the earl would sit at the high table on the dais, surrounded by his people, and listen to a bard’s tales, or watch a troupe of traveling mummers accompanied by pipe and drum. There’d be Christmas greens, and the pleasure of good company.

In later centuries no doubt, candles replaced the torches and firelight, and lit a very different scene—elegant ladies in silk, lords in embroidered satin coats and buckled shoes, swirling around the room to a gentle minuet. She’d loved to stand exactly here as a child, and picture the celebrations in her imagination.

They hadn’t used the great hall in many years. She glanced at the door tucked into the flanks of the fireplace, which led to the old kitchens, now filled with cows and livestock. Still, with so many people, it would make a grand place to hold a Christmas feast for the villagers— And the earl, if he wished to come, And if he didn’t, well, it would be almost impossible to hear the sounds of a party from his apartments. She smiled, picturing it now. They would gather extra greens, set up long trestle tables, eat and drink and celebrate the season. She smiled at the idea. It was just what everyone needed—a chance to push away the dark days of winter, and the horror of the fire, bring back hope and happiness. And it may very well be the last Christmas she spent here at Collingwood. She pushed the melancholy thought away.

She’d speak to Mrs. Jones in the morning, make plans, and ask Mrs. Stackpoole and the girls to help, too.

A wavering light came along the gallery, flickering, floating above the floor, glancing off the walls. Celyn gripped the wooden railing, remembering darker tales. Caradoc said the old castle was haunted. His ghost stories were her favorites. Who was coming along the gallery? Was it old Sir Lancelot Colley, perhaps, or Caradoc himself, coming to visit her on a cold, dark night? Icy fingers of fear crept up her spine.

Then, without any warning at all, the light vanished.

Enjoying the story? Part 4 will be here on Thursday, December 20! Please leave a comment if you have any questions! I’d love to hear from you!

This is the second part of The Christmas King a story that began on “A Historical Christmas Eve” on Ramblings From This Chick on December 12, 2012. If you haven’t read it yet, you can see part one at http://ramblingsfromthischick.blogspot.ca/ 

I should mention that this story is dedicated to Danielle Gorman, the wonderful Chick herself, for without her, it wouldn’t have been written at all, or probably even thought of. Her annual Christmas Scene project, along with fellow blogger Not Another Romance Blog, is so much fun to be part of. Check out other scenes from other wonderful historical romance authors on both sites between now and Christmas. 

I’ll post more parts of the story over the next few weeks, some every few days, until we reach happy ever after (and Merry Christmas) at last. Sigh.

Be warned—there’s a song to go with this, all about Christmas at my house. Here’s the first verse, and then, the story. See you again in a few days!

ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS

MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME….

A Labrador with a bad knee

Ah, Kipper, my chocolate lab, my companion, my exercise coach, my funniest, most charming friend—and one of the seven great dogs, if you’ve seen the movie Dean Spanley (a must for dog lovers). He’s the first dog I, a confirmed cat person, have ever had. I never expected to love him so much, but there it is. I am every bit as much a dog person now. Oh, Kipper has his flaws—food allergies, fear of thunder, windy nights and vacuum cleaners, and a tendency to have truly horrible gas in company—but he’s family, one of us, one of the cats, even, and we love his good points and his not so good points.

What would Christmas be without someone in the family getting sick? A few years ago, Kipper tore the ligaments in his left knee, and needed surgery. The vet told us 30% of labs eventually need surgery on the other knee, and Kipper, being a high achiever, made that top percentage. It’s the hockey ball, you see. He’ll go through hell, high water, or concrete walls to retrieve it, which is hard on the joints, but so much fun. The definition of happiness is a lab with a hockey ball, a willing human to throw it, and a long field to chase it in.

But this time, just this week, in fact, Kipper’s routine pre-surgery blood tests showed problems with his liver. It meant that he might be unable to have the operation, and I was afraid he’d never be able to run, never mind walk, again. It meant more blood work to look deeper into the liver issues. There was talk of possibly needing to do a biopsy, or an ultrasound if the tests came back with negative results. Those were twenty-four very anxious hours, waiting to hear. My biggest Christmas wish was just for Kipper to just be okay.

All is well, at least for now, I’m pleased to say. Kipper will only require medication for now. After Christmas, a traveling veterinary surgeon named Neil will visit our clinic and do surgery on Kipper’s right knee. After a few months of recovery, he’ll be chasing his ball down the trail again, the wind in his ears, the grass brushing his flanks, in total bliss.

Don’t tell him, but he’s getting a brand new hockey ball for Christmas, not to use now, but as a sign of hope and the blessing of good days to come.

If nothing else, cherish the ones you love this Christmas, because we never know what next year might bring. Hoping it brings you joy, peace, and love, along with a miracle or two.

THE CHRISTMAS KING

By Lecia Cornwall

CHAPTER FIVE

Celyn woke when Mrs. Jones waved the smelling salts under her nose, and the beams that crossed the ceiling of the library slowly came into focus. Louisa was perched on the edge of the settee beside her, rubbing the pulse-point at her wrist. Arabella was in ensconced in a chair by the fire, wrapped in a red velvet robe, regarding Celyn with her usual regal air of vague confusion. The earl was nowhere to be seen.

She’d imagined him.

She sighed with relief, and a touch of disappointment. Her tired brain had conjured him out of snow, frosty air, and overwork. He was a product of wishful thinking, and not having eaten a thing since breakfast. She rubbed a hand over her eyes.

Settling the villagers in the castle was proving to be a huge task, especially with the preparations for Christmas to be managed as well. Everyone needed a place to sleep, and she was pulling down curtains in some rooms to cover everyone properly. There were the sick and elderly to tend to, and those burned by the fire. And the children—they seemed to be everywhere, underfoot and overhead, needing constant minding. Add to all that the problem of keeping everyone fed, and surely it was enough to make anyone to see invisible earls, and to drive them the floor in a dead faint.

Still, he’d been handsome, her imagined earl, in a forbidding, aristocratic kind of way. She shut her eyes and tried to re-imagine him, but all she saw was darkness. Perhaps she could fall asleep and dream of him. She forced her eyes open. How foolish! She still had things to do and had to get up at once. She moved to sit up, and felt a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Stay where you are, if you please. I have no desire to catch you again.”

Her heart stopped beating.

He was behind her, and he must be real—she could feel the heat of his hand through her gown. Arabella was smiling at someone behind her. Louisa was gazing up at him besottedly. Mrs. Jones was regarding him with suspicion.

She turned slowly. There he was, as real as she was. “Dear God, you’re real!” she cried, and clapped her hand over her lips at the rude outburst. 

He gazed down at her as if she were daft.

She pulled away from his grip. “I’m perfectly fine now, your lordship,” she said crisply, though he began to dissolve in a shimmer of stars as she tried to stand up. She swallowed a gasp of dismay at her weakness, especially now, and remained seated.

“I doubt that. I have five sisters, and I know a hysterical female when I see one. Bring her a glass of sherry,” he ordered the room in general, his eyes never leaving hers.

Celyn blinked first. He was sparkling. Melted snow bejeweled his golden hair, making it curl against his forehead. The firelight made a kind of halo around him, and for a moment, she fervently believed he was indeed the answer to a wish, or an angel, perhaps. But no angel would look so annoyed—and pompous. Were angels pompous? Nor would an angel need shaving, and sleep, if the rings under his eyes were any indication. Panic rose in her chest. Why had he chosen now to arrive, when everything was in chaos? Why hadn’t he come last month, or next month for that matter? She clenched her fists in her lap.

“I’m not hysterical!” she squeaked, and swallowed.

She watched doubt move into his eyes—grey eyes, like the snow-filled sky—along with a touch of irritation that she had dared to dispute his pronouncement. She knew instantly that he was a man used to being obeyed.

“I’m not hysterical,” she said again, more insistently, an octave lower, but she still sounded hysterical, even to her own ears, and everyone else, apparently—Mrs. Jones loomed with the smelling salts, and Celyn waved her away. Louisa pressed a glass of sherry into her hand, filled to the very brim. Celyn set it down carefully on the table, as if drinking it would confirm his diagnosis. “That’s not necessary, your lordship,” she said, but he picked up the drink and put it back in her hand, his fingers wrapping hers around the delicate glass stem and holding them there, as if she were an incapable child. My, but his hands were warm, and strong, and very large.

“Drink it,” he commanded. “It will do you good.”

Her mouth watered, and not entirely due to the sherry. She took a sip to oblige him.

“More,” he ordered, and she took another, slightly larger swallow, and felt the sherry blaze a trail down her throat to her empty stomach.

He continued to stare at her until she took yet another gulp of the sweet liquid. Only then did he release her to manage the last sips on her own. She stared into the treacle-brown liquid.

 What must he be thinking? He’d walked into a madhouse, that’s what. It was not the calm, well-tended impression she’d planned to give him when he finally arrived. She felt her cheeks heat, her stomach tensing even as the sherry warmed her insides. She wondered if her hair had come loose from its pins, or her gown had a spot on it somewhere, or her face was smudged with dust. She resisted the urge to smooth a hand over her cheek to check.

“I am quite well, thank you, my lord,” she said, hoping he’d turn his unsettling gaze away from her. Her heart was beating fast, but surely that was due to the sherry, rather than him. “I—we—are simply surprised that you chose tonight to arrive, in a snowstorm, and after so many months.”

“I’m not surprised at all!” Louisa chirped. Celyn sent her a quelling look.

“Would you like more sherry, dear, or a dram or two of Caradoc’s wonderful whisky, perhaps?” Arabella asked. “You still look terribly pale. It’s the shock of meeting royalty for the first time. Many people faint, as I recall.”

“Tight stays,” he murmured, and Celyn wondered if she’d heard him aright.

“No, she’s overcome with love,” Louisa sighed. Celyn felt her skin flush anew. She’d rather discuss stays than love. He was staring at her again. No doubt he wanted an explanation. She set her glass aside and got to her feet before anyone could stop her. She felt the room sway, as much from the effects of the drink as from the strain of the day, now. And his disturbing presence surely had something to do with the way her stomach was fluttering. He stepped closer, holding out a steadying hand as if he expected her to topple over again. He was so close she could smell the damp wool of his coat, see the crest on the gold buttons. He had a small scar on his chin…She stepped away, and skirted the settee, putting it between them, and using it, rather than the earl, for support.

 “Mrs. Jones, his lordship will no doubt join us for supper. Please see that a place is set. Louisa, take Arabella upstairs, then ask Catrin to see that the Earl’s chambers are prepared. Light the fire, and ask Davy—”

“Davy’s out looking for firewood,” Louisa said, still gazing at the earl with moon-eyes. “And Catrin is helping to put the children to bed.”

“Children?” the earl demanded, and there was no mistaking the horror in his tone. Celyn felt her stomach knot. What if he didn’t like children? The castle was overrun with them!  

“Then go and find Phoebe to help, and Aled,” she said in a breathless rush, and sent everyone out.

 She turned to the earl when the door shut. The faint crack and pop of the fire was the only sound for a moment. She clasped her hands and began. “There was a fire, you see, in the village, just two nights past. There was nowhere else to put the tenants, so they’re here, at the castle, with their children, and of course it’s—different—than it usually is.” She was babbling. She took a deep breath and clutched the back of the settee.  He really did have the most invasive stare—as if he could see through her skin, read the thoughts in her head through her skull. “We don’t usually have—” she paused, swallowed. “We, um, weren’t expecting you.”

“Then I assume that—”

A knock on the door interrupted. “Come!” they both issued the order at the same time.

A burly man Celyn didn’t know entered, clad in snow-covered livery, with Aled hard on his heels.

“My lord, there’s problem—” he began, but Aled stepped in front of him.

“Celyn, this chap’s wanting to throw the livestock out into the snow!”

Celyn shut her eyes. Of course. There were cows in the stable, and pigs, and ponies. Dogs, too. There was no room for his lordship’s coach and horses.

“I think—” she started, but the earl stepped in front of her.

“Can the steward not deal with this, Childs? Surely it is on his orders that there are farm animals in the stable in the first place,” he said calmly, taking charge.

She watched the coachman’s eyes swing toward her, the question clear in his eyes. No doubt someone had told him she was the person who had given the orders. She swallowed.  “Aled, put his lordship’s coach in the smithy. The pigs and the lambs can go in the tack room.”

“What about the cows? Do high-bred horses get on with cows?”

“Certainly not!” Childs snapped at him. “Don’t cows belong outdoors?”

Aled looked at him as if he were daft. “Not in the dead of winter!”

Celyn racked her brain. “The old tower will do for the cows. Put down some straw and bring them inside.”

“Inside the castle?” the earl asked quietly. “With the villagers? And children?”

Celyn’s face flamed, and she licked her lips, tasting the sherry on them, and suddenly wished for more. Didn’t men drink for courage? “It is an unused part of the old castle, my lord,” she said.

He turned to the servants. “See to it,” he said, his tone quiet and commanding. The coachman bowed at once, spun on his heel and withdrew. Even Aled jumped to attention, and followed. 

Wintercross folded his arms over his chest, and stared into the fire for a moment, looking for all the world as if he were puzzling out a problem. 

“Why did the steward not deal with that matter?” he asked. “What’s his name, Colin Beauchamp, I believe?”

She clasped her hands at her waist. “It’s Celyn, she said faintly, and he scowled at the contradiction. She swallowed. “There is no steward at Collingwood at present. Well, there’s Aled, but he’s—” She paused, and lifted her chin. “It was my decision,” she said. “I’m Celyn Beauchamp.” She held out a hand to him, but he merely stared at it, and she tucked it into the folds of her skirt.

His eyes traced a path from her hairline to her hemline and back again. He indicated that she should sit with a wave of his hand, and she ignored him, stood straight-backed behind the settee.

“I trust you’re the housekeeper, then?” He sat himself, as he might in the presence of a mere servant, taking the large armchair by the fire that Caradoc had used. He steepled his hands against his chin and regarded her soberly.

She looked away. “Of a sort,” she hedged.

“A maid or a governess?” he tried again.

She shook her head.

“A companion to Lady Arabella? A relation, perhaps?” He rose to his feet again on the assumption she was a lady after all, and leaned against the mantle. The firelight emphasized the lean length of his legs, the shine on his polished boots.

Celyn bit her lip. Was there a way to explain who she was without giving away the secret Caradoc had charged her with keeping? He’d made her swear on the holy relic in the church. Of course, the church, and the relic, had burned to ash in the fire, but the secret still had to be kept.  She raised her chin. “I am—simply the person Caradoc left in charge when he died.”

“Why you?” he asked.

She gripped the folds of her skirt more tightly, felt the prickle of the wool between her fingers. “Well, there was no one else. Aled was the steward, twenty years ago, but he’s growing old. I suppose I simply took charge, since I was Caradoc’s —” she paused as his expression changed from one of haughty inquiry to smug knowing. Her breath caught in her throat. What was he thinking?

He glanced up at Caradoc’s portrait and back at her. She watched one eyebrow slowly rise. “I see,” he said, and sat down again.

She felt her cheeks burning again—her whole body—at the rude assumption written clearly in his eyes. She straightened her spine. “I was his ward.” She stumbled a little over the word, and his smug look only deepened. “I keep the books, organize the staff, and since the former housekeeper died several years ago and a suitable replacement couldn’t be found, and our steward is not a young man, I see to those duties as well.”

The smirk simmered on his face. He obviously didn’t believe a word. She clasped her hands together to keep from slapping him for his audacity. Caradoc’s leman, his mistress? Could anything be farther from the truth? 

“Shall we simply describe you as chatelaine, perhaps? Keeper of the keys? It’s an old French term,” he drawled. She felt anger mount.

“I know what it means!”

“And in addition to the local peasantry, have you seen fit to take in more ladies like Arabella and Louisa?” he asked pointedly.

“Ladies like—?” she drew a breath. “They aren’t mad, if that’s what you’re suggesting!” That was one supposition she could most certainly correct. “Lady Arabella is Caradoc’s cousin, widow of an English baron. Louisa and her sister Phoebe are her granddaughters. Caradoc took them all in when the girls’ parents died. They are young ladies, and Phoebe is of an age to be married.”

“Married?”

That word wiped the smirk from his handsome face. In fact, it was replaced with an expression of sheer horror. What on earth was he thinking now?

She raised her chin. “This is not a brothel, my lord, or a madhouse. It is an estate, with ordinary people who need guidance and assistance, just like any other estate, I assume. You needn’t worry. Caradoc left dowries for all thr—for both girls.”

 “And Lady Arabella?” he asked.

She hadn’t considered until that moment that it was well within his rights to turn them all out, including Arabella, despite her age and poor health. Her stomach knotted. “Arabella is too old and —infirm—to marry again. She had no kin other than ourselves, and I suppose, you, as well. This has been her home for a dozen years.  She was once at court as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Charlotte. She still lives in those days, mostly.”

“Which is meant to explain, I suppose, why she thought I was the king?” he asked.

Her heart sank a little, and she managed to nod. She held her breath, waiting for him to ask why Louisa believed a magic spell had brought him here.

He didn’t. He studied her for a moment before he glanced up at Caradoc’s portrait again. “I never met Lord Colley. He was a distant relation of my mother’s, which is why I inherited the place.”

She regarded him as he looked at the portrait. He was tall, broad shouldered, and lean, a handsome man. He held her fate—and the fate of every soul at Collingwood in his manicured hands. She tucked her own ragged fingers behind her back as he turned to her.

 “Can I hope that the earl’s apartments are at least empty of other guests, even if they are not ready for me?”

She hadn’t allowed anyone to go into that room since she’d had it prepared for his arrival months ago. It would simply require fresh sheets and a fire, and he could move right in. “Your rooms—and the entire castle—have been ready for your arrival for many months, my lord,” she said. “We simply had no idea when to expect you.” She was repeating herself. She bit her lip.

“Just not tonight,” he said, parroting what she’d said earlier, mocking her, perhaps, but he did it with a smile that made her heart flutter.

Suddenly she could smell pine, hear bells ringing. Was it really Christmas magic that had brought him here? It made her feel dizzy, almost giddy with hope, the way Christmas was supposed to. 

“Firewood,” Davy Price said, carrying an armload of fragrant pine logs into the room.

“And tea,” said Mrs. Jones, the best china ringing like bells on the tray.

“Oh,” Celyn murmured. Her heart lost its wings and plummeted back to earth. “Thank you.” She touched a hand to her collar, straightening the lace there. How silly she was being! She reminded herself that it was overwork, tiredness and worry. It had nothing to do with the earl, or the fact that he was handsome, and here, at long last. What she needed was a moment alone to gather her thoughts, organize things, comb her hair.

She drew a calming breath and turned to face Wintercross. His brows lifted imperiously as he waited for her to speak. She felt her cheeks heat and her voice threatened to dessert her. She straightened her spine and looked him straight in the chin. “If you’ll take a cup of tea, my lord, and—“ she looked at the tray— “and some of Mrs. Jones’s excellent gingerbread, I will see that your rooms are prepared for you.” She paused on the verge of asking him how long he intended to stay. This was, after all, his house, and he could stay as long as he pleased.

She dipped a curtsy and hurried out before he could stop her. Would it have been better if she’d waited to be dismissed? She hurried up the stairs. She wasn’t a servant. She was—well, nobody really. Caradoc had made her promise, insisted the secret go to the grave with him, and herself, when the time came.

What would Caradoc done if he’d known Wintercross would arrive and imagine the worst thing imaginable about her, about Caradoc himself? He’d probably laugh. He’d had a way of seeing the humor in everything, of taking whatever came and making the best of it.

Change had arrived on the doorstep, and everything she knew and loved might be taken from her, from Arabella and the girls, from Collingwood itself? In the sobering chill of the corridor, she laid a hand on her cheek, felt the heat there. She told herself it was from standing too near the fire, from not eating, from the sherry, but she knew it was not that at all.

It was him.

CHAPTER SIX

Edward was aware of Mrs. Jones’s eyes on him as she poured his tea. “So you’re the new earl,” she said. “One lump or two?”

“Two. And you’re the cook.”

“I am. Milk?”

“No, but I will take some gingerbread,” Edward said, and noted a slight softening of her tight lips as she placed an amber colored square of cake on a plate. She handed it to him with pride clear in her eyes.

“You’ll like that,” she said gruffly, more of a guarantee than a recommendation.

He took the plate. “Who will cook when your baby comes?” he asked. He noticed that her knuckles were burned, and he wondered if it were from her duties as cook, which did not bode well for his dinner, or from the fire Celyn had mentioned.

She brushed her hand over her belly. “Oh, I shan’t take more than a day or two, then I’ll be back. Celyn will cook for us.”

Celyn again. Did the woman do everything?

He turned to the man he assumed was Davy Price, since he came bearing firewood. He was stacking the logs by the huge medieval fireplace, and watching Edward out of the corner of his eye. “And what’s your position here?” Edward asked him.

“Me? I help Celyn, and Aled,” he said bluntly.

“Aled the steward?” Edward asked, sipping his tea, and taking a forkful of gingerbread. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and savor the moment. Warm spices and the taste of honey filled his mouth. It was the best thing he’d tasted in days, weeks, or perhaps ever. Mrs. Jones’s gingerbread was even better than the one made by his stepmother’s famous chef, who had been wooed away from the household of a French duke at great expense.

Davy Price chuckled as he placed a log on the fire. Sparks crackled and shimmied up the chimney as the snow melted. “Aled? Oh, he was Lord Collingwood’s steward some years back. Now he just helps Celyn with what he can. She was the one who suggested that the earl should make him the huntsman when the post of steward got to be too much for him, but he can’t even do that well now, though Celyn won’t let anyone tell him so. Aled has his pride, and we respect that. He just can’t see as well as he once did. Hardly shoots anything.”

Edward set the cup back in the saucer. “Should I assume Celyn does the hunting, too?” He looked around at the array of antlers that decorated the walls. There were two, no, three dozen sets of them, and imagined the lady with a bow, or perhaps the old fowling piece mounted above the door, her pretty eyes fixed on her prey, her lush lower lip caught in her teeth.

Mrs. Jones and Davy chuckled. “Celyn? No. She couldn’t hurt a fly, though I daresay if she had to, she’d take down a rhinophant with her bare hands to keep everyone fed,” Davy chuckled.

“You mean an elephant?” Edward asked.

“’Zactly so,” Davy replied matter-of-factly. “There’s pictures of it the creature in one of the books here. She used it to teach me to read. She’d face a bear or even a wolf if she had to, Celyn would.” 

Edward pondered that. He could almost imagine it. Celyn Beauchamp was fragile, fierce, and capable. Exactly what was wanted in a good steward. Well, except the fragile part. A good steward did not faint. A chatelaine might, though. Or a mistress, used to the pampered care and attention of a doting protector. He shut out the new image of Celyn, her eyes closed, her lips parted as he seduced her. Warning bell clanged in his head, but it was simply the mantle clock, chiming seven.

“How many people are here in the castle at present?” Best to confine himself to facts and figures, but that brought Celyn’s figure to mind. She was slender, her curves gentle, yet her strength was evident, especially in the eyes of the people here.

Mrs. Jones rolled her eyes up to consider. “Near to sixty souls, I imagine. Good folk, all of ‘em. If you’ll excuse me, my lord, they’ll be wanting to be fed too, and I’d best get back to the kitchen.” She hesitated a moment, and he wondered if she had something else to say, but she bobbed an awkward curtsy instead. Davy had to catch her arm and help her back up, and Mrs. Jones patted her belly as she lumbered out with Davy at her heels.

Edward sat in the quiet of Collingwood’s library. It was a rustic room, to be sure, but pleasant enough. It was exactly how he’d pictured the place. There was a large selection of books, though how good they were would require closer examination in daylight. If Arabella was to be believed, old Caradoc had kept a stock of good whisky somewhere, too.  He was considering where he might look for it when a loud thump at the window surprised him. He crossed to look outside.

Four boys were throwing snowballs at each other on the lawn, though it was dark now. He could hear their exuberant cries through the glass. They didn’t even have coats on, but they were taking joy in the freshly fallen snow. He recalled watching his half brother and cousins play in the snow at Kingscott. He, Edward, had been too old to join them, and as the heir to the dukedom, too full of the importance of his position. Watching these boys now, he felt the same bite of regret he’d felt then.

A long yellow shaft of light shot across the blue snow, and the Celyn appeared in a doorway, her slim figure wrapped in an apron that surely would have gone around even Mrs. Jones twice. She beckoned the boys inside, and they waved at her, called for her to come out, and for a moment her face lit with mischief, and she took a step forward, stooping to build a snowball of her own. As she drew her arm back tot throw it, she caught sight of him in the window. Edward watched as her eyes widened, and her smile faded. She dropped the snowball, and stepped back, and waited while the boys filed past her into the house, ruffling their hair as they passed, brushing the snow off their shoulders. As the door shut, Edward felt exactly as he had as a child, shut out of the fun, the best part of Christmas. He stood where he was and stared out at the snow for a long moment, then turned back to the fire. He’d find a book, and look for Caradoc’s whisky and enjoy his solitude.