The connection—the right sort of sensibility, the awareness and consciousness of the other, the inescapable reality of being attuned to the other—was there between them; he knew that.
And having been married before, she must have recognized that, too.
Stepping outside, he descended the single step onto the roughly graveled path. As promised, the manor’s staff had left a sled for them to ferry the boughs back to the house. It hadn’t been there when he and Claire had stood on the stoop earlier, yet now it sat ready and waiting, a sturdy and strong workman’s sled with a canvas sling strung between the handles.
The girls poured through the door and joined him on the path. While they exclaimed at the day, at the snow and the crunchy hoar frost, and at how their breaths fogged in the air, Daniel took stock of the implements nestling in the canvas sling. A collection of handsaws, light enough for the girls to use, plus three pairs of strong shears and a lightweight hatchet, presumably for trimming the ends of larger branches.
He looked up as Claire arrived on the path alongside him. She subjected the sled to a serious, evaluating survey, then raised her gaze to his face. “Will you be able to manage that on your own?”
He arched his brows in faint hauteur. Positioning himself behind the handles, he gripped them, kicked off the brake and pushed; the sled ran easily on its runners, even over the path. Slowing it, he gave Claire an openly cocky look. “Lead on, Macduff, and I’ll follow.”
Her lips twitched; she tried to straighten them, but failed. She inclined her head, attempting to hide her grin. “Very well.” Looking ahead, she called, “Girls!” She waved them from the snow-covered mounds of the raised beds in the herb garden. “Off to the wood. We only have an hour, two at the most, and we need to get enough greenery to decorate the whole hall.”
The girls ran ahead, Annabelle in the lead with Juliet beside her, and Louisa and Therese close behind.
Pushing the sled in their wake, keeping to a steady pace with Claire walking just ahead of the sled’s front board, Daniel realized his pride had led him to make a tactical error. The pushing bar between the handles of the sled was wide enough to accommodate two people pushing together; he should have claimed he needed her help.
His gaze on her back, on her sweetly turned hips encased in the rich red wool of her pelisse, he murmured to himself, “There’s always the return journey.”
Making a mental note not to miss that opportunity, he settled to pushing the sled along and making the most of the moment.
Ahead on the path, Louisa paused at the curve just before the first stand of tall firs enfolded their way in cooler shadow. She took only a second to look back and consider all she could see, then she quickened her pace, catching up with Annabelle, Juliet, and Therese.
When they glanced at her, Louisa said, “Mistletoe. We need some.” She looked at Annabelle. “Does it grow in this wood? Do you know where?” Without waiting for an answer, Louisa raised her gaze and started scanning the trees.
Annabelle turned, doing the same. Therese was quick to join in.
“It does grow here, yes,” Annabelle said. “There should be quite a few clumps, but we’ll need to find some we can reach.”
“Or that we can climb to,” Therese said.
“I thought we were only supposed to get holly and fir,” Juliet said, although she, too, was looking for the telltale clumps of draping greenery; her tone made it clear the comment was an observation—a request for clarification, if anything, rather than a disagreement.
“That’s what they said, but…well, what’s the point in hanging evergreens at Christmas if you don’t have mistletoe as well? Mind you,” Louisa continued as, with a gentle push, she started Annabelle and Juliet walking again, “I suspect Mrs. Meadows will try to discourage us from bringing it in, so I suggest we don’t mention it and hide it amongst the fir and holly.”
Falling into step alongside Louisa, Therese cast her a sidelong look. “Is the mistletoe just for general fun or”—Therese glanced back along the path to where Claire walked just ahead of Daniel and the sled—“do you have someone—two someones—specifically in mind?”
Louisa met Therese’s eyes and grinned. “I think Mr. Crosbie is sweet on Mrs. Meadows, and that she would be sweet on him if she gave herself the chance—and I like Mr. Crosbie, so I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t just…” She gestured.
“Nudge things along?” Therese chuckled. “You sound just like your grandmama.”
“There!” Annabelle kept her voice down and surreptitiously pointed to their left, to where a huge clump of mistletoe was growing in a cleft only a yard off the ground. “There’s a clearing just ahead that will be perfect for leaving the sled. Then while we’re gathering fir and holly, we can circle around and pick some of that, too.”
“There’s more on the right and some up ahead.” Juliet had very sharp eyes.
“Plenty.” Louisa glanced at the others; the girls met each other’s eyes. “We’ve never played Cupid before.” Louisa grinned. “Think of it as a challenge. Let’s see how we do.”
* * *
Helena, Algaria, and McArdle were still in their chairs, dozing contentedly in the warmth, when the six oldest children straggled into the Great Hall and sat at the section of table they’d claimed as theirs—just below the dais and the high table at which their parents sat.
Said parents had already come and gone, breakfasting on ham, sausages, eggs, bacon, and crisply toasted crumpets, leaving behind the tantalizing aromas of coffee and the cinnamon rolls all the ladies preferred. They’d shared their plans for the day with Helena, Algaria, and McArdle; subsequently, the men had headed out to inspect the herd of shaggy-coated Highland cattle, before continuing into Casphairn to lunch at the local inn. The ladies, meanwhile, had retired to Catriona’s solar, to sit, embroider, and talk of their children.
The children most exercising their parents’ thoughts were the six who belatedly sat down to break their fast. Helena, feigning sleep, watched them from beneath her lashes. She saw them all often, yet because she did not meet them day by day, she suspected that she saw the changes in them more clearly than most.
And perhaps the distance of the generations also had something to do with her perspective. They weren’t her responsibility in the same way they were their parents’; she felt both detached from them and, curiously, more connected at the same time.
They were a joy and a blessing, one she was too old not to appreciate fully and hold very close to her heart.
She doubted she would be there to see them married—perhaps if she was lucky and lived to be as old as her dear friend Therese Osbaldestone. That was in the lap of the gods; for now, she was content to watch them forge on through what would arguably be the most decisive period of their lives. She wondered if they—these six in particular, given they stood on the very cusp of adulthood—truly comprehended that the decisions each made in the coming days, weeks, and months would shape their future.
Would irreversibly mold it, shutting some doors forever, opening others.
Which doors they chose and how they walked through them would define and determine the rest of their lives.
She knew—better than most—that the decision of a moment could change a life. That pivotal instants occurred, where going this way or that would irrevocably alter one’s destiny.
That certain knowledge, that understanding born of experience, was not something readily transmitted or absorbed. She could only hope for this new generation that they, too, found the breadth of happiness, the depth of love, that she and their parents had.
Listening to their voices—the rumbling tones of Sebastian, Michael, Christopher, and Marcus already reaching the deepness of the adult males they almost were, spiced with the lighter notes of Lucilla’s and Prudence’s voices, already strong and clear—Helena let her lids fall. She felt her lips curve as she listened to them plan.
Sleep beckoned; she followed and left them to grow.
Sweet dreams. Seated on the bench, her elbows on the table and her hands wrapped around a mug of strong tea, Lucilla doubted that Prudence’s words of the previous night had been intended to evoke the strange phantasms that had haunted her sleep. Yet as she sat sipping tea, ostensibly watching her brother and male cousins consume positive mountains of eggs, sausages, and the last of the kedgeree, she couldn’t seem to bring any of the odd images into proper focus.
Normally, her visions were distinct and identifiable—foretellings of something that would happen, or a prediction of something that might or might not. In this case, however, the visions were hazy, at least visually; what she could sense more strongly were the associated emotions, but even those were…confused.
Yet nothing she’d seen had evoked fear, not of any sort. The best she could make of it was that somewhere in her life ahead lurked some possibility where she would have to make some decision—and that decision would lead her either down one road or down some other entirely. And the choice would be mutually exclusive—the chance to take whichever road she eschewed would not come again.
Quelling a shiver—not of fear but of trepidation of the unknown—she forced herself back to the here and now. To the debate raging between Marcus, Sebastian, and Prudence over which part of the manor’s lands they should assess first.
Lucilla knew.
Setting down her empty mug, she waited for a break in the discussion, then calmly stated, “We ride to the southwest, into and through the forests and up onto the open levels of the range. From there, we follow the range north—you’ll be able to look down into the forested valleys, and with the snow, if you bring the spyglass, you’ll be able to see the tracks if a herd has sought refuge in any spot. We can continue north until we reach the cross-range, then we follow that east and so back here.”
That hadn’t been a route any of the others had proposed.
Across the table, Marcus met her eyes, searched them.
Lucilla held his gaze and allowed him to see, recognize, and appreciate her knowing.
He blinked once, then nodded. “That’s a good plan.” He looked at Sebastian, seated alongside him. “That’s what we’ll do.”
Sebastian looked at Marcus, then looked at Lucilla, then threw up his hands in surrender. “All right.”
Lucilla turned her head and looked at Prudence.
Prudence shrugged. “Whatever you say, cuz.”
Michael and Christopher laughed and started getting to their feet. “Thank you, Lucilla,” Michael said. “These three would have taken until lunchtime to decide.”
“So can we go already?” Christopher asked.
A clatter of boots approaching the hall had them all looking toward one of the archways. Aidan and Evan appeared, with Justin, Gregory, and Nicholas crowding behind.
“Are you lot ready yet?” Aidan asked in long-suffering tones.
Sebastian glanced at the others about the table, then rose. He was the tallest of the boys, nearly as tall as his father. Stepping over the bench, he nodded at Aidan and the other four. “We’ll meet you at the stable.”
“Excellent!” Evan said. The five strode off in another roll of thunder.
After rising from the bench, Lucilla and Prudence followed Marcus, Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher out of the hall. Under the archway, awareness tugging, Lucilla glanced back at the three elders enthroned in their armchairs on the dais, but all appeared to be asleep.
With Prudence, she headed for her turret. They were already wearing their riding clothes, gathered skirts falling to their lower calves with trousers tucked into boots beneath, the outfits in their signature colors of forest green for her and cornflower blue for Prudence.
“Scarf, gloves, quirt.” Prudence cocked her head. “Will I need a hat, do you think?”
“I would certainly advise it,” Lucilla said, taking the lead up the stairs. Unerringly, she glanced to the northwest. “Even among the trees, it’ll be cold up on the range.”
* * *
Regardless of all intentions, it was a full hour later before they were finally mounted and ready to ride. Lucilla had been partly to blame for the delay, but when she’d suggested that perhaps taking food to fill their stomachs at midday might be wise, all nine males had immediately agreed.
Of course, they’d left it to her to petition the kitchens, but when she and Prudence had emerged bearing two large hampers, the boys had been quick to help; they’d gathered around and, with a reasonable degree of civility, had divided the food into their various saddlebags.
Five minutes later, well accoutered and well provisioned, they trotted out into the snow-covered fields. The light covering was still crisp and crunched beneath their mounts’ hooves. Horsey breaths fogging around them, they formed up in a loose group with Sebastian and Marcus in the lead. Lucilla and Prudence rode side by side on Marcus’s left. All of them were excellent riders, while Prudence, Nicholas, Aidan, and Sebastian could lay claim to the title of exceptional.
Before them, the land stretched under a blanket of white scattered with sparkling motes courtesy of the weak sunshine. This far north, even though the day was fine, there was little warmth in the sun. Luckily, the breeze was a bare whisper, adding negligible sting to the knife-like chill in the air.
Further ahead, past the limit of the fields—indeed, of civilization—the Galloway Hills rose in heavily forested waves to the bald range known as the Rhinns of Kells.
Setting a southwesterly course as Lucilla had directed, in wordless concert the riders leaned forward and thundered toward the dark smudge of the forests and the open range beyond.
CHAPTER 3
It had taken a little while to maneuver the sled into the clearing Annabelle had declared was the perfect spot from which to gather the holly and fir they’d come to collect. After wedging two rocks beneath the back of the sled to hold it in place, Daniel straightened. Brushing off his hands, he raised his gaze and found five pairs of eyes fixed on him.
Four pairs immediately lowered to the sling carrying the tools; expectation lit the girls’ faces.
Grinning, Daniel reached for the canvas flap and threw it back. “We have shears or handsaws, ladies. Which will you have?”
Somewhat to his surprise, the girls exchanged a long glance, then Louisa opted for a pair of shears, as did Therese, while Juliet and Annabelle elected to try the handsaws.
Daniel had no idea what they were up to, but that look… He’d dealt with Cynster boys long enough to know what that meant; they were planning something.
Whatever it was, it included collecting the fir and holly boughs they were there to fetch. The four girls set off, tramping into the surrounding forest, pointing to various boughs and comparing their potential usefulness in draping the archways, mantels, and the hall walls.
Daniel turned to Claire. “What implement would you prefer?”
She considered, then said, “I suppose I’d better take a saw, too. I can see myself having to finish off cuts they start.”
Daniel smiled. “No doubt.” He searched through the various tools in the bag. As she approached, he drew out a handsaw with a sturdy grip. “This is a good one.” He held it out.
Claire reached for the saw. Because of the style of grip, it was impossible to take the tool without their fingers touching. Brushing.
Sensation slithered down her spine, delicious, enticing.
She clamped down on the reaction, determined not to let it show…if she could have, she would have stopped reacting altogether, but she didn’t know how. She didn’t even know why she was so sensitive when it came to Daniel Crosbie.
“Thank you.” Lips tightening, she took the saw and turned away.
She pretended to look into the trees, pretended to follow the girls with her eyes; in reality, her every sense had locked on the man standing silent and still beside her.
He was looking at her, studying her face; she could feel his gaze but she was not—absolutely was not—going to meet it.
Danie
l saw her resistance quite clearly, carried in her stance, in the rigidity of her spine, in the stoniness of her expression, in the way she stood with her shoulder toward him—supposedly looking into the forest, but that was a sham.
Resistance, yes—but was it truly rejection?
He forced himself to consider that unwelcome possibility…but no. Drawing in a breath, one tighter than he liked, he decided that this wasn’t rejection. If she rejected him, he would know it; she wasn’t one to mince words or be coy. So she hadn’t rejected him, not yet. As for resistance…resistance could be overcome.
For one instant longer, he gazed at her face, let his eyes linger on her profile. The way he saw it, he owed it to her as well as himself to make a push to overcome whatever hurdle she plainly saw standing between them.
If they were to have the future he wanted them to have, he would need to make a push to secure it.
He shifted his attention back to the canvas sling; he reached in and drew out the hatchet. Hefting it, he turned.
The movement drew Claire’s gaze.
Meeting it, he smiled. “We’d better get after them.” Raising the hatchet, he added, “According to Raven, I should trim the branches before we haul them back to the house.”
They worked in a loose group for the next hour, selecting branches and boughs of fir, cutting them down and trimming them, and selecting and cutting bushy sprigs of holly laden with red berries for contrast. Daniel found a fallen tree a little upslope from the sled to serve as a makeshift bench on which to trim the branches. The girls and Claire spread out into the forest around the spot, ferrying the branches they cut down back to him and the hatchet. The time passed swiftly. Daniel was occasionally called to help with this bough or that, while Claire was summoned hither and yon to deal with holly sprigs just out of the girls’ reach, or to examine scratches and pulled threads.
It took Daniel a little time before he realized what the girls’ plan was; he’d been right in thinking they had one, but they were really very good at hiding their purpose. He’d thought it strange when Louisa and Therese had brightly offered to cart the first pile of trimmed fir boughs back to the sled. He’d watched them go, their arms piled with greenery, and had wondered… He’d returned to his task but had glanced over at the sled in time to see a swift whispered exchange, which had ended with both girls stuffing something else green and leafy in among the fir they’d stacked.