Daniel summoned a smile and directed it over all the boys’ eager faces. “Of course—we’ll all want to see the carvings before they go up in flames.”
The boys smiled delightedly and went back to organizing the order of their Yule log procession.
Turning back to Claire, Daniel shifted, then murmured, “Perhaps it might be better to postpone this discussion until later.” He met her eyes as they rose to his. “By which I mean later in the day, perhaps after dinner, when our respective distractions have gone to bed.”
If there was something about her previous marriage that was going to stand in his way, he would, he felt sure, require a certain degree of privacy to persuade her to tell him—he couldn’t overcome a hurdle if he didn’t know what it was—and, quite obviously, here and now was not the time.
Claire held his gaze for an instant, then looked across the table, unseeing. She was conscious of rising frustration; she’d made the effort and spoken—and all the exercise had proved was that she didn’t yet know her own mind well enough to explain. When she’d walked into the hall, she hadn’t wanted to talk to Daniel—not about what lay between them—but now she’d screwed up her courage and broached the subject, she wanted to press on…not least because, despite her rambling, hearing herself stumble through her own assumptions and feelings—and into the clash between said feelings and the lessons of her past—had helped.
Perhaps if he and she talked further, it would help still more, until she saw her way forward clearly.
“Yes.” Lips thinning, she glanced at Daniel, met his eyes. “You’re right. This evening. Somewhere where we can speak with some degree of privacy.”
He nodded, his gaze serious and direct. “Yes. Exactly.”
On the words, the boys called to him, and Annabelle spoke to Claire, and their duties reclaimed them.
Yet even as, over the dessert of sticky date pudding, Claire listened to Raven announce the finalized details of the Yule log ceremony to be played out immediately after the company rose from lunch, she was very aware that, while one half of her wanted to push forward and see if some golden future with Daniel could ever be, her older, wiser, more experienced and cynical half remained immovably convinced that such a shining future was nothing more than fool’s gold.
* * *
Everyone at the manor—from the blacksmith’s little daughter, her tiny hand engulfed in her father’s giant fist, to the dowager, leaning heavily on her cane and supported by both her sons—participated in the ritual of bringing in the Yule logs.
The day remained fine, but the wind had picked up, and dark clouds were massing to the north and west. Yet the sun still shone weakly and the air was crisp and clear as the assembled company formed up on either side of the path leading from the rear yard around the side of the house to the front door.
Raven, Morris, the carpenter and his men, plus all the stable hands were assisting the boys to pile their logs onto various sleds. There were logs enough for each boy, apprentice, and stable lad to haul; they needed multiple logs per fireplace to last through the days to Hogmanay and into the new year.
Relieved of further duty on that score, Daniel walked back up the path to where Claire and Melinda stood with their charges spread out to either side. After circling to stand between the governesses, Daniel clapped his hands and stamped his feet; the temperature was falling. “After all this activity, the boys will sleep well tonight.”
“For which,” Melinda said, slipping her gloved hands into her coat sleeves, “we should all, no doubt, give thanks.”
Daniel saw a slow smile curve Claire’s lips, then she glanced at him. “One might be forgiven for wondering if, while the Yule log tradition might be widely observed, the precise details as practiced here might have been designed to achieve just that. Having all the excitable boys exhausted and ready to fall into their beds and sleep tonight is a boon any parent would give thanks for.” She tipped her head to the many couples, girls, and younger children lining the path. “There are many families here, after all.”
“Hmm,” Melinda said. “I hadn’t thought of that. And it wouldn’t surprise me one little bit if you were right. I must ask Algaria—she would know.”
A cacophony of cheers and calls from farther down the path announced that the first boy pulling his logs had left the rear yard.
Claire looked down the avenue formed by the onlookers. Beside her, Juliet and the other girls leaned forward and peered, too, then Juliet crowed and clapped. “It’s Henry!”
Confirming that Henry, Juliet’s brother, was leading the procession alongside one of the brawnier stable lads, both boys hauling a sled loaded with logs, Claire glanced at Daniel. “Was it drawn straws or…?”
Daniel grinned. “Somewhat to our surprise, the boys reached agreement entirely on their own. It’s oldest first, which is Henry, then youngest, then second oldest followed by second youngest—each of them paired with one of the manor families’ boys—then our middle two, Toby and Martin, together, and the last of the six sleds will be hauled in by the two carpenter’s apprentices.”
“Six sleds—one for each of the fireplaces?” Claire asked.
Daniel nodded. “It was that or a much longer procession.” He tipped his head toward the darkening horizon. “Raven and the manor folk say there’s a major storm coming, so while we have to have the procession, it needs to be kept short.”
Looking down the path, Claire saw several small children dart out from the lines to look more closely at the logs, then turn and, pointing and chattering, race back to their parents.
“According to local custom,” Daniel said, “whoever carves the best depiction of Cailleach is assured good luck in the coming year.”
Claire smiled and glanced at him. “Boys can always do with more good luck.”
Daniel grinned back. The differences between their charges was a frequent topic of conversation—and good-humored contention—between the governesses and tutors.
Claire faced forward. Seconds later, Henry drew level with their position. He grinned at Juliet. She, Louisa, Therese, and Annabelle all stepped out to join the younger children in examining the faces carved into the upper surfaces of each of the ten logs loaded on the sled.
The four girls looked, then laughed and nodded to Henry and the stable lad. As the girls stepped back, Claire, Melinda, and Daniel stepped forward to look, too.
Claire saw that the two boys had carved five logs each, with the same design of face repeated on all five. Her lips twitched when she saw the likeness Henry had created. “The archetypal witch-hag-crone.” The stable lad’s design was similar, but with a different aspect.
With a smile for both boys, Claire stepped back in line. As Daniel joined her and the two boys hauled the sled on, she murmured, “I can see there’s going to be stiff competition for that dose of assured good luck.”
The other boys came toiling along with their respective sleds; Carter, Richard and Catriona’s youngest child, a cheeky character who was a favorite with the manor staff, was on the second sled and created quite a stir.
“As is his way,” Melinda dryly said.
When, invited by a flourishing bow to examine Carter’s carvings, Claire laughed and joined the girls in doing so, she discovered that, in addition to his theatrical flair, Carter had the soul of an artist. He’d envisioned Cailleach as a beautiful Norse-like wind goddess, with streams of hair swirling about a hauntingly beautiful face rendered with remarkable precision.
Claire arched her brows in surprise and added her sincere compliments to the girls’ rather more effusive declarations.
Rejoining the line, after Daniel, too, had looked and stepped back, she murmured, “It’s going to be hard to beat that.”
“Indeed.” Daniel glanced at Melinda. “Has anything been said of getting Carter art lessons?”
Melinda nodded. “They’re going to send him to Mrs. Patience’s brother—the one who’s the famous portrait artist—over this coming summer. He’ll still
have to go on to Eton, of course, but if the arrangement suits, he might be spending his holidays—or at least some of them—in London, learning more about art.” She paused, then went on, “Mind you, I’m not sure how well Carter will take to that arrangement.”
Daniel frowned. “I’ve met the Debbingtons—they’re a nice family. We occasionally see them when they travel down to their house in Cornwall. It’s a fabulous place, too, with incredible gardens and views over the Channel. I would think Carter would enjoy it immensely.”
Melinda shrugged. “Perhaps. But if you get a chance, ask to see his portfolio.” When Daniel arched a brow, clearly asking why, Melinda said, “It’s full of landscapes of hills and mountains and”—she waved her arm in an all-encompassing sweep—“the wide skies hereabouts. I suspect he’ll miss this—and for someone who has spent most of his life here, it’s the sort of place that leaves a mark on your soul.”
Daniel inclined his head. “I imagine that’s true.”
They all turned to view the next sled in the procession. Henry’s sled had reached the front porch and was being unloaded by several footmen and older men under Polby’s direction.
The cheers and calls of encouragement were getting louder as all six sleds were now somewhere along the path. The carpenter, his crew, and the other men who had been helping in the rear yard were following the last sled, collecting those watching on the sidelines as they came, the extended household swelling into a crowd, all laughing and talking. The noise welled in a pleasant cacophony and washed over the scene.
Just then, Calvin, pulling the fourth sled, drew level with their position; he grinned at the girls and paused while they duly examined his handiwork and that of the stable lad grinning alongside him. Then both boys leaned into the ropes they had drawn over their shoulders—
Calvin’s boot slipped on a patch of re-freezing ice. The stable boy slipped, too, and started to topple.
Claire blinked, and Daniel—who had been standing alongside her—was at Calvin’s side. He caught Calvin’s elbow and held him upright, and all but simultaneously reached across and anchored the rope the stable lad was clinging to—and hauled the stable lad back to his feet, too.
Both boys were embarrassed and also a little shaken. They stammered their thanks.
“Just ice,” Daniel said. “No harm done.”
Melinda waved to one of the older men standing on the other side of the path, closer to the house. “We need some extra gravel here—there’s ice on the path.”
The man nodded, stepped back, and hefted a bucket left ready, then ambled over. “Get along now, boys, and let me tend to this patch.”
Daniel released both boys and put a hand on the top logs on the loaded sled. “Go on—we’ll give you a push to get you started.”
Several men joined in and helped ease the sled back into motion; with gradually returning confidence—gradually returning smiles as people on both sides called encouragement—the boys continued up the path.
When Daniel came back to stand by Claire’s side, she was tempted to compliment him—only, between governesses and tutors, it wasn’t customary to compliment each other on doing their jobs. Yet he’d been amazingly quick, and he’d rescued both boys without making them feel foolish or childish—and boys of that age were prone to being sensitive.
Indeed, she doubted either Raven or Morris, kind and caring souls though they were, would have acted so swiftly, or so tactfully.
The festive atmosphere increased as the fifth sled went by, and then the last sled, hauled steadily along by the carpenter’s apprentices, both grinning fit to burst, was before them.
The four girls and the other children swarmed the sled; Claire, Daniel, and Melinda also looked and smiled appreciatively at the two very strong portraits of Cailleach-as-the-crone carved into the logs.
As the boys leaned into the ropes and the sled moved on, Claire joined the following crowd. Smiling, swept up in the welling gaiety, she fell in along the edge of the small army, keeping pace with the four girls over whom she was still keeping a watchful eye.
Melinda was walking just ahead, like a mother hen ushering the three youngest Cynster girls ahead of her.
Every sense Claire possessed was ridiculously aware that Daniel had elected to pace alongside her, on her other side.
Deeper in the crowd, Louisa stumbled, knocking Juliet into Claire.
Instinctively Claire caught Juliet and prevented her from falling, but in righting her charge, Claire lost her own balance. She stifled a cry as her boot soles slid on the icy ground.
Daniel caught her. Easily held her.
She’d fallen back against him, her senses jarred by the sudden contact. Against the back of her shoulders, he felt like an oak, solid and immovable.
The crowd parted about them, streaming toward the front porch; the girls looked back at them and giggled, then were swept on.
Despite the crowd, for an instant it was as if they stood alone on some island, just the two of them.
A man strong enough to catch you and hold you up when you stumble.
Still supported by Daniel, Claire looked up—into his face. Into his hazel eyes. Some part of her mind noted—again, avidly—his clean-cut features, the chiseled planes, the perfectly squared jaw below lips created by some celestial artist.
But it was his eyes that held her, that trapped her gaze and her awareness in warmth and something more.
She fell in—into the hazel, into the mind and personality behind—and saw.
Clearly.
He employed no shields, no screens, no guile.
What she saw was the truth—his truth.
And seeing that clearly—being afforded that precious insight—the reckless soul that yearned deep within her broke free and stated unequivocally: I want you.
* * *
The afternoon was waning, and the air beneath the trees in the forests had turned cold. Bone-chillingly cold. A portent Lucilla and Marcus had read with ease.
They’d promptly insisted that a storm was closing in and that the riding party had to head back to the manor immediately.
To give the others their due, after taking a long look at her and her twin’s expressions, Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher had agreed without argument, even though they’d yet to sight any deer.
That had been fifteen minutes ago. They’d turned on the bridle path they’d been following northward—they’d been riding to the west of Carrick lands by then—and backtracked to the junction with the path running eastward through the forest that lay along the manor’s northern boundary; that path was their fastest, most direct route back to the manor.
Lucilla kept her mount close behind Prudence’s; her cousin was riding behind Michael and Sebastian, while Marcus brought up the rear, riding behind Lucilla. Falling as he always did into the role of leader, Sebastian had set Christopher, arguably their best rider in terms of picking out the safest route, in the lead, with the younger boys strung out behind him and ahead of Michael.
The storm was going to be a tempestuous one; even without being able to see the sky, Lucilla knew that—and she was certain Marcus did, too. She might be the Lady’s future representative in these lands and therefore afforded greater insight, but Marcus was Lady-touched, too; he, like Lucilla, was attuned to the forces that ruled this land.
They were perhaps a third of the way home, following the bridle path that ran more or less along the northern ridgeline, when a thrashing in the bushes downslope on the side away from the manor lands brought Lucilla’s head up—and had Sebastian swerving his heavy hunter to a stamping halt, facing the unknown threat.
Both Lucilla and Marcus likewise veered to come around, flanking Sebastian.
Prudence, having sunk into being one with her mount as she usually did when riding, yelped, swore, and diverted around Sebastian, then expertly wheeled to come back and take station beside Lucilla, with Michael—who had called a warning to the others before swinging his mount around—at her heels.
The five cousins reined their skittish horses in. They were sitting their stamping, shifting mounts, eyes trained on the source of the noise, when a man in rough homespun came crashing through the bushes beneath the trees.
The man looked up and saw them. He halted, his wide eyes skating over their line, but then his gaze landed on Lucilla and his fraught expression dissolved into one of abject relief. “Oh, thank God, and the Lady, too.”
Whether from relief or exertion, the man—a crofter, by his clothing—swayed. Abruptly he crouched, head down, breathing hard.
For an instant, no one moved, then Lucilla nudged her horse forward.
Sebastian’s hand rose as if to hold her back, but then he let his hand fall and instead set his horse to pace beside hers.
Without looking, Lucilla knew Marcus was following at her back.
Reining in when she was closer, but not too close to the affected man—his chest was working like a bellows—she gave him a moment more, then said, “You were seeking me.” No question about that. “Why?”
The man was exhausted, but he got to his feet even though he weaved. He raised his head, met Lucilla’s gaze and gasped, “Lady—I—my Lottie—we need your help.”
Now they were closer, Lucilla could see how deathly pale the man was, could see in his eyes the fear and near-blind panic that still gripped him.
“What ails your wife?” She kept her tone even, letting compassion flow beneath it.
The man’s gaze turned pleading; he looked at her with his heart in his eyes. “She’s not ill, Lady—she’s having a baby.”
Lucilla blinked. Scanning the man again, estimating his age as in the early twenties, she asked, “Is it her first?”
The man nodded. “Aye—and she’s having a time of it.” He wiped a shaking hand across his lips. “She says the babe’s coming early. We’d planned to go to the laird’s after Hogmanay—it would have been all right with the midwife there. But now…”