It shimmered, a hazy reflection of firelight and the spreading branches of the Christmas tree—the fairy-tale vision that had comforted a little girl as she stood shivering in the snow.
Tristan gave a strangled cry, hardly daring to hope. Then he dashed out of the chamber, down the hall. He flung open the door, bolting into the snow.
The chill stung him, but he barely felt it, the night dark as he ran around the corner of the house to where the panes of glass shone against the brick—a golden beacon in the dark of night.
It was then he saw her, huddled beneath her cape, curled there in the shelter of the hawthorn bush.
"Alaina!" He cried out her name, and she spun to face him, her features white and horrified in the moonlight. She wheeled away, started to run, but he caught her in three long strides. His fingers bit into her arms, and he swung her around to face him.
"No!" she cried, struggling. "You have to let me go! I shouldn't have come back. I only wanted to watch you one last time—"
"Before you disappeared again, forever?" Tristan demanded, his voice ragged. "How could you come to my bed, share what we shared, and then turn and walk away?"
"What else could I do? I can't stay! It's impossible!"
"Not if you marry me."
"M-Marry you? Are you mad? Do you have any idea what people would say? The men you do business with. Their wives. Everyone you know."
"You'd be my wife. I don't give a damn what they think."
She looked so broken, so battered, as if she'd been battling with dragons far too long alone. "I've spent a lifetime trying to drag myself out of the London slums," she said, "but even if I were garbed in full court dress, they'd still look at me in horror, sneer at me behind their fans. They will never let me be anything other than the ballad seller's child. That's why I was leaving England. To get away. So that I can be—be someone else."
"What a tragedy that would be, Alaina MacShane. Then you wouldn't be Gabriel's angel. You wouldn't be the woman who bludgeoned her way into my life and made me feel again—joy and anger and hope and fear."
He could see the effort it cost her to thrust her chin up at that valiant angle he so loved. "I'm glad, Tristan. Truly glad if I helped you. But that doesn't mean you have to marry me. Or that I'm fit to be your wife. You need to find some lovely woman to be Gabriel's mother. You'll forget about me. You'll both forget about me in time."
"You truly think Gabriel will ever forget his first Christmas tree? His first pony? Or the woman who gave him a pin from a fairy king's cloak?"
"Tristan, please, I—"
He captured her hands between his own, urgency lacing his voice. "I hadn't forgotten you in all these years. I wondered what had happened to you when you took the coin and ran through the gate. There were so many things I wanted to do—to stop you and take you into the kitchen for some of Cook's sugar buns, to wrap you in one of Beth's warm cloaks. But you were already gone. I even sketched you, Alaina, sitting on the hearth, warm and safe with a plateful of pastries on your lap."
"On the other side of the window," she breathed.
"I'm asking you to enter the enchanted door, Alaina. To stay on my side of the window forever. I need your strength when my faith falters. Your wisdom when I'm uncertain. Your love, even when I fail. You gave me the gift of your belief in me when the paints tumbled from the Christmas tree. You made me dare to forgive myself, to let go of the bitterness that all but destroyed me."
He caught her chin tenderly with his fingers, forcing her to look into his eyes, to see the love shimmering there. "Every day, I watched my son look out that window with the same hopeless longing, the same soul-deep sadness that you must have shown when you peered in. Every day I tried to find the courage to go to him, comfort him. But I didn't believe I had the right. I felt so damned helpless. Then you tumbled into my arms, and everything changed." His voice broke, his eyes burned.
"You didn't come to answer Gabriel's prayers, Alaina. You came to answer mine. That I could start over again, without mistakes, without regrets. That I could paint and love my family, cherish my wife and make her understand that my love for her was the canvas that held all the colors of my dreams. That without her, there was nothing but darkness."
Tears pearled Alaina's lashes, trickling onto her cheek. "Tristan—oh, Tristan—"
He kissed away the salty dampness, hoping that he'd have a lifetime to ease her heartaches, share her joy. "I thought I was wishing the impossible, Alaina. To turn back time, the way you turned back the clocks to make it Christmas again. But I was wrong. For the first time in a long time, it was the future I was dreaming of. A future with you, Alaina. You aren't Gabriel's angel. You're mine. I lost you once, that long-ago Christmas. Please don't ask me to let you go again."
"But I— Oh, how can we ... We don't know what will happen. If we were so foolish as to marry—"
"I don't know what will happen if I dare to take up painting again, but I'm going to find out. I'm resigning from my position at Ramsey and Ramsey."
A smile widened that soft mouth that had kissed him, healed him. "Oh, Tristan!"
"I love you, Alaina. But you may be trading a new life in America for one as the wife of a struggling artist."
She gazed up at him, her eyes filled with dreams come true. "I've been poor before, Tristan. I'm not afraid. It's not the treasures inside the house that make a home. It's the treasures of the heart. If we have love, we'll have all the riches in the world."
He laughed, swooping her up into his arms, marveling at how chilled she was, vowing to himself that she would never be cold again. He carried her along the path to the front door and flung it open, "Gabriel?" He called his son, his voice resounding with shimmering joy. They reached the drawing room to see the child sit up, rubbing his tear-reddened eyes with his plump fists. "Gabriel, I've brought you your angel back." Tristan lowered Alaina until her slippers touched the ground.
The boy stared as if he expected her to disappear again in a puff of Stardust.
"This time I'm going to stay, Gabriel," she said softly. "Forever and ever."
"Forever?" Gabriel breathed. "But, Papa, how? How did you find her?"
Tristan scooped his son up into his arms, Alaina embracing them both beneath the glistening green of the kissing bough.
"I made a wish," Tristan said, his eyes burning as he turned them to the window, alight with shimmering stars. "Don't you know, Gabriel? Christmas wishes are magic. Now, we need to give Alaina her present." He crossed to the tree, brought her the white-wrapped object.
Alaina unwound the cloth ever so carefully, her heart brimful as the candlelight illuminated a canvas. It was the portrait of Gabriel, a baby angel, but no longer did the painting whisper of hope unfulfilled, dreams uncaptured. A slender feminine hand had been painted to curve around the angel's, tucking a star treasure into his painted fist.
"Oh, Tristan." Tears streaked her face. "You finished it!"
He looked into her face, happily-ever-after in his eyes. "I call it Alaina," he said.
KIMBERLY CATES, hailed as "a master craftsman" by Romantic Times, is the author of Crown of Mist, Restless Is the Wind, To Catch a Flame, Only Forever, Crown of Dreams, The Raider's Bride, The Raider's Daughter, Stealing Heaven, Gather the Stars, and Angel's Fall. A native of Illinois, Kimberly taught elementary school for three years and married her high school sweetheart. She is currently working on her next historical romance, to be published by Pocket Books.
Yuletide Treasure
by Andrea Kane
One
Dorsetshire, England, October, 1860
SHE WAS BACK.
The thunderous knocking at the front door, followed by the flurry of departing footsteps, could mean nothing else.
With a violent curse, Eric Bromleigh, the seventh Earl of Farrington, shot to his feet, exiting the sitting room and taking the hall in long, angry strides.
He didn't need to guess the identity of his arrival. He hadn't a doubt who it was. A visitor wa
s out of the question. No one dared visit Farrington Manor—not since he'd closed it off to the world five years ago.
Except those who came to deliver a universally unwanted package.
Eric kicked a chair from his path, oblivious to the splintering of the lattice-backed Sheraton as it smashed against the wall. Fire raged in his eyes as he bore down on the entranceway door—a menacing warrior set to confront an unshakable foe.
Flinging the door wide, he waved away the cloud of dust kicked up by a rapidly retreating carriage—the second carriage this month and the twenty-second in four years.
The dust settled, and automatically Eric lowered his blazing stare to meet that of the three-and-a-half foot hellion standing on the doorstep, who returned his stare through brazen sapphire eyes that held not the slightest hint of contrition or shame.
"Hello, Uncle. Fuzzy and I"—she gripped a somewhat tattered stuffed cat—"are back. Mrs. Lawley said to tell you I'm beyond … beyond"—she wrinkled her nose—"re-damn-sin."
With that, she shoved her traveling bag aside, shrugged out of her bonnet and coat, and cast them to the floor. An instant later she fired past Eric like a bullet.
"Redemption," Eric ground out, gazing bitterly at the discarded garments. "Beyond redemption. Dammit."
On the heels of his oath, a crash reverberated through the house.
Eric whipped about and stalked after the sound, confronting it in the green salon, where his niece stood beside the unlit fireplace, a shattered antique vase at her feet.
"Fuzzy wanted to sit atop that side table." She indicated the now-vacant surface. "Your vase was there. So I moved it. Fuzzy hates to share."
"Noelle." Eric's fists clenched at his sides. "What did you do to the Lawleys? Why did they bring you back?"
An indifferent shrug. "Their dog tried to bite Fuzzy. So I bit him."
"You bit their…"
"It was only his tail. Besides, he's fat and ugly. So is his tail."
"The Lawleys were the last decent family left in the parish," Eric roared, ignoring the wrenching pain in his gut spawned by Noelle's uptilted face—an exact replica of her mother's. "What the hell do I do with you now?"
"Don't say hell or else you'll end up there."
A vein throbbed in Eric's temple.
"Unless you came from hell to begin with, like Mrs. Lawley says. She calls you the Devil himself. Are you?"
Something inside Eric snapped. Abruptly, he reversed the vow he'd made the day he'd imprisoned himself inside Farrington, never to emerge.
"Come here, Noelle," he ordered.
"Why?" The keen gaze held no fear, only curiosity.
"Because I command you to. Fetch your coat."
Clearly intrigued, she arched her brows. "We can't be going anywhere. You never leave Farrington."
"I do today. With you. We're going into the village. It's time to resolve your living arrangements once and for all. Follow me." He strode to the door, pausing when he reached its threshold. "I suggest you obey. If I'm forced to repeat myself, I won't be nearly as pleasant as I'm being now."
Noelle folded her arms across her chest. "Even if you thrash me, I'm not going anywhere without Fuzzy."
"Fine," Eric thundered. "Collect your scraggly plaything. I'm bringing around my phaeton."
For an instant, Noelle's chin jutted up, and Eric thought she meant to defy him. Then, shutters descended over her eyes, and she shrugged, picked up her stuffed cat, and trailed silently past Eric into the hall.
He fought the rage that surged inside him like a dark, suffocating wave.
The torment had to end. And, even if making this trip meant rekindling the very fires of hell, he'd ensure that end it did.
Two
"DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU'RE ASKING ME?"
Rupert Curran gripped the side of the wooden pew on which he sat, raising his eyes to the church ceiling—whether to beseech God or warn him. Eric wasn't sure.
"I believe I made myself quite clear, Vicar," Eric responded. "You needn't quake nor beg for mercy from some alleged Higher Being. I haven't come to slay you or your parishioners. As I explained, I've come to seek a suitable governess for my niece—a service for which the right candidate will be handsomely compensated. Further, to show my gratitude, I shall donate the sum of five thousand pounds to your church, which"—Eric cast a quick glance about the deteriorating sanctuary walls—"is obviously needed."
"Perhaps some people can be bought, my lord." Curran came to his feet, indignation etched in his every aged feature. "I cannot. Material gain means nothing if the price is sacrificing a young woman's life."
One dark brow rose. "Sacrificing her life? And who is it you fear will destroy her, Noelle or me?"
"Such a question deserves no answer."
"Nevertheless, I'd like one. Having severed all ties with the rest of the World, I'm curious as to whose reputation is blacker, mine or my niece's?"
"Your niece is a child, my lord," the vicar responded distastefully. "I'm convinced that, had she been offered four years of proper love and guidance, she'd be a happy, well-adjusted little girl and this entire conversation would be unnecessary."
"Really? Then tell me this, Vicar: If Noelle requires no more than proper guidance in order to thrive, why has every virtuous family in your parish returned her within a period of … let's see—" Eric tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully. "The longest duration was just shy of six months. That was with the Willetts. I'm sure, if there truly is a heaven, those gentle souls have ensured themselves a shining place within its gates. On the other hand, there were the Fields, who endured Noelle for a mere day and a half, until she set fire to the kitchen—and the cook. Overall, I'd estimate my niece's average stay at one residence to be three months."
"There are reasons for a child to behave as Noelle does," Curran said quietly. "But a man like you would have no knowledge of those reasons, nor understand their cause. Therefore, I shan't attempt to explain."
"Fine. Then, if it isn't Noelle's reputation that strikes terror in the hearts of your parishioners and prevents you from fulfilling my request, I assume it is mine."
For a moment, the vicar stared silently at the altar. Then, he replied, "You haven't emerged from your estate in five years, Lord Farrington. And before that—well, I needn't tell you how shocked the parishioners were at Liza's death, nor how horrified they were by the part you played in driving her toward her untimely end. Most of your former servants still pale when they speak of those final weeks. It was a heinous tragedy, unparalleled in our small, quiet parish. To be blunt, the entire village is terrified of you. No one, regardless of how poverty-stricken they might be, would agree to relinquish their daughter into your hands."
Eric's features had hardened to stone at the mention of his sister's name. "I disagree, Vicar. For the right sum, people will do anything. Even negotiate with the Devil himself."
Curran shook his head. "You're wrong, my lord. Nevertheless, there's another, equally daunting, obstacle we have yet to discuss. Farrington is deserted, save, of course, you—and now Noelle. You dismissed your servants directly after Liza's death and have never replaced them, I presume?"
"Correct. And I have no intention of altering that arrangement."
"That decision is yours to make. However, I assume you expect Noelle's governess to reside at Farrington?"
"Governesses customarily reside at the home of their charges."
"Indeed they do. But this is not a customary situation. You are an unmarried man suggesting that a respectable woman share your home, unchaperoned and unaccompanied by anyone save a four-year-old child. Even if your past were untainted and your reputation flawless, no proper young woman would accept such unorthodox living arrangements."
A black scowl. "I hadn't considered that. I suppose I should have." Swiftly, Eric reassessed his options. "Fine. I shall amend my offer." Determination glittered in his eyes, laced his tone. "I'll double my donation to the church from five thousand pounds to ten, and,
rather than a governess, consider my offer to be for a wife."
"A wife?" Curran's head shot up, and he raked both hands through his silver hair. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." Eric rose. "I'm sure you know that I'm an exceedingly wealthy man. My circumstances have more than reversed themselves over the past five years. I've not only recouped my fortune, I've doubled it. As my wife, the woman in question will have access to all my funds. She needn't limit her spending, nor answer to me on her purchases, since I myself have no use for extravagances. She can send for whatever she wants: jewelry, clothing—a whole bloody wardrobe if she chooses—and whatever other insipid vanities women require. I don't give a damn what she buys—nor what she does, for that matter. So long as she does it within the bounds of my estate and solely during those scant hours when Noelle sleeps. It goes without saying that her conduct must be above reproach, given that she will be Noelle's only role model—and her only contact. The right candidate must understand that Noelle will be exclusively hers. Not only to oversee, but—to be blunt—to keep as far away from me as possible. And one thing more. Make certain the young lady you select is not the restless type. There will be no excursions to London, no balls or soirees, no outings in the country. In short, I remain at Farrington, and as my wife, so will she."
"To translate, she'll be your prisoner."
Eric's eyes flashed. "No, Vicar, she will not be my prisoner. She'll be Noelle's guardian. Which, whether you believe it or not, is a full-time job."
"What about the young lady's family ties?"
"They'll have to be severed. No one is permitted to visit Farrington."
"Why can't she visit them? With Noelle, of course. Certainly, you agree it would be good for the child to have a change of scene now and again."
"No!" Eric's fist slammed against the pew, the wood vibrating from the intensity of his blow. "I want no link with the world, no matter how indirect. Farrington—and all its occupants—remain where they are. As for diversion, Noelle will have hundreds of acres to destroy. That should be enough, even for her."