A Kiss for Christmas Read online

  "Bless my soul," he breathed, his blue eyes brightening. "Do I smell…?"

  She nodded, hardly able to contain her delight. "Baked apples." She took the eggs and cracked a few into the bowl she'd prepared. "With omelette and ham."

  "Breakfast for a king!" He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, coming to the table with a look of eager anticipation on his face. "Who's arrived? Do I need to carry up luggage?"

  "No." She poured the beaten eggs into the pan, sprinkled the herbs on top, and took the coffee pot off its hook. "This is just for my husband."

  "That lucky bloke!" He grinned as he straddled the bench and warmed his hands at the fire. "He'll eat me out of house and home."

  She laughed. "It's our first Christmas as man and wife. I wanted it to be special."

  His face softened, and he caught her around the waist as she passed with a plate of warmed ham. "I hope it is, Sarah. I know 'tis not easy being an innkeeper's wife. You were a brave soul to accept me. If we can turn a bit of profit this year, I'll hire another girl to help with the cleaning—"

  She put her finger on his lips. "I'm not sorry I married you," she said softly. "Now let me serve you a Christmas breakfast befitting the keeper of the finest inn in Yorkshire."

  "I intend to enjoy it more than the King himself could."

  And he did. They ate ham, salty and juicy with a spoonful of saved gravy. The omelette was tender and fragrant with summer herbs from the walled garden behind the kitchen. But it was the baked apples that made Adam's eyes droop closed in happiness.

  "If I hadn't already married you," he said as he polished off the last bite, "I would fall to my knees right now and beg for your hand, after such a feast."

  She was ridiculously pleased. Too often they ate separately, Adam in the public room out front, seeing to guests, and she in the kitchen, a few bites at a time between tending a roast or kneading bread or baking a pie.

  "The snow is fairly deep. I doubt we'll have any travelers today." He wiped one finger around the edge of his plate and licked it, a blissful expression on his face.

  "No?"

  He shook his head. "It's up to my knees and still drifting down. I daresay we'll be quiet for a day or more."

  "Oh." She sat for a moment in growing jubilation. A day free! They never had days free—and it was almost Christmas, too.

  "I hope it clears soon." Adam went to the window and peered out. "We can't go many days without guests."

  Oh yes. That tempered her delight. Adam had inherited The Queen's Head from his uncle, but he'd taken out a mortgage to make repairs and modernizations. They couldn't afford idle days.

  Still, if one was forced upon them… She rose from the table. "Let's not worry about it now. I'll tidy the kitchen, you do the main room, and then we'll…" She waved one hand.

  "Do what?" he prompted.

  Sarah grinned. "Have a spot of fun!"

  A slow smile curved his mouth. "You'll have to show me how."

  So she did. Sarah rushed through the kitchen chores, then wrapped herself in her winter cloak and mittens. She went out into the kitchen yard, strangely quiet in the drifting snow, devoid of the chickens who usually strutted about. There was no rumble from the road. Everything was blanketed in white, and it seemed she and Adam must be the only people in this corner of the world.

  By the time her husband came out, muffled in his own coat and hat, she was ready. As he squinted into the snow, she crouched behind the rail fence and lobbed the first snowball.

  It landed on his left shoulder. He let out a startled shout.

  She threw another one, trying to stifle her laughter. This one caught him on the crown of his hat as he swung around looking for her.

  "An ambush!" He fell to his knees and began packing his own snowball.

  "It's not a battle!" she called back, ducking behind the fence again.

  "Then stand and face fire!" A snowball burst against the rail in front of her. Blindly Sarah tossed another of her own, gasping with laughter as the cold air stung her cheeks. She hadn't played like this since she was a girl, free of cares about how much beef to buy, whether they could afford a second maid to help clean, if they could make a success of The Queen's Head when it was so close to The Dog and Thistle. Snow showered down on her, and she shrieked as it slid under the collar of her cloak.

  "A lady who doesn't guard her flank will be taken prisoner!" Adam leapt over the fence and snatched her into his arms as she shrieked again. "What say you now, madam?"

  Sarah put one snowy mitten on his cheek. Adam was a handsome fellow, tall and broad-shouldered with fair hair and eyes of summer sky blue. She could hardly believe that he'd married her, even though he'd made no secret of the fact that her cooking skills were part of her charm. An innkeeper needed a wife who could work. She knew he held her in affection, and he treated her well, but in the six months since they'd married, she'd fallen helplessly in love with him.

  "I say Happy Christmas, husband," she whispered, and then impulsively she kissed him.

  It was far from their first kiss, but it might have been the first one not given in the dark privacy of their marriage bed. Even during the year of his courtship they hadn't been this silly together.

  He stared at her a moment, obviously startled. Then his eyes darkened and he kissed her back, neither lightly nor quickly. Slowly her arms went around his neck as she fell into the joy of being held and kissed by the man she loved.

  "Sarah," he whispered when he raised his head. "I knew it was a hard life I asked you to take on when you accepted me. But I want you to know… I'm very glad you did. You're the finest wife I could imagine, and I—"

  "I love you," she blurted out, then blushed as he jerked in surprise. "I love you, Adam Milbank, and I'm glad to be your wife."

  He started to grin, and then he threw back his head and laughed. "Then this is a very happy Christmas, indeed! I'm trying to tell you I love you, too."

  She gaped. "You do? Truly?"

  He kissed her. "Even more than baked apples."

  And then it was Sarah's turn to laugh, even though tears were stinging her eyes and snowflakes were collecting on her nose. "Then it's a good thing there's no one requesting a room today, isn't it?"

  He scooped her into his arms. "Indeed it is. We ought to take advantage of it." And he carried her though the snow, into the snug little inn, and closed the door behind them.

  3

  Adeste fideles

  Marianne stopped beside the front door, tugging on her gloves. "Please look out, Farley."

  Her butler paused. "Again, madam?" There was a thread of weary reluctance in his voice.

  "Yes," she replied firmly. Always. Any time there was a chance he would be out there, terrorizing the square with his giant monster of a dog. At her feet, her own dog, sweet little Daisy, sat waiting patiently, her dark eyes trained on the door. Daisy loved walking in the square. Even though it was cold and windy out, even though it was Christmas Eve, Daisy deserved her walk.

  Farley opened the door. Daisy leapt to her feet, but stayed where she was at Marianne's murmured command. Bracing himself against the wind, Farley stepped out, looking to the left. Almost immediately he stepped back across the threshold. "I see no sign of Major Winston."

  Marianne sighed in relief. "Let's go, Daisy," she told her pet. The dog was already wagging her slim tail in anticipation. Marianne pulled up the fur-trimmed hood of her cloak, took firm hold of the lead, and went out into the freezing twilight. The streets were quiet, as everyone had retreated from the raw weather to the warmth of hearth and home. Ranged around St. James Square, windows glowed with light, and the faint smell of roasting meat perfumed the sharp, cold air.

  Marianne led Daisy across the street and unlatched the gate enclosing the garden at the heart of the square. Today it was deserted. Marianne leaned down and unfastened the lead from Daisy's collar, and the puppy bounded away. Marianne smiled; the dog's delight was infectious. As long as she watched Daisy lope around the squa
re, investigating every desiccated shrub with her slim, elegant nose, she could ignore the fact that her windows were mostly dark.

  She had been a widow for two Christmases now.

  She wasn't terribly sorry to be alone this year. Last year William's death had been too recent for her to want company. This year her sister had invited her to come to Cambridgeshire, but Marianne had demurred. It was a long, trying journey by coach. The roads were awful in winter. She had Daisy for company. Really she would enjoy a peaceful holiday at home.

  Provided, of course, that her noxious neighbor Major Winston didn't ruin it.

  Just thinking of him made her frown. He had taken the house two doors down from hers this summer. He was a tall, imposing figure of a man, and Mrs. McAllen, her neighbor on the other side, had told her he was something of a hero. "He captured ever so many Frenchman in the war," Mrs. McAllen had related in breathless, admiring tones. "They say he made a pretty fortune, too."

  When he'd doffed his hat to her in passing one day, Marianne has even thought him rather handsome, with chiseled features and clear green eyes. For a few days she had been more than a little interested in making his acquaintance.

  But then he'd brought his monstrous dog into the square. She didn't know what sort of dog it was, but he was huge. He was covered in deep brown shaggy fur and looked as powerful as a lion, with a bark that echoed ‘round the square.

  The major routinely took this horrid beast with him everywhere. From her drawing room windows Marianne had watched the dog frighten teams of horses, knock over children, and splash wildly in the small fountain at the center of the square. And the major had only laughed. She could still hear his rich, deep laughter as he called the dog out of the fountain.

  Worst of all, though, was that the major had allowed his dog to chase Daisy. Farley had taken Daisy out one day while Marianne had callers. A flurry of barking had sent all the ladies running to the window just in time to see the butler rush back across the street, looking quite flustered and dragging poor Daisy almost off her feet. He had burst into the house with an exclamation of ire: "Madam, Major Winston's dog is a menace!" he'd announced, thrusting the lead back into her hand. "That beast attacked us!"

  Marianne's opinion of Major Winston had fallen precipitously, but she'd tried to be fair. When she encountered him on the street a day later, he strode right up to her.

  "Is the little greyhound yours?" he asked very directly.

  Anticipating an apology, Marianne replied, "She is."

  The man's expression grew hard. "Your man tried to kick my dog when he was out with her the other day. I won't abide that."

  Marianne's mouth dropped open. "Sir—"

  "If you don't wish to be troubled by a dog, don't keep one," he added rudely. "They aren't ornaments."

  "I never said they were!" she protested.

  "Then don't treat them so cavalierly." He paused then, giving her a swift appraisal while Marianne gaped at him in stunned silence. What nerve, what arrogant presumption. What on earth did one say to that? How dare he!

  And before she could think of an appropriately scathing retort, he added, in a tone of some bemusement, "You don't look like a cruel person."

  That ruined what was left of her charity with him. She'd snapped her mouth closed and stalked away, too furious to say another word. From then on she had taken great care not to cross his path, even if it meant delaying her departure or taking a different route away from home. For the last month, she'd hardly left her house without making Farley check first that the major was nowhere to be seen.

  Without meaning to, she glanced toward his house as she strolled the gravel path that circled the garden. A few windows were lit, but nothing to indicate a festive gathering. Of course there wouldn't be, she told herself, huddling into her cloak as the wind picked up. A bachelor would likely be with family, instead of the other way around. She hadn't seen him for a few days; perhaps he'd left London and would be away for some time. The thought of being able to come and go at will made her shoulders ease. It would quite make up for spending the Christmas season at home alone.

  * * *

  Arthur Winston spent several minutes debating whether or not he could just let Pilot out alone.

  Arguing for it was the freezing temperature outside, with a wind that made the windows in the front parlor rattle. Arthur had spent too many nights in miserable army camps to want another minute in the winter chill, even a short walk to the garden across the street. He had a blazing fire in his hearth and a glass of brandy to enjoy, as well as a good book. What's more, the weather wouldn't bother Pilot at all. The big dog had been bred by fisherman, and Arthur had seen his breed plunge into icy waters to save those washed overboard. There was little traffic on the streets, for most people were buttoned up at home for Christmas Eve. All in all, it was probably entirely safe to open the door and let the dog out to relieve himself.

  Pilot was pacing the front hall, the telling sign that he really needed to go out. Arthur stepped to the window overlooking the square and opened the shutter. If there were no carriages anywhere in sight, he told himself, he'd do it.

  No clatter of wheels, not even a passing hackney. He sighed in relief, just as his gaze snagged on a lone figure strolling the garden.

  He leaned closer to the glass, squinting. It was a woman, in a bright red cloak with her hands in a muff. A bit mad, he thought, reaching for the shutter. But then a small pale gray dog dashed through the shrubbery and began leaping around her, and his hand paused.

  The woman stopped and bent down to pet the dog, her head tilting to one side. The wind lashed at her cloak, and a long dark curl blew free before she tucked it back into the confines of the hood.

  Arthur banged the shutter shut and strode into the hall. "I know, I know," he told his restless dog as he jammed his arms into his greatcoat. He cursed under his breath as he searched for his gloves, finally locating them beneath his hat. With only one glove on and his hat in hand, he threw open the door, barely feeling the cold as Pilot rushed out only slightly faster than he did.

  He meant to apologize, he told himself as he crossed the street. Lady Fitzhugh had moved out of sight by the time he pushed open the gate to the garden. Arthur buttoned his coat, regretting his forgotten scarf as the wind howled, but scanned the garden for his elusive but lovely neighbor. He had a feeling he'd offended her.

  Well, he knew he had—not intentionally, but her manservant had cursed and kicked at Pilot, then dragged the poor little greyhound away by the neck. Arthur could tell when a man had no feeling for animals, and he'd let his temper get away from him when he confronted the lady about her servant's treatment of both dogs.

  Shoulders hunched, he paced the path. She couldn't have left the garden; he had a perfect view of the gate opposite her door. After their disastrous conversation, which ended with her gazing at him in shocked affront, he'd learned a little more about her. A widow whose husband had died two years ago. She still lived quietly, not reclusively, but every day she walked her dog, whom she loved dearly.

  He'd hoped to run into her again, after his temper had cooled and he'd decided she probably had no idea her man was too rough with her pet, but in the month since that unfortunate meeting, he'd only seen her through the window or from afar.

  And that, he realized, was not enough. Lady Fitzhugh was very attractive. She was petite but curvy, with a sweetly shaped figure he admired far too much. She had big brown eyes and a lucious pink mouth, which had sparked several indecent ideas in his mind. Not for the first time he wished he'd been born with a more diplomatic temperament. Perhaps if he'd called on her, with some flowers or something, they would be friendly neighbors. Perhaps she would smile when they met, or at least not dodge meeting him. Perhaps—

  Pilot gave a playful bark somewhere to his left, just as a woman's alarmed cry reached his ears. Arthur took off at a run, hoping Pilot hadn't knocked her over. The dog weighed nearly ten stone but still behaved like a puppy. He sprinted around a
pair of plane trees and saw the trouble.

  "Pilot!" His dog stopped chasing the little greyhound around Lady Fitzhugh's skirts, although his tail continued to wag.

  She whipped around to glare at him, her cheeks cherry red. "Call him off!" she cried.

  Arthur whistled. Pilot gave the smaller dog a last wistful glance, then trotted obediently to his side. "Are you hurt?"

  "I—No, I am not hurt!" She was angry, though. "He was frightening Daisy!"

  "I apologize. He's still a young dog and only wants to play. She was never in any danger."

  She gave him a fulminating glance. "Appearances were very much to the contrary!" Without waiting for a reply she bent down, apparently trying to attach a lead to her dog. The greyhound seemed to have recovered from any fright Pilot had put into her. She danced around her mistress's skirts, peering at him first from one side, then the other. At Arthur's side, Pilot gave a low whimper of longing.

  "Will you take that dog away?" demanded Lady Fitzhugh. She straightened and glared at him in exasperation. Her efforts had loosened more curls, and the wind tossed them around her face.

  Arthur blinked out of his daze. She was beautiful—and very annoyed at him. He muttered a command and Pilot reluctantly lay down, though his eyes never left the greyhound. "He's well trained," Arthur said.

  She sniffed. "Hardly! I see him all the time, romping about the square, chasing children and scaring horses."

  "That's not true," he countered. "Pilot never chases children. He might have tumbled one or two to the ground, but only out of an excess of affection. He's very friendly."

  Lady Fitzhugh merely frowned. Heaven help him, even that expression was appealing; it pushed her mouth into a perfect kiss me pout.

  "I'm glad to see you walking Daisy yourself this evening," he said hastily, trying not to dwell on the fact that the two of them were the only souls in sight, alone in this sheltered corner of the garden. "You shouldn't send her out with the tall gray-haired fellow."