Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe / Twelfth Night Proposal / Christmas at Oakhurst Manor
Louise Allen
Joanna Fulford
Lucy Ashford
AN EARL BENEATH THE MISTLETOEHugo, Earl of Burnham, hates Christmas! Snowbound in widow Emilia Weston’s cosy house, with her young twins, he’s surrounded by festive spirit. Can Hugo’s cynical heart be melted? Twelfth Night Proposal – Leaving London to claim his estate, Theo Dalbury finds remote Derbyshire and country girl Jenna surprisingly appealing. Jenna will give him a yuletide that he’ll never forget!CHRISTMAS AT OAKHURST MANORVivien is looking forward to Christmas, until she has to share it with Max Calderwood, who once broke her heart.
Acclaim for the authors of SNOWBOUND WEDDING WISHES (#ulink_924f1c51-54b6-5c26-86c4-a1de0ca2e676)
LOUISE ALLEN
‘Allen takes a shipwreck spying adventure and spins it into a page-turner. The strong characters and sexy relationship will definitely satisfy readers.’
—RT Book Reviews on Seduced by the Scoundrel
‘Allen reaches into readers’ hearts.’
—RT Book Reviews on Married to a Stranger
LUCY ASHFORD
writing as Elizabeth Redfern
‘Richly atmospheric…Redfern’s strength is in re-creating a morally corrupt world.’
—Publishers Weekly on Auriel Rising
‘Quite wonderful…It is Redfern’s ability to bring each scene, each character alive…’
—USA TODAY on The Music of the Spheres
JOANNA FULFORD
‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages is…
a suspenseful plot, well-developed characters and a passionate romance…keeps readers engaged…’
—RT Book Reviews on The Viking’s Defiant Bride
‘…a well-crafted portrait of the era combining strong characters with the classic romance elements of a battle-of-wills love story.’
—RT Book Reviews on The Viking’s Touch
Snowbound
Wedding Wishes
An Earl Beneath
the Mistletoe
Louise Allen
Twelfth Night
Proposal
Lucy Ashford
Christmas at
Oakhurst Manor
Joanna Fulford
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u321f98ef-0df9-58d7-90f2-8c6ac9656665)
Acclaim for the authors of SNOWBOUND WEDDING WISHES (#u326a2af6-67b2-54b1-b79c-6b8917bdc858)
Title Page (#uffa78b5f-8d95-56af-bf95-6e4a597faef7)
An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe (#u24603618-04a4-586b-8320-1559f364720b)
About the Author (#ubadfbc96-fd74-5206-ab19-ee414c3e1650)
Chapter One (#u23f0aee3-ca39-576e-bfd3-472a6c7fb3fa)
Chapter Two (#ue52680a5-6e01-5e5e-9089-7c380f1bed78)
Chapter Three (#u2f81ab7d-5e44-555a-a17b-e9f700215d2d)
Chapter Four (#u1bbb6ed1-ee69-58b3-b983-e89479af6c97)
Chapter Five (#u1be2a764-028c-59aa-9e09-e37f5f7e4b94)
Chapter Six (#u6c98f354-bf42-52b5-aff8-6d0ffec28251)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelfth Night Proposal (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Christmas at Oakhurst Manor (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe (#ulink_f9b45a94-67d5-58f7-9f9c-3535460de5b5)
LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire, England, and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website—www.louiseallenregency.co.uk—for the latest news!
Dear Reader,
When I was writing this story I had a real valley in mind,
one of the lovely chalk streams that cut through the Chiltern Hills, with beech woods on the slopes and tiny hamlets and villages tucked away. These valleys are lovely in the summer, but in the winter, under snow, they have a special charm and remoteness, and I especially love the area because my ancestors came from there. Many of the characters in this story share their names—and doubtless their liking for the local home-brewed ale!
I wish you a very happy festive season,
Louise
Chapter One (#ulink_5b01a131-5ed5-5c9f-87ac-9d4fcdb8b100)
18th December 1814—the Chiltern Hills, Hertfordshire
‘You have to agree, Ajax, that it would be unpleasantly ironic to survive five years of being shot at, blown up and starved in the Peninsula to die of exposure in some Hert-fordshire valley.’
The big grey flicked one ear back and carried on plodding through the driving rain. An intelligent animal, he probably thought it was not so much ironic as foolish.
‘Rodgerson’s directions were clear enough.’ Hugo kept talking as he scanned the sides of the valley for any glimmer of light. He was beginning to shiver and feel sleepy and neither was good, not when he’d been riding since daybreak. He was soaked through to the skin despite the oiled wool cloak that had seen him over the Pyrenees in winter on one occasion. ‘That cross-country cut to get us on to the Northampton road without having to go out to Aylesbury would have saved hours.’
But a bridge had been down and then a road flooded and he had turned north in the fading twilight, using his pocket compass and a sodden and tattered route map. They must have gone clear between Berkhamsted and Hemel Hempstead, either of which would have provided a comfortable inn for the night. Instinct told him he was heading northwest now, which should be correct, but it was pitch-dark, his tinderbox was damp and the low cloud obscured the stars. Every yokel for miles around seemed to have vanished into their dwellings—wherever those were hidden. He couldn’t blame them, he’d settle for a flea-infested hovel himself, if one presented itself.
‘First cover, we’re taking it.’ Ajax did not bother to flick an ear that time. The horse was big and tough, but both of them were out of practice at being quite this cold and wet. ‘This will teach me to underestimate the terrain,’ Hugo muttered. And it would teach him to be antisocial and avoid invitations as well. He could be putting on a cheerful face in the midst of some jolly family gathering preparing for Christmas, right this minute.
Hunching his shoulders sent a fresh trickle of icy water down his neck from the brim of his hat as he narrowed his eyes against the rain. Hordes of children, irascible great-aunts, flirtatious young ladies, too much rich food, charades…possibly dying of exposure was preferable after all.
They were in a shallow valley. To his right was a river and what he assumed were water meadows, now impersonating a lake. To his left rough grazing sloped up into scattered trees and scrub. Someone, surely, must live in this landscape? Would the trees thicken up and offer any more shelter?
There. Ahead and to the left, a flicker of brilliance like a star, only too low and too yellow to be anything but a man-made light. He turned Ajax’s head towards it and almost immediately the squelch of hooves into waterlogged earth became the splash and crunch of metal shoes hitting the stones of a rough, potholed track.
As they came closer he could see the shapes of huddled hovels and small cottages higher up the slope. They seemed to be in darkness, but the light shone steadily from an unshuttered window in the slightly bigger building nearest the track, a beacon to guide him in. Against the sky he could just make out the jut of a pole above the door with a battered tangle of twigs thrashing in the wind at the end of it. ‘An ale pole, Ajax. There will be something for me to drink, at least.’
The ground came up to meet him with a force that jarred his tired legs as he slid out of the saddle in front of the entrance and he steadied himself with a hand on the pommel while he thudded on the panels with his other fist.
No reply. Damn it, he would break in if he had to and pay for the damage afterwards…
The door swung open spilling light and heat into the rain. Hugo blinked against it, looked down to meet the concerned gaze of the woman holding the door open and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘You are as wet as I am.’
Hell, she’ll think she’s facing a lunatic. But it was true. Wide hazel eyes smiled up at him out of a freckled face that was rosy with damp heat. Brown curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks, her sleeves were rolled up to reveal hands and forearms that dripped water and her wide white apron was soaked and glued to her skirts.
‘But not as cold, I will wager,’ she said with a laugh in her voice, turning to call over her shoulder, ‘Boys! Quickly. Come in,’ she added, ‘Before you drown. You will not be going any further tonight, that is for certain.’
‘My horse, ma’am. Can I get him under cover?’ Ajax stuck a wet muzzle forwards as though to emphasise the point as two boys erupted out of the inner doorway.
‘Mama?’ They skidded to a halt at her side and regarded him with avid curiosity, revealing themselves to be virtually identical twins.
‘Nathan, Joseph, where are your manners? Help this gentleman stable his horse and then bring him inside. You will excuse me,’ she added with a dazzling smile that made him blink even as it sent a surge of hot blood through his chilled body. ‘I am sparging the mash and one just cannot leave it. I will be back presently.’
‘Sparging? Of course you are. Yes.’ Bemused, Hugo regarded her retreating back. She had delivered that airy speech with the same tone—and accent—as any lady explaining to a guest why she must leave him for a short while. What sort of ale house was this? Her hair was coming down, but the exposed skin of her nape was white and soft and her hips swayed enticingly as she walked away from him. Soft, warm, delicious.
‘Good evening, sir.’ He yanked his wandering attention back. ‘If you go to that door, we’ll bring a lantern the inside way.’ The boy with the fewer freckles on his cheeks pointed to a stable door.
Nathan, that one, Hugo thought, recalling the quick glances each had thrown their mother when she had said their names. And Joseph’s ears stuck out rather more and his eyes were a darker hazel. Hugo walked into the warmth and smell of stabled beasts and the blissful relief of getting out of the insistent rain.
There was a stall in front of them, empty except for Joseph scattering straw on the stone. Nathan ducked out of the next stall with a stuffed hay net bouncing behind him. ‘I’ve stolen Sorrowful’s,’ he said, ‘but I’ve left him a pile on the floor. He won’t mind.’
‘Are you certain?’ Hugo looked at the smallest, gloomiest donkey he had ever seen. It gazed mournfully back.
‘He always looks like that, sir.’ Nathan climbed on a bucket to hook up the net. ‘That’s a big horse. Are you in the army?’
How old were they? Six, seven? He wasn’t used to children younger than the wet-behind-the ears subalterns they’d send him to make his life hell, but these looked as bright as buttons, The pair of them. ‘I was. Cavalry. I’m selling out now.’
He heaved off the saddle and the saddle bags and slung them over the stall divider. The boys stared wide-eyed at the big sabre and the holsters. ‘And those are not, under any circumstances, to be touched,’ he added as he took off the bridle. How do you talk to children this age? He decided the tone he used to the subalterns would have to do.
‘No, sir.’ They took a step back in unison.
‘Are you a general, sir?’ the least-freckled one asked.
‘Major, Nathan. Can you fill that bucket with water, please?’
The boy’s eyes opened in awe at this magic knowledge of his name. ‘Yes, Major.’ He picked up the bucket and ran, colliding with his brother who staggered up with a bucket full of what looked like lumpy brown-and-white porridge.
‘Culm and used mash, Major. That’ll perk him up.’
‘His name’s Ajax. Thank you.’ He took the bucket from Joseph and tipped it into the manger. From the smell of it the mixture was something to do with brewing. He just hoped he wouldn’t end up with a drunk horse. Ajax put his head in and began munching. On the other side a brown cow stuck her head over the barrier.
‘That’s Eugenia,’ Joseph confided. He copied Hugo, who had twisted a handful of straw tight into a knot and was rubbing the horse down. The lad dived confidently under the stallion’s belly and began to scrub at his muddy legs. A couple of hens fluttered up to the manger and began to peck at the feed.
‘This is a veritable Noah’s Ark. What else have you got in here?’
Nathan clanked back with the water, only a third of which had been spilled. ‘Four rabbits, a dozen chickens, Sorrowful and Eugenia. Maud and her litter are in the pigsty. We haven’t got a horse. Mama sold Papa’s horse, but she had to, to get the animals we needed.’ The boy spoke briskly, but his voice was tight.
Ajax’s skin felt warm now. He’d do for now if Hugo could find some sort of rug for him. ‘Is your father dead?’ There was a subdued yes from knee level where both boys were hard at work.
Hugo frowned. Perhaps he shouldn’t have put it so bluntly. The realisation that the man of the house wouldn’t be arriving at any moment made the whole situation awkward. Normally he would not have thought twice about spending the night under the roof of some lusty country alewife, but that warm, wet, laughing lady was something else altogether.
‘Got an old rug for Ajax’s back?’
‘Sacks,’ Nathan offered. ‘We’ve got heaps of them.’ He dived into a dusty corner and dragged some out, then both of them regarded the knife Hugo pulled out of his boot with close attention.
‘And that is not for touching, either.’ Hugo slit a dozen sacks and covered Ajax’s back, two deep.
‘No, Major,’ they chorused, then took the lantern and led the way to an inner door that opened on to the room Hugo had first glimpsed.
He followed with his gear and realised he was in the public taproom of the ale house. Benches and tables lined the walls, barrels rested on stands along the back next to a rack of tankards and there was a fire in a wide hearth. The twins went to throw on more logs and Hugo laid his sabre and the holsters on the high mantelshelf, out of sight from boy-height.
‘Is your horse settled, sir?’ The alewife came up steps in the corner from what must be the cellar. Her face was dry, her hair twisted up into a white towel which, with the vast, fresh white apron she had put on, and her sleeves rolled down again, gave her a curiously nun-like appearance.
And then she came fully into the room and smiled at him and all thoughts about nuns vanished. As did cold, hunger and the discomfort of wet clothing. ‘Excellently, thank you, ma’am.’ She was not a beauty, but with her smile the sun came out and a heat, nothing to do with sunlight, flowed through his blood again. ‘Your sons have been most helpful.’
‘The gentleman’s a major, Mama,’ Joseph reported.
‘Indeed? And does the major have any dry clothing?’
Hugo laid the saddlebags on the table and investigated. ‘One slightly damp shirt.’ There were clean drawers as well and, wrapped in the shirt, they had stayed dry. ‘Dry, er, underthings.’ Hugo draped his dripping cloak over a couple of chairs where it started to create a small pond on her well-brushed flagged floor. Under it he still wore his uniform, sodden, glued to his body by water.
‘Goodness, you are wet.’ She appraised him quite openly with as little self-consciousness as she might one of her boys. His body responded predictably. ‘And large. None of my late husband’s things will do, but luckily Peter Bavin who helps out here leaves a set of clothes in case he gets drenched when we’re working. Those will fit, I imagine, if you have no objection to homespun?’
‘No, ma’am, thank you.’ Anything other than being draped Roman-style in a blanket in her presence would be acceptable. He catalogued brown hair escaping already from the turban, freckles across a slightly tip-tilted nose, a determined little chin and wide hazel eyes that seemed to reflect every thought and emotion. And surely she was too young to be the mother of these boys? What was she? Twenty-five, six?
‘There is still hot water in the copper downstairs and a tub, Major. I have put soap and some towels beside it. Supper will be almost ready when you are done. We can make a bed up for you here in front of the fire.’
‘I am being an unconscionable trouble to you, ma’am. I can dry off in the stable and eat out there. Spend the night there, too.’ The atmosphere of this little family felt so warm and close, so alien to his own experience of home life, that he felt awkwardly like an intruder, which was unsettling. As though his hostess was not unsettling enough.
‘Indeed, you could sleep in the stable,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘And you will probably catch pneumonia and die on me and that would really be a nuisance.’ When he opened his mouth to protest that he had no intention of doing any such thing, she just laughed. ‘I am teasing you, Major. We would be glad of your company, would we not, boys?’
Women did not tease Major Hugo Travers, Earl of Burnham. They made eyes at him on a regular basis, and he could deal with that tactfully when he did not want what the fluttering eyelashes and bold suggestions offered. This one had obviously not thought through the implications of his presence and it was his duty to point it out to her. It would be helpful if his thawing, dripping, body was not expressing an interest in making those hazel eyes sparkle even more or wondering what that generous mouth would feel like pressed against his.
‘Ma’am, I gather that you are alone here, with the exception of your sons. Under the circumstances…’ It was difficult to find the right way to put it with two lads listening to every word.
‘Are you afraid that your rest will be disturbed by these two hellions?’ The concern in her voice was at odds with the quizzical smile on her lips. She obviously understood exactly what his scruples were about and chose to ignore them. Those candid eyes challenged him to argue. ‘I can turn the key in the lock if that will set your mind at rest?’
‘Of course, thank you.’ He could hardly pursue the subject, not with the boys watching him wide-eyed. ‘My name is Hugo Travers. Major.’ No need for the title.
‘Emilia Weston. Mrs,’ she said, equally formally, then switched back to practical housewife in a blink. ‘Now, that water is not getting any warmer. Leave the damp shirt,’ she added as Hugo bundled his dry underwear into the saddlebag and carried it towards the stairs, feeling that he had somehow come out the worst from that encounter. He was not, he realised, used to dealing with women in a domestic setting, not unless they were servants.
He found himself in a cellar running back into the hillside. A copper stood on its brick base, the glow of the fire beneath reddening the brick floor. Stone troughs stood around, pipework and spouts jutted from the walls and a row of barrels lined the walls. The floor was still wet around the biggest trough and a sodden mass of malt grains filled it halfway, steaming gently.
There was at least one more room at a higher level behind the wall, he realised as he dredged up the faint memories of the brew house at Long Burnham Hall. The trough was a mash tun, the mass of wet grains was the mash, and sparging must have involved soaking it in hot water. Not an easy job for a slight woman on her own. He stood frowning at the signs of activity: buckets and poles and sacks. Where was this Bavin fellow who was supposed to be helping her?
Mrs Weston had dragged a tub close to the fire and set a bucket beside it, alongside a stool with a piece of soap, towels and a small mirror. Hugo began to bail water out of the copper and into the tub, uncomfortably aware that she had set the things out for him as a wife might prepare a bath for a returning husband. There was an unsettling intimacy about this, which did not help him suppress his instinctive reaction to Mrs Weston in the slightest. Whomever her occupation made her now, his involuntary hostess was also a lady and should not be waiting on a strange man.
He tugged off his boots with difficulty, struggled out of his uniform jacket and hauled his shirt over his head. The heat of the fire on his damp, cold skin made him close his eyes in blessed relief.
‘Major?’ It was Joseph, peering over an armful of clothes. He dumped them on a barrel and scooped up what Hugo had discarded. ‘Mama says these should fit. She says, will you give me your breeches as well.’
Jaw set, Hugo clambered out of the sodden leathers and handed them over, waited until the boy had scampered back upstairs and clambered into the tub, still in his drawers. He wouldn’t put it past the unconventional Mrs Weston to come down to check he had washed behind his ears.
‘He’s got a great big scar right across here!’ Joseph gestured across his chest. ‘And he’s all brown!’
And I really do not need a mental image of that man without his clothes, thank you, Joseph. ‘Who is he? The cat’s uncle?’ Emilia enquired repressively as she wrung out a pair of socks. How did boys create holes in their hose without any apparent effort at all? Her back was aching, but if she just finished the day’s washing now she could concentrate on making up a bed for their visitor and finishing supper.
‘The major, Mama.’ Joseph dropped the shirt and stockings into the wash pail and hung the buckskin breeches over a chair.
‘The major’s got an enormous sword and pistols and a great big knife in his boot. Where do you think he is going, Mama?’ Nathan hung over the stew pot, stirring while he counted dumplings with a covetous eye. She had made six more and added some carrots and turnips to the pot. Hope-fully that would be enough to assuage the major’s hunger.
‘Home, I suppose. The war has been over for eight months now.’ Home to his wife and family who will be thankful that their man escaped with nothing worse than a scar. What a blessing for them. ‘Goodness, it is getting cold. Throw some more wood on the fire please, Joseph.’
Would Major Travers be all right on the floor of the tap-room? He was starchy enough to refuse the offer of the attic room with the boys, just next to her own, she was certain. Oh. well, he would have experienced considerably worse at war. Once he was dry and warm and fed, he would be all right.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs Weston?’ a deep voice behind her enquired as she shook out a chemise. Emilia turned and there he was in the doorway, the colour back in his tanned cheeks, shaved to within a painful inch of perfection, thick black hair combed. He managed to look the English gentleman even while filling out Peter’s homespun shirt and leather waistcoat with his wide shoulders. His long legs were encased in battered old breeches and well-darned stockings, his feet in borrowed shoes were set wide apart on the flags.
Do for me? Emilia blinked and tried to rescue some trace of common sense, some ghost of the practical mother and alewife. Oh, my goodness. Stop looking at me with those dark blue eyes, for a start. That would help.
Even cold, soaked and grumpy he had been a large, attractive male. Now, for an overworked, lonely widow, this dark, frowning, punctilious major was temptation personified and she must be all about in her wits to even think about it. She swallowed. His eyes narrowed.
Giles always said she wore her thoughts on her face. Emilia dropped her gaze to the embarrassingly intimate garment that was dripping in her hands and wrung it out with a savage twist while she dragged her treacherous thoughts back to practicality.
Chapter Two (#ulink_c4fb4717-7185-5096-ad6c-f3002c190619)
‘Shall I bring in some more logs?’ Hugo offered into the brief silence. No wonder Mrs Weston was blushing—he had seen what she was washing all too plainly. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly plain and workaday chemise, but even so…
‘And get soaked and cold again? I have only so much dry clothing for you.’ She was teasing, rather than irritated, he hoped. The quick blush had vanished and she was composed and smiling again. ‘Thank you, but we brought in a good supply of fuel this morning when the rain threatened. You might want to make up your bed now and let it get warm by the fire, though. There are some straw palliasses and blankets and so forth under the stairs.’ She pointed to a cupboard. ‘When we have the big brew for the midsummer festivities I have helpers here all night and eventually they talk and drink themselves to sleep.’
He found the things as she said, neatly stacked and rolled, blankets and linen folded around sprigs of lavender, all orderly and fresh like everything he had seen of her home and business. How much work did it take for one slightly built woman to maintain this, even with two willing boys to help her? Even as he worried about that, the image of her, strong and slender beneath his body on these palliasses in front of the fire came from nowhere to stop him in his tracks.
‘Are your servants keeping to their own cottages in this rain?’ he asked as he closed the cupboard door firmly on his fantasies.
That provoked a snort of laughter. ‘Servants? This is not a coaching inn, Major! Mrs Trigg comes in once a week to help me scrub, Peter Bavin does a couple of days a week for the heavy lifting—when he isn’t trapped on the other side of the river with the bridge down and the meadows flooded.’
She shook out some more garments and Hugo recognised his own shirt and stockings. He should never have let the boy take them, she had far too much to do without his washing as well. ‘There,’ she said. ‘All done.’ Everything was draped over airing stands on the far side of the fire, his shirts effectively providing a screen for more intimate items at the back.
‘If you will just bring that pot to the table, Major.’ The boys scurried around, finding plates and knives and producing bread from a big stoneware crock. There was stew, simple and savoury with fluffy herbed dumplings floating in it, bread and butter, cheese, stewed dried apples and ale to wash it all down with. Hugo tried not to eat like a wolf, despite second and then third helpings being offered.
‘Thank you, ma’am. It is delicious, but I’ll not eat you out of house and home—you will not have been expecting to cater for a visitor tonight.’
Mrs Weston sent him one of her flashing smiles. ‘It is a pleasure to feed anyone who appreciates my food. And we will not go short, believe me. I have ample in stock for the winter and once we can communicate with the outside world, fresh supplies are not so very far away.’
‘Where are we? I must have passed between Berkhamsted and Hemel Hempstead in the dark—my map had turned to mush and I couldn’t read the compass with no light. I was heading, I hoped, for the road towards Northampton.’
‘This is the hamlet of Little Gatherborne. On the other side of the River Gather is Greater Gatherborne and we are about six miles from Berkhamsted that way—’ she pointed ‘—and about eight in that direction from Watling Street, which is the road you want.’
‘That’s a Roman road,’ Nathan piped up. ‘Joseph and I speak Latin so if there are any Romans left we can talk to them.’
Latin? Boys from a common ale house? He was beginning to suspect that it was a most uncommon one. ‘I think they have all gone, Nathan.’
‘How do you know my name, Major? No one else can tell us apart.’
‘Except your mama, I assume. I am used to having to learn the names of dozens of men at a time. You learn to spot The little differences.’
‘Your ears!’ Nathan jeered at his brother.
‘Nathan! The pair of you, clear the table and then off to bed with you. The major doesn’t want to hear boys squabbling.’
Actually, to his surprise, he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. They were lively and sharp, and even on their best behaviour seemed to fill the room, but he liked their honest reactions to everything and their obvious devotion to their mother. It was not how he had been brought up, but then he had been raised as an orphaned earl from younger than these two were now, and in a very different setting. The mother of these boys seemed to encourage them to express opinions and emotions.
He tried to imagine his elderly guardians confronted by these two and had to suppress a grin. A gentleman is in control of his emotions at all times. Loss of control is a sign of weakness in a gentleman. The so-called tender emotions are for women and, in men, lead to weakness of resolve, vulnerability and effeminacy. The old boys had a complete certainty that he had imbibed very thoroughly. It had made him a good officer and landowner, but listening to the enthusiastic chatter now he felt an unfamiliar twinge of envy at their freedom.
Hugo got up. ‘Shall I check on the animals?’ He had to make sure Ajax was settling down with no ill effects from his drenching and it would get him out of the house and away from the disconcerting feeling that he was being absorbed into the family when he could not speak the language. That and the decidedly disturbing effect of Mrs Weston’s smiling hazel eyes on his equilibrium.
‘Oh, thank you.’ She looked up from a brisk discussion of how much washing was necessary for boys on a cold winter evening. ‘I would appreciate it.’
Either Emilia Weston was a very nice woman, Hugo thought, taking the lantern off its hook and lighting it before going into the stable, or she was not used to getting much help. Or perhaps both, which worried him. But there was not a great deal he could do to help; tomorrow he would be on his way. He would pay her well for his bed and board, of course, but still it left him feeling uncomfortable, as though he was watching a delicate thoroughbred mare being put into harness and made to pull a burden too great for her strength, however strong her spirit.
Ajax was dozing, one hoof cocked up, his jaw resting on the edge of the virtually empty manger. The horse opened his eyes and regarded Hugo lazily as he checked on the water buckets, ducked outside to make sure the pigsty was secure, then bolted the outer door. Hugo leaned on the horse’s rump for a minute or two, relaxing against the familiar bulk, his mind running round in circles. He was tired. Beyond tired, but not sleepy.
He went back into the house, bolting the door behind him. The taproom was empty, his pallet lying close to the fire promising rest if not sleep. Hugo began to check the shutters and front door locks methodically. His hand was on the open shutter when she spoke behind him.
‘Leave that one, please. Just turn down the wick on the lantern, but leave it alight.’
‘You are expecting someone?’ He did as she asked and turned back, steadying his breathing when he found himself face to face with her. ‘The rain has almost stopped.’
‘Expecting? No.’ Emilia Weston stood untying the strings of her apron, not a brisk mother or a damp, smiling temptress any longer, simply a tired young woman. All the more reason not to reach out and pull her into an embrace that would be anything but comforting, he told himself. ‘But then I was not expecting you either, and I assume it was the light from that window that brought you here. There may be other travellers out in this. I have made tea—would you like some?’
She turned before he could answer and went back into the other room. Hugo followed and took the battered old armchair opposite hers, flanking the wide range. ‘Thank you, I would appreciate that. Are stray travellers commonplace here, then?’ He guessed the tea was her night-time indulgence, an expensive treat. He would send some from the nearest town as a present.
She passed him a cup and leaned back with a sigh, her whole body relaxing with cat-like sensuality. ‘Ah. Peace at last. No, you are the first lost soul. But I would always leave a light in the window when Giles went out in the evening and I have never got out of the habit, I suppose.’
‘Giles was your husband, Mrs Weston?’
‘Call me Emilia, won’t you? No one calls me by my proper name any more. Yes, Giles was my husband. He died three years ago.’ She sipped her tea and stretched out her toes to the blaze.
Just how old is she? Hugo wondered.
‘Giles worked at night. He was a gambler, a card player.’ His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, for she added hastily, ‘Not a sharp, you understand. He never cheated, he was just a very, very good gambler. We eloped, I’m afraid. I was supposed to marry his elder brother—not that we were in love or anything, just one of those family things. You know?’
Hugo nodded. He knew how these things worked, although there was no one to arrange a suitable marriage for him, that was down to his own efforts. And he had better be getting on with it.
‘But Giles and I fell in love,’ Emilia said, gazing into the fire. ‘And Mama and Papa would not approve because he was the younger son and wild and I was only just eighteen. So we ran away. We were very young and very thoughtless. It did not occur to me how much shame I was bringing on my family.’
Her voice wavered and she glanced up, her face blurred by the rising, fragrant steam. ‘I am talking too much and shocking you, Major. I am sorry, but you will be on your way tomorrow and we will never meet again and it is so…soothing to talk to someone like this. But I will stop embarrassing you.’
‘No. You aren’t embarrassing me.’ Normally he would have recoiled from confidences like this, but he was intrigued and to talk to a woman in this way was a novelty. Besides, it was all about her feelings and he doubted she would expect him to reciprocate.
‘We are like ships that pass in the night. Or, no, that is too well worn a cliché. Perhaps we are two birds sheltering from the storm in a bush and we will fly away on our own courses in the morning. What happened, Emilia? And my name is Hugo.’
‘I remember.’ It was not as though she would forget anything about this dark, serious man who had arrived so dramatically and who seemed so very alien. He was closed, as though a door was shut firmly on his emotions, and what she saw on the surface, although undoubtedly the real man, was no more an indication of what was happening under the surface than a view of a shuttered house revealed the life of its inhabitants. She liked his bird analogy, even though she was a sparrow and he was, she guessed, an eagle.
It was a novelty, that reserve of his. Her neighbours were unsophisticated people whose lives were unprivileged and whose reactions mirrored that. They worked hard, played hard when they had the opportunity and both loved and hated without concealment. Emilia liked that honesty, responded to it. She and Giles had lived in the open, too, enjoying every happy moment, storing up joy against the black times, pushing away the memories of the families they had left behind.
Perhaps, she thought as she watched those big, capable hands enveloping the china cup, her reserves of joy were running low and needed replenishing, although why that would draw her towards someone full of shadows and detachment, she did not understand.
He was aware of her as a woman, she could sense it. But the boys liked him and she trusted their instincts, as she trusted her own. Whatever Hugo Travers was concealing behind that unsmiling face, it was not villainy.
‘What happened?’ She made herself go back in time to that dreadful night. ‘We were in Aylesbury, west of here. Giles was deep in a game and winning, so they told me, although the money miraculously vanished afterwards. His opponent accused him of cheating, drew a knife. The man said it was in self-defence, but of course, all the witnesses at the inquest were his friends and neighbours.’
The cold swept through her as it had when she had heard the shouting in the inn parlour below, had left the children to run downstairs. No, she would not think about what she had found, only of Giles alive and laughing.
‘I had little money and two three-year-old boys to feed,’ Emilia went on briskly. ‘I went into the market to look for work and helped an elderly man who tripped and fell on the cobbles. He had broken his wrist, so I drove his cart home for him, all the way here with the children tucked into the malt sacks behind. He was the brewer and this was his alehouse. I worked for him for two years and then, when he died, he left it to me, bless him.’
‘So you are now the alewife. A hard life.’
That worried him, she could tell. ‘It is not restful, that is certain. But would you comment on it if I was not, as you suspect, gentry-born?’ she wondered out loud.
She judged from the frown that he did not like the implication that it was snobbery that made him feel that way.
‘It would be hard for any woman, alone and with children to rear, and I suspect that things will become harder in the countryside now the war is over. The price of grain will fall, men will be flooding back from the army with no occupation to go to. Victory always has a cost.’
Emilia shrugged away the cold worry that breathed spitefully down her neck, as she did whenever it crept past her defences. ‘All one can do is work and hope and plan.’
‘What do you plan for those boys? the church?’
She picked up his meaning at once and laughed. ‘The Latin? I do not think so, somehow, do you? The law, I hope. I teach them at home and then they go to the vicar in Great Gatherborne for Latin and Greek twice a week. He likes them and finds them intelligent to instruct, so he takes them in return for his household’s ale.’
‘And one day they will be leading lawyers and maintain their mama in the manner befitting her?’
He grinned; it was the first time she had seen a smile crack that lean face and Emilia blinked at the impact. Enough of her problems—she had allowed this to become too personal and, along with the fear of revealing too much and making him uncomfortable, speaking of the past was like rubbing salt into half-healed wounds.
‘And have you far to go tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Your family will be worrying that you have been delayed.’
‘If the roads are clear, I should be home in two days, easily.’ He held out his cup to be refilled when she lifted the teapot from the trivet. ‘But no one will be worrying about me, I have no family and the servants just know that I will be back in time for Christmas.’
‘None at all?’ What an appalling thought. She almost said it out loud. What would she do without the boys? And he had no one. ‘You will pass Christmas with your friends, no doubt.’
He did laugh then, a deep chuckle. ‘With so many of my fellow-officers all back in England together I had invitations aplenty, believe me. I had the choice of family gatherings with, I was promised, a dozen charming little infants all overexcited by the thought of presents, or two house parties well supplied with eligible young ladies on the look-out for husbands. Then there was the lure of a cosy gathering with not one, but three great aunts in attendance. My friends, who I had believed were carefree, sociable bachelors, all turned into devoted family men on arriving back in England and, I confess, I do not understand families.’
‘You do not?’ Her tiredness vanished as she stared at him.
‘I was an orphan from the age of three, brought up by four elderly trustees and a houseful of devoted staff,’ Hugo explained without, to her amazement, the slightest sign of self-pity.
‘But…were you not lonely?’
‘Not at all. Mrs Weston…Emilia, do not look like that! I had tutors and then I went to school and university and later into the army. I made good friends in all of those and when I was at home there was the estate to learn to manage. But I have to confess to not understanding how families work, the intimacy of them. And, frankly, faced with the thought of two weeks of someone else’s family en fête, it was no hardship to travel home,’ he added wryly. ‘Besides, I have much to catch up with and plans to make for the new year.’
She must have made an interrogative noise, for Hugo broke off and the shutters were over his eyes again. ‘It is time I settled down,’ he said abruptly and got to his feet. ‘I have been running the estate at arm’s length for five years while I have been in the army. And I must stop talking and keeping you from your rest.’
Emilia stayed curled in her chair as he took his cup to the stone sink and rinsed it out with, she guessed, the tidy habits of the soldier. Even as weary as he must be, he still moved beautifully with the unthinking grace of a very fit man. She fixed her gaze on the tea leaves in her cup, but there was nothing to be read there. ‘Goodnight, Major. Sleep well.’ She wondered if she would.
‘Goodnight, Mrs Weston. And thank you.’ He paused between the two rooms. ‘You should lock this door, you know.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ she muttered as it closed and she stood up and stretched the stiffness out of her back. Major Hugo Travers was certainly dangerous to women, especially one who had been on her own far too long, but it would be the loss of his company she would feel when he went on his way in the morning that would do the damage, not any improbable assault on her virtue.
Her occupation and humble status cut her off from anything other than the polite exchange of greetings with the vicar, the squire and their families, even though they tacitly recognised that she had been one of them. The villagers treated her amiably, but also with the reserve that showed they thought of her as Quality. She sometimes concluded she was like the governess in a big house, neither family nor servant, stranded somewhere in the middle and lonely as a result of it.
‘On which self-pitying note you can take yourself to bed, Emilia Weston,’ she scolded herself as she bent to bank up the fire safely. The rain had stopped, the night was still. The major would have a muddy ride tomorrow, back to his waiting servants and his big house and his plans to settle down into the peace of an England no longer at war.
Chapter Three (#ulink_8cf50051-739a-5898-97aa-7d4854e6d83a)
The silence woke Emilia into a muffled world and the cold blue light brought her out of bed to stand shivering at the tiny window in the eaves. Snow glowed in the moonlight, heaped up in great drifts and banks, whirling through the air as if some celestial hand was plucking the largest flock of geese in the universe. Silent, deadly beauty.
The light from the lantern in the taproom below cut a golden track into the whiteness and she offered up a quick prayer for any traveller caught out in this. Eerily, the beam of light widened. For a moment she did not understand, then she realised that Hugo must be standing at the window and had pushed back the shutter. The guilty flicker of pleasure took her unawares as she pulled on the heavy robe she had made from a cut-up blanket, found her shoes and tiptoed out to the head of the stairs.
The twins were fast asleep with the utter relaxation that only cats and children seemed to be blessed with. Emilia tucked the covers higher over their shoulders and went downstairs. Why? she asked herself as she crossed the kitchen and lifted the latch on the taproom door. What am I doing down here?
Hugo must have heard the latch. He had already turned, and she saw in the lantern light that he was fully dressed with a blanket slung around his shoulders. ‘What’s wrong?’ His voice was deep and low and sent a shiver of warmth through her.
‘Nothing. The silence woke me and then I saw the light spill out on to the snow when you opened the shutter and wondered if everything was all right.’ That was a lie and she never lied. What had brought her down?
‘It is already deep and it is settling.’ Hugo pushed the shutter almost closed. ‘How close are we to a turnpike road?’
‘Too far and when you get there it will be no better than this. Even the mail will be stopped if it is lying so thick.’
‘The post boys will get through, even if they have to take a horse from the traces and abandon the mail coach.’
‘They will reach the next inn, perhaps. But you are not carrying the mails, so why should you even try?’
Was it really such a prison sentence to be trapped here? But then he had shied away from all his close friends’ invitations because he did not want to be with a horde of children—and hers certainly qualified for the description—and he had been uneasy about her lack of a chaperon. Was that what the matter was? Not the interruption to his journey, not the presence of two lively boys, but her? Did he expect the poor lonely widow to make a pass at him? The idea brought the colour flaming up under her skin.
‘I am an unconscionable nuisance to you and, whatever you say about your supplies, you cannot have expected to be feeding a large man and a considerably larger horse.’
‘When the weather is like this the whole hamlet works together and shares food and fuel with everyone, residents and chance-met strangers alike. It is called neighbourliness, Major. Or perhaps on your big estate you are not familiar with the concept of neighbours and mutual dependence.’ She was fanning her temper as though she could cover her own embarrassment, and, deep down, her guilty pleasure that he had to stay. ‘We will set you to work for your board, Major, never fear. There are several elderly people to dig out and check upon and that will be the first task come morning.’
Even in the poor light she could see him stiffen, presumably with affront at being spoken to like that by an alewife. ‘I have helped dig out villages in the Pyrenees, Mrs Weston, you need have no fear that I do not know one end of a shovel from the other. And it is not that I do not understand and appreciate the hospitality of your community, merely that I have no wish to add to its burdens.’
‘Excellent. Then we understand each other,’ Emilia snapped. He did not like having to explain himself. Presumably majors did not have to very often, let alone ones who were well-bred landowners. ‘I will see you at first light, then.’ She gathered her inelegant robe around her with as much dignity as she could muster and swept out, remembering in the nick of time to close the door quietly so as not to wake the boys.
Idiot, idiot, idiot, she apostrophised herself all the way back up the stairs. You go and disturb a man in the early hours, you blush like a rose because you have no sensible excuse for doing so and then you bite his head off quite unfairly because he unsettles you. Emilia hesitated on the landing at the top of the stairs. Should she go back and apologise? And what, exactly, would be her explanation? No, there was nothing for it but to go back to bed and hope he was still talking to her in the morning.
And what was that about? Dim light struggled through the shutters and Hugo gave up on sleep and sat up in his cocoon of blankets to contemplate his situation. And his hostess.
Another woman and he might have suspected that her visit was an invitation of a most blatant kind and one he would have been sorely tempted by. But no woman bent on seduction, however humble her circumstances, visited a man clad in a frightful garment apparently cobbled together from an old horse blanket and with her hair in plaits, and then picked a quarrel.
He was going to have to get used to the company of respectable women, if he was to find himself a wife this coming Season as he had planned. The idea had seemed reasonable when he had thought of it, months ago in France. It should be easy enough to find a well-bred young lady, a pretty society virgin who would give him an heir and, he had thought vaguely, a few other children to be on the safe side. He was eligible enough not to have too much trouble finding the right bride, he concluded without undue modesty. He had title and lands and wealth and an unblemished reputation.
This theoretical bride had no face in his dreams, no name, no character, now he came to think about it. In fact, he supposed he had not given her much thought at all. But living with a woman like this, in a home, with children, was unsettling. It made him realise that he could not just marry a cipher, he must find a person, one he could get on with, one whom he would like and respect.
Finding a bride would not be like buying a horse and he was guiltily aware that he had been thinking in much the same terms—age, bloodlines, temperament, looks…Yes, he was going to have to consider someone he could look upon as a companion.
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard straw mattress. Was this theoretical woman he intended to court going to insist on declarations of love, exchanges of emotion and intense conversations about feelings? He had the suspicion that she would, but how the devil did a man spout this stuff when he did not feel it, or understand it?
A gentleman was self-reliant and kept his feelings to himself, that was how he had been raised. Duty, honour, patriotism, friendship, loyalty—those were the important emotions and gentlemen did not need to speak of them. They took it for granted that their friends felt like that, too.
No true gentleman experienced violent emotions that might burst forth inappropriately—love, despair, fury. Passion. There had been liaisons in the past, of course, but even sexual encounters should not descend into uncontrolled passion and the sort of lady he would be courting would be horrified by those kinds of demonstrations.
No, you did not treat ladies—or respectable ale wives, come to that—as you treated a courtesan.
And that, Hugo concluded, rolling out of his nest of blankets, included removing one’s unshaven, unwashed self before she came downstairs to start the day.
Fifteen minutes later Hugo emerged from the cellar, where the copper had yielded enough warm water for a wash and a shave, rolled up his bedding, stowed it in a corner and went out to check on the animals. When he came back the inner door was open and both boys, hair uncombed, were standing in the kitchen, looking confused.
‘Mama’s still asleep,’ Nathan said. This was obviously outside their experience.
‘Are you sure she isn’t unwell?’ Hugo asked. In retrospect she had not seemed quite well last night, standing there shivering in that hideous robe, which was probably why he had wanted to put his arms around her.
Both boys stared at him, wide-eyed with anxiety. ‘Don’t know,’ said Joseph. ‘How do we tell?’
‘I had better have a look.’ Hugo walked softly upstairs. One door stood open on to what was obviously the boys’ room, the other was closed. He cracked it open, but the still figure under the heap of blankets did not stir. Now what? Knock and risk disturbing her if she was simply asleep or go in and check she was not running a fever?
He padded across the boards in his stockinged feet until he could see Emilia’s face. She looked peaceful enough: there was no sweat on her brow, she was not shivering and her breath stirred a wisp of hair in a steady rhythm. Hugo reached out and brushed it back, his fingers just touching her forehead. Her skin was cool, not feverish. Just tired, then.
It was an effort to lift his hand away. Her skin was smooth, soft, and yet beneath his fingers he could feel the delicate arch of her brow bone, the brush of her eyebrows. He felt himself hardening with desire and cursed his own lack of self-control. He should stop touching her. Now. Then Emilia stirred and her lips curved into a slight, tender smile. Something caught in his chest, almost painfully. His hand cupped in an instinctive gesture to caress her face and she opened her eyes.
‘Hugo?’ she murmured. She had been dreaming about him and here he was bending over her bed, those deep blue eyes intent on her face, his face serious, his hand brushing lightly over her cheek. It was still a dream, of course, a lovely dream. Emilia closed her eyes and drifted away again. Such a real dream…she could feel the cold of the room, the warmth of his breath, smell the soap on his hand.
‘Hugo?’ Emilia sat bolt upright. ‘What is wrong? The boys—’
‘Nothing is wrong.’ He backed away towards the door as she began to push back the covers. ‘They were worried because you were still asleep. Apparently that is unusual. I was concerned in case you were ill.’
‘No, I am quite all right. But I never oversleep.’
He shrugged, halfway through the door now, in full retreat. She realised what she was doing and left the covers as they were.
‘Perhaps you felt more secure with a man sleeping downstairs. More relaxed. We’re fine,’ she heard him say as the door closed. ‘I’ll start breakfast.’
Breakfast? Emilia threw back the blankets and almost fell out of bed. The chill of the room was more than enough to banish hazy dreams of tall, blue-eyed men. What on earth did he mean, relaxed? That she never slept properly because she always had one ear open for danger, for the boys, for the animals?
Perhaps he was right, she conceded reluctantly, as she splashed cold water on to her shivering body and scrambled into her warmest clothes. But she had never been aware of fear, of being braced for trouble. It was just that it was all her responsibility now, hers alone.
By now there was probably carnage in the kitchen. She bundled her hair into a net as she ran downstairs and then stopped dead, her hands still lifted to tuck in stray locks. The table was laid, the boys were dressed, their hair ruthlessly brushed, and the aroma of frying bacon was wafting appetisingly on the warm air.
‘Four eggs,’ Joseph said in triumph as he set the basket down on the table. ‘One each.’
‘Excellent.’ Hugo glanced up from the vast skillet he was wielding expertly. The intensity she had seen—imag-ined?—in his eyes in the bedchamber was replaced by nothing more disturbing than concentration. ‘Pass me those slices of stale bread, Nathan, and we’ll fry those in the bacon fat. We men will need some solid ballast inside us today. Joseph, pour your mama some tea.’
‘You are making breakfast.’ Emilia sat down on one end of the bench and smiled rather blankly at her son as he passed her the tea. Order, unburned food, quiet boys. The man was a miracle worker. Or a very good officer.
‘Of course. Soldiers cook. It was that or starve half the time when the baggage train got left behind. There, we’re ready. Plates, boys.’
Four plates were produced, loaded and conveyed somewhat unsteadily to the table. Tea and milk were poured. Hugo began to slice bread. ‘I can’t make bread, though,’ he said, passing a slice over to her.
‘No. I don’t expect you have felt the need.’
‘I have, frequently. It is just that it always turns out like boot leather.’ Perhaps that strange episode last night when she was so irritable with him had been the dream, because he showed no signs of recalling it. Best not to mention it, she would only get bogged down trying to explain something she did not understand herself.
‘I have checked the stable and the boys say they’ll feed the animals while I dig the pigsty out. Then I had best clear the way to the log pile and we can stock up on fuel inside before you tell me which neighbours I should be digging towards. You said last night there were some elderly ones?’
Oh, dear, it had not been a dream after all. She really had come downstairs in that frightful robe and lectured him on neighbourliness. And then she had slept in and he had felt it necessary to check on her and she had rubbed her cheek against his hand. It was all coming back in blush-making detail. No wonder he had retreated into brisk practicality.
‘There’s the Widow Cooke and then beyond her, old John Janes. I expect the other villagers will be out digging as well, so you’ll all meet up and we can work out if anyone is still cut off.’
‘And who would be doing the digging from here if I had not happened by?’
‘We would, the boys and I. It would take us a long time, though.’ And if she did not have to worry about the old people then she could get on with clearing the waste mash from the tubs. Emilia chewed on a mouthful of bacon, all the more delicious because she had not had to cook it, and gradually became aware that Hugo was frowning again.
He really did not approve of her working with her hands, that was obvious. What had possessed her to confirm his suspicions that she was gentry-born? Although the way she spoke and the fact that the boys were being educated in the classics were clues enough, she supposed. Did he think the labour was beneath her because of her birth or that he simply did not like to see a woman working hard? He was unobservant if he had never noticed just how tough life was for anyone outside the charmed circle of privilege.
‘I would warn the boys that the wind might change and they would be set with their faces in a scowl for ever,’ Emilia said lightly and his frown vanished.
‘Was I scowling? I am sorry. I think I have the kind of face that always looks serious in repose.’ He smiled. ‘Is that better?’
Do not do that! Having a large male, in his prime, wandering about the house was bad enough, but even when scowling Hugo was a good-looking man with his strong bones and firm chin and those deep-blue eyes. When he smiled right at her like that he took her breath away.
‘Infinitely,’ Emilia said and smiled back with determined friendliness. ‘Boys, you may leave the dishes this morning. Wrap up warmly and help the major with the wood and the animals.’
Emilia braced herself for the usual tussle of getting the twins into what she considered sufficient warm clothing, finding missing mittens, lost scarves and untangling bootlaces. Hugo simply stood up, said, ‘Anyone who is not ready in five minutes will stay and do housework’, and a miracle happened. He had no sooner pulled on his boots and put on his scarlet uniform jacket under the battered leather jerkin than both boys were standing to attention, every button done up, boots laced, scarves tied.
‘Right, forward march.’ He ushered them towards the door and turned at the last moment. ‘Let us know when you want us back, General.’ and he winked, reducing himself to the same age as the twins with one cheeky gesture.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Emilia grumbled at herself as she dumped dishes in the stone sink and lifted the kettle from its hook over the fire. Hugo Travers was not a boy, he was a hardened soldier, probably with a woman in every town across three countries. She was certainly not going to feel maternal about him and she definitely could not afford to feel anything else, except possibly sisterly.
It was foolish to feel sorry for him, just because his childhood had been devoid of family love. Hers had been full of it—and look what happened the moment she strayed from what was expected of her: rejection. She had thought the well of love was bottomless, that she could give her heart to a man and her parents would forgive her, but she had been wrong, or, perhaps, simply unworthy. Hugo obviously had no parents or siblings to disappoint, but he seemed to have acquired incredibly high expectations of himself from somewhere.
Emilia realised she was standing with a kettle of cooling water in her hand and poured it over the dishes. Life had to go on, even when it consisted of dealing with every dish in the kitchen. Hugo might be a good cook, but he seemed to have no idea about the washing up he produced. Servants, of course, on the battlefield or in the home, would whisk away the debris that the master created. She rolled up her sleeves and attacked the washing-up, planning her day in her head as she worked.
The bite of the shovel into the snow, the contraction of his shoulder muscles as he lifted and swung the load to one side, the neatness of the path he was cutting through thigh-high snow were all a simple, satisfying physical effort which most effectively stilled any restlessness his unruly body was feeling. The trouble was, it left his brain free to run in circles like a dog in a turnspit wheel, analysing and speculating. Wanting.
Behind him the boys scurried to and fro with armloads of wood and buckets for the animals. The pig was complaining loudly that it wanted more food, across the frozen valley the sound from the church bells of the main village came clear on the cold air and close to hand Emilia’s neighbours called to each other as they negotiated the drifts. He had waved, called that Mrs Weston had directed him to the Cooke and Janes cottages and the other men had stared, but waved back in acknowledgement.
They would all come and investigate once pathways were open, he could tell. The glances in his direction fell short of being offensive, but left him in no doubt that they were watching him and it was out of concern for the alewife and her children, not simply country curiosity. That was good. He approved of that.
He reached the low-roofed cottage and banged on the door. ‘Mrs Cooke? Mrs Weston sent me to make sure you were all right. Can I bring your wood in?’ There was a tidy stack all along the front wall.
The door opened a crack and a wrinkled face peered out. ‘Who be you, then?’
Hugo explained, carried in wood, fetched a pail of water and checked the old lady had enough food in stock before digging on towards the next home, a mere hump in the snow with a trickle of smoke marking the chimney. The boys were on his heels now and set to work clearing old Mr Janes’s front step while Hugo made up his fire, brought in wood and promised to send bread and potatoes.
‘And who might you be, stranger?’ Hugo turned from closing the door to find himself face to face with a red-faced, brawny man. The smith, he guessed, from the size of the man’s shoulders. He carried a shovel in both hands and looked ready and willing to use it on more than snow.
‘Major Hugo Travers, snowbound here last night. And who are you?’
‘Will Cartwright, smith.’ He glanced over at the twins. ‘Morning, boys. How’s your ma?’
‘Fine, thank you, Mr Cartwright. The major cooked breakfast this morning and he’s got a huge horse!’ Nathan confided.
‘Has he now? Friend of Widow Weston, are you, Major?’
‘Never met her before in my life. I found her house in the middle of the storm and she gave me a bed on the taproom floor.’ He wasn’t used to explaining himself to villagers, but the man was genuinely concerned and he could not fault him for that.
‘Happen you’ll have some company this evening, then, because you’ll not be going anywhere for a day or so and that’s a fact. We tried the lane towards the pike road and it’s drifted deep.’
‘Then I’ll have to stay put and do what I can to help out,’ Hugo said amiably. He didn’t miss the reference to company. Every man in the hamlet was going to be in the taproom that evening, sizing him up. It should do Emilia’s income some good, if nothing else. ‘Anyone else need digging out?’
‘No. I reckon we’ve got the old folks and Willie Piggott, who’s a bit simple, all safe and sound. Old Janes all right?’
‘He needs bread and potatoes.’
‘I’ll see to that.’ The smith nodded, but spared the boys a smile. ‘You look after your ma now!’
Hugo trudged back along the deep-cut path. ‘What are your chores now?’
‘We’d be going to Mr Hoskins, the vicar, for our lessons today,’ Nathan explained. ‘But we can’t because of the snow and the flood and the bridge,’ he added smugly.
‘And you have no lessons to finish?’ Two broad grins were enough answer. ‘Well, fetch your books out and I’ll set you some.’ It was starting to snow again and their mother wouldn’t want them racketing about the house, bored with confinement all day.
Hugo bundled them inside, ordered boots and coats off and, when he had them settled in front of the range, chewing their pencils over Caesar’s Gallic wars, he went in search of Emilia.
He had hoped she might have taken the opportunity to rest, but noises from the cellar told him otherwise. When he came down the stairs she was standing in the mash tun, her skirts kirtled up around her knees, scooping wet mash out into buckets.
Hugo went down the rest of the stairs two at a time, strode across the floor and lifted her bodily out of the tun. ‘What the blazes do you think you are doing?’
She turned, a small, damp virago, pink in the face from indignation and bending over. ‘What am I doing? What are you thinking of, Major?’ Her hair was coming out of its net, her bare feet and legs were shedding wet grains all over his shoes and her hands were fisted at her waist. Her small, vulnerable feet. Her shapely calves and ankles, the slim waist and the womanly curves.
‘Thinking?’ Hugo realised that he had not been thinking at all. But he was now. She looked edible, vital, alive. Infinitely desirable. He took her by the waist again, drew her close and buried his face in the luxurious mass of her hair.
Chapter Four (#ulink_80e8cc6f-baa1-50d0-9ed0-464b851e2e1a)
Her mouth had been open to protest, but she was pressed against Hugo’s front, inhaling warm man as his hands shifted and he settled her more securely against himself. One hand pushed into her hair, sending pins falling free as he cradled her head, the other hand pressed open against her shoulder blades, moving in slow, devastating circles. Her hands were trapped between her breasts and his chest and his heart was thudding against her palms
All the air in her lungs and the blood in her head had vanished. It was wonderful and terrifying and she felt alive as she had not been for years. And it was wrong to be held like this, it had to be if it was this good. Emilia pulled a hand free, fetching Hugo a blow on the ear by mistake.
He set her back a little, just enough that their bodies were no longer touching. ‘Ouch! I am sorry—’
‘So am I. I didn’t mean to hit you.’ They stared into each other’s faces, their noses almost touching, their breath wreathing white in the cold air. ‘I didn’t mean for you to stop,’ Emilia blurted. She curled her hands around his waist and pulled and Hugo, with a groan that was either desire or despair and was, she thought wildly, possibly both, pulled her to him again.
Kiss me. Somehow she managed to keep the words in her head.
‘Major?’ called a treble voice from upstairs.
‘Hell!’ Hugo set her free so abruptly that she sat down on the edge of the tun. He was across the cellar and standing at the foot of the steps before she could gather her wits and realise where she was, what she was doing. What she had almost done.
‘Yes? I am down here. Are you stuck with that exercise?’ he called up, as calm as though they had been discussing hops and ale recipes.
Both boys came down the steps. ‘No, we’ve finished. Look.’ Joseph was waving a sheet of paper under Hugo’s nose. ‘See, Mama, we’ve translated a whole page! What are you doing?’
Goodness knows! Embracing a totally inappropriate man in the cellar. He is either sorry for me or he thinks I am pitiful and grateful for his attentions. ‘Emptying the used mash,’ Emilia said briskly. She pulled herself together and studied her sons. ‘Has Major Travers been setting you Latin lessons?’ They seemed unusually cheerful about the fact.
‘Yes, and they are all about wars and battles!’
‘How interesting. I just hope you aren’t both going to rush off to the next recruiting sergeant who comes around.’ They grinned back at her, knowing teasing when they heard it. Her feet were freezing now she was out of the slightly warm mash. Emilia slid her feet into her wooden pattens and tried to ignore Hugo, who shot her an unreadable glance, although whether it signified remorse at having embraced her or the strains of teaching small boys their Latin, she could not tell.
Hugo sat beside her on the edge of the tun and heeled off his shoes. ‘Where does this used mash go?’ He rolled off his stockings. Emilia averted her eyes from well-muscled, hairy calves.
‘We’ll show you.’ Nathan seized one of the filled buckets. ‘It all gets dumped over here and then when it is dried we use it for the animals.’
Hugo shed coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. Emilia kicked off the pattens and swung her legs over to get back into the tun.
‘No. I’ll finish here.’ He put one hand on her arm.
She still could not look at him, or think of anything to say with the boys so close. She was acutely aware of her wet skirts and bare calves, of the blood pounding around her veins, of the closeness of him and the warm weight of his hand against the skin of her forearm. From somewhere Emilia found her voice and something coherent to say. ‘Of course. I must get some food together. You will all be starving.’
She scrambled back out, jammed her feet into the pattens, let down her skirts and hurried upstairs without stopping to look back at Hugo or brush off the grains that clung to her legs. She heard the scrape of the wooden shovel on the stone base of the tun, the laughter of the boys as they fought over who was carrying the next bucket, then she was in the kitchen with the door safely closed behind her.
This was a disaster. What had she done? What had she risked, simply because of the aching need for strong arms around her, for the respite from being continuously in charge? And, yes, she thought, if she was going to be honest, she had wanted that fire in the blood, that sensual tingle between a man and a woman.
Emilia pulled onions and carrots out of their sacks and began scrubbing them to add to the soup that simmered on the hob. She worked as though she could rub away the feel of Hugo’s arms around her, the scent of him. She had made her decision when she had slipped away from that ball and fallen, laughing, into Giles’s arms. She had chosen love and laughter and joy for however long it lasted. And she had been blessed with four years of happiness and two wonderful sons.
But you paid the price of whatever your choices brought you. The boys had her total love and every moment she could devote to them, to building their futures. And the price for that was hard work and maintaining her reputation, not dallying with big strong soldiers. They were such good boys, so bright, so loving. She chopped the roots with savage swipes of the knife. They deserved the lives of opportunity their grandparents could give them.
But that was part of the price, too. And she had written three times and been rejected. So, no more false hope. One large tear plopped into the stock. ‘Stop it,’ Emilia said out loud.
‘Stop what?’ asked Hugo’s deep, concerned voice.
‘Stop being foolish,’ she snapped back as she peered into the jar of peppercorns and estimated how many she could afford to grind up for the soup. It kept her face turned from him, too. ‘Where are Joseph and Nathan?’
‘Checking on the animals and taking Ajax a bucket of mash. They offered,’ he added, coming fully into the room and leaning his broad shoulders back against the door. ‘I was not trying to get them out of the way, although it is convenient, I have to admit, for we need to talk. I should not have touched you. I do not know what came over me, which is hardly original or convincing, or even an excuse.’
‘I am not a loose woman,’ Emilia said with painful clarity, her eyes focused on a jar of pickled mushrooms. ‘I have only ever slept with my husband. I wanted to be held and I suppose you could tell that. I apologise for not making it clear that no such thing must happen.’
‘Damn it.’ Hugo was at her side in two long strides. He took the jar from her hands and banged it down on the table. ‘I do not need telling that you are virtuous. Nor do I need telling that your reputation in this hamlet is precious. I am on my way home, intending to seek and woo a wife.’
There was only the corner of the table and a large jar of pickles between them. Somehow she had to fight. ‘It seems to be something other than your good intentions in control,’ she said drily.
He gave a painful snort of laughter and pulled her round the table, setting the pickle jar rocking, and held her tight against him. ‘You think that desire drives me? You are an attractive woman, you feel good in my arms and my body sends me messages about more than holding you. I can ignore that. What I find it hard to ignore is the ache in my chest and the need for my arms to be around you.’
His cheek was pressed against her hair again. They were just the right height for that, Emilia thought hazily as she hung on to as much solid man as she could get her arms around. ‘You are sorry for me, that’s all,’ she muttered into the rough homespun shirt that smelled of her soap and his skin.
‘I am sorry for a lot of people, from the Prime Minister to beggars in the gutter,’ Hugo growled. ‘I do not have the urge to cuddle any of them.’
For a second, a blissful second, she relaxed against him, her soft curves fitting with erotic rightness against his hard angles. Then she felt his body harden into arousal, unmistakable against her stomach, and she pushed him, hard in the centre of his chest. For a second she thought he would not release her, she could almost feel decency and desire warring in him, and then he opened his arms and stepped back.
‘It seems you cannot control your desires as well as you boast, Major,’ she said, her voice unsteady.
‘Emilia…Hell, the boys are coming.’
‘You have ears like a cat,’ Emilia said as her sons burst into the kitchen. She pulled the greased paper off the jar of pickled mushrooms and delved in with a spoon to find enough to go in the soup. ‘Quietly, boys. Go and wash and clear your work off the table.’
It was like being two people. One was the sensible, hard-working mother and alewife who was capable of carrying on calmly despite chance-met travellers, snowdrifts or anything else life threw at her. The other was a yearning, passionate creature who wanted to be loved and held and to share joy and troubles with someone who understood.
But of course Hugo Travers did not understand. He was a gentleman, someone of sufficient standing to take part in the London Season when he searched for a wife. He was also was gallant and sympathetic and grateful for the shelter. And not averse to embracing a woman, a cold whisper of common sense told her. Perhaps he had hoped to see if she responded by lifting her face to be kissed and then he would not have been so gentlemanly. Or perhaps he needed hugging, too, the trusting part of her countered. It might have begun as a hug, but it almost got out of control.
Emilia ladled out soup and they sat down. Hugo already knew his way around her kitchen, she could see, for he had found the bread and was cutting it. She had the sense that he was used to moving from billet to billet with the army, settling in and making himself at home wherever he found himself. He was acting as though nothing had happened—she must match his control.
‘You’ll have business tonight,’ he said as he passed her a slice. ‘Either the result of a strong thirst from shovelling or a wish to check on the stranger under your roof. Your neighbours are protective.’
‘Were they hostile?’ she asked, anxious that he had been insulted.
‘No. They were reserved, but they made it quite obvious that they were watching. Your smith in particular wished to make it clear that he will dismantle me with his bare hands if there is anything amiss.’
‘I nursed his wife last year when she was sick,’ Emilia explained. ‘Joseph, why are you opening and shutting your mouth like a gudgeon?’
‘Why would Mr Cartwright hit the major, Mama?’
‘In case the major is a dangerous rogue in disguise. He might be here to rob us of all the gold sovereigns under the floorboards and our wonderful silver tableware.’ She swept a hand round to illustrate the horn beakers, the pewter plates, the earthenware jugs. The boys collapsed in giggles.
‘It is a good thing we will have some company,’ she added. ‘I want barrels shifting and we need several strong men for that.’ And with the taproom full of people there would be no temptation to look at Hugo, much less yearn for the caresses that were so dangerous.
‘Will you brew again before Christmas?’
Emilia laughed. ‘Of course! This is good weather for it because when it is cold I can control the fermentation better. Besides, we will need plenty for the Christmas celebrations.’
‘But not today.’
She suspected that was an order. ‘No, not today,’ Emilia agreed. ‘I have the housework to catch up with and baking to do.’
Hugo took himself off to the stables while she worked. Probably escaping from the reality of being trapped with two small boys, a never-ending list of menial chores and a foolish woman who cast herself into his arms. He hugged me first, she told herself, sweeping the hearth with unnecessary vigour.
Hugo strode into the stable, stripped the sacks off Ajax’s back and set to with brush and curry comb. The big horse grunted with pleasure at the strength of the strokes and leaned into them.
He had to do something physical. Getting into a fight was the most tempting solution, but there was no one to spar with, only himself to beat up, mentally.
What had he done? He should never have touched her, let alone caressed her, allowed himself to become blatantly aroused. Damn it, he had boasted to her that he could control himself.
Disgusted with himself, Hugo swore, viciously, in Spanish, Portuguese and, for good measure, French. Emilia had pushed him away. Had needed to push him away. That fact alone was shocking. He simply did not behave like this. If he took a mistress, then it was a considered act, properly negotiated like everything else in his life.
She had pushed him away. Rejected him. Of course she did, she’s a decent woman. That did not help. Hell, he wanted her and he wanted her to want him. He should have had some restraint, he was the one with years of disciplined living and trained self-control behind him, he was not the lonely overworked one who should have tumbled into his arms with gratitude.
Coxcomb, he thought and added a few choice epitaphs. Emilia is not lonely. She has her sons to love and a village full of people who like her and protect her.
Perhaps he was lonely. How could that be with dozens of friends, innumerable acquaintances? And no one to love, a small inner voice murmured. Well, that was easy enough to deal with. When he got out of here he would get on with finding a wife, a rational, intelligent, suitable wife who would fill any empty niches in his life. Not love, of course, whatever that was.
He began to talk to Ajax in Spanish. ‘She’ll be blonde. Blue-eyed, I think, or grey. Quite tall. Very elegant and self-possessed, but quiet. I don’t want a chatterer.’ Not someone who makes jokes at mealtimes and who teases me. ‘Responsive in bed, of course. An iceberg would be unpleasant to live with. But not demanding reassurances all the time that I love her or some such nonsense.’ Not melting into my arms as though I am all she desires and then pushing me away.
‘Is that Spanish?’
Hugo dropped the curry comb and Nathan dived to pick it up. ‘Yes, Spanish.’ Thank God. ‘Thank you.’ He took the metal scrapper and cleaned the dandy brush.
‘Why are you talking to Ajax?’
‘He’s the only thing around here that doesn’t answer back,’ Hugo said with some feeling. ‘Pass me the hoof pick, will you?’
The old long-case clock in the corner of the taproom chimed four. The house was clean, the fires made up, a somewhat muscular chicken was in the pot for dinner and the boys were with Hugo.
Emilia sat down by the hearth and contemplated doing nothing for an entire, blissful, half-hour of self-indulgence. Only her mind refused to relax and every time it did she found herself thinking about that embrace.
But brooding about Hugo made her think of his lack of a family and that led inevitably to her own. The boys were growing up without their grandparents. Her parents would never know her sons. It was Christmas—surely a time for forgiveness and new starts? She would write, try again one last time. Perhaps if she made it clear they did not have to see her again, that she wanted nothing for herself, their ruined daughter, they would relent towards the boys.
Paper was expensive and she could not afford to waste it. She sat at the table, chewing the end of her pen and composing in her head and then wrote, slowly, taking care over every word.
There, done. Emilia scrubbed the back of her hand across her wet eyes. At least she hadn’t dripped tears on the page, that really would have looked like a plea for sympathy. She folded the sheet carefully, wrote the direction on the front and went in search of the sealing wax.
Where had she left it? The taproom, she realised after ten minutes of fruitless rummaging in drawers. She had used it to seal that order to the maltster last week.
She was halfway across the room when she heard the sound of footsteps from the direction of the stable. The high mantelshelf over the hearth was out of reach of small boys. She reached up to hide the letter and when they came in with Hugo on their heels she was making up the fire. ‘Goodness, this chimney is smoky.’ She mopped at her cheeks, smiled and ignored the swift frowning glance that Hugo sent her.
He strode across the room and tucked his roll of bedding more tidily into the corner.
‘You could put it back into the cupboard, for the moment,’ Emilia suggested.
‘I don’t think so, do you?’
The level look brought the colour to her cheeks. Of course, he wanted to reinforce the point about where he was sleeping when the villagers came in this evening. I wish it was upstairs.
Hugo had been correct in his prediction. Every man in the village, including old Mr Janes, found their way along the narrow paths, some bringing their shovels with them in case they had to dig their way back.
Emilia sent the boys to bed and heated a large pot of mulled ale over the fire. Hugo was sitting at a corner table, apparently engrossed in the pile of tattered news sheets he had found with the kindling. He looked up and exchanged unsmiling nods with the men as they came in.
They crowded into the taproom, blowing out lanterns, filling the space with the smell of tallow, wet wool, tobacco and hard-working man with a rich undertone of cattle.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ Emilia straightened up from her stirring and smiled at them as they stamped snow off their boots and heaped coats in the corner. ‘Would some of you do me a favour and bring two barrels up?’
‘Aye, I’ll do that for you, Mrs Weston.’ Cartwright, the smith, rolled his broad shoulders. ‘The major here will give me hand, I’ve no doubt. The two of us will manage.’
Damn. That was a deliberate challenge. It normally took four of them to roll the barrel on to the carrying cradle and get it up the stairs. Two men could do it, if they were strong enough, but Joseph had reported that Hugo had a big scar across his chest. Was it a recent wound? But there was nothing she could do about it, they were on their way downstairs.
There was bumping and a thud or two from the cellar. the other men stood around nudging each other. Really, they are such boys, she thought crossly. Then there were heavy footsteps on the stairs and the blacksmith appeared carrying the front handles of the wooden cradle. She held her breath, the weight of the contraption would be tipping down now on the man still on the stairs. If he fell, he would be crushed by the barrel.
But Cartwright kept coming and Hugo emerged, his jaw rather set, but not visibly struggling. They rolled the barrel on to its rest and set down the cradle. ‘Game for the other one?’ There was grudging respect in the smith’s eyes.
‘Some of the others will do it, if they will be so good.’ Emilia pressed a beaker of mulled ale into his hands and gave another to Hugo. ‘On the house for those who carry.’
It had broken the ice, although why Hugo’s ability to lift heavy weights should convince the smith that he was a good man eluded her. Some strange male code, no doubt. Emilia set out mugs and began to fill orders.
Two hours later her cash dish was full of coppers, a cut-throat game of dominoes was going on between Billy Watchett, the ploughman, and one of the Dodson brothers, someone was attempting to wager a piglet against a load of hay on a card game and Michael Fowler was telling anyone who would listen that his heart had been broken by that flighty Madge Green from over the river.
Emilia set a fresh jug of ale down on the end of the table and leaned a hip against it for a brief rest. In the corner Lawrence Bond, a smallholder, smiled and moved his head towards the bench beside him as though in invitation. She pretended not to notice. Bond was the son of a yeoman and apt to give himself airs as a result. He would flirt if he had the opportunity and, of all the men in the village, he was the only one she would feel uneasy about being alone with.
Behind her Hugo was deep in conversation with the smith and his cronies and she shrugged off the discomfort the smallholder’s scrutiny evoked and listened.
‘So what’ll you be doing with yourself now you’re out of the army?’ someone asked.
‘I’ve some land to look after and I was thinking of politics. I ought to take my…I ought to think what to do about that,’ Hugo replied.
No one else picked up on it. Feeling as though she had lost the air in her lungs, Emilia made her way back to the fireside and blindly stuck another slice of bread on the toasting fork. Take my seat is what he had almost let slip. His seat in the House of Lords. Hugo was an aristocrat.
Chapter Five (#ulink_705c195a-1ed0-5f2c-bbb0-57ad5b7a91d0)
Aristocrat. It was not until she heard the word in her head and felt the sharp pang beneath her breastbone that Emilia understood her own foolishness. Part of her, some part that was utterly out of touch with reality, had been dreaming that her handsome major would want her, kiss her, fall for her. Ridiculous, even if he had merely been a landowning officer, for he was too decent to seduce her and anything else was simply moonshine.
But an aristocrat? Connections, respectability, dowry were all. The only relationship Hugo Travers, Lord Whatever He Was, could have with her was as a kindly passing acquaintance or to take her as a mistress. She almost laughed at the notion of herself as mistress-material as she brushed ashes off her worn skirt and held out one chapped hand to the warmth of the fire.
‘You’ll have that bread in cinders,’ old Mr Janes cackled. ‘Looking for your lover in the flames, eh?’
‘You’re a dreadful old man and you’ve had too much mulled ale,’ she scolded him, pulling back the toasting fork and setting it aside. Years of practice putting on a cheerful face for the boys under all circumstances stood her in good stead with adults, too, she was learning.
He grinned, revealing one remaining tooth and a great deal of gum. ‘I’m old, that’s a fact, my pretty. But you gets wisdom with age.’
‘And what’s your wisdom telling you now, eh, Grandfer Janes?’ one of the younger men called.
‘It’s telling me we’re having snow from now until Christmas morn and none of us is getting out of this hamlet for a week, so we’d best be thinking what we’re going to do about the Feast.’
‘Are you certain?’ Hugo’s deep voice cut through the buzz of comment.
‘Aye, he’s certain,’ the smith said. ‘Best weather prophet in the Chiltern Hills is Old Janes. Best make your mind up to it, Major. You’re spending Christmas in Little Gatherborne.’
Hugo’s face in the candlelight, through the haze of tobacco smoke, was unreadable to anyone who did not know him as she was beginning to. His lips moved. She thought he murmured, ‘Hell’, then he asked, ‘What feast?’
‘The Christmas Feast,’ Cartwright explained. ‘We hold it every Christmas Eve over at Squire Nicholson’s big barn in Great Gatherborne. Everyone comes from both villages and the farms all around, there’s dancing, music, games for the little ones, food.’
‘So where will you hold it over here?’
‘Don’t see how we can,’ someone complained. ‘None of us has a barn and Squire provides the beast for roasting.’
‘What’s the barn up the hill, then?’
‘That belongs to Sir Philip Davenport. He’s got a big house down the valley,’ Emilia explained. ‘I think he’s going to sell it to the Squire. It’s empty, though. We could use it if it isn’t locked.’
‘What, without asking? He’d be powerful mad and he’s a magistrate.’ That was Jimmy Hadfield, who’d had a close scrape over a poached pheasant or two if she wasn’t mistaken.
She couldn’t ask Sir Philip, that was for certain. She had actually danced with him, just the once, at her very first, and last, ball on the night she and Giles had eloped. If he didn’t know who she was, he would not see her, the humble alewife, but if she told him her real identity to gain an interview he would be highly embarrassed. And it would be even more embarrassing for her parents if he let slip to society that Lord Peterscroft’s wanton daughter was running a rural alehouse.
‘I could have a word with him afterwards,’ Hugo said. ‘If we don’t do any damage—’ The rest was lost in a roar of approbation.
‘What about food?’ Emilia managed to make herself heard above the din. ‘The squire gives us a bullock.’ She tried to sort out the conflicting emotions in her head. Delight, of course, that the hamlet could have its Feast after all and a grudging resentment that Hugo would stroll into see Sir Philip, exchange a few casual words and it would all be settled. Once she had accepted that kind of privilege without thought. Now she knew she could never be that girl again.
‘None of us has got any spare livestock,’ someone said from the back of the room. Gloom descended.
‘Has anyone got an animal you could spare if you had the money to replace it?’ Hugo asked. ‘I’ll buy it as my contribution to the feast.’
That settled it. Several meaty palms slapped Hugo’s shoulders before the men recollected who he was and then, when he showed no sign of taking exception to the treatment, he was offered a quantity of dubious snuff and a tot of Granfer Jane’s even more dubious, and decidedly illegal, home-distilled spirits, which rendered him speechless after one mouthful.
Emilia filled another jug with ale. This was going to turn into a planning meeting and that required lubrication. Across the room she met Hugo’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows and grinned and she found herself grinning back. He was a good man, she had known it instinctively, and it was pleasant to be proved correct. If only she could hold on to that and not allow those wicked, wistful longings to creep in when she looked at him, thought about him.
‘Now then.’ She clapped her hands for silence. ‘How many people will be coming do we think?’
The boys were muttering at his heels as Hugo dug his way through the fresh snowfall so they could feed the pig. They had been subdued all through breakfast, he realised.
‘What’s the matter with you two?’ The three of them hung over the sty door and scratched Maud on her broad, bristly back as she rooted vigorously in the trough.
‘We were going into town to buy a present for Mama for Christmas and now we can’t,’ Nathan said. ‘We left it too late, but we were saving up and…’ His voice wavered.
‘Then you’ll have to make something, won’t you?’ Hugo said briskly. ‘What would she like?’ He thought about the craftsmen he had met the night before. The carpenter had seemed an amiable, easy-going man. ‘If you can think of something to make from wood, I expect Mr Daventry would take you on as apprentices for a few days.’
‘Mama said the other day she didn’t have a nice shelf to put the pretty jug we bought her on safely. If we made her one, she could put it in her bedroom with flowers in the jug,’ Joseph suggested. They both looked enthusiastic.
‘Come on, then, we’ll dig our way through to the old folks and then go and find Mr Daventry.’
When they came back, cheerful and hungry after a hard morning digging and negotiating, Emilia was standing in the sunshine on the front step, shaking out a duster. He felt a ridiculous stab of pleasure at seeing her there, as though she was waiting to welcome him home. Warmth spread through him when she saw them and smiled straight into his eyes, her face open and happy. She made him think of fresh-baked bread, wholesome and edible and tempting.
He was forgiven for yesterday’s insanity. He wanted to taste her skin, to nibble, very gently, at those sweet curves. Stop it, she’s a decent woman. But what was that feeling in his chest, that ache that made him want to hold her and protect her and, yes, make love to her?
‘What a marvellous morning!’ she called when they came into earshot and he wiped his thoughts off his face. ‘But Granfer James says we’ll have snow again later. I’ve just been and taken him some chicken broth.’ They stamped into the yard, kicked snow off their boots and stacked shovels under the eaves. ‘What have you been up to?’ Emilia asked. ‘I sense mischief. Or secrets.’
‘Men’s business,’ Hugo said. ‘I’ve hired these two out as apprentices to Daventry the carpenter. He needs a hand. That’s all right, isn’t it? I can set them some Latin exercises for this evening.’ He winked at her over the boys’ heads and shook his head when she opened her mouth, obviously to demand to know what on earth he was about.
‘I see.’ Emilia clearly did not, but she was willing to trust him and play along. It provoked the most unexpected sense of partnership. ‘I had no idea Mr Daventry had so much on that he needs assistance, but we must be neighbourly. You two are to be back before it starts to get dark, or as soon as it begins to snow, do you understand?’
Goodness knew what Hugo and the boys were plotting, but she guessed it must be something to do with her Christmas present. Emilia had realised they were fretting about it and had been racking her brains for something she could hint that she wanted that they could make her. Their own presents had been bought weeks ago, the last time she had been into Aylesbury.
But what about Hugo? Whatever she thought of, she was going to have to make it right under his nose…Nose! Of course. There was that fine white cotton she had bought for summer underwear. There was a good yard left, more than enough for handkerchiefs with his initials in the corner. She could whip those up without him noticing she was doing anything other than her usual sewing.
She had the fabric spread out on the table when he came back from seeing the boys off after luncheon. ‘What are you making?’ He hitched a hip on to the corner of the table. Big, relaxed, male. Gorgeous.
Emilia felt the blush rise and turned it to her advantage. ‘Female underthings.’
‘Ah.’ He was off the table and over by the hearth at once, just as she had hoped.
‘Thank you for helping the boys.’ She took up the scissors and cut along her markings, careful to get the edges straight. For some reason her hand did not seem quite steady.
Hugo sat down on the arm of her armchair. ‘My pleasure. They were fretting about not being able to finish their shopping.’
‘It seems very quiet without them.’ She had ruined that square—oh, well, it would make a smaller handkerchief for her. With an effort of will Emilia completed the six squares, folded them all into her workbasket and cleared up the scraps.
‘In the summer they must be out a great deal of the time,’ Hugo observed. He did not move as she came and set the basket down by her chair.
‘Yes. Of course. It is just that…’ Her normally fluent tongue seemed to be in knots.
‘That having me in the house when no one else is here is disconcerting?’ Hugo asked with devastating directness.
‘Yes.’ Emilia found she had no idea what to do with her hands, which appeared to want to tie themselves into knots.
‘Why? Do you feel unsafe with me?’ He stood up and she found they were almost toe to toe. ‘Is it because of yesterday?’
‘No! It is just that I want…I mean I…’
‘You want me to hold you?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes. No,’ she corrected with desperate honesty. ‘I want you to kiss me.’
‘What an extraordinary coincidence,’ he said. She glanced up at him, confused. ‘I was just thinking how much I would like to kiss you.’
It was not tentative, or gentle or subtle. Teeth bumped, she trod on his feet, his hands were so tight around her waist that she was breathless. It was wonderful and life-affirming and dangerously exciting.
When they fell apart, Hugo’s eyes were dark, deep blue and he looked faintly stunned. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Why? I am not.’ She wasn’t. She should be, but she couldn’t find a whisper of regret anywhere.
‘My technique seem to have become inexcusably clumsy.’ His grip on her waist loosened, but he did not let her go.
‘Perhaps it is a while since you kissed a woman?’ she suggested. The sudden calculation she could see in his eyes was amusing.
‘A month or two,’ Hugo admitted. ‘I am not in the habit of wantonly kissing my way around, you understand.’ He cocked an eyebrow quizzically, but Emilia sensed he was concerned with how she replied.
‘No, I can tell that.’ His hands were still warm on her waist, she was no longer treading on his toes, so she reached up, curled her fingers around the strong column of his neck and drew him down. ‘We could try again?’
‘I would appreciate a second chance. You disconcert me, Emilia.’
Disconcert him? Me, plain ordinary Emilia Weston? Then his mouth closed firmly over hers and his tongue swept along the fullness of her lower lip and she let herself sink into the sensation. It was strange to know what she was doing, to know what to expect, and yet to be experiencing it with a different man.
And any memories were lost almost immediately. Hugo tasted different, felt different, kissed differently. She had thought that to make love with any other man would feel like disloyalty to Giles, although she knew he would never want her to be alone after he had gone. But this felt right and wonderful as sensations she had almost forgotten about tingled and throbbed and ached deliciously from her lips to her thighs.
Hugo explored deep into her mouth as though he wanted to drink her in and she responded with as much boldness, learning the taste of him, teasing him with nips and licks, digging her fingers into his broad shoulders.
When he lifted his head finally they stared at each other until he released his grip on her waist and she dropped her hands from his shoulders. Emilia groped her way to the nearest chair and sat down on it with a thump. Her breasts felt heavy, as sensitive as if he had been caressing the naked flesh, and between her thighs the pulse of arousal beat a distracting, insistent rhythm.
‘I did not send the boys to the carpenter’s so I could do that,’ Hugo said abruptly. ‘It has just occurred to me that you might believe I had schemed to get them out of the house.’ He put one hand on the mantel and stood looking down into the fire, then abruptly swung the kettle over the heat.
‘No. It never occurred to me that you would do such a thing.’ Was she being hopelessly naïve and trusting? But did men set on selfish seduction raise such concerns? Perhaps they did if they were very subtle. Emilia gave herself a mental shake. Every instinct had told her to trust Hugo from the moment she set eyes on him. ‘I asked you to kiss me.’ She ought to feel shame at being so bold. She certainly should feel alarm at what she was doing.
‘I am honoured. And flattered. And I think we should stop this right now while there are only kisses between us.’ He began to spoon tea into the pot as though the banal domesticity of the act would somehow disperse the tensions that thickened the air between them.
What is this? she wondered, but did not ask. Hugo was apparently too decent to seduce her and leave her and she was impossible as a mistress—no man, certainly no aristocrat, offered an alehouse keeper with children a carte blanche.
‘That would certainly be sensible,’ she agreed, dredging up remnants of common sense from wherever they had vanished to. ‘It would also be a saving on the housekeeping if you stopped heaping tea into that pot.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ He peered into it and began to spoon tea out again. Emilia laughed and for a minute or two while she fetched mugs and milk it was as though those kisses had never happened. Then Hugo looked up, straight into her eyes and said, ‘I have never met another woman like you, Emilia. I doubt I ever will again.’
What could she say to that? What did it mean? He seemed blurred somehow and then she realised it was not her emotions playing havoc with her eyesight, but the light dimming. ‘Oh, no, here comes the snow again.’
‘I’ll go and get the boys.’ Hugo swept his heavy cloak from the peg, clapped his hat on his head and went out, snowflakes swirling into the room in his wake.
They melted in the warm air and all trace of him was gone, only the two mugs standing on the table left to mark that she had not dreamed the last half-hour.
‘You are going to break my heart, Hugo Travers,’ Emilia said. But hearts had been broken before and no one died of it, not while there were stockings to darn and boys to feed and ale to brew. She swirled her big white apron around her waist and went to survey the larder shelves in search of inspiration for supper.
‘Have you done your Latin exercises?’ Hugo felt the concerted power of two sets of eyes on his back, but he did not look round from grooming Ajax.
‘Yes, Major. And we’ve done our chores and Mama says we are under her feet because she is trying to sweep. Is it ever going to be Christmas?’
‘Today is the twenty-third. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. How are the shelves coming along?’ He sponged Ajax’s muzzle and the big horse sighed gustily, spraying him with water. He was bored, standing in this stall. The deep, narrow paths through the snow were unfit for anything but walking, but he would take him out in a minute.
‘Really well, they are finished almost. Mr Daventry has carved a star on both ends for us and he is going to help us put our initials on it this afternoon.’ There was an anxious pause. ‘Do you think we have enough money to pay him for the wood and carving the stars and helping us?’
‘How much have you got?’
‘Two shillings and four pence halfpenny.’
Hugo had already spoken to the carpenter, agreed a price and promised to make up the difference. ‘Well, that should do it. Do you want to come and help me exercise Ajax?’ He untied the halter rope, slid the bridle on to a chorus of excited agreement and led the horse out into the front yard. ‘Come on, then, up you go.’
He swung Nathan up, then Joseph. They were almost too excited to speak. Hugo put the reins into Nathan’s hands and walked away into one of the pathways through the snow. Ajax plodded behind, the boys’ feet brushing the tops of the snow banks.
It was a relief to get right away from the house. He had been trying to ever since he had yielded to temptation and kissed Emilia and felt the ache of desire sweep through him, felt the pain under his breastbone that he did not understand intensify. He had dug, visited, joined the other men in planning, helped clear the barn and select the beast for the roast. And every time he had gone back to the house the very lack of contact, the control with which Emilia ignored what he had done, scarified his pride.
That would be sensible, she had said when he had summoned up every ounce of his crumbling will-power and said that they should put a stop to it. Whatever it was. She had spoken calmly, dispassionately, as if she had taken all she needed from him. Certainly she was not hurt or desperate to be back in his arms. He had thought she needed him more than he needed her and it seemed he was wrong.
I do not need her. I need a wife.
The ride had been a wild success. After half an hour Hugo swopped them around so Joseph had the reins, by which time they had their voices back.
‘Are you married, Major?’ Nathan asked.
What? For an appalled moment he thought he was being asked his intentions towards their mother, then he realised his own conscience was imposing undertones on a perfectly innocent piece of curiosity.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ Joseph enquired earnestly. ‘Aren’t you really old not to be married?’
Chapter Six (#ulink_e3df9940-6c51-55fd-9059-2269fce5f6ac)
‘I am twenty-eight,’ Hugo said. ‘Which is a perfectly good age to get married. And besides, I have been away fighting.’
‘So who are you going to marry?’
‘I haven’t met her yet.’ It felt important to state that.
‘How will you find the right one then?’ Nathan asked. ‘A wife has to be able to cook, doesn’t she?’
‘No, not always. I employ a cook. I will go to London after Christmas and attend parties and balls and hope to find the right lady.’ That was the plan. It had seemed perfectly sensible. It was perfectly sensible. It was how a gentleman found a wife.
‘How will you know? Will she be pretty?’
‘Perhaps she will.’ Blonde, blue eyes, tall. Cool. ‘How do you know when you like someone?’
‘But it’s more than liking, isn’t it?’ Joseph chimed in. ‘You’ve got to live with her for ever and ever and have babies and love each other.’ His voice trailed away. ‘Until one of you dies.’
‘We will have to like each other,’ Hugo said briskly. ‘Love could grow afterwards. And she will come from the same sort of background as me so she will know how to look after quite a lot of servants and tenants and a big house.’ He was not sure who he was trying to convince, himself or the boys. Or perhaps
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/joanna-fulford/snowbound-wedding-wishes-an-earl-beneath-the-mistletoe-twel/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.