Visions of Mistletoe

A Ridlington Christmas Novella

Sahara Kelly

Content © 2019 Sahara Kelly

Cover art © 2019 Sahara Kelly

For P&N Graphics

Dedication

I dedicate this novella to the readers who took the Ridlington family into their hearts and their bookshelves.

I am so very grateful for your emails, your reviews, your comments and your enthusiasm for this family; something I shared during the creation of the original novels.

Adding a holiday story has worked now for a couple of years, and I must admit it’s becoming close to being a holiday tradition for me as a writer. So when I realised that despite the other books I have in progress, Christmas would inevitably arrive, I knew I couldn’t let that happen without a brief homage to my favourite Regency friends, the Ridlingtons.

I wracked my brains for story ideas, and as I was rummaging through the “potential plots” file on my external hard drive I ran across an old outline for a story that stuck in my head. I wasn’t sure though...it didn’t seem right.

Then, as luck would have it, I had a conversation with a friend and with one word—boom. The story leapt to life and I was off and running.

So this novella comes with thanks and hugs to all my readers, and one especially large hug to a friend of so many wild years, writer Ciana Stone. She is a person who loves to laugh, gives selflessly of her time and energy, and I could ask for no better friend at my side through this crazy literary roller coaster of ours!

Thanks, Ciana.

And Merry Christmas...

Author’s Note

As we know, mistletoe has been a part of winter festivities for many, many centuries and yes it was used during Druid ceremonies as far as people can tell, although there’s not a lot of concrete information about those mystical folks who took most of their secrets with them.

One thing that has survived through the generations is the belief that any power possessed by mistletoe, no matter what you use it for, is allegedly multiplied when the mistletoe comes from an oak tree. A handy fact you are now free to use to impress people at that Christmas party.

While we’re on the topic of research, I also learned during the writing of this tale that there is an American mistletoe, and an English mistletoe, and you can tell them apart by the shape of the leaves. The American one has the rounded-tip leaves we see in many images, while the English mistletoe has a matching pair of leaves at the end of each little stem. I’m no horticulturist, so feel free to look it up yourself, because this is an awful description of a lovely and evocative little plant.

(And yes, feel free to trot this tidbit out if that party gets excessively boring. It might spark a conversation or two.)

Prologue

Autumn, 1817, Ridlington Chase

“Edmund, may I disturb you for a moment?”

Baron Ridlington set aside his book and looked up at the delightful vision of Hecate, his youngest sister, approaching his favourite spot in the late afternoon sun. “Of course, my dear.” He patted the bench beside him. “Come share this lovely moment. The air is still warm, the colours of the trees are starting to change, and there’s no doubt that winter will be upon us before long. But right now? Perfect.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her as she took her seat. “And now you’re here, to add that little extra bit of magic.” He grinned at her.

She grinned back. “Funny you should put it like that…”

“Uh oh.”

Edmund knew his sister. A woman gifted—in ways hard to describe. Her mama had been Irish, and also possessed of such gifts, but not as unique as Hecate’s.

“You’ve a prediction for us, then?” he asked, raising a thick eyebrow.

She shook her head. “Not really, no. Although I’m pretty certain I can say Finn, Maeve and I won’t be able to visit come Christmastime, unfortunately. I have a strong feeling that this winter will be a difficult one, so keep that in mind when laying in firewood, that sort of thing.”

“Good to know, thank you.” He nodded. He never took Hecate’s predictions lightly, and something like this could make a considerable difference to many who depended upon Ridlington Chase for their livelihood. “I’ll see that the farmers are told as well.”

“Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But there is something else. Something that I cannot quite see clearly yet, as if there is some time yet before it comes to pass. I’m sure I will know more at some point, but since we are leaving soon, I wanted to at least let you know about the possibility.”

“All right,” he replied. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s about family. Somewhere there’s someone…” she paused.

He waited, knowing that she was seeking the right words to clarify her thoughts.

“Someone is looking for something.”

Edmund blinked. “That’s a rather broad statement, Hecate. I’d venture a guess that at least a thousand people are looking for something at this moment, and that’s just in our county…”

“I know,” she pursed her lips. “It’s more than a little frustrating. A man, definitely. And he’s quite emotional. I can feel anger and sadness. Sometimes utter desolation. I’ve been sensing him for a while, but it’s getting stronger. Perhaps he’s getting nearer? It's not clear at this point.”

Again, Edmund kept silent, knowing she would tell him everything she could even if there wasn't much sense to be made out of it.

“He’s going to start searching, Edmund. He doesn’t know it yet. But he will have to seek what he desires and when he does, he will stir up matters that will surprise you.”

“Um…well…” Edmund digested that obscure and confusing statement. “Should I be doing anything?”

She shook her head, pale blonde curls trembling around her delicate features. She was the youngest Ridlington and the least like her sire, lacking the dark hair and firm brown eyes that characterised her eldest brother, not to mention his distinctively fierce eyebrows. Varying versions of the Baron’s colouring had come through the family—Simon had lighter hair, Letitia the brown eyes, the twins, Kitty and Richard, had the dark hair—and then there was Hecate.

She’d always been unique. And even now, married and with a brand-new daughter sleeping upstairs, she was still his little sister with the strange gifts.

Edmund adored her, even though at this moment she was more than usually baffling.

“You’ll be astounded when you meet,” she said. “It takes an awful lot to disturb your equilibrium these days, but this will do it. On a good level, however. Just remember that when all is said and done, the Ridlingtons will have gained something extra special.”

“Any idea what?” He blinked, as much at sea in this conversation as he’d been in the middle of the Mediterranean on board his ship so long ago. At least there he had a fairly good idea of where he was, as opposed to now, when he had no compass, no stars and no wind to blow him any way at all.

“Joy.”

“Joy,” he repeated.

“Yes, joy. Wondrous and unexpected joy.” She closed her eyes for a moment or two. “It’s all muddled up with Christmas. Mistletoe. Family.”

“Ah.” Edmund leaned back. “Well, those are all good things, yes?”

“Yes,” she smiled, rising to her feet. “And I’ll wager a certain young lady will wake soon, so I’ll let you get back to your book.” She dropped a kiss on his cheek and drifted away, humming a little as she crossed the lawn.

“Give Maeve a kiss from her uncle.” He called after her as she vanished from sight. “As if I could go back to reading,” he sighed. “Now I’m going to spend the next few days wondering what on earth kind of joy will arrive come December.”

He closed his book and stood. There was only one place to go with his confused questions.

To his wife. To Rosaline.

She knew everything.

Chapter One

“Hell and devil confound it.”

Michael O'Donnell swore luridly as his horse pulled up lame. He was cold, muddy and thirsty, and this was the second horse in as many weeks that had proved unworthy of its purchase price—little though that had been.

For the umpteenth time, Michael yearned for one of his own Irish thoroughbreds, a sturdy mount between his thighs, a creature that would respond to the slightest command either by voice or a light touch on the reins.

And for the umpteenth time a cloud of darkness settled on his shoulders as he remembered—it was now all gone.

Lost to the vicious whim of a parent who’d surrendered to the awful truth about his much-needed firstborn son.

Shrugging, Michael slid from the saddle and examined the weary horse’s hoof. The shoe had cracked and there were several pebbles deeply embedded—it would be a cruel sin to ride this animal further. The Young O’Donnell was many things, but he was not a cruel man. Not to horses, anyway.

Human beings? Well, after these last few months, that was another matter that might well prove fodder for debate.

The road he followed led nowhere in particular; fine with him, since he had nowhere in particular in mind to travel. But an inn would have come in handy at this moment, along with a blacksmith.

Looking around him, he noticed a wraith of smoke in the distance, which—he presumed—indicated life of some sort. Given the scarcity of any better options, he gathered the reins, pulled up the collar of his cloak more snugly around his neck, and started walking.

And, because it was unavoidable, he lost himself in thought.

“You’re no son of mine. Get yourself gone from this house and never come back.”

Would that phrase haunt him for the rest of his days? Brian O’Donnell’s roar of rage still echoed in his ears, even though Michael had been gone now for over half a year.

He paced onwards through the slushy snow, trying to block out the sound of his father’s screams, but to no avail. His mother had been dead less than a day when the storm broke—when The O’Donnell, as he was known to one and all, finally released the anger that had been brewing within him for Michael’s entire life.

For a gentleman to accept a child as his own, even though he had not fathered it, was not unknown. Such things were necessary for the continuation of the lineage—an heir being tantamount to a treasure in the aristocratic way of things. And his father had accepted Michael as his heir since there were no other sons forthcoming from his second marriage, to Michael’s mother. He’d ignored the dark hair that had grown freely on Michael’s head, in direct contrast to the rusty red that ran through the O’Donnell line. He’d also ignored the thick dark eyebrows. The O’Donnells prided themselves on eyes as green as the fields of Ireland they roamed, and Michael had those, at least. But they weren’t enough to breech the wide chasm between the father and the child who bore his name but not his blood.

Upon the death of his mother, a new young wife appeared forthwith. Within a twelvemonth, the birth of a son of his father’s legitimate loins had been cause for a mighty celebration. It had also marked the beginning of Michael’s downfall.

His baby brother had been the recipient of all the affection Michael had never received. The family had reared, tutored, educated and instructed him as the son and heir. Ruefully Michael admitted to himself that the writing had been on the wall even then and he didn’t need his finely tuned intuition to detect it.

Young Liam hadn’t been at fault, even though his attitude had progressed from confused to withdrawn and finally arrogantly aggressive toward his brother. As he grew up, he’d sensed the undercurrents that swirled within O’Donnell Towers, alert to each and every nuance betwixt members of the family. When he reached the ripe age of ten, he had already developed the habit of treating Michael with unpleasant disdain.

But by then, Michael had grown used to being pushed aside, ignored, and excluded.

Had it not been for his late Mama’s sister—a woman with a powerful presence and an ability to deflect the O’Donnell temper—Michael’s life would have been a misery. But she had interceded between him and his father, buffering the currents of distaste, protecting him from the worst of his father’s volatile personality and his young brother’s vicious taunts.

Michael could understand the emotions. It wasn’t hard to see how The O’Donnell would not view him as his son and heir, but as an interloper fathered by another. This awareness did not ease the pain he felt, but as a man he could at least understand.

Some might have negotiated a workable and livable arrangement. Some might have stretched their ingenuity to incorporate such a family, even knowing the relative positions of the heir and the eldest child. Some fathers might even have loved their bastards.

Sadly, Michael knew The O’Donnell was not that kind of parent.

Even armed with that knowledge, he’d been unprepared for his final dismissal. Half a year ago his father had stormed into the room waving a small book that Michael vaguely recognised as his mother’s diary. It was the anniversary of his mother’s death and also a day upon which the maids had been directed to clean out the attics, two events that should not have coincided, but apparently had.

“A filthy Englishman. That’s who sired you, boy. A filthy Englishman. A Baron of the foulest reputation. And to think today I have to pretend to grieve for the death of that—that—whore, your mother.”

Caught by surprise and hearing the vitriol in his father's voice, Michael froze in shock. He knew he’d said something in response, but couldn’t remember what, since his growing temper was declaring war on what little respect he had left for The O’Donnell.

“She admits it. Relishes it, the doxy. It’s all here…” The O’Donnell had thrown the small diary at Michael, hitting him on the shoulder. “I knew you were a mistake from the start. You’ve been nothing but trouble your whole life.”

“Father, that’s unfair…”

“Father?” The old man’s veins had stood out on his forehead as his temper approached apoplectic. “I’m no father to you. You’re no son of mine. Get out of this house and never come back. Find yourself a new name. The O’Donnell’s are no part of your life from now on.”

And there they were again, those heated and angry words that haunted Michael. He had ridden away from the O’Donnell estate with little more than a horse, a frighteningly small purse, and a bag of clothing, vowing never to return.

He’d left Ireland and travelled to England, wandering for several months, using the few coins he had sparingly, and taking the occasional odd job to add more. His only companion was the knowledge that he was now a bastard. A homeless, landless, nameless bastard with nothing to recommend him to anybody.

Finally, he’d chosen a name he felt matched his current state, although it had taken some time for him to get accustomed to it. So it was as Michael FitzDoone he rode through the snow, an easily pronounced variation of two Celtic words, bastard and nobody. There were times he admitted it was a bit of a self-pitying nomenclature, but overall it worked. He had a touch of the Irish lilt in his speech at times even though he tried hard to erase it, but his new name explained his heritage without him needing to explain anything.

New name or not, he was still a lost soul. He had no plans, no destination in mind—in fact there had been one or two moments when he wondered if he should just die and be done with it. Living without hope was every bit as difficult as living without food.

As if in sympathy, pellets of snow began to dapple his shoulders and he sighed. A fitting conclusion to a perfectly miserable day.

He rounded a bend in the lane and stopped short. Here was the source of the smoke…a small Christmas fair, tucked into a fallow field well off the beaten path. The hardiness of the residents showed clearly in the small crowd of visitors, who must have walked or ridden for quite some distance to get here and enjoy a day away from their everyday lives, ignoring the cold and the threat of snow.

Music and laughter assailed his ears and the most delectable smells of good hearty fare crept around his nostrils and made his stomach rumble.

Trying to remember if he’d eaten anything that day, Michael led his horse toward the noise. There must be a blacksmith around somewhere who wouldn’t mind looking at the injured hoof.

Despite the cold, children ran around the few stalls, giggling at their own games while their parents tried their hand at throwing a ball at a target or discussed the finer points of one or two large sows and their litters. It was the quintessential gathering of simple country folk and Michael smiled as he walked through the slush to join the throng.

Tethering his mount to a convenient post, he looked around—just as the skies surrendered to their burden and heavy flakes of snow began to dapple everything around him. He cursed, hoping to avoid dampening his cloak any more than it already was. A tent caught his eye, a simple matter of fabric and a few poles, but it had an open door and candles flickering within. And it would be dry. He cautiously walked inside to see a figure sitting on a stool.

“I apologise for the intrusion. It’s starting to snow…”

“Welcome. Yer here just in time…”

*~~*~~*

He blinked. “In time for what?”

An old woman moved. The darkness shadowed her, but the necklaces and bracelets that festooned her body jingled like the harness of a horse. She sat on the far side of a low table and between them lay some cards on a tapestry cloth that looked like it had seen better days.

Michael squinted at her, trying to discern her features as he waited for an answer. Something disturbed him, unsettling him and making him itch. It was that annoying intuition of his once again. He ignored it and hoped her response would be forthcoming. Soon.

None did. She simply acknowledged his arrival with a wave of her hand. “Sit down, lad.”

“Look…” Unwilling to raise her hopes, Michael opted for the truth. “Ma’am, I have barely a shilling to my name. I cannot cross your palm with silver, nor afford the luxury of you telling my fortune.” He sighed. “Actually, I’d just as soon not know what that might be.”

She ignored his protests. “Sit down. Honest words are better’n gold. They’ll do.”

Somewhat stunned at this bit of folkloric wisdom, Michael sat on an empty stool.

“Gi’ me yer hand.”

She held her own hand across the table, palm upwards, waiting for him to obey. As the wind rustled the fabric of the tent, he laid his right hand in hers, matching her position.

She glanced at it then pushed it aside. “T’other one.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” Michael stared at his hand.

“Nothin’. It’s yer present. All that one’ll tell me is what’s goin’ on right now. Nothin’ yer doesn’t know already.”

“Really?” Michael quirked a disbelieving eyebrow and did his best to keep the sarcasm from his voice. She was only doing her job and trying to make a few pence.

She sighed. “Yer in trouble, family trouble and that’s the worst kind.” She tipped her head to one side, reminding him of an elderly sparrow. “Yer don’ know where yer headed. Or if yer’ll get anywhere in one piece. Yer heart has pain in it—a lot of pain—and none of it’s yer fault. Sometimes we gotta carry burdens on our shoulders, put there by others. I need to see if yer gonna lay ‘em down anytime soon.”

Stunned, Michael obeyed, silently stretching his other hand towards her. He hadn’t expected such accuracy from a simple gypsy fortuneteller and it had taken him by surprise.

She gripped him hard, pulling and turning his hand this way and that, running rough fingertips down creases, grating a nail against lines. “’Tisn’t enough. I can’t see.”

Gloomily Michael stared at her. “I don’t have any future, do I?”

“Don’t be daft. We’ve all got a future, one way or t’other.” She rummaged in a large fabric bag at her side, and produced an object wrapped in silk. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?”

Oh yes, we should. He stifled his sarcastic answer, reminding himself that it was cold and wet outside and dry in here and this wasn’t costing him anything. She caught his attention fair and square, however, when she whipped away the silk to reveal the most perfect crystal orb he’d ever seen.

He reached out a finger and brushed the smooth surface wonderingly. “So lovely…”

“Yep. Older’n time, some say.”

The solid sphere was flawless, resting on a simple wooden base, and must have been about as tall as Michael’s hand-span.

He stared into it, wondering if it would indeed reveal his future. But it remained quiescent, as if sleeping.

Michael sighed. “You see? No future at all…” His voice tapered off as some kind of flicker caught his attention. It came from the shadows behind the gypsy, and he turned his head, distracted.

He squinted and a mirror in the rear of the tent became clearer, a thing that ladies might keep on the top of their bureau, simple in design with a small decorative curlicue on the top.

“Uh…” He blinked and stared. It was almost as if the glass, aged and marked by time, began to soften, to melt…

The old woman turned, looked at the mirror and back at Michael, her eyes narrowing.

“Look…” he whispered. “In the glass…”

It radiated light, drawing the soft rays from the small lamp and amplifying them into a pure glow. Like moonlight captured in a still pond.

“Yep. ‘Tis indeed like moonlight.” The woman smiled at him, sending a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather as she eerily echoed his thoughts. “Now. I need yer to look deep into it.”

Michael needed no second bidding.

“And look wi’ yer heart, lad, not yer eyes.”

Michael was drifting. The soft shadows of the tent, the bright glow of the mirror—the magic of the moment seduced him. The surface of the glass clouded as he watched it, gentle swirls of some sparkling viscous substance beginning to roil within.

Waves danced and parted only to merge and blend once more until they finally cleared and he stared, not at the mirror, but through it—at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Chapter Two

Michael’s breath caught in his throat. “I see—”

“What?”

“I see—a woman.”

He couldn’t make out the details of the room in which she stood, but light fell on one side of her body—and oh what a body it was. Skin like alabaster glimmered above the gown in shades of ruby gathered at her breast, and hair the colour of night curled atop her head.

“What d’yer see, lad?”

Michael vaguely registered the questions as his gaze remained solidly on the vision before him. “I see a woman. A lovely woman. In a room. By a window I would think because she’s got light on her. Her chamber perhaps—I can’t tell.”

He swallowed as the woman stood, staring at something.

She adjusted the shoulders of her brilliant clothing, and straightened her lace sleeves, then stared at her reflection as Michael—on the other side—stared back. When she raised a hand to touch her necklace, he breathed in. A simple string of pearls, but it seemed to glow with a light of its own.

“What? What’s happening?” The fortune teller’s voice distracted him and he tried to pull back, but found his wrists anchored to the table by two rough hands. They were stronger than he’d have imagined and for a second or two he could have sworn that heat poured from the calloused palms into his arms and up through his body.

The burning energy settled in his groin and his cock stirred as he once again returned to the vision in the glass.

“Tell me what yer see, lad. Tell me.” The fingers tightened around his wrists.

Helpless to resist the command, Michael obeyed. “She is—touching her clothes. The bodice of her gown. Her necklace. As if she’s on the other side of that mirror…”

The dream woman closed her eyes and lifted her hand to her neck, stroking the skin there, her chest rising and falling with her breaths.

“Go on.”

“I can’t.” He licked his lips. “I can’t describe this—it’s…it seems a private moment she’s having.”

The fingers loosened slightly. “Very well.”

He lost himself watching her, almost hearing her soft breathing, the rustle of her clothing as she moved from side to side.

Perhaps she could hear music; perhaps she was daydreaming, or perhaps she was simply thinking of nothing at all. But she was so beautiful and so richly sensual that his entire body responded with a flush of heat that stirred him so strongly he shocked himself.

He stared fixedly at her, biting his lip as she lifted an arm and touched the rich dark curls, finding the band that held them in place. She was tucking something beneath it; green, white…mistletoe. Her hand was shaking a little as she pulled it away, her eyes closed as if this was an important and memorable moment.

Michael quivered too. He’d had his fair share of women in a variety of ways and enjoyed every one. But never had he been privileged to watch such a woman in such a manner.

She glanced back into the mirror and gave a slight nod, as if satisfied with the image she presented. And all the while Michael’s eyes were glued to the vision of her. He held his breath as she turned away, only to let it out as she returned. She’d picked up a book, and there was also a bunch of mistletoe on the cover. Or in her hand. He couldn’t tell.

He sucked in a breath of air. Who was she? Why could he see this? Why could he not look away? Would his heart survive this experience or explode before she disappeared?

“Don’t look away, lad.” The hands kept him anchored to the table and his fascination kept him looking into the glass. He couldn’t have stopped looking now if the tent had collapsed around them.

The woman had raised her head again and opened her book; her lowered lids showing him she skimmed the pages as she turned them.

Then she closed it, her breasts rising and falling as if on a sigh. He couldn’t mistake her expression as she turned her head toward what must be a window, since the light was bright and cold, just the way it was outside the tent. She looked so sad. Lonely, perhaps. Not grief stricken, but as if whatever she saw gave her no solace. No happiness.

He found a lump in his throat and he swallowed harshly, the urge to dive into the mirror and take her in his arms was overwhelming, sweeping through him like a lightning stroke in a tinder-dry forest.

What was she seeking? Why did that look in her eyes make him ache to comfort her? Who was she? With a little shake of her head, she moved again, leaning forward, putting her book down. Doing so brought the skin of her neck and chest into close proximity with the mirror. The sweet curve of full breasts caught the light, as did the gentle gleam of light on her smooth skin.

Michael was on fire.

Desire, lust, heat—he scarcely knew where he was or what day it was. All his senses focussed on the woman in the glass and he swore he could smell the sweetness of that ivory skin. Had she been there at that moment he’d have seized her in his arms and taken those full lips, tasting her, touching her and perhaps freeing her from her ruby dress so he could feast his eyes on the rest of her.

She straightened, a shawl in her hands. A pale and simple length of what must be wool, she tucked it around her shoulders as if it were the finest silk, twitching and tugging at the folds until she was comfortable.

Michael stared as she lifted her chin and then sighed again; her face turning back to the window. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and again he felt the sadness, a dagger to his heart. Her tongue slid forward to leave a sheen of moisture on her full lips; he clung to his control with every ounce of strength he had.

Aroused, hard as nails and lusting for an image he could only see within the mysterious core of a piece of pitted glass, Michael sighed with her, crushed by the yearning that was rapidly shattering his composure. He groaned as it billowed through him, a desire so strong it threatened to choke him. Then suddenly—

She was gone.

The gypsy woman had obscured it all, the mirror and the woman within, by throwing a large blanket over everything.

“No…” He tried to stifle his whispered cry of protest.

“Snow’s stopped. Best yer be on yer way now, lad.”

He blinked and gaped, still shaken by the force of the emotions that had damn near wrecked him. “What?” His hands were free and with difficulty he moved his arms, finding them strangely limp and unresponsive for a moment or two.

“Snow’s stopped fer now.” The fortune teller gathered her things,. “’Tis late. I must be ‘ome before dark.” She glanced up at him. “Yer’ll be needin’ ‘elp for that horse o’ yers, I’m thinkin’.”

“How…” Had he told her about his lame horse? Michael ran a hand through his hair and tried to summon his wits from his cock where they were still thrumming about, screaming at him to let them go in an explosion of his own.

“Go a couple miles down yon lane yer’ll find a barn. Cousin o’mine takes care of the farm. ‘E’ll help yer out. Mebbe yer can get yerself a meal at the main ‘ouse. Not promisin’ or anythin’, mind yer…” She moved toward him, urging him to the door of the tent.

“The main house? What main house?” Michael wanted to sob. His heart still raced, his body ached from the barely repressed arousals, and he was totally befuddled.

The old woman smiled, an odd contorted little smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Relax, lad. It’ll all work out. Yer ‘ere now. Best follow yer fortune.”

She gently pushed him out into the snow and pulled the tent curtains shut, leaving him staring at nothing at all and wondering what the hell hit him.

*~~*~~*

Ariadne Wilton shivered as the cool air chilled her skin, and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

She’d seen…something—someone…a reflection of a face in the mirror. Watching her as she played with her clothing and her hair, foolishly imagining herself a grand lady attending a Christmas Ball in some elegant palace far away.

Even now his features imprinted themselves on her brain. Dark hair, fierce eyebrows over green eyes that burned into her. A deep cleft in his firm chin; harsh planes that hinted of strength and passion—she didn’t know, couldn’t be sure from the brief glimpse she’d had of him.

And of course there was nobody there at all.

Perhaps her mind was beginning to die, since it was creating images to accompany her occasional moments of silliness.

She stared at the book that held no interest for her. It was early yet, too early to undress for bed. But what else was there?

Ariadne sighed. Alone and lonely, she wished for the twentieth time that Joshua was with her, to cheer her and make her laugh as he always did.

But she’d willingly sent him on his way to a distant relative, knowing he’d have adventures and stories to tell upon his return that would last them through the winter. She would celebrate Christmas once he returned and told her of his visit; he’d have enjoyed the season’s foods, and maybe a gift or two. Warmth. A Yule log, naturally.

None of which she could provide. How her heart ached for the sound of his voice and how empty the house was without him.

A door slammed somewhere below and Ariadne listened for a moment or two. It would be Winnie returning from the fair. Perhaps she’d have some news—local gossip—something to ease the cloud that was settling into Ariadne’s soul.

Was this all there would be for her? Eking out a meagre existence on a tiny stipend and in a house that was all but falling down around her ears?

“It’s your own fault, you whore. Be thankful I am allowing you this much.”

She blocked out the words. No point in revisiting the past. Although God knew the future wasn’t much to look at either.

Footsteps rang on the bare staircase and a tap on the door preceded Winnie’s entrance. The old woman erupted into the room in a flurry.

“Tidy yerself girl. Get rid of that mistletoe, dammit. Lazin’ around at this time of day? What are yer thinkin’? We might be havin’…visitors or somethin’.”

Ariadne laughed wryly. “Winnie, we’ve had no visitors in the past year. Few even know we exist in this out-of-the-way place and those who do will not visit the likes of me. I was bored. It’s going to be Christmas in a few days and the only thing we have is some mistletoe. Why on earth would you think we’ll have visitors today?”

Winnie dropped her eyes.

“Winnie. What did you do?”

There was no answer, just a shuffling of feet underneath the icy hem of Winnie’s thick cloak.

Nervous now, Ariadne put her hands on her hips. “Did you do something foolish?”

“I did not.” The old woman’s head snapped up. “I did nuthin’ at all. Yer did it with yer woman’s body an’ yer mirror. An’ mistletoe of all things, as if yer didn’t know better.”

“Me?” Ariadne blushed, the colour heating her cheeks.

“Yes, missy. Yer summoned him, girl.”
“Now you’re just being silly.” Ariadne frowned. “I will accept a lot of things, Winnie, but summoning someone with mistletoe?”

“Don't yer dare scoff at the power. Called ‘im, yer did, as clear as if he were right here next t’yer. Yer know how powerful mistletoe can be under the right circumstances. An’ ‘e has the sight, lass. ‘E has the sight. ‘E’s the one.” Winnie pivoted. “Get yerself dressed. E’s comin’.”

Chapter Three

The knocker on the door was hanging half-off and gave an unimpressive thud when Michael lifted and dropped it. He’d found the barn as the old woman had promised, and since it was void of humans, he’d rubbed his mount down as best he could, and given it some oats he discovered in one of the feed bins. There were no other horses there, although several stalls looked like they had been used at one time or another, and two cows mooed quietly at the far end in their own enclosure. At least it was protection from the weather—more than he’d had some nights.

He had hoped there might be a stable lad somewhere around who might direct him to the blacksmith. But since he seemed to be completely alone, he patted his tired horse, and headed out toward the main house.

It appeared less than impressive. Several windows were cracked, others boarded up completely. Only a small portion looked habitable and there were few lights showing in the dusk that had fallen during Michael’s long walk from the fairground.

He was tired, cold, hungry and still aching a little from his unrelieved arousal. She haunted his steps, lingered around him like the scent of a faded bouquet. He could still see her every time he closed his eyes, and he found the temptation to stop and just immerse himself in the memories of her both alluring and arousing to the point of discomfort. There was no way he’d bring himself ease with his own hand in some wintry forest glade, attractive though the release would have been. He had to draw the line somewhere.

He might be almost penniless and homeless, but he still clung to something of his former life. A code of behaviour perhaps. Whatever it was, it had prevented him from doing a damn thing to take the edge off his lust, which added to his less-than-happy state of mind.

Once again he rapped on the peeling door, cursing as the knocker gave up any pretence of usefulness and came off in his hand. With an oath he flung it away into some nearby straggly bushes.

Just as the door opened.

“Good evening.”

Michael blinked and his jaw dropped. It was her.

Or possibly her. Or maybe not.

He blinked again. This woman was correctly garbed, but her gown was old-fashioned, high at the neck and with skirts fuller than the current styles. Her dark hair coiled neatly and severely at the back of her head and her face was expressionless. No soft smiles of pleasure or interest.

She was simply staring at him with mild curiosity. “May I help you?”

Michael gathered his wits and closed his mouth with a snap. “Yes. I mean—sorry. I was told—er—my horse is lame—I met a gypsy…”

Very good, you brainless idiot. She’ll slam the door in your face within two seconds if you keep this up.

He tried again, giving her a small bow. “Forgive my disturbing you, ma’am. My horse is lame and when I came upon the Christmas Fair nearby, I was directed here and told I could stable my mount until morning.” Dredging up a smile from somewhere, Michael patted himself on the back as he produced an intelligible phrase. “I encountered a gypsy fortune-teller who told me you might be disposed to provide a plate of food for a weary traveller.”

She stepped back into the dimly lit hall. “I see. Of course. Do come in.” She waved him inside, glancing over her shoulder as he closed the door behind him. “Please excuse our informality. We live quietly here. I have no servants to speak of, just a couple of faithful companions who assist me.”

“I understand.” And looking around him, Michael did. The house had once been magnificent, he guessed, but now—it was not in very good shape at all and showed the ravages of time and neglect.

However, the small salon she led him to was warm and well-lit and he sighed with pleasure at the sight of a small decanter half full of what he guessed might be brandy.

“This is charming. My thanks.” He bowed. “I should introduce myself. I am…I am Michael F-FitzDoone.” His tongue stumbled over his new name. It wasn’t the one he’d grown up with, but it was the best he could do.

“Welcome, sir.”

If she’d noticed his hesitation, she’d caught it without a blink. Michael reminded himself never to underestimate a woman.

“I am Ariadne Wilton.” She dipped a slight curtsey. “Please do me the honour of sharing my meal?”

“Thank you…ma’am.” She’d given no hint of a husband or suggested any form of address that would enlighten him. Blasted nuisance.

“It would appear you have been travelling for some time. Would it be presumptuous of me to suggest a rest before dinner and perhaps you might care for a bath? I know how insufficient inns can be when one travels. If you would like to avail yourself, we have guest rooms that are mostly ready for an occupant or two…” She waved her hand.

“You are exceedingly kind, ma’am. I would indeed appreciate the opportunity to make myself presentable.”

“In that case…” She tugged on an aged bell-pull, which—miraculously—stayed attached to the wall and produced a knock on the door. “Enter.”

An elderly man peered into the room. “Yer rang, Ma’am?”

Michael noticed a lightning-quick smile cross her face then vanish as she re-assumed her politely social demeanour. “Yes, Rodney. Would you show Mr FitzDoone to the Oak bedchamber and prepare a bath for him? It should be warm in there, but if not, stoke up the fire. And care for his clothes too if you would…”

“You are most gracious.” Michael accepted the offer gladly, only to narrow his eyes as the servant spoke once more.

“’Tis all prepared.”

He frowned at this unexpected efficiency. “I don’t understand…”

She curtseyed in dismissal. “Dinner will be served in a little over an hour. Shall we meet here at that time?”

Uneasily, Michael nodded and bowed, turning to follow the man from the room and up the stairs. The carpet was ancient but had probably once been a fine wool with a tasteful pattern, and despite the worn condition, which tallied with the visible signs of age everywhere in the house, his surroundings were clean and tidy.

The man opened a door and stood back for Michael to enter. “‘Ere yer are then, sir. Yer let me know if there’s anythin’ yer be wantin’…”

He wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not at the sight of a steaming bath awaiting him in a sparse upstairs chamber. It was, to coin a phrase, bloody strange.

But then again, nothing about this day had been normal, in any accepted sense of the word. He simply stripped and availed himself of the pleasure that awaited him.

A blissfully hot bath.

*~~*~~*

Ariadne’s hands were shaking as she entered her own room to change. Winnie was already there laying out her gown and cackling with glee.

“’He’s a right one, ain’t he, lovey?” She smoothed the folds of silk lying on the bed. “I’m thinkin’ he’ll ride yer body ‘ard and warm the cockles of yer ‘eart with ‘is own…er…cockles…” She cackled again at her own joke.

“Winnie.” Ariadne opened her eyes wide. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I say.”

A wise gaze met hers. “Don’t be, lovey. Yer need what he’s got betwixt his thighs. Always ‘ave needed it. ‘Tisn’t yer fault, lass. Some needs it, some don’t. Yer one that needs it right enough.”

Ariadne raised her palms to her flushed cheeks. “I’m a whore, Winnie. A wanton whore to be even thinking such things.”

Winnie pulled Ariadne’s hands away from her face sharply. “Enough o’ that kind of talk. Yer no whore. Yer a healthy woman. He’s a healthy man. ‘Tis natural enough ye’d find an attraction there. ‘Tis even more natural to act on it.”

Ariadne allowed Winnie to unlace the gown she’d donned only an hour or so before. “If he knew, Winnie…”

“He’s got the sight, love. He’ll know.”

“Are you sure?” Ariadne’s thoughts gave rise to a shiver that was purely sensual. He was, as Winnie had said, a right one. “I can’t ask him. That would be outside the pale.”

“Yer won’t need to. He’s ready. Ripe an’ ready.”

“Winnie…” Her dress muffled her voice, but she had to speak. “I think I saw him once before.”

Winnie paused as she tugged the skirts from Ariadne’s head. “When?”

“Earlier—this afternoon. Just a reflection. In—er—in my mirror. Behind me.” I thought he was my imagination…my vision of the perfect man.

Winnie grinned. “Told yer he’d got the sight, lass. He saw yer too. Mebbe he’s meant to be here this evenin’.”

“Do you think so?” Ariadne felt a little dart of hope rise within her. “But if he leaves…”

“He won’t.” Winnie sounded so certain. “He’s seen yer, lovey. The real yer. He looked with ‘is ‘eart, not ‘is eyes. He’s the one. I know it.” She grinned suddenly. “But just to be on the safe side, let’s go take a quick look…”

“Winnie. You wouldn’t.”

But she would and she did and before Ariadne knew it, she too was hurrying along a small corridor, wrapped in a dressing gown, to do the unthinkable—spy on their guest in his bath. After all, justified Ariadne to herself, he’d seen her without her knowledge, hadn’t he?

It was only fair that she have the chance to feast her eyes in her turn.

And when they found the tiny peephole into the spare guest chamber and pressed their eyes to it, Ariadne couldn’t regret her action.

What a visual feast he was.

*~~*~~*

Michael hummed to himself as he luxuriated in the large copper tub. The water had been hot enough to turn his arse red and he’d sunk chest deep into it with a sigh of delight.

The soap was new and smelled slightly of herbs, not unpleasant or overly flowery. There were towels warming by the fire—and for the first time in ages, all was right in Michael’s world.

Or almost right.

If he’d had the lush beauty of his hostess naked in the tub with him, then everything would have been bloody perfect. He soaped and rinsed his hair, noting the dust that now coated the surface of the water. God, he must have looked a fright. His last bath had been outside under a cold pump and done nothing much to clean him, just refresh him and make him cold as could be.

This was a proper cleansing, one that warmed soul deep. And refreshed more than just his skin.

A tingle at the nape of his neck caught his attention.

Eyes. Somewhere. I’m being watched.

Michael had long accepted that he had what he referred to as a kind of heightened sensitivity—he could sense things, feel things, anticipate things well before anybody else did. It was something he’d kept to himself, but he believed that it might have come down through his mother’s Irish heritage.

She’d never mentioned it and neither had he, but there’d been many a time when he’d wondered if she was prescient or just extremely accurate in her predictions. For his part, it was more of an irritation in his thought process. Something encouraging him to stop and think about a matter that shouldn’t have been there.

He’d always had it, didn’t think it untoward, and seldom mentioned it, even though it had helped him a time or two. Right at this moment, however, it was clanging like a church bell. He was definitely being watched, by whom and why, he didn’t know.

He shrugged. Let them look. In fact—a brazen thought tickled his fancy and he stood, nude, letting the water roll down his body into the water. For a moment he consciously opened his mind, trying to locate the source of his observer. To the right. Behind that panelling.

Under the pretense of reaching for a towel, Michael turned towards that part of the room. His cock stirred and lengthened, spurred on no doubt by rather lascivious images of what he’d like to be doing to one Ariadne Wilton.

He could have sworn he heard a gasp and schooled his features into blank unconcern as he towelled off his chest.

Aha. His intuition told him that the gasp was female.

Slowly. Might as well make it worth the while for whoever she was.

He rubbed his hair hard and then tossed it back behind him, moving the towel down to his belly and beginning the job of drying his lower half.

Stepping out of the water, he turned right around, treating the wall to a nice view of his buttocks and then moving closer to the fire—and the right side of the room. He leaned over and stoked the logs, letting the warmth evaporate the moisture on his legs.

And then he began to toy with his watchers. And himself.

The towel slid over one muscled thigh and back down, just brushing his cock and his balls. As expected, he hardened. He stifled a chuckle at the sense of eager silence emanating from behind the panelling. She—they—whoever it was, waited for what he might do next.

Hmm. Michael promised he’d do penance for this, but could not resist the imp of mischief that whispered naughty things in his ear. He reached between his legs and cradled his cock, enjoying the touch of his own hand around the solid and sensitive length.

He stroked, gently, just bringing himself to a full erection, no more.

And then—blatantly—he turned his arse to the fire and stretched out his arms, thus heating his buttocks and baring all that he had to the allegedly empty room. This time he could not hide his smile as two very audible breaths sounded near him.

He stood, trying to stop his lips from twitching with amusement, enjoying the exhibitionism of the moment and hoping that one of his onlookers was Ariadne. He knew he wanted her, desired her in the most elemental of ways, longed to render her senseless and drain himself dry at the same time. If physical attraction was what she wanted, he modestly hoped he could offer that at least.

If she might want him in her bed—well, he was more than ready to oblige her in that department, too. His cock agreed, a tiny drop of lust seeping from the small slit, reminding him that unless he wanted to come right then and there, he’d better redirect his thoughts into avenues less stimulating.

There’d be time enough for those matters after dinner. Or at least he hoped so. With a sigh, he began to dress, wondering if she was sighing too as he slipped his breeches back on and waited for his shirt to be returned to him.

Strangely enough, his thoughts of her were eager and curious, not simply lust-filled, although that was there in more than sufficient measure. He realised that Ariadne radiated sensuality from every pore.

There was no blatant invitation to bed, unlike many women he’d known. Hers was a subtly attractive appeal, something hinting of fire beneath her proper exterior. Neither a hungry whore looking for coins, nor a bored aristocrat looking to add him to her conquests, she was, thought Michael, the most beautiful woman he’d seen in quite some time—if ever—and he sensed she had a heat burning inside her he longed to ignite. It called to him on some fundamental level he had yet to fully comprehend.

A refreshed shirt having been delivered by a silent Rodney, Michael shrugged himself into his clothes and prepared to leave the room.

His sixth sense kicked him solidly.

She will light fires within you too.

He caught his breath as he absorbed the message from somewhere deep in his head. He didn’t know if he wanted any fires lit by anybody, nor was he sure he had the strength or the desire to deal with them. And yet—an odd awareness gnawed at his brain. He recalled a phrase he’d heard his mother whisper occasionally.

“Now, Michael. Do it now.”

She would urge him to finish whatever it was he was doing. “Before this fire burns out…”

His breath seized in his lungs and he looked around, stunned for a second at the strong notion he’d heard her voice. The words were as clear as if she’d spoken them.

But of course there was nobody there.

When fires were lit, somebody got burned. He’d been burned too many times to take such a prospect lightly. With a certain amount of apprehension, Michael left his room and headed downstairs to dinner.

And Ariadne.

Chapter Four

“Would you care for brandy?” Ariadne waved her hand at the tray on the sideboard.

“Thank you. That would be nice. Will you join me?”

The conversation had been trivial, desultory even, making Ariadne more than a little frustrated. Michael was an easy companion, though, and the meal had passed pleasantly enough while trivialities about the weather and the countryside had been exchanged. Neither had ventured into personal territory, however.

Rodney had served the few simple courses silently and efficiently as was his wont, but had now left the room.

They were alone.

She raised her eyebrows at his question. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I will. I find I enjoy a little brandy now and again.”

“I thought you might.” Michael poured the liquor and returned holding two goblets, one of which he passed to Ariadne. He also seated himself next to her instead of across the small table where they’d partaken of their meal.

She nodded her thanks and sipped, letting the burn of the brandy slide pleasantly down her throat.

“What else do you enjoy?” His question was quiet, intimate almost.

“Learning about people. Let’s take you, for example.” She watched his face. “You are a traveller, Mr FitzDoone, with a flavour of Ireland in your speech. And yet it would appear you have no destination in mind, since to end up here is to end up nowhere at all.” She waved her hand at his attire. “Clearly it has been a long and perhaps hard road. Would you tell me how you ended up in this spot? I would confess to curiosity as to your journeys…”

He studied his glass, swirling the liquid slowly. Thinking, always thinking—and yet Ariadne wondered if there was more to that abstract look than simple cogitation. He occasionally seemed to listen—to something other than what was being said.

“You’re correct about the Irish accent. I was born and raised there.” He paused and sipped the liquor, then raised his gaze and met hers. “I’m a bastard, you know.”

Short and to the point. “By birth or by nature?” Unmoved by his announcement, her lips quirked.

His wry smile answered her. “Some would say both. My father—and I use the word advisedly—knows that it’s by birth. Perhaps that knowledge has led to my nature.”

“It happens,” she commented calmly.

“But not to Lionel O’Donnell.” In blunt and simple terms he told her of his father’s desire for an heir and what finally happened when a true one was born.

“So your real father…”

“Was an English Baron, apparently. My mother made the mistake of leaving a diary detailing her association with him. Not something The O’Donnell took lightly.” Michael sighed. “He threw me out. He no longer needed me as his heir, and learning of my real parentage must have been the final straw. My younger brother will now fulfil his destiny and I am nobody at all. He cannot strip my Christian name from me, but he’s taken everything else.”

“Thus you wander. For how long?”

“Months.” He chuckled ruefully. “In truth, Ma’am, I have scarcely sixpence to scratch with and no prospects whatsoever.” He leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. “I am in your debt for the meal and the bath. Otherwise I’d have enjoyed a much smaller meal and probably a cold dip in a nearby pond.”

She ran a finger around the edge of the crystal, producing a slight sound as the glass resonated to her touch. “Have you considered finding your real father?”

“The English Baron?” Michael nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did think about it.”

“And what happened?”

“I looked at the diary. It was… inconclusive. It told me nothing I didn’t already know.”

“Was there no mention of a place? No mention of a village, a town, not even a road or county?”

“Nothing at all,” he shook his head. “Just that he was…oddly kind. I sense that she needed kindness. And she found it in his bed.”

Ariadne blinked. “A strange comment.”

“Indeed.” Michael sighed. “I had hoped for something more tangible, I’ll admit. A name would have been helpful, certainly. And—as you so rightly suggest—a hint of a location.”

“Would you have gone to him? Had there been sufficient clues as to his whereabouts?” She watched his eyes, so green and so revealing of his thoughts. He was confused, lost…neither of which were unexpected, given his terrible situation.

“I truly don’t know,” he finally answered with a slight shrug. “I would not foist myself upon a man who might not even know of my existence. He could have a family…there could be any number of situations that would be adversely affected by the arrival of a fully-grown bastard child.”

“True,” she agreed.

“Besides, how would I prove anything? Even had my mother named this man, it would be slim evidence of my paternity.”

Ariadne grinned and daringly reached out to touch his chin. “Well, this would help.”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Your chin, sir. Your decidedly strong cleft. Dimple. Whatever you wish to call it.”

“What about it?”

“It’s hereditary, I believe. From father to son. You have one. Therefore, the odds are good that your father has one as well.”

His eyes widened. “I was not aware of that. An interesting point.” Then he chuckled. “So I’ve probably ruled out all the Barons in England with smooth chins.” He turned his smile on her, his eyes alight with laughter. “That only leaves a hundred or so, would you say?”

“Pshaw,” she waved her hand, laughing with him. “A matter of a few years and you’ll find him.”

“But do I want to? To what end?”

Ariadne sensed the question had been directed more to himself than to her. In fact, this entire conversation had drifted past the polite and ordinary and into one where thoughts could be spoken aloud, ideas and suggestions exchanged; she sensed a growing comfort between them that—given the mere hours they’d spent together—should have surprised her more.

But it didn’t. It was as if she’d known him for years.

“I believe you will be able to answer that someday, Mr FitzDoone.” She met his eyes, saw the sadness he tried to conceal. “I truly do.”

“I find myself moved by your convictions, ma’am.” He gently touched the back of her hand, a brief pat of his fingers on her skin. “I’d be honoured if you could bring yourself to call me Michael? ’Tis a name I will answer to more readily than FitzDoone.”

She tried to ignore the shiver of excitement that had radiated from his touch. “A name you chose for yourself, I take it? The Fitz part…a well-known device for indicating one of lineage stemming from the wrong side of the blanket…”

He nodded in acknowledgement. “I would not trumpet my status for all to observe, but I cannot hide it, either.”

“In that case, Michael, I’d be equally honoured if you would call me Ariadne. In truth, the Wilton name is one that I came to despise several years ago.”

He straightened. “Forgive me…Ariadne.” His hand went to hers once more, lingering as he once again touched her fingers. “I’ve rambled at length about my sad lot, yet not once have I inquired as to your situation.”

She swallowed. “Well, my situation is pretty much what you see around you. This house is slowly dying, crumbling into dust.” She dropped her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. “As am I.”

*~~*~~*

A log cracked in the fireplace, the sharp sound breaking the silence that had fallen after Ariadne’s dramatic words.

Michael didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. The wind had picked up to a howl and the house creaked in response, reminding him where he was and that it had grown late. The woman next to him held herself straight, but her eyes told of inner exhaustion.

“I would hear your story too, Ariadne, but I fear the hours have passed too quickly. It must be nigh on midnight and you’re tired.”

Her hair reflected the firelight as she nodded. “I’m sure the same could be said for you.” She slowly stood. “I have taken the liberty of assuming you’ll remain with us for the night?” She winced as another gust rattled the building. “The weather is bad, and at least here you’ll have a warm dry bed.”

He rose too. “I am most grateful. To have found shelter on a night such as this is a blessing indeed.”

“It’s not luxurious…” Her face betrayed her worry.

“Stop.” This time he took her hand in his without hesitation. “I did not expect luxury, nor did I expect such kindness. You are offering more than I could have hoped for and it’s difficult to find the words to express my gratitude.”

“In that case, I hope you will find your room to your satisfaction.” She gathered her skirts and—it seemed—reluctantly released his hand. “There is only myself, my maid and Rodney at the moment. A small enough group to survive, but not to offer much in the way of conveniences. Rise when you will, Michael, and you will find me in the small parlour in the morning. We have little in the way of schedules or routines…”

“Which suits me perfectly, having none of my own.” He took her hand in his once again, and this time raised it to his lips. “I will bid you goodnight and offer my thanks once again for your kindness.” He kissed her knuckles, intending to merely brush them with his lips as was the custom. But he breathed in…the scent of her skin climbing up his nostrils and flooding him. He touched her with his mouth and for a brief second he felt a rush of heat and desire the likes of which nearly took his knees out from beneath him.

“I…I…”

Her voice recalled him from the strange sensations. She stared at him, her eyes gleaming gold in the firelight, shadows dancing around her as the candles began to gut.

“Goodnight, Ariadne,” he said, his voice lower than he’d expected, his throat rough with some odd yearning he’d not put a name to. Not when she was there, in front of him. “I trust you will sleep well.”

With difficulty, he let her go, seeing her throat move as she swallowed. “Thank you, sir.” The slight curtsy seemed a bit wobbly, but then again Michael wasn’t sure he could trust his eyes. He merely nodded and headed for the door, hating to leave her side but almost desperate to be alone so he could breathe again.

Although there were few candles burning to light his way, he found his chamber without a problem, noting that the fire was still alight and there were logs he could use to bank it up for the night.

There was a rug on the floor, and a place for his clothing, along with the necessities of a guest chamber. Nothing was new, elegant or fancy. But it was all sturdy and functional, and more than that he would not ask.

There was even a nightshirt, somewhat musty, and a robe laid on the bed, that might have once been very tasteful, but now was simply a bit moth-eaten.

None of which concerned him as he sank into the mattress, weary to his very soul. He tried to remember the last time he’d slept in such comfort, and couldn’t. All his mind would allow him to do was think about a pair of dark eyes that glowed in candlelight and skin that tasted of heaven.

He slid easily into a deep sleep, scarcely moving at all.

It must have been more than a few hours later when a sound woke him.

His toes were warm; the fire barely flickered, and for a few seconds he couldn’t even remember where he was.

Then he heard it again—a muted cry.

Leaping from his blankets, he grabbed the robe and struggled into it, fighting with the tie as he opened his door and rushed into the hallway, pausing, listening…

There…a down the corridor…a sound…

A door opened and he sucked in a breath as a figure emerged, white and barely visible in the darkness. It turned toward him and he could feel his heartbeat in his throat and his ears as it drifted softly over the worn carpet.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he saw the long dark hair as she neared him, her hand outstretched, her gaze oddly vague.

She was sleepwalking.

He couldn’t let her reach the head of the stairs—she’d take a tumble that might do some serious damage. So he carefully walked toward her, letting her fingertips touch him before he did anything else.

She paused when she encountered the softness of the robe over his chest.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered. “Do you have Joshua?”

“Ariadne,” he said quietly. “Ariadne, my dear, wake up…” He gently put his hands on her shoulders.

He felt the shivers begin, and she trembled, her eyes widening and focusing on him and the darkness of the hallway.

“What the…” She stumbled. “Oh dear God.”

“You’re all right, it’s all right…” he soothed, taking her weight as she fell against him. With scarcely a thought he picked her up in his arms and cradled her, much as he would a child with a bruised knee.

“I dreamed,” she whispered. “Oh ’twas a terrible dream.”

“And you were looking for someone. You were looking for…Joshua.”

She stifled a sob. “Yes, I was looking for Joshua.” Her head moved as she turned her face into his chest. He felt the anguish she tried so hard to conceal. Icy hands clutched at his and she shivered all the way to her toes.

“It’s all right, Ariadne. You’re safe here now.” He took her back to her room.

It was familiar—the mirror standing atop her bureau, a window in the wall to the side.

It had been Ariadne he’d watched in the gypsy’s tent. It had been Ariadne that he’d seen with his heart, not his eyes.

Her bed linens were askew, as if she’d kicked them violently away from her. He freed an arm to stoke up the fire, then grabbed a quilt and wrapped it around the two of them, knowing his body heat might help ease the tremors that racked her frame. The most appropriate solution lay in front of him, so he tucked them both into the well-worn chair that sat on the hearth.

The blaze caught and soon the warmth penetrated their private cocoon making her sigh with relief. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered.

He had to lean down to catch her words. “There is no reason to apologise for what one cannot control, Ariadne. Sleepwalking is not an unusual thing, you know.”

“It is for me. It only began a few years ago…”

“Can you tell me? Here? Tucked up as we are in a warm little nest in the deepest reaches of the night? Or would you rather I pop you back into your bed and make sure you’re comfortable?”

He would have sat there for a week if she’d asked it of him, he knew. So although he’d have obeyed her wishes, he was glad she shook her head and snuggled deeper into his arms.

He pulled the quilt up over her toes and settled himself to listen.

Chapter Five

“I see I must tell you something of my past. ‘Tis as ugly a tale as yours, I fear.” She gulped. “I am a whore, sir. Mother of a bastard child, myself. So you can see that naught you have revealed in relation to your own history has shocked me, since mine is ten times worse.”

He tipped his head to one side. “You may be many things, Ma’am, but whore—I doubt that. I doubt that most strongly.”

She looked away. “What else would you call a woman who gives herself before marriage to an unsuitable man who leaves her with child?”

“Unlucky?” he quipped. “Oh, and I’ll shoot the miserable swine who deserted you, with great pleasure, if you’d like.”

She couldn’t help her answering smile. “That will not be necessary, since he departed this life not long after our…our encounter. But thank you for the offer.” She let herself lean against him, staring into the fire. “You of all people can understand my situation. My mother was the daughter of a gypsy, and she died immediately after she learned of my predicament. My father swore I was to blame. My logic tells me I am not, of course, but you probably know how much damage such words can inflict.”

She took a ragged breath. “I am shunned, and yet I have to try to raise my son to be a normal, decent young man. My nightmares…and I suppose the occasional bit of sleepwalking…have been getting worse since he has grown. There are so many questions I cannot answer yet, not until he’s older. And I have a fear he’ll be taken from me.”

“That’s why you asked if I had him,” said Michael. “When you were dreaming…”

“Did I? It’s possible.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t remember what happened. Once I found myself in the kitchen, and another outside by the front door. Luckily Rodney locks everything tightly now and I cannot reach the keys unless I make a conscious effort to do so. Thus far, it’s kept me in the house at night.”

“Oh Ariadne,” he whispered over her hair. “You poor dear.”

His hug warmed her every bit as much as the quilt. “I live here on sufferance, Michael. ‘Tis an uncle’s estate—he permitted me residence until a certain time and under certain conditions. He told me he felt it was his Christian duty to do something for his niece, since his brother wouldn’t, even though he would have preferred to burn the place to the ground rather than give it into my hands.”

“Tell me about it?” He kept his gaze on her face.

“I was evicted from the bosom of my disapproving family and interred in this—this place—nearly seven years ago, not long after I learned of my condition. At that time, my uncle was living, but upon his death his will specified the conditions relating to myself and my son. If he reached the age of seven and I had not found a gentleman of good birth willing to wed me and accept him as his own, then I was to leave the premises and never return.” She paused. “He believed he had fulfilled his Christian duty to a fallen and damaged member of the family. I was blessed with a wonderful son, born here in this house, with only my two dear friends Winnie and Rodney to help me. But we managed.”

She dredged up a smile as she turned her head on Michael’s shoulder. “He was a wonderful baby and I am utterly devoted to him. I thought we could make a life for ourselves here for at least seven years. Unfortunately, my uncle’s wife was a hard woman with little compassion, and she made clear the nature of my situation to those who live hereabouts and might have offered to help a poor woman and a baby. Instead, I found they viewed me as little better than a gypsy whore. No man hereabouts will pass the time of day with me. Except for those who—”

“Who would like to test the veracity of that rumour.”

“Exactly. They certainly weren’t gentlemen in the true sense of the word.” He’d hit the nail on the head. She’d turned away the drunken louts who’d assumed she would spread her legs and lift her skirts for a few coins. One of them had left with a load of pellets in his backside and the tales he’d spread around hadn’t exactly helped matters along. She’d dealt with them, but there was still one threat she’d yet to vanquish. That story had no place in this room on this night.

“Since I proved to be less than welcoming of any such attention, I finally discouraged those idiots. This is a quiet place, so I’ve been left pretty much alone for a couple of years now.”

Michael kept his arms around her, listening. “Has there been nobody, Ariadne? No friends? Nobody you can talk to?”

“No. I’ve seen nobody for quite some time. And I’m not actively seeking a husband.” She turned. “I should not care if that means my son and I will have to leave here and wander the world. My mother had gypsy blood—my son’s father was a gypsy and I loved him, worthless though he was. Wandering is not an alien concept, nor is it something I’m afraid of.”

“But…”

“But I must consider Joshua first. He may not take to life on the road. He does not know what it will mean. The ostracism, the slights and slurs. He has a birthright, such as it is, here in this house. This property. It would become his should I fulfil the dictates of that dratted will. He should be permitted to claim it. He’s only six, Michael—I wish he didn’t have to learn that such hate is out there. Too innocent to understand it and too young to face it.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s with a friend of my mother’s. She has a kind heart, several children of her own, and has persuaded her husband that no harm will come to them if she includes my bastard son for the holidays. Naturally, all on the condition that I not accompany him, since her husband believes I might contaminate the more tender of her guests…” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me. I am very grateful to Beryl, since because of her Joshua will at least experience something good this Christmas. She has done what she can. I must accept my lot.”

Michael was quiet, the room fell silent, the fire barely crackled. She wondered how he would respond to her sad story. Would he understand her bitterness? Or was he even now looking for a way to excuse himself and be on his way first thing in the morning? After all, who would want an unmarried woman with a bastard son who was part-gypsy as well? The house was decaying, there were few funds to go along with it—truthfully, there was no solid incentive for him to stay.

“Ariadne.” His gaze locked with hers. “You must get some rest.” He paused. “And I must…I must do some thinking.”

Her heart sank. He was going to find a way to politely leave her, she knew. One man, one chance that he might have viewed her situation with kindness…but it looked as though even that would be denied her.

She nodded and untangled herself. “Thank you, Michael. I am sorry I woke you, but your attentions have been very welcome.” Easing her way back to her bed on legs that were shakier than they should have been, she knew he followed her. “I will be fine now. Thank you.”

Silently he tucked her in, then brushed his hand over her cheek.

He left, closing her door behind him. She wondered if that was the sound of her last hope fading away into nothing.

*~~*~~*

Michael slid back into his own bed, shivering a little as the sheets were a lot colder than a quilt and a warm armful of woman in front of a fire.

He was tired; he would like to have closed his eyes and drifted off into a restorative few hours of deep sleep. But that was not to be. He tried, but his mind was still turning over the story Ariadne had told him, and would not let it go.

He knew only too well the stigma of illegitimacy.

His mother had held their family together in spite of it, raising him with laughter and love, and hiding her sorrow from all but the most observant eyes. His father had had little to do with either of them, barely taking the time to make sure they were fed and he was educated as befits the son and heir of an estate.

There was no warmth there between husband and wife, but Michael received many affectionate caresses from his Mama. Her smiling face was always the last thing he saw at night, and that memory had never faded, even after the tragedy of her death.

She was there now, eyes lit with delight, staring at him. Her dark curls were rioting around her face as they always did, soft and springy. He recalled the many times she let him tug on them and laughed with him as they sprang back to her head.

They might easily have been gypsy curls, he mused, wondering if Ariadne’s son’s hair had the same tendency.

“Find your name.”

Michael frowned. Who had spoken? Had anyone spoken? The room was nearly pitch black, the silence profound. But he knew those words had echoed from somewhere.

“Find your name. You need to find your name.”

“I have a name,” he mumbled.

“’Tis not your rightful name.”

“So what?”

He didn’t need a name. He had chosen a perfectly good one, thank you. He was just becoming accustomed to it. Most of the time. Occasionally he stumbled, but those moments were fewer these days.

But then again, he hadn’t really spoken much to anyone for a while. Except that strange gypsy and…Ariadne.

His mother’s face appeared in his mind as he heard the command once more.

“Find your name.”

There it was again. That damned phrase that came out of nowhere to pester him. His eyebrows creased into a frown, and his hands clenched to fists. He was lost, turning in the darkness, unable to find anything familiar to tell him where he was.

And he was tired. So very, very tired.

Tired of hiding his pain, his fear. Tired of injustice and cruelty. Tired of wandering, at loose ends, not sure of where he would end up, or if he’d die alone in some remote part of a desolate forest, his departure from this life unnoticed and unmarked.

“It’s in the Vale, Michael. Go to the Vale.”

Tears stung his eyes as he recognised the sound of his mother’s voice. “Mama…” he cried.

And woke himself up.

Feeling foolish, he brushed a hand across the moisture on his cheeks. “Stupid dreams,” he muttered to himself.

The fire was all but out, so he shivered his way out from under the covers and put another couple of logs on the embers, stoking them until they caught. Once there were flames, albeit little ones, he crossed the room to the window and pulled a thick curtain to one side.

It was near dawn; the sky had already lightened a little. Snow fell, and the landscape was little but a white blanket bulging with lumps that were shrubs, and tall trees sheathed now by a heavy coating, their branches hanging low.

Another shiver reminded him that bare feet and an old nightshirt weren’t sufficient for a morning like this, so he slipped back into his bed and pulled the covers up around him as he gazed at the fire.

Ariadne.

His thoughts turned immediately to her and her situation.

The solution—on the surface—was simple. He would stay, marry Ariadne, and accept both her and Joshua as his family.

Doing so would assure them both of a secure future and give him a place he could call home.

But there was one rather big obstacle to this simple plan. He had no name to give them.

He called himself FitzDoone now. But that was a made-up word, based on the Irish phrase for nobody…duine ar bith.

His experience with families had taught him one thing for sure—if there was anything of value involved they’d go after it, no holds barred. His own family had ripped his name from him and given a title to his half-brother. His father could easily have deeded over a small portion of the estate. He’d not have missed it, and Michael would have had a home of his own.

But greed had prevailed. Liam had it all and Michael nothing.

How would Ariadne’s family take the news that she was to wed a nameless bastard? Would that fulfil the terms of the will sufficiently to keep them away? He was a gentleman, but of good birth? That would have to be decided upon and he had a horrid feeling it would not be in his favour.

One hint of his own status and they’d be there demanding the house and the land, on the grounds that he’d not qualified as an acceptable husband.

And he, Ariadne and Joshua would all be on the road.

They’d be together, of course. And that was something that Michael knew he would find most attractive and appealing.

Ariadne had touched something inside him that he thought he’d buried deep. Her beauty aside, it was more her charm, her natural ability to be herself without any kind of prevarication. Aware of who and what she was, yet refusing to apologise for any of it.

He was glad she didn’t. Her circumstances were not of her own making any more than his.

But the voice that had whispered in his dreams had it right.

He had to find his name. His birthright, if he had one. Only then would he know for sure if he had anything to offer Ariadne. If he could build them a home. If they could become a family.

He ached at the sound of the word. Both he and Ariadne had lost their families through no real fault of their own.

Could they start over? Rebuild? Would they be able to surmount the obstacles which seemed to confront him? He knew there was now a thin line separating him from starvation. Ariadne and her son were housed and fed, but all too soon she might end up standing next to him looking at that line as well.

Was finding his real father that important? According to that voice it was.

But what the hell had it meant when it directed him to go to a vale? Which vale? Where? And how could he find out?

He brooded, pulling the covers to his nose, frowning at the fire, lost in thought. His mother had been barely twenty when he was born. And if his father was indeed an English Baron, then he’d have to have been in Ireland…

No, wait. His mother had been in London.

It would have been April, and he doubted she’d stayed too long. Being Irish and Catholic in the metropolis…well, trouble always followed religion and religious fanatics.

However, he was born in January, so the timing was plausible.

Memories unfolded, stories she’d told him of dancing at an elegant ball in London. Of meeting so many fine people, of making friends, one in particular.

“It was so gay and bright, Michael”, she’d said, her lips curving into a smile. “So much music, and laughter. London can be a fine place, indeed…” she’d paused. “You weren’t born yet, so I didn’t know how happy I’d be with my fine young man. But I made so many friends. People who were kind to me when I needed it.” Her face had glowed. “I danced, my dearling. Until my feet were so tired. And still I danced. With him.”

How I miss you, Mama.

Michael closed his eyes, focussing, concentrating… him. Could that have been his father? Try as he might, he could not recall any other details except the delight on his mother’s face as she’d shared her recollections of such an exciting evening. He couldn’t recall a name or any details that might have helped. His memory was as skimpy as the diary she’d written at the time.

However, he was sure that this had to be the time she met his father. He turned his thoughts to anything he could recall in the way of other comments about that London trip. The weeks during which he would have been conceived.

But there was nothing. They’d not taken their own servants…he remembered that, because Mama had told him of the rough young maid who had pulled at her hair to make it lie down flat.

He imagined her as she might have been…a vibrant and beautiful Irish girl, hair as dark as night and eyes that could light up a room. She was slender, vivacious and laughed readily—London would have been entranced, even though she was a Catholic and wife to the flagrantly Irish O’Donnell.

Michael’s mind wandered as the day dawned and the snow fell softly outside the window. Finally he could lay abed no longer. He had an idea, a plan, but it remained to be seen whether Ariadne would agree to it. He’d just have to be his persuasive best and seduce her into it.

The mere thought of seducing her led to other thoughts which led to a potentially painful personal discomfort, so he sighed and kicked his way out of bed.

Time to start a new day. And possibly grab a chance at a new life.

Chapter Six

Ariadne went about her morning routine, dressing, checking the fires, and then hurrying down to the kitchen for a pot of tea and whatever Winnie had drummed up for breakfast.

Her body performed most of these functions without conscious thought, since her mind couldn’t shake free of the warmth she’d found in Michael’s arms.

“Yer not thinkin’, lass.” Winne took the sugar bowl off the shelf and replaced the butter dish with it.

Ariadne stared at the tray. “No, it would seem I’m not.” She sighed and slid onto the well-worn bench that fronted the ancient kitchen table. “I sleepwalked last night, Winnie. Michael found me and took me back to my room.”

Winnie paused for a moment or two, then grabbed a cloth and took the kettle off the fire, pouring hot water into the teapot. “And?”

“We talked. He’s very easy to talk to, I will say. He listens.” She took a breath. “And I told him my sad story.”

“Is he packin’ ter leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, ’til yer do, I’d not worry much. Yer can’t be anything but honest, ’tis who yer are. An’ if he’s the right man, he’ll know it. If he ain’t, then best yer find out now.”

“I agree,” she nodded. “But Winnie. You know what today is. It’s the twenty-second.”

“Oh Gawd,” she frowned. “An’ yer think that miserable lobcock is gonna want more money?”

Ariadne raised her head. “Well, he’s not having me…”

“How much we got left?”

“Barely enough to meet his demands, I’m thinking. But there’s always the hope that he’s found other prey.” She rose and paced the room, unable to remain still while her brain struggled with just about everything. “It wasn’t supposed to go on, Winnie. But I don’t know how to stop him. You know the estate refuses to give us a penny more than we’re entitled to by law.” She faced the older woman. “And it’s not enough to live on, let alone pay him off.”

The kitchen door squeaked as Rodney peered around it at the two of them. “‘E’s up.”

Ariadne took a breath. “Very well.” She moved to the tray.

“Stop, gel. Yer get yerself to the parlour and put a log on the fire. Let Rodney bring up the tray. ’Tis proper.”

Winnie was right, as usual. Ariadne smiled weakly. “As you say. I must be proper.”

She turned and hurried from the kitchen, hoping to reach the parlour before her guest, wondering if he’d appear in his cloak, ready to leave.

Fortunately, the room was empty. There was time to put a couple of logs on the fire and push the heavy curtains aside enough to let in the winter light. It was still snowing, but gently now, the worst of the storm having passed. In a few hours it would stop, she knew. A thought crossed her mind that perhaps he’d be unable to leave today. Where would he be able to go until the snow melted a bit?

Cheered by that thought as much as the consequent thought that perhaps others couldn’t reach her until the snow melted a bit either, Ariadne whisked around the room, tidying it a little, and poking the logs into a nice blaze.

Michael walked in, a smile on his face as he moved to the fire. He wasn’t wearing his cloak. “Good morning. You look…rested.”

She dipped her head, hiding her relief. “Thank you, sir. For the compliment and for your kind help last night.”

He held up a hand. “No, no thanks. We helped each other, I think. As friends should in time of need.”

“Friends.” She spoke the word quietly. “It’s been so long. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have a friend.”

He came to her side, took her hand and dropped a quick kiss on the back of it. “Then it will be my pleasure to refresh your memory.” He drew her to the table and they sat as Rodney entered with the tray.

“Tea, Ma’am. Food’ll be up shortly.”

“I confess that there’s little better than that first cup of tea,” grinned Michael. “Please. Pour one for me immediately lest I faint from the wanting of it.”

“You’re full of jests this morning,” she commented, obediently pouring him tea.

“I slept in a bed,” he answered calmly. “I had warm feet, a clean body and food in my belly. My horse is stabled and the snow fell on the roof, not me. All those things may seem unimportant to some, but to me they are beyond precious.”

Rodney bowed and left the room.

“Plus, I held a wonderful lady who honoured me with her confidences in the warmth of a chair that cocooned us both. It was one of the finest nights I’ve had in more years than I can recall.” He chuckled. “You might not realise it, Ariadne, but you’ve given me the first Christmas gift I can remember since my mother died.”

Tears rose to sting her eyes as his words touched her heart and she busied herself with milk and tea. “You are very kind, Michael. And in truth I could say much the same.” Risking a glance at him, she saw his eyes, green flames in the flickering firelight. “’Tis the first time I’ve been helped through a bad night by a pair of comforting arms. I must tell you how pleasant it was.”

She felt the colour rise in her cheeks, but kept her gaze steady. “I trust my revelations have not given you a distaste for my company.”

He sipped his tea, swallowed and put the cup back on the saucer. “My dear Ariadne. It would take a great deal more than our conversation last night to have such a result.” He paused, tilting his head to one side as he watched her. “In fact, I can’t think of anything that would give me a distaste for your company. Truly.”

She laughed, something vibrant coming alive within her. Perhaps it was his answering smile, or the knowledge that for a little while at least, she was not completely alone.

“I’m glad to hear it, Michael. Most glad.”

Rodney chose that moment to return with another tray, bearing several small covered dishes.

“Thank you,” she said as he put the tray on one side of their table. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Rodney, bowing himself out.

“He doesn’t talk very much, does he?”

“No, but he and his wife have taken good care of me, so I don’t complain.” She lifted the lids and grimaced. “Although you probably will when you see our meagre fare.”

There was toast, naturally. Winnie would have baked a loaf either last night or this morning. And butter to go with it, thanks to one of their two remaining cows. But after that…well, what eggs they had were scrambled, with some herbs and seasonings. No bacon or ham, since there hadn’t been a pig in the sty for almost a year.

Ashamed, she turned to Michael. “I…”

“Once again, Ariadne, stop.” He helped himself to toast. “Please remember I’ve wandered far and wide for so long that sitting down to breakfast with you, a real breakfast like this, is as if I’ve been invited to dine at Carlton House.”

She huffed out a laugh. “I doubt His Royal Highness would be much impressed with such a minimal offering.”

“From what I’ve heard, he’d be a damn sight better off with meals this size, rather than the Herculean feasts that are apparently part of his everyday routine.”

He adroitly turned the conversation into such things, making her laugh at some of his stories about the goings-on of the elite aristocracy, and the absurd rumours he’d heard about the Prince Regent himself. A bottle of brandy for breakfast? Every morning? She found that hard to believe.

An hour passed so quickly, she was unaware of it, and when finally the teapot was empty, she sighed, wondering if she should ask for another one.

Then sat bolt upright as a loud bang on the front door startled both of them.

*~~*~~*

Michael saw the colour drain from her cheeks at the sound. Since he knew the knocker was off, it had to be a fist that made such a racket.

When Ariadne rose and he saw the muscles of her cheeks quiver as she clenched her teeth, a shiver of something protective shook Michael and he stood as well, moving to her side. “Who is it?”

“Oh, ’tis…’tis nobody, Michael. Nobody at all.”

He reached down and took her hand. “Ariadne. You’re lying. Whoever it is has made you afraid. I can feel it. Sense it.” He squeezed her fingers. “I am here. You are not alone.”

“You can’t…you shouldn’t…”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence, since the door burst open and a large man strode in, with Rodney right behind him.

“I tried, Ma’am,” he said, his voice shaky.

“Stupid idiot. Leave us.” The man stared at Michael. “Who the hell are you?”

And those words were enough to bring Michael to attention, his spine straightening, and all the O’Donnell pride flooding his bones. He looked down his nose at this…this intruder.

His clothes were of fine cloth, but could not hide the character, which Michael judged immediately. The man was a bully, a fierce and uncouth lout who would take what he wanted from those unable to stand up to him.

“I am a guest in this house. You, sir, are not, and I do not recall you being invited to join us.” The ice-cold tones made Ariadne shift a little and try to withdraw her hand.

Michael held it tightly.

“A guest are you? A likely story. I am Martin Graymore. Of the Frome Graymores. Mrs Wilton is expecting me.” He grinned, an ugly expression that made Michael’s teeth clench with a need to wipe it off his face. With his fist. “And finding you here is fortunate.” He glanced at Ariadne. “It’ll cost you more from now on.”

“I’ve never heard of the Graymores.” With that cutting phrase, he turned to Ariadne. “Were you expecting this man, my dear?”

She blinked. Then her chin rose. “He has formed the habit of arriving unannounced, I’m afraid. No matter how much I suggest otherwise.”

“Has he indeed.” Michael pinned the other man with his gaze once more. “Then he must be persuaded to mend his ways, I believe.” He too lifted his chin. “And your business with my wife?”

The silence in the room was so thick, Michael wondered if any of them would be able to breathe after a minute or so.

“Your wife?” Graymore choked out the words, as if he was strangling himself by uttering them.

“I believe you heard me correctly.”

“You’re married to her?” He pointed at Ariadne.

“I see no other lady present,” remarked Michael.

“Lady? Lady?” scoffed Graymore. “You’re sadly mistaken if you think she’s a lady. She’s no better than a…”

Whatever unwise word was about to issue from his mouth was soundly stopped by a sharp, strong punch.

“Oh well done, Michael, well done.” Ariadne, far from being shocked at this display of fisticuffs in her parlour, applauded. “I’ve wanted to do that for a couple of years now.”

Michael turned. “He’s been bothering you that long?”

She nodded. “He introduced himself as a neighbour willing to help. Then he heard the rumours about me. From then on, it was either sleep with him, marry him and sign over the property to him, or pay him to keep him quiet. He made all sorts of threats.” Her hand shook a little. “Some against Joshua. Against my son. Once he tried…he tried…”

“He tried what, love?” The word slipped out without Michael realising it, since his temper had risen even higher with Ariadne’s words.

“Well, you can imagine. I was alone that morning. Fortunately Rodney arrived just in time. From then on I made sure I was never alone when he visited. The money seems to have kept his mouth shut, I will admit, but it has been a burden.”

“Lies, all lies. She’s a loose-moralled slut. And if you’ve married her…well, I dunno what to think of you,” spat Graymore through the gap Michael’s fist had knocked in his front teeth. “Ask her how many have had her before you. And she’ll play you for a fool, mark my words. As if I’d soil myself with dirt like her.”

Michael released Ariadne’s hand. “Will you excuse me for a moment, my dear?”

He walked to the door and opened it. “Rodney, you’re needed in the hall.” His shout echoed through the house.

Then he turned back, grabbed Graymore by the scruff of the neck, and ignoring his protests and struggles, all but dragged him out of the parlour, through the hall and out the front door onto the step.

Where, just to be completely thorough about things and make sure he was fully understood, he punched the man again. Hard. Several times.

“If you come back here, there’ll be more where that came from. Much more.” He looked down at the writhing man at his feet, now wearing a copious amount of his own blood. “And you won’t get off so easily next time.”

“You bwoke my nothe…” Graymore struggled for a handkerchief to stem the flow.

“I’d like to think so, yes. Vermin like you deserve no less. In fact, I think I shall have to drop a word in the ear of a good friend of mine. I don’t like to mention his name, but sometimes he travels through the countryside because that’s his job. He’s the Lord Lieutenant of this county and I hear he’s not friendly to those who attempt any kind of blackmail or extortion.”

“I…no…” Graymore gained his feet, slipping a little in the snow, but backing away just the same. “I won’t be around again then.”

“Most wise.” Michael carefully flicked a bit of dust from his jacket. “I’m sure you have other prey. I pity them and hope perhaps some of them might take a stand against you. But even if they do, I won’t hear about it, since you won’t be returning here. Ever.” He stepped forward, enjoying the fact that Graymore immediately stepped back. “Will you.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. Nothing for me here.”

“Well, I’m glad we finally agree on something. I believe Rodney has your hat. Good day to you.”

And with that final cutting remark, Michael turned his back on Graymore and walked into the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

Chapter Seven

Her heart thundered as Michael walked back into the parlour, a satisfied look on his face even as he massaged his hand. She didn’t know what to say, what to do, how to react to everything that had just happened.

So she dropped into a chair, rested her arms on the table—and then laid her head down on top of them.

“Dear God.”

Michael chuckled. “I must apologise. Punching a man in a lady’s parlour is not acceptable behaviour. Especially at this hour of the morning.”

She looked up. “On the contrary, I found it wonderfully, perfectly acceptable. But you are so flippant. You just eliminated one of my biggest worries. That man has been a painful thorn in my side for far too long.” She shuddered. “Yet I was helpless, and it was so frustrating but...because…”

“Because of Joshua,” he answered before she could speak the words.

“Yes,” she sighed. “He’s a child. He’s everywhere and very adventurous. I try to keep an eye on him but he’s fast, curious and fearless. And he's all I have. I would have paid my last farthing to keep him safe.”

“He’s a boy,” said Michael. “I was one once. And yes, I completely understand.” He walked to her and gently rested his uninjured hand on her shoulder. “I hope this takes care of the problem, Ariadne. Graymore will think twice now before bothering you again.”

She nodded, and sat up, then hissed as she saw his hand. “Lord above. That must hurt. Sit down.” She all but pushed him back down into a chair at the table. “Here. Finish your tea.”

Grabbing a plate, she hurried from the room, opening the front door and dipping it into the snow. It was her first reaction and probably a good one, since the icy cold would stop the worst of the swelling.

Silly man. He’d taken a risk punching Graymore. But he seemed to know what he was doing.

Returning with her bowl of snow, Ariadne took Michael’s hand firmly in hers and thrust it into the ice-cold pile.

“Yowwwww…” Michael hissed out a muted howl. “That’s cold, dammit…”

“Oh hush. I don’t want your hand swelling any more than necessary. I have no ice, but plenty of snow.”

“Yes, but…”

“Just keep your hand there for a minute or two and don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not,” he pouted, peeking up at her from beneath those fierce eyebrows. “I can see I have myself quite a nagging wife.”

Ariadne’s knees promptly gave out and she plopped into her chair with a choked sort of gasp, blinking at him and trying to clear whatever was obstructing her throat.

“So.” Michael was grinning at her as if he sensed her difficulties. “About that comment…”

She coughed. “What on earth possessed you to say such a thing, Michael?”

“I’m not sure, to tell the truth.” He sounded puzzled. “It just seemed to slip out. I barely even thought about it, because it was so natural.”

“But you’ve only just met me.” She tried to understand.

He smiled. “That is irrelevant. Haven’t you ever met someone and just known, right down to the soles of your shoes, that you were destined to be friends? To have some kind of special relationship with this person?”

She shook her head. “No. Not until…”

“Until?” he prompted.

“Well, I can’t be sure, of course…”

“Of course.”

“Until…” She cleared her throat again.

“You seem to be coughing a lot, my dear. Perhaps more tea?”

She gritted her teeth. “All right. Until I saw you yesterday in my doorway.”

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His smile was pure innocence and had it not been for the wicked gleam in his beautifully distracting eyes, she’d have taken him for the complete and total gentleman.

“You’re a wicked wretch,” she surrounded with a laugh. “And I admire the power of your punches. Thank you, Michael. For myself and for Joshua. We’re in your debt.”

He gazed at her. “As I am in yours. So I suggest we remove any idea of debt from both our thoughts and focus on what we’re to do next.”

She nodded, trying not to respond to the shimmer of warmth she felt when he spoke of “we”. As if they were now working together. And oh, wouldn’t that be the most wonderful thing? Hesitantly she glanced at his face. “I’m not sure what to advise.”

Michael took a few moments to remove his hand from the snow, dry it off with a napkin from the breakfast tray, and flex his fingers.

“Good as new.” He winced. “Well, almost. I think the cold did the job.”

“Or you’re a fast healer…”

“I’ll bruise, for certain,” he said, frowning. “But there’s no serious damage. I’m happy to think Graymore will suffer from that lost tooth and broken nose a lot more than I will from a couple of bruises.”

“True,” she nodded.

Silence fell for a moment or two, then Michael looked up. “Ariadne, may I ask what might sound like an absurd question?”

“Most certainly,” she answered immediately. “But I cannot imagine what I might consider absurd…”

“Do you believe that there are matters in this world beyond our understanding?”

She swallowed and met his gaze. “Yes.”

His eyes never left hers. “On a personal level, have you experience of such things?”

She took a breath before answering. “Yes.”

“Not just sleepwalking…”

“No, not just sleepwalking.” She shifted and looked away. “I have gypsy blood, Michael. I was not raised to ignore things like instincts or senses. My mama taught me that such things were not only part and parcel of our lives but important, and I should never ignore them. There are many beliefs and ideas that might seem strange to one raised in London, for example.”

“But you have experienced something that might be called…unusual.”

“Oh yes,” she chuckled. “I have indeed.” After a moment or two, she had to ask. “Why these questions? Might I assume you are or have been experiencing something that might be described—to use your word—unusual?”

“My mother spoke to me.” He turned his head to the fire, away from her gaze. “I should put it down to exhaustion, or being almost asleep, or even dreaming. But it wasn’t any of those things.” He turned back. “I heard her voice. Clear as day.”

Ariadne considered his words. “Do you know where she was from? Was there anything about her that might lead you to believe she possessed some kind of gift?”

“Well, she was Irish. Hair of ebony and eyes…”

“Green, like yours?”

He nodded. “Yes.” He paused, his throat moving as he swallowed. “Yes, I have her eyes.”

She chose her words carefully. “There are many who believe that the Irish, as a nation, have a greater ability to sense other worlds…matters that exist on another level. The fae, for instance. Sidhe. Many are still convinced of their existence, especially in Ireland, where sithens, or faerie mounds are supposed to be everywhere.”

“That’s very true. I heard some of them when I was a boy, but my father forbade discussion of such things in our house. He felt it was beneath the dignity of anyone with an iota of intelligence to believe in such drivel.” Michael shook his head. “His words, not mine. My mother was the one who believed in the magic of butterflies and heard whispers in the rustling of leaves.” He smiled.

“Your mother passed her sensitivity to you, I’m thinking. And your father sounds like…a man of narrow views, shall we say?”

“Very.”

Ariadne let it rest. There was little to be gained by reviving old and unpleasant memories for him. “So, if I may be so bold, what did your Mama have to say when she spoke to you?”

“Not enough, dammit.” He frowned. “She told me to find my name. Those were her exact words. Find your name.”

“Hmm.” Ariadne pondered that piece of information. “Logic would say she wants you to find your real father? Would that be a possibility?”

He nodded. “Yes, and that was my first thought as well. So thank you for endorsing my notion. I suppose it’s not that far-fetched, but other than a few more cryptic words, she gave me no idea as to who he might be.”

“What else did she say?”

“She told me to go to the vale. That the answer was in the vale.”

“What vale?”

Michael widened his eyes and spread his hands helplessly. “I haven’t a damn clue.”

*~~*~~*

“I believe we might need some help,” said Ariadne, rising to her feet.

Michael watched her walk to the door, open it and call a name he couldn’t quite catch. He felt a little foolish, having confided his experiences to her—after all, he was a rational man who prided himself on logical thought in spite of his acknowledged heightened senses. And here he was, having strange visions in a tent and hearing his mother’s voice after so many years.

Perhaps this was all a delusion and he was lying unconscious somewhere under a hedgerow in a snowbank, ready to die.

Ariadne walked back to him, a soft smile on her face.

If angels look like this, then I’m quite ready to go.

“Winnie will have some suggestions, I’m sure.”

“Winnie?”

“Rodney’s wife. The two of them came with me when I moved in here. You’ve met Rodney. They’ve been the only grandparents Joshua has ever known. And honestly? I couldn’t have asked for better.” She turned as the door opened. “And here’s Winnie now.”

Michael blinked, then stood. “Good God. You…”

Grinning at him was a small elderly woman. Without her fancy scarf and coin headdress, she resembled the servant she apparently was, but there was no doubt in his mind.

She was the gypsy in the tent.

“Aye, ’tis me, lad. Yer can close yer mouth because I’ll not deny it.”

“I…but…uh…”

“Not much of a talker, then, is ‘e?” Winnie glanced at Ariadne.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, give him a chance to recover from the shock.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at Winnie. “After all, the last time he saw you, you were a gypsy at the fair.”

“Yes, well then. He’d best deal with it, lest yer both waste an entire mornin’ waitin’ fer ‘im ter get ‘is voice back.”

“You showed me her.” Michael struggled, pointing at Ariadne. “You knew, all along.”

“Well o’course I did, yer great lackwit. D’yer think I’d ‘ave shown ‘er to anyone else? I knew yer was the one, the minute I saw yer.”

“The one? The one what?”

“The one what might be able ter ‘elp. An’ yer did. Smackin’ that Graymore a good one.” She chuckled, although it was a little more like a cackle, which Michael found a bit unsettling. “That was good to ‘ear, an’ long overdue.”

“Be that as it may,” said Ariadne firmly, “we need your advice, Winnie.”

The old woman folded herself into a chair and stared at the two of them. “Get on with it, then.”

Ariadne told her of Michael’s experience and repeated what his mother’s voice had told him.

He waited, watching, wondering if he’d strayed into some kind of asylum. “Do you think I’m losing my mind?” He had to ask, even though he had directed the question to a pretend gypsy-witch-servant. Perhaps that, in and of itself, answered it, but at this point he was ready to accept pretty much anything.

Had she sprouted wings and flittered about the parlour, he’d only have been mildly surprised.

“Nay, yer sane, lad. As sane as the rest of us.” She scratched one ear. “Which ain’t sayin’ much, I s’pose, but there ’tis.”

“So you believe me then? That I heard my mother’s voice?”

“O’ course I do.” Winnie’s eyes widened. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Michael’s mouth opened and shut. He couldn't come up with anything in response.

She turned to Ariadne. “I think we needs to look into the ball…”

Ariadne’s eyes opened wide. “Really?”

“Can’t think of anythin’ else at this point, lass, can yer?”

“No,” answered Ariadne, shaking her head. “No, I can’t.”

“Right then. I’ll get it.” Winnie pushed out of the chair and trotted off, leaving Michael lost and confused. He turned to Ariadne, knowing his face asked the question that trembled on his lips.

“It’s a special…um…” She searched for the right word. “Well, it’s a crystal ball, but that doesn’t do it justice.”

Michael smiled wryly. “Hmmm. If Winnie takes it with her to local fairs, then I know the one you mean.”

She reached out and covered his hand with hers, her warmth soaking through his skin and spreading over the rest of him. “You’re a good man, Michael. You have a sound heart and a trusting soul. And you want to help where you can, in spite of everything. Who you are, this deep-seated goodness if you will, makes it easier for you to accept that there are things in life we may never understand. And exist they do.”

“Maybe it’s faith…” he said, hesitant to voice such matters. “Faith in justice, in the ability of right to triumph over wrong…”

“Those are good things to believe in.”

He turned his hand over and grasped hers. “I believe in other things too.”

“And I’m glad to hear it,” she smiled back, squeezing his fingers. Then she withdrew as Winnie returned bearing a small bundle wrapped in dark blue wool.

She came to the table and Michael watched in fascination as she unwrapped the parcel, knowing what he would see inside.

“It’s…” He leaned over, moving this way and that to see the details. “It’s extraordinary…even though I've seen it before, it's still extraordinary.”

“Aye, lad, ‘tis indeed,” replied Winnie. “A work of art, some say.”

“I can see that,” he muttered. “It’s incredible…” He stared into it, and as he did, he found himself gripping the table lest he fall through and vanish into the mysteriously cloudy center that he could barely see forming inside it.

“’Tis a powerful piece, lad,” said Winnie. “One yer’ll not see agin in yer lifetime.” She spoke with reverence and respect.

“I can well believe it,” said Michael, understanding the emotion these women showed for such a unique and stunning piece.

“Well, let’s ’ave at it, then,” said Winnie.

She and Ariadne sat across from Michael and he willingly accepted the hands stretched toward him as they formed a circle around the crystal.

The room fell silent, even the fire simmering quietly in the hearth.

Michael felt something—a tingle, as if lightning was dancing gently over his skin. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and this time the ball began to glow a little, just a faint light, but enough to be noticeable.

Winnie and Ariadne had their eyes fixed on the crystal, and for long moments all three stayed thus, held together over the light.

He couldn’t help gazing with them, seeing movements, shapes—and then, to his shock, a massive warship flying the flag of the British Navy.

He gasped, the women sighed as one, and the vision vanished.

Ariadne’s chest rose as she sucked in a breath of air. “That’s it then.”

“A ship?”

“What?”

“I saw a ship. A big one. At least a hundred guns by the look of her…”

Winnie blinked at him. “Well. ‘Ow nice fer yer, then. Liked to play with boats when yer was a sprout, did yer? Or mebbe yer wanted ter join the Navy?”

“No, I…”

“Winnie hush.” Ariadne turned to Michael. “We must go south by southwest to find the vale.”

He shook his head, completely lost. “I don’t understand.”

“I saw a compass, Michael,” she answered.

“As did I, lad,” added Winnie. “South by southwest it were pointin’.” Her lips curled into a grin. “Mebbe it was the way yer ship were sailin’?”

Michael knew when he was beaten and threw up his hands, surrendering with a smile of his own. “South by southwest it is.”

Chapter Eight

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Michael asked Ariadne once again, for what seemed like at least the fourth time.

She continued to pack a small bag, adding some odds and ends from the parlour. A book, a pair of gloves from the sideboard…things she might need for their journey.

Sighing, she looked up at him. “Yes, Michael, I’m sure. Yes, we will have to travel as a married couple. I have no maid, since as you pointed out, Winnie and Rodney must be here to protect this house.” She sighed. “At least Joshua won’t be home until the New Year.”

“That should give us time to find this vale.” Michael glanced out of the window. “The horses should be here soon.”

Ariadne nodded. Winnie had called in a favour from a neighbouring farm—the loan of two horses as payment for some honeyed mead she’d put up a few weeks before. It had helped ease the farmer’s cough and his family was most grateful. At the moment, given the weather, they had two of their horses eating their heads off in the barn, so it was an equitable arrangement all around.

“It will be all right.” She said the words as much to reassure herself as to soothe Michael. He was worried, she knew. This journey could lead nowhere, and might end in worsening both their situations. Were she to be discovered rooming with a man not her husband…what little of her reputation she had left would vanish.

But then again, did that really matter? A tiny piece of her mind whispered that he would not let that happen; but she’d learned long ago that those whispers most often lied.

So she held her peace, determined to accompany him on this odd search, since she knew the area a little and could at least find the right roads that would lead them south and west.

He’d tried to talk her out of it, but something drove her to insist. The notion of watching him ride away alone…no. Every instinct she had rose up and battered her into raising her chin and announcing there would be no discussion.

And in truth, she felt his disinclination to leave her there alone, but for her two faithful servants. They would protect her to the limits of their abilities, but they were no match for someone as brutish as Graymore—and should he decide to return, with companions…

“They’re here.”

Michael gathered his own small bag and slipped into his thick coat. It was worn now, she’d noticed, a few tears and holes here and there. His cloak was even worse. Between them, they certainly wouldn’t be mistaken for wealthy travellers. She chuckled to herself as she wrapped up warmly in her old muffler and mittens, pulling her bonnet snugly over her ears and tying it tight with a ribbon that had seen better days.

“Let’s be off then.”

They walked together to the front step where Rodney held the mounts, and Winnie stood watching, her hands twisting in her apron, betraying her concern.

“Yer takes care of ‘er now, yer hear?” She stared at Michael.

“I will, Winnie.” He laid his hand on hers, smiling at her. “You can rest assured of that.”

The old woman nodded. “’Tis a good man, yer are, lad.” She turned to Ariadne. “Listen ter ‘im, now, girl. None ‘o yer whims and notions.”

“Oh Winnie,” she answered, going to her and hugging her tightly. “It will be all right. I promise we’ll both be careful. And we’ll be back before you know it.”

Michael fastened the bags and stood by one of the horses, waiting for Ariadne. “Ready?”

She nodded and let Winnie step back. “Yes. As I’ll ever be.” She took a breath and let him toss her up into the saddle. It had been a while since she’d ridden, so between setting her leg over the ladies’ saddle pommel and getting comfortable, a few moments passed before she was at ease.

Michael was already up and mounted beside her. “Which way?” he asked, his breath puffing out tiny clouds into the cold morning air.

She pointed with her crop. “To the future. That way…” And so, with only a quick backward look and a brief wave, the couple set off down the lane, and away from everything Ariadne held dear.

It was a wrenching moment, but then the sun slipped free of the clouds and as if to reassure her, a beam of bright light illuminated the way.

“A good omen, I think…” Michael glanced at her.

She smiled back. “I’d like to think so too, yes.”

They kept a fair pace for the first couple of miles, the road before them showing signs of travel. There were plenty of hoof prints once they found themselves on larger roads; the going was faster, and it took only a few hours to find themselves quite a distance south from their original starting point.

“Should we see if we can find out where we are?” Ariadne asked, as they briefly paused at a crossroads sign.

“Well,” Michael looked at the sky, “we still have a few hours of daylight left, providing the weather holds.” He shrugged as he observed the signpost. “We seem to have a choice between the road to Murrayfield, Sherrifield, Fallow’s Mere or back the way we’ve just come.” He looked over at her with a smile. “Any preferences? Should we toss a coin?”

She took a breath, looked at the signpost and then at the roads down which they could proceed. “Sherrifield.”

Michael blinked. “Well. That was a firm statement. Any particular reason?”

“The road. It’s clearly better travelled, which makes me think it leads somewhere people want to go.” She kept her voice level.

“Logical. Yes, I’ll agree. Sherrifield it is.”

They turned their horses toward their destination, and a touch of rightness drifted over her shoulders. She couldn’t tell Michael that her decision hadn’t only been logical; but it had also been made with the input of senses she couldn’t describe but knew wouldn’t let her down.

How did she describe some of the gifts her gypsy heritage had bestowed upon her? The moments of clarity when things seemed to fall into place like well-oiled gears?

Then again, such things were balanced against the moments of passion, of madness, when her emotions rose to their full power and turned her feet onto a course guided by desires rather than logic. And they had led her into trouble quite a few times.

But they had also given her Joshua, a prize she’d never ever regret.

Nothing, it would seem, came without a price. It always remained to be determined what the eventual cost would be.

Her mind turned over these thoughts as she rode quietly beside Michael. He too seemed immersed in his own cogitations, but the silence between them was one of mutual companionship.

Neither felt the urge to chat, but she sensed that he was taking this time to evaluate, assess and perhaps sketch some plans as they rode on. It was quite intriguing, this awareness, the immediate rapport she’d discovered with this man.

A total stranger—and yet there was some sort of underlying familiarity. As if they’d known each other somewhere, or perhaps some when.

She shook her head at her fanciful thoughts, watching the sky show the first signs of the approaching sunset. She was tired, her backside was getting sore and she could use a meal, if their meagre source of funding would stretch that far.

They’d pooled their coins, and Michael believed it would be enough for perhaps two or three nights at a small country inn if they could find one. Rubbing a hand over her tired eyes, she blinked at the sight of soft curls of smoke in the distance.

As if her thoughts matched his, he looked at her. “I see signs of life. Perhaps it’s Sherrifield?”

She nodded. “And most welcome.”

“It’s been a long day. Let’s hope we can find a room, and a meal.” He urged his horse to a trot.

She followed, and within moments they rounded a bend to find themselves on the outskirts of what must be the village. There were a few houses, a tiny shop, and—best of all—a small sign indicating “The Sherrifield Arms” hanging in front of a larger building at the end of the street.

“I believe we have reached our destination,” said Michael, a note of thankfulness in his voice.

She simply nodded and straightened, hoping there might be some hot water involved as well. She felt grubby, tired and very ready to call a halt to their journey.

Allowing him to ease her from the saddle, she dared lean against him for a few moments while her legs straightened themselves out.

“All right?” he asked, his arms tightening around her waist.

Wearily, she fought to straighten her spine. “Tired, but all right.”

“That’s my girl.” He hugged her and then let her go, tying their horses to the post. “Let’s see if there’s a room to be had for the night.”

Ariadne offered a silent prayer as she followed him into the warmth of the inn. She wasn’t sure if her backside could take another hour in that damn saddle.

*~~*~~*

They had a room.

Michael’s spirits lifted as he saw a genuine smile of relief cross Ariadne’s face when the landlord gave them the key. It was a small inn, and only one room was available, but they were assured it was a good size and would suit them well.

He didn’t volunteer the information that they’d have been quite happy with some straw in the cellar, since they both maintained the appearance of a weary but decent couple halting their journey for a night. A young lad followed them with Ariadne’s bags and promised hot water as he put them down next to the bed.

Michael found a coin in his pocket and slipped it into the grateful lad’s hand. It wasn’t much, but they wouldn’t be expected to have a lot of money on their persons, anyway. Not in a place like this.

The furniture was sturdy, the bed firm and the linens clean. There was no sign of luxury or elegant trappings, just the basics.

Which, to judge by Ariadne’s face, was absolutely perfect.

“I cannot pretend to be other than tired,” she groaned, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s been far too long since I spent that much time in the saddle.”

“Are you all right?” Concerned, Michael crossed the room in two strides and rested a hand on her shoulder. “We should have stopped earlier,” he said, kicking himself for not realising what a strain their ride would be.

She waved his sympathy aside. “I’m perfectly well. Just sore and stiff. Nothing that won’t pass after a night’s sleep.” She glanced up at him. “And food wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Agreed.”

“Michael,” she said tentatively. “This is awkward, but you well know I have some money with me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand, stopping the words before they came. “Please. Let me finish. We are both sharing this trip and I chose to accompany you. We have pooled our resources, limited as they are, and I know we must not over-extend ourselves. But please use it?”

He sighed, understanding the logic, knowing she was right, and hating it all the same. “I cannot argue, Ariadne, much as I would like to. We’ve been bluntly honest with each other about our circumstances, so I find myself forced to agree, although I do so with a certain level of discomfort.”

“Duly noted,” she grinned. “I trust you can overcome that discomfort enough to obtain a tray of food for us, perhaps? Denying ourselves tonight in case we need money for the morrow…it is a noble thought, but I’m not convinced it’s a wise one.”

A knock on the door followed her statement, and Michael moved to answer it, finding a maid outside with a large jug of steaming water.

He beckoned her inside as he glanced at Ariadne. “Very well, my dear, I shall endeavour to do just that while you refresh yourself. Will ale be acceptable?”

“Indeed, yes,” Ariadne nodded, rising to help the maid pour the hot water into the ewer. “And I’ll leave you some water. So don’t linger or it will grow cool.”

He left with a nod, heading back downstairs, hoping he could wrestle a tray of something from the innkeeper, since he knew neither he nor Ariane would care to come downstairs for their meal. They were just too damn tired.

There was a pleasant bustle now, regulars greeting each other, the hearty mumble of conversations, and the scent of ale mingling with the smoke issuing from several pipes and the fireplace at the back of the room. Michael found it all very relaxing; even the distinct aroma of drying wool as several men availed themselves of the roaring fire and stood toasting their arses and drying their trousers at the same time.

This was the heart and soul of the countryside; these men farmed, raised the food so many depended upon, and stood together in times of trouble.

Now, as Michael realised when he saw the odd bits of greenery, they were sharing a celebration of the season. Their families would meet in church on Christmas morning, of course, but each would have their own particular way of enjoying this time of year.

As he made his way to the tap, Michael wondered if Ariadne had any special Christmas traditions. He must remember to ask her.

The innkeeper was glad to oblige a request for a tray of whatever was handy and simply relayed the information to a young lass behind him. “Tell yer mum, then, Susie.”

“Aye, Da,” and she was off.

The innkeeper turned back to Michael. “Yer’ll ‘ave yer tray in no time, sir,” he smiled, showing the large gap where several teeth used to be. Then he paused. “By St. Polycarp, yer looks familiar, sir.” He frowned as he stared at Michael. “No offence meant…”

“None taken,” said Michael, his instincts on alert at the man’s words. “Any idea who I might resemble?” He kept his words light and a slight smile on his face. “The spirit of Christmas, perhaps?”

The innkeeper laughed, a rich sound that drew smiles from those around him. “Nay, lad. ‘E’s much too busy ter stop in ‘ere tonight, I reckon…”

Michael laughed with them, enjoying the simple humour and evident camaraderie.

“Check on your horses.”

“What?” Michael turned at the words—only to find nobody behind him

He frowned a little, but the thought took hold in his mind that he should indeed make sure the horses were well set for the night. In the thrill of actually getting a room for the night, he’d forgotten about them. After all, without them it would be a damned hard walk, especially when they weren’t even sure of their destination.

So he told the innkeeper he’d be at the stables for a moment or two and then back to collect his tray.

The man nodded as Michael walked out into the cold air, still a little unsettled at the command from nowhere. Had he overheard someone saying it to someone else? That must be it. It wasn’t unusual for a single phrase to be heard over the noise of general conversations.

Satisfied that the stables were snug enough against the bitter winds and that fresh hay was plentiful, he turned to leave, noticing another groom leading a horse out. He didn’t envy anyone riding this night, but perhaps it was only a short journey.

He nodded to the groom.

Who nodded back, and then froze, his mouth agape, his eyes wide. “My Lord, forgive me. I’d no idea you were here…”

“Uhh…” Michael blinked. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, lad.”

The groom peered at him as he walked a little closer. “By God, yes. I beg your pardon, sir. You got the wrong eyes.”

“Well, far be it from me to disagree, but the ones I have work quite well.”

“No, I meant the colour, sir. Yours are green. His are brown.”

“His? His who?”

“Why the man you’re the spitting image of. Two peas in a pod couldn’t be more like if they tried.”

“What man?” Michael managed not to yell.

“Baron Ridlington, sir. Him as what lives in Ridlington Vale.”

Chapter Nine

“Ridlington? Baron Ridlington?” Ariadne’s eyes widened in shock at Michael’s announcement.

He nodded. “That’s what the man said.”

“Have you ever heard of him?”

“Not a whisper. It came right out of the blue.” He took a gulp of the ale from one of the tankards on the tray between them.

Ariadne had taken shameless advantage of the hot water and not only cleaned herself but had slipped into her old warm nightgown. She was already tucked under the covers when Michael arrived back with the tray and his exciting news.

They’d put the tray on the bed and were sharing the meal along with a discussion of the unusual developments.

Tearing off a piece of warm bread, Ariadne frowned. “He must be a person of some distinction, for the groom to have thought you were him.”

“Thank you,” said Michael, raising one eyebrow. “I think.”

She shook her head and swallowed. “What I meant was that there must be something distinctive that you both share. Did he happen to mention any similarities? Or what made him mistake you for this Baron?”

“Other than the fact that my eyes were green and his are brown, there was nothing. He was on his way out, I was on my way in.” Michael munched a piece of cheese.

Ariadne rolled her eyes. “At least tell me you asked where Ridlington Vale is…”

He met her glare with a smug grin. “About two hours ride east.”

“Oh, thank Heavens.” She flopped back against the pillow. “Now we have a destination. I will confess I feel much better knowing we have one, because wandering aimlessly over the countryside in the winter isn’t the most pleasant of experiences.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for it.” He looked penitent.

Her conscience twinged. “Please don’t apologise. I insisted on coming with you, after all.”

Michael took another swig from his tankard, then looked at her over the rim. “Why?”

“Why what?”

His green gaze fastened on her face. “You could have let me leave alone, Ariadne. There were a dozen reasons for you to stay, and not nearly as many supporting the notion of you coming with me. The matter of our not being related in any way is scandalous enough to keep most women securely at their own firesides…”

Since there’d been a small pot of tea on the tray, Ariadne took the time to pour herself a cup while she considered her answer. With food in her belly, a warm bed and a cup of tea, she was experiencing an unusual degree of relaxation. But she didn’t want it to make her careless in her words to Michael. She couldn’t let him know of the feelings for him she was doing her best to keep hidden.

“I suppose the obvious answer is that I didn’t want to stay by myself. And you yourself mentioned the trouble that might arise should Graymore return.”

“An easy answer, and yes, I wanted you with me. But I’d like to know your reasons,” said Michael, one of his thick eyebrows lifting in challenge.

“You’re right. Yes, it is the easy answer. But a valid one, nonetheless.” She sipped, thought, sipped again while the fire crackled in the hearth. “I couldn’t let you go alone.”

He tipped his head to one side and stared at her. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yes, really.” She took a breath. “There are many things in this world we cannot begin to understand, Michael. Some people go through their entire lives unaware of such matters. Then there are others—like myself, and I think perhaps like you—who are more open, more sensitive to occurrences of an unusual nature.”

He chuckled softly. “That was very well put.”

“Thank you. I had to spend a bit of time choosing my words.”

“Indeed. Saying we both hear voices and have various kinds of visions would make us both candidates for Bedlam, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.” She answered quietly, keeping her eyes on his face. “You heard a voice, didn’t you? It wasn’t someone giving a groom an order. You heard a voice telling you to go to the stables.”

He couldn’t meet her gaze. “I did,” he confessed. “There was nobody behind me, and the words were too clear to have come across the room, no matter how much I wish they had.”

“So you believe in…in extraordinary happenings?”

His head shot up as he smiled. “I met you, didn’t I? That has been nothing less than extraordinary.”

She felt her cheeks flush even as she shook her head in denial.

Then he yawned.

“You must be even more tired than I am. Let’s get some rest and tomorrow we may hope to get some answers for you…” She sighed.

He finished his ale, stood and picked up the tray, putting it onto the small bureau. “You’re right.” He took the water behind the screen and she slipped from the bed, blowing out all the candles but two.

“Can you pass me my nightshirt? I forgot it.” He fussed behind the screen.

She grinned. “Certainly, dear.” It sounded so husbandly.

His snort was sufficient answer and she pulled his nightshirt from his bag and tossed it over the screen, hurrying back to bed since her feet were rapidly cooling. “I’ll bank up the fire,” she said quietly, knowing if they didn’t, they’d be in a very chilly room come morning.

“All right,” he muttered, then emerged from behind the screen to lay his clothes higgledy-piggledy across a chair.

It was on the tip of her tongue to admonish him, but then she remembered just in time that he wasn’t Joshua, but a grown man and could do as he pleased with his clothes.

She shifted all the way to one edge, knowing there was no option but for him to join her beneath the covers.

He pulled the linens back on his side. “This could be awkward, you know.”

She shrugged, tucking the blankets higher around her shoulders, turned away from him. “It could be, but both of us have shared beds before. And we’re not a young couple with lusty fires roaring through our veins.” She yawned in her turn. “We’re two people who have had a long and tiring day in the saddle, in the middle of winter, on roads that were little better than slushy ruts. I don’t know about you, but even if I did have lusty fires roaring, I’m too damn tired to do anything about them.”

Michael spurted out a laugh at her declaration. “Well, you just doused all my lusty fires quite nicely.” He arranged himself beneath the covers with a groan of relief. “But you’re right. I’m weary right down to my soul.” He wriggled a bit. “At least it’s comfy and warm.”

“Mmm,” she murmured in agreement. It was indeed warm. And very comfortable. And the sensation of another warm body in the bed produced a feeling of relaxation and security that Ariadne couldn’t have managed to put into words. It had been so long since she’d shared a bed with a man.

And she wasn’t sure she’d ever shared a bed with someone who made her feel quite like this. She trusted him and had no idea why. They’d known each other for barely a day, and yet here she was, lying next to him, completely assured of her safety.

“Michael, to answer your question. I wanted to be with you on this journey. It’s as simple as that.”

“Mmmm…”

He was already asleep.

As she let herself relax and follow him, idle thoughts swirled through her mind and a voice whispered softly “he was always meant to be yours…”

*~~*~~*

Michael wasn’t quite sure what woke him, but the room was dark, just a few glowing embers in the fireplace offering what illumination they could.

He stretched a little, enjoying the warmth of his cocoon, and paused in surprise when his foot hit another one—that wasn’t his.

Ariadne. She was curled up next to him, sleeping soundly, little puffs of air coming from between her lips. A delicate snore that made him smile.

Obeying a natural instinct, he turned toward her, snuggling up to her back, tucking her into his body and letting their natural curves meet from knees to neck. Thus spooned, she nestled into his arms, and he lay there for some time, simply enjoying the warmth and softness of a woman, something he’d not enjoyed like this in…well, he couldn’t actually remember the last time.

It was quite astounding, not to mention shocking, that he felt this way given the brief time he’d known her. A day…scarcely more…and now here they were together. In bed. And it seemed right.

He thought about that when the word came to him. The rightness of it, her scent, her shape, the way it matched his. Familiar and yet not. Drowsy, he simply let himself drift into this moment, a brief scrap of time that he’d never imagined he’d experience.

“She was always meant to be yours.”

He stirred as the words seemed to whisper somewhere in his mind. His. Yes, that’s what it felt like. Ariadne was, and always had been, his. He had to smile at himself for his absurd notions, and yet…

She moved, shifting position, stretching against him, murmuring something indistinct.

His body couldn’t help but respond, waking now to the acceptance that a desirable woman lay in his embrace. He let his hand rest on her hip, then move down to her leg, bared where her nightgown had caught beneath her. As if he petted a kitten, he let his palm stroke the smooth skin, learning the texture and the feel of her.

He sensed her as she awoke, wondering what her response would be to his touch, ready for her to move away…framing his apologies for his far-too-intimate caresses.

But she surprised him.

“Ohhh…” she whispered, and pushed back into him, a silent request for more.

Thrilled and aroused, he answered with more long strokes, this time letting his hand push away more of her garment to reveal hip and waist. From there it was but a second for him to find the soft curves of her stomach and the dip beneath that led to those tight curls…and more.

Silently, she moved again, this time opening herself to his searching hand, gasping a tiny breath as his fingers moved lower to her woman’s flesh. He played, petted, toyed and stroked, aware of her tiny movements, her responses to each different touch.

Beneath her skin her muscles tensed and at last she rolled free onto her stomach with a whispered groan. “Michael…”

“I’m here,” he answered softly.

Regretting the loss of her warm wet folds, he transferred his attention to the sweet and firm globes of her buttocks, now revealed by her movements and becoming visible as the day began and dawn crept into the sky outside their room.

He palmed them, cupped them, ran his fingers daringly down the cleft between them, and then squeezed them, biting down hard on his arousal, vowing to simply pleasure her as best he could.

She moaned again, and he smiled at the tiny goosebumps he could feel as she shivered beneath his touch. He splayed his hand at the base of her spine, covering her lower back. She was all silk and heat and yet there were firm muscles beneath that delicate covering.

“Michael,” she whispered his name once more and rolled away from him. But instead of remonstrating or complaining, she wriggled closer and took his breath away as she reached for him. “My turn.”

Willingly he settled next to her, easing his own night robe out of the way, shamelessly flaunting his now-rigid length lying across his thigh.

Mimicking his moves, she began to stroke him, learning in her turn the sensation of the hairs on his legs, the muscles, the dips and valleys and curves that made him the man he was.

Gently she grasped him and he clenched his teeth against the urge to grab her hand, make her into a tight fist and bring him to his peak.

“God,” he hissed, as she moved to investigate his balls.

“You’re so much a man,” she murmured.

If he could unclench his teeth he might answer her, but if she kept up doing what she was doing, he would soon demonstrate quite energetically how much of a man he was. All over her hands.

Nearing the limits of his self-control, Michael finally had to loosen her grip. “I cannot hold back if you keep doing that, Ariadne…” his whisper was harsh with desire.

“I’m sorry,” she began, moving away.

“No.” He held her in place. “Don’t be sorry. I love having your hands on me. I want more. Much more.”

“Like what?” she asked, her voice a seductive purr.

He took her at her word, pulled the linens away from her and without a hitch pulled her nightgown up to her neck. Before she could do anything he found her breasts, one with his mouth, the other with his hand.

She gasped, whimpered and arched into his touch, her fingers grabbing his shoulders and holding him tightly to her.

Michael suckled, the taste of her filling him to overflowing, the sensation of her nipple hardening to a taut nub against his tongue, her hands urging him on…he was near to exploding and wanted nothing more than to rise above her and plunge himself deep inside, where he could release all the pent-up passion crying to be freed. He wanted to take her with him, to take her up, up to the dizzying heights he knew they’d both reach without check.

He desired, he lusted…and he knew he couldn’t do it.

Leaving lingering kisses behind, he drew back, painful though it was. “I cannot,” he groaned. “I will not risk it, love.”

“I…” she clung to him.

“I will not risk a child, Ariadne. Not now. Our future is too uncertain and if I take you now, as every iota of my being is screaming at me to do, we’ll both be taking that risk…”

He saw her eyes close and then open again, the dawning of his meaning taking hold. “Damn,” she muttered. “Damn.”

And she let him go, unwillingly, but he knew she understood. He was a bastard, as was her son. Neither would condemn another child to such a situation.

“We will finish this, Ariadne. I promise you we will finish this.” He readjusted her nightgown and his own clothes. “There’s too much between us to leave it thus.”

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he turned his back to her, running his hands through his hair and willing his body to relax, a task he wasn’t sure it would manage for a few moments yet. “I don’t know what’s between us, or why I am drawn to you like no other woman I’ve ever met, but I cannot lie and pretend it’s not there.”

“I am of the same mind,” she said quietly. “I thought I would only ever love one man. I wanted him so much I bore his child. But what I felt for him is nothing near what I feel for you. And like you, I cannot even begin to guess why.” She shifted, making the bed move a little. “Perhaps we should not even be questioning. Just accepting.”

He bowed his head. “A voice spoke to me again before I fell asleep, Ariadne.”

She was silent for a few moments. “Let me guess. It told you what it told me. That you were always meant for me.”

How could he answer when chills skittered down his spine and adequately shrivelled his arousal. “What is happening to us?” It was a plaintive whisper.

“I have no idea,” she confessed. “And perhaps I should be scared. But then I look at you and I am not afraid. Because whatever it is between us…well, it just seems that it is right.” She sat up and pushed away the covers. “That sounds so silly…”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s true. I feel the same way.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And I can’t complain since it is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He reached toward her, leaning back over the bed, and she accepted his hand. “I just hope we’re not being pushed together by some…I don’t know……something…” His voice tapered off. “I never imagined words like that would come out of my mouth.”

“You should have,” she remonstrated gently. “You’re Irish, dear Michael. Such matters are well known there, I understand.”

“If you believe…” he answered.

“Do you?”

He turned fully, looking at the sight of their hands clasped together, then raising his head and looking at her, so lovely in the morning light, her cheeks flushed, her hair tumbled loose and free. He answered from his heart, the only words he could come up with.

“I believe in you.”

She squeezed his fingers and smiled. “As I believe in you.”

Chapter Ten

Their departure was barely noted by anyone at the inn, since it seemed many were travelling for Christmas, and the courtyard bustled with activity.

So Michael and Ariadne set out on what they hoped was the last leg of their journey with little or no fanfare. Which was exactly as they wished it, thought Ariadne. The fewer people who saw them, the better. Nobody stopped, stared or pointed at Michael, so she felt safe in assuming the groom he’d met last night wasn’t from the local area.

Whether this was a good thing or not, she wasn’t sure, but she certainly hoped that they might gently introduce themselves to this Baron, rather than have several local folks arrive with the news of Michael’s likeness before he himself could appear to confirm it.

Once away from the inn, she voiced the question uppermost in her mind. “Do you know what you’re going to say when we arrive, Michael?”

He shook his head. “I really have no idea. I’m hoping that simply introducing ourselves will be sufficient. Asking if the Baron would spare us a moment of his time. That’s all. Something courteous and polite, of course.”

“Naturally,” she chuckled. “It wouldn’t do to walk in and demand to know if he’s your father.”

“Or if his father could also be my father,” Michael grinned back. “Upon reflection, I have to guess that the latter is the more likely situation. For a groom to believe I was the Baron would indicate we’re of an age.”

“And thus share a father. Yes, that makes sense.”

“By the way,” he slowed his horse a little so that they were side by side. “You are my wife.”

Her mount shifted at the involuntary tug on the reins as she jumped in surprise at his words. “What?”

He lifted his chin and looked at her. “You are my wife. We have not said the words, nor made the vows, nor signed any register. But in my mind—and in my heart—there is no doubt. You are my wife.”

For a moment the entire world shimmered in front of Ariadne’s face. She understood his words, and they made sense, but the billowing wave of joy that rocked her was unexpected. Tears stung her eyes as she swallowed a great lump of emotion and fought to find her voice.

Finally she did the only thing she could think of. She held out her hand to Michael and watched as he took it. “Thank you—husband.” Her gaze met his and she prayed he could read her heart, since she lacked the ability to describe her emotions at that moment.

He gripped her hard, tugged the horses close and dropped a quick kiss on her cool lips. “There. ’Tis done. I have kissed the bride. And our witnesses here don’t like it, apparently.” He laughed as he pulled his horse back into line, quelling the fidgets that the riders’ behaviour had caused.

“My goodness, that was easy.” Ariadne cleared her throat. “Michael, I understand the need for this, but I want you to know…”

He held up his hand. “Stop. Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. We have to find Ridlington Vale today. Let’s focus on that task before we begin discussing anything else. Intense conversations on horseback don’t really work too well.”

She sighed. He was right. One task at a time. And since snowflakes were starting to drift delicately onto her sleeves, they needed to keep up a good pace lest they get caught in the middle of a snowstorm. The clouds were grey and heavy, and she wouldn’t be surprised if it was setting up for a steady fall, which would lay inches on their path as the day wore on.

As if he read her thoughts, Michael nudged his horse to a slightly faster pace, and she followed suit. They carefully made their way for the next hour or so, managing to cover the ground without too much difficulty even though it was turning white and muffling the sound of the horses’ hooves.

The result was an odd kind of wintery silence, as if nature had snuggled into a muffler and was hiding her head under a pillow.

In the soft stillness, it wasn’t hard for them both to hear a muted cry.

“Did you…”

“Was that…”

Simultaneously, they drew to a halt, both alert and listening. The sound came again.

“This way.” Ariadne turned her horse from the lane and into the trees, finding her way through low bushes and around the white dappled trunks of beeches. It was a black and white world, so the vivid blue cloak of someone stuck in a tree was quite visible within a few moments of them entering the woods.

“Help…”

“It’s a man,” said Ariadne. “Don’t move, sir. We will help you…”

They drew to a halt at the base of the tree, a massive oak bare of leaves but displaying a very odd fruit indeed. His hair was white, his beard the same colour and he was struggling inside his cloak which had tangled itself onto some sharp broken branches.

“I’m stuck,” he whimpered. “I can’t free myself.”

“Hold there, sir. Stay calm. Let me see if I can free you…” Michael was already off his horse and staring upward at the stubby branches which must have facilitated the old man’s climb.

“My hands…they’re so cold…”

“Michael,” whispered Ariadne, worried now that they wouldn’t be in time.

“I know,” he answered grimly. “Keep the horses out of the way.”

She managed to dismount and did as he bid, making sure none of them were in danger of being underneath either Michael or the old man should the worst come to pass.

Holding her breath, she watched as Michael displayed an impressive agility and reached the man without too much difficulty.

“Now then, sir. Let’s see how best to free you,” he said calmly, his voice echoing through the snow-laden branches. “Here…I see where a piece of your cloak has caught…”

“Oh, be careful. I cannot drop it. I must not drop it…” The words were desperate, but the accent was polished and that of a gentleman. This was no peasant

Ariadne could not see what he had wrapped in his cloak, but he was certainly committed to keeping it safe.

It took a few minutes of gentle tugging, slipping and the occasional muttered oath, but finally the garment was free of its entanglement and the old gentleman whimpered with relief. “Thank you, thank you lad…” the words quavered as he tried to move.

“Hold on, now, sir. Let me get hold of you and we’ll climb down together. Put your arms around my neck and hang on and we’ll be on the ground in no time.”

“All right…”

Ariadne held her breath as the two of them, Michael holding the old man carefully with one arm and branches with the other, began their descent. It couldn’t have been more than a dozen feet or so off the ground, but a fall—even from that height—would doubtless have resulted in injuries to one or both of them.

At last they were down, and she rushed forward, a sigh of relief on her lips. “Thank heavens. You’re down, both of you. Safe and sound.”

The man wavered a little, grasping Michael’s shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you both.” He finally let go of his cloak to reveal a huge spray of mistletoe.

“Good lord,” said Michael, his eyes wide. “Is that why you were up there? Just for some mistletoe?”

“Not just any mistletoe,” said Ariadne gently. She looked at the old man. “It’s an oak tree, isn’t it?”

He smiled, revealing white teeth and a charming grin. “You are correct, Ma’am. Not many would understand the significance.” He swayed again and shivered.

“Michael…” she said, worried at what she saw.

“I know.” He led the man to their horses. “Can you ride pillion sir? If not, my wife can ride with me, but I’m not sure how well you’ll do alone…we are for Ridlington Vale…”

“Anywhere,” the murmur was clear, but weak.

“Take him up before you, Michael. Your horse is better able to carry the load. I’ll lead the way and take your rein if you need me to.” Ariadne returned to her own mount and used a stump to clamber into the saddle. It wasn’t elegant, but it was efficient.

Michael nodded. “Come along then, sir. Let’s get you mounted and on the way to somewhere warm.”

That task was accomplished without much difficulty since his passenger was a slight man and found the saddle after only a little struggle.

Ariadne moved close and helped arrange the cloak so that Michael could hold the man with one arm and the reins with the other. “It should work,” she nodded.

“Let’s move on then, before the snow gets any worse.”

She squared her shoulders. “Ridlington Vale, here we come.”

*~~*~~*

It wasn’t the easiest ride Michael had ever experienced, that was certain. The old man seemed frail, his hands white and veined, and probably icy cold. But he kept his grasp on his bundle of mistletoe, and being fairly slender, his balance was not as precarious as Michael had feared.

“May I know your name, sir?” he asked politely.

“What? Oh…er…I am known as Cathbad,” he answered, a little shiver making his beard tremble.

“And you live around here? Is there somewhere we should take you?”

Cathbad shook his head. “Over there, I think. Maybe.” He waved a vague hand. “I lost my way.”

“We are headed for Ridlington Vale, Sir Cathbad, as my wife mentioned.” Michael thought he might as well accord the strange man a title, since he was obviously a gentleman, if rather a befuddled one at the moment. “Will that be agreeable to you? Perhaps you know someone there?”

“Better to go to the Chase, it’s closer,” Sir Cathbad answered. Then he coughed, a rattling harsh sound that brought a frown to Michael’s face and made Ariadne turn quickly to check on them.

Michael shook his head at her. There was nothing she could do at the moment.

“Which Chase is that?”

“Ridlington Chase, lad. The lane is just down here a bit…there’s a big yew tree…”

“Ariadne…”

“I heard.” She raised a hand in acknowledgement. “There. There, Michael. Do you see it?” She pointed off to the right where there was indeed a huge evergreen, its branches dipping now as the snow built heavily on the needles. “And a lane.”

“Turn there,” said Michael. “It should take us to Ridlington Chase. Pray they are at home and receiving…”

With his heart thumping rapidly, Michael steered the horse to follow Ariadne’s, and within a few moments they saw lights—and a large country Manor.

The lane opened onto the driveway leading to the front of the building, and the snowfall outlined the way. Bumps and lumps of shrubbery lined the paths, a few evergreens graced what would be a lovely lawn in the summer, and there were plenty of lights shining out on the snowy landscape.

With a sigh of relief Michael spurred his mount next to Ariadne’s. “I don’t know if we’ll receive a warm welcome, but ’tis glad I am to see that someone’s home…”

“He’s so pale, Michael,” Ariadne’s gaze took in Sir Cathbad’s complexion. “Sir, try to stay awake…”

He lurched a little in Michael’s grip. Suppressing an oath, Michael got them to the bottom of the front steps as fast as he could.

“See if you can summon help, Ariadne. I’m not sure our friend here is completely conscious.”

And he was right.

As soon as he slid from the horse, Sir Cathbad toppled, falling on Michael who caught him with ease. The man weighed very little, his frail body almost vanishing within the folds of his thick cloak.

Ariadne had dismounted and was already up the steps and wielding the knocker with urgency.

He followed her, carefully carrying his burden so as to cause the old man the least discomfort.

“Good God…” The door opened, revealing a perfectly garbed butler who had, it would seem, momentarily lost his poise. “What the devil…”

“I do beg your pardon, sir, but we are looking for Ridlington Chase? Baron Ridlington?”

The butler’s mouth flapped as he cleared his throat and then dropped once more as he saw Michael carrying the old man up the steps.

Ariadne blinked. “The Baron? Is he at home?”

“You…he…I don’t…” He pointed at Michael. “He’s…no…but he…” The butler turned away from the door. “My Lord…” He roared out the summons and Michael heard doors open and feet pounding.

In seconds there seemed to be a flood of people rushing toward them, stopping and gaping much as the butler was still doing.

Until one man pushed his way through and stood before them.

Michael heard Ariadne’s gasp.

He understood why.

Looking at Baron Ridlington was like looking in a mirror.

The man could be his identical twin. Except for his eyes. They were brown.

Chapter Eleven

To say that chaos erupted at Ridlington Chase was an understatement.

Finding herself in the middle of it was both comforting, amusing and terrifying, thought Ariadne as she and Michael were swept into a stately hall by what felt like a small mob.

They couldn’t all be residents, and she realised that several must be servants since they scurried around taking their cloaks and gloves as Michael and the Baron stared at each other. A tall, elegant woman came to the Baron’s side.

“This gentleman needs help,” said Ariadne gently, and with that everyone sprang into action.

“’Tis Sir Arthur Mucklebury, my Lady,” said the butler. “And this is not the first time he’s wandered away.”

“Dammit, Chidwell…” She went to the old man in Michael’s arms and touched his face. “He’s too cold…he must have been out all day to come so far.”

“He may have a touch of exposure, Ma’am,” Ariadne added quietly. “We found him stuck up a tree and my-my husband was able to get him down.”

“Up a tree?” Her Ladyship’s expression was one of utter astonishment.

“Indeed, yes.” She gently took the mistletoe from the wrapped cloak. “He was harvesting this, we believe.” She glanced at the Baron. “He told us his name was Cathbad.”

The Baron was still staring at Michael.

“I’m sure there are several stories here. And best told over tea. Come in, both of you. You must be frozen. I’m Rosaline, and this is my husband Edmund.” She waved her hand at the Baron. Then she smiled at Michael. “I’ve often wished he could be in two places at once, but I never imagined it might actually happen.” She looked at them both then, turning her head from one to the other. “Well, I’m seeing it, so I suppose I have to believe it. So if you two could stop staring at each other, which is rather unnerving now I come to think of it, let’s unravel some of these questions…come along…”

The Baron, recalled to himself, nodded. “Chidwell, take care of Sir Arthur?”

“Immediately, my Lord.” Chidwell summoned servants and Michael was relieved of his burden. “And I shall arrange for tea.”

Which freed Michael and Ariadne to follow the Baron and Lady Rosaline into a snug parlour where a fire warmed the air and each gravitated toward it, warming their hands and sighing with relief.

Michael broke the momentary silence. “I’m sure this must come as a shock, my Lord. I must come as a shock, I mean. Not Sir Cathbad, or whatever his name is.” He blinked. “Does he climb trees a lot?”

“Only at this time of year,” replied Rosaline, seating herself and gesturing at chairs.

“Of course,” smiled Ariadne. “The solstice. Yule. Cathbad is a Druid name, is it not? Hence the mistletoe. And it was an oak tree, too. That made the difference.”

Silence fell as the occupants of the room struggled to find a suitable response.

“Mistletoe that thrives on the limbs of an oak is rare and reputedly more powerful than its more common cousins.” Ariadne squared her shoulders. “Anyway.” She waved the matter aside. “We have been travelling for two days, my Lord, my Lady. So your warm welcome is most appreciated.”

“We can’t turn away travellers bringing us a wounded neighbour.” Rosaline smiled. “But, if I may ask…who are you and why are you here? Other than this whole…um...thing…” She waved a hand between Michael and the Baron.

“Good grief. Forgive me…” Ariadne blushed. “This is Michael FitzDoone and I am…Ariadne FitzDoone.”

“You’re married?” Rosaline glanced at them both.

“Yes,” replied Michael firmly.

“Sort of,” said Ariadne, not quite so firmly.

Rosaline rolled her eyes. “I suggest the best thing is for you to start at the beginning, because I have a feeling this could get complicated.” She glanced at her husband. “If there are Ridlingtons involved, which obviously there are, then it’s no surprise whatsoever.” She looked back at Ariadne. “If ever there was a family for making life complicated, it’s the Ridlingtons.”

The door opened and a vicar strolled in, looked at Michael and Edmund, and tripped over the carpet. “Jesus,” he said.

“Simon,” remonstrated the woman behind him. “For heaven’s sake…” Then she saw what he was looking at and walked right into his back.

“I don’t believe it,” said the vicar, turning to the Baron. “Edmund?”

“The eyes,” said his wife, peering around Simon. “This one’s got green eyes. That one’s are brown.”

The Baron found his voice. “All right. Everyone sit. Obviously we are welcoming another Ridlington into our midst, so we might as well all settle in while the story is told.”

Michael remained standing and faced the Baron with his chin high. “You should know, sir, that I am a bastard.”

The Baron shrugged. “I hate to tell you this, sir, but so was your father. The difference being yours was clearly by birth. His was by his own choice. Sit down and let’s straighten all this out.”

“You are welcome here as family, Mr FitzDoone. We do not judge anyone by their birth. Only their character.” Rosaline’s tone brooked no arguments.

The Vicar nodded. “And since I’m Edmund’s brother Simon Ridlington, I feel it incumbent upon me to agree on behalf of the rest of the family. And my wife Tabitha, of course.”

“A bit pompous there, Simon,” Rosaline quirked an eyebrow at him.

“He’s just finished the Christmas Eve children’s service,” sighed Tabitha. “He had to be quite dignified for that, you understand. It’ll wear off.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “There’s not an ounce of respect in this woman for her husband.”

“Since when did women have to measure respect for their husbands?”

Another voice sounded and a lovely woman flounced in to the parlour. “I need tea. There must be tea.” She looked around and then froze, mouth agape, staring at the two men. “Dear God above.”

Rosaline sighed and shot a quick look at Ariadne. “This is Letitia Ridlington, Lady FitzArden. Yes, another Ridlington. Where’s James?” The latter question was addressed to Letitia who continued to goggle at the two men.

“Who?”

“Your husband, dearest.”

“Rosaline. Do you see…this? Is it real?” Letitia FitzArden had turned quite pale.

“Do sit down, Letitia. We’re just about to hear all about it and how it came about.”

Letitia sat and recovered herself, still glancing between Edmund and Michael. “Well, I should think it’s pretty obvious how it came about. Dear Papa, I suppose.”

“There might be another reason,” said Simon amiably. “Let’s not jump the gun here.”

“Oh really, brother mine. Use your eyes. I’ve not only jumped the gun, I’ve shot it, dropped it, retrieved the quail and I’m reloading already,” replied Letitia, somewhat caustically.

“Stop wrangling, children. I want to hear the story.” Rosaline turned to Ariadne and Michael. “Please tell it? Before I absolutely die of curiosity?”

Michael sighed and looked at Ariadne. “The whole thing?”

She glanced around, seeing Michael’s double, the Baron, looking at her with a blend of kindness and curiosity. Everyone was eager to listen, their faces mirroring interest. There was no sign of distaste, of arrogance…nothing to indicate they were anything other than what they seemed.

It’s family.

She nodded in agreement with the words she heard so clearly. “Yes, Michael. I think it’s time to tell it all.”

*~~*~~*

It must have taken at least two hours, thought Michael. He was almost hoarse, but now the Ridlingtons assembled in the parlour all knew everything, right from his discovery of his birth through his discovery of Ariadne. He’d spared no details, or skipped any of the less than pleasant parts. They’d lunched and then he’d continued, letting Ariadne pick up the story and relate her own tale. She had not spared herself, sharing it all, and as he listened he learned that their paths did indeed seem to have been destined to intertwine.

He needed her every bit as much as she needed him.

“So you must wed to keep your home?” Rosaline reached out and touched Ariadne’s arm.

“I must, my Lady. And Michael has done me the honour of proposing.”

Rosaline looked at him, her eyes bright with laughter. “I think he’s counting himself lucky you’re accepting him, my dear.”

He bowed. “I am indeed, ma’am. I’ve wandered long enough looking for myself. I found me in her.” He frowned then blushed. “That was terribly ungrammatical of me and didn’t sound like I meant it to.”

“Never mind,” sniffled Tabitha. “It was beautiful.”

Ariadne just smiled at him, her heart in her eyes.

“Right then.” Edmund rose from his chair and the room fell silent. “Mr FitzDoone.”

Michael stood. “My Lord.”

“It is abundantly clear that you are, indeed, a Ridlington. Of that there is no question whatsoever. You are my step-brother, sired by our father during one of his visits to London.”

Michael closed his eyes for a brief moment. This was it, the knowledge he’d searched for. He had relatives. He had met people who had welcomed him and found him familiar, not a blot on the family name. He gulped but said nothing.

“It is somewhat of a shock, of course, but knowing our father, it is not really a surprise. And meeting you now, I cannot express regret, since I believe he unknowingly fathered a fine man. Although God knows you’ve been through a hell of a life to reach this point.”

Michael opened his mouth to say something, but the Baron’s hand stayed his words.

“Therefore, as head of the Ridlington family, I welcome you to our number. You are one of us, Michael. You are a Ridlington.”

His head spun for a moment or two and, terrified he was going to disgrace himself and faint, he clung to the back of a chair. The next instant Ariadne was at his side, holding his hand and squeezing it. The simple touch brought him back to earth.

“I cannot find the right words,” he cleared his throat, “to thank you, or to tell you the enormity of the gift you have just bestowed upon me. I wish I could.”

Edmund chuckled. “We’re entirely mad, you know. It might be more of a curse than a blessing.”

“Never,” said Michael firmly, looking around at the faces in the room. “Never.”

“All right, well. Here’s my suggestion. You are a Ridlington by birth, but I’m not sure you can legally be one by name. FitzRidlington would be the obvious option, but…” He frowned, the famous eyebrows knitting furiously.

“It’s an awful mouthful.” Rosaline shook her head. “It won’t do, Edmund. Simply won’t do.”

Her husband shot her what might be called a speaking look. “Do you have another suggestion, darling?”

She smiled smugly. “Need you ask?” She stood and came to Edmund’s side. “I think we should welcome our new step-brother, Michael Wynstanley, into the family circle, don’t you?”

There was a brief silence and then the applause broke out, along with a cheer from Letitia.

Michael looked around. “I don’t…who…Wynstanley?”

“The family name. Before I inherited—when I left this house as a lad, I retook it. I was Captain Wynstanley during my years with the Navy.”

“You were a sailor,” said Michael, staring.

“I was. For many years. I still miss it sometimes,” answered Edmund.

“The ship. I saw a ship, Ariadne. In the crystal. Don’t you remember?” He turned to her, but she was still frowning, looking confused.

“You’re all Ridlingtons,” she faltered. “How can you be a Wynstanley?”

“I can see we’re going to have to tell you some of our stories,” laughed Letitia.

“And you’ll have to meet the others too,” added Simon.

“Others?” Michael blinked. “How many Ridlingtons are there?”

“Direct family?” Letitia pursed her lips. “An even half dozen. They called us the Ridlington Pearls, you know, for some weird reason.”

“Six? Six children?” said Ariadne, astounded.

Edmund nodded. “All of us different. I share a mother with Simon and Letitia. Richard and Kitty are twins, from our second mother, and Hecate…well, she’s unique. Her Mama was Irish, so she is an odd mix of Ridlington characteristics and Irish…Irish what, Rosaline?”

“Magic,” chuckled his wife. “Hecate is magic.”

“Good God.” Edmund clutched her arm. “Did I tell you what she told me at the end of the summer?”

“Who, Hecate? No,” Rosaline shook her head.

“She told me somebody was looking for something. Something that would affect us in many strange ways. This has to be it. It was Michael looking for us.”

Ariadne and Michael shared a quick look. “Do you think she was picking up my journey somehow? That she knew I was looking for some clue as to who I am. Was. Am…um…”

“We understand, dear.” Rosaline patted his shoulder. “It’s been a long and confusing day. There are rooms ready for you. And baths. And I’ve taken the liberty of asking Chidwell to arrange for some clothes in case you feel the need for fresh garments. You and Edmund are of a size, Michael, and there’s no shortage of gowns in this house, I can assure you, Ariadne.”

“Hecate was right,” smiled Edmund. “I believe you have brought us a great deal of joy this Christmas. After all, finding a new brother—step or otherwise—is an unexpected gift. A happy one indeed.”

“All right. Enough. I don’t want to cry,” Simon grimaced. “And if you keep talking this way, it will happen and my wife will never let me live it down.”

“And you haven’t even heard about the husbands, or the children, or the rest of our extended family,” said Rosaline happily.

“I’m overwhelmed,” said Ariadne.

Letitia chuckled. “We want to meet your Joshua, you know. He’ll be the oldest of the children.”

Ariadne laughed back. “Oh, he’ll very much enjoy that position.”

“Go and refresh yourselves,” Rosaline shooed them away. “We’ll be dining in a couple of hours.”

Ariadne curtseyed. “Thank you, my Lady. For everything.”

“No more titles, either of you.” Edmund came up to the two of them. “You’re Michael and Ariadne now. Wynstanleys. First names only. It’s a rule.”

“I…well…I’m not sure I can lay claim to that,” said Ariadne carefully.

Rosaline merely patted her gently on the back and gave her a serene smile. “Go and rest a little. Everything will work itself out, I’m sure of it.”

Michael nodded and took Ariadne’s arm. “Thank you…Rosaline.” He grinned. “Just thank you.”

“Run along now.”

Obeying their hostess, they left, but as soon as they were outside and following a servant up the stairs, Michael leaned to Ariadne and whispered “she’s up to something. I will wager anything that woman has a plan…”

He was right.

Chapter Twelve

Breakfast on Christmas morning was a very jolly affair at Ridlington Chase.

Sir James FitzArden had arrived late the night before, but obviously Letitia had filled him in on the exciting developments within the family. He greeted Michael like an old friend, with scarcely a check at the similarity between the two eldest Ridlingtons.

Although he was observed to shake his head in amazement a time or two.

Ariadne had been spirited off somewhere by the ladies; he’d been told that the children wanted to meet her. They’d all gather around the fire later in the afternoon, but for now, it was the gentlemen’s turn to relax in Edmund’s study.

“What of Sir Cathbad?” Michael asked. “How is he faring?”

“Oh, Sir Arthur,” said Edmund after a moment. “Yes, he’s doing much better. But he has presented us with a bit of a problem.”

“I can imagine. He’s not of an age where he should be wandering around alone.” Michael recalled the poor man’s cold and wrinkled hands.

“Exactly my point.” Edmund glanced at Simon. “We’ve had one or two hints recently that he wasn’t as well as he should be. This seems to confirm that fact beyond any doubt. I still have a hard time accepting the distance he travelled.”

“Does he live alone, Edmund?” James was standing in front of the fireplace, toasting his buttocks.

“No,” answered Simon, anticipating his brother’s response. “There is a butler and a footman, and there’s a cook and a maid or two. But he has no formal companions. And I think that’s the issue. His sister, dear Mistress Chloe, departed this life last summer and he has no other family now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That is so sad.” Michael felt for Sir Arthur. He must have been very lonely.

“Well, she was eighty-seven, so I cannot say it was unexpected.” Edmund sighed. “But he protested he would go on just as he always did, even though she’d passed away.”

“Where does he reside? Is it near here?”

“He lives just outside of Tilton Pond. A lovely village about nine or ten miles from here as the crow flies. So he is within reach, but it is a journey, especially in winter. How he made it in one piece, I can’t begin to guess. The roads aren’t as good as they should be.” Simon grimaced.

“He gets the occasional visitor from the village, I do know that,” said Edmund. “But this most recent event…well something must be done.”

“And it’s up to you, Edmund?” Michael asked.

“I feel responsible for him, yes. You see, he’s living in one of the older Ridlington properties. My grandfather gifted permanent residence to the woman who lived there many decades ago. Sir Arthur is a relative.” Edmund’s face turned sour. “Even back then, there was an apparent taste for scandal. Our grandfather and the lady concerned were both married, but not to each other.”

“Ah. I see.” Michael left it at that.

“Which is why it’s called Scandal Manor,” grinned James. “You have to admit these places are quite appropriately christened, aren’t they? And much more picturesque than Beech Hall or something…”

“Michael,” said Edmund, something in his tone attracting Michael’s attention, “a question.”

“By all means.”

“Do you think Ariadne is committed to living in her current residence?”

Michael thought about it. “I haven’t discussed it, really. I know she views it as his inheritance, such as it is, and she’s committed to holding it for Joshua, as it should rightfully be his.”

“Well, suppose there was a better property for her. And Joshua. One that offers more in the way of comforts and is near enough to family to make visiting and sharing time with other children a possibility…”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I believe she would be interested in such a suggestion…” His suspicions were aroused. “But, Edmund, if you’re thinking of dispossessing Sir Cathbad…”

“No, God no, I wouldn’t do that.” Edmund looked horrified. “I was hoping I might entice you and Ariadne to take up residence there with Sir Cathbad.” He rolled his eyes. “Damn, now you have me calling him that.” He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “Bluntly speaking, Michael, the man is ageing rapidly. He’s over eighty, frail, and I would like him to spend his last years with a family around him. With warmth and laughter—and someone to take care of him. I’m hoping that I might be able to talk you and Ariadne into making your home there.” He glanced briefly at Simon and then back to Michael. “I would, of course, deed the property to you. And before you protest…”

Michael bit his tongue. His new stepbrother was damned observant.

“I’m not offering you a fortune, Michael. You won’t even be wealthy, by most people’s terms. But there are a couple of farms and I’d love to help you build more. The land is sound, but elderly residents at the Hall haven’t exactly encouraged growth and to be honest we haven't exactly been flushed with extra capital for the last decade or so. Now perhaps, it might be possible, especially with you running the place. And you could build something you can be proud of.”

He leaned forward.

“Understand that this is a property none of us need. Rosaline and I are here to stay, without question. Letitia and James live in their fancy and terribly overblown new estate and make the rest of us look like peasants.”

James threw a pillow at Edmund, which he neatly fielded and dropped on the chair by the window, earning a small round of applause.

“Simon…” Michael turned to the vicar, eyebrows raised in question.

“Don’t look at me. I have the church. The Vicarage. And a possibility of repurchasing Tabby’s family home not far from here. She couldn’t inherit, unfortunately, being a girl, but the current owner wants to move to Jamaica.” A gust of wind rattled the windows and snow pattered gently against the glass. “Can’t say that I blame him.”

“Richard and Hecate live in Devon, and Kitty is settled in London. They all have their own homes, Michael. You need one now, and one has been provided by…well whatever sort of magic or miracle you choose to accept.” Edmund spoke quietly. “And I do hope you will accept. Embracing a family is not always easy. But we Ridlingtons have stuck together through thick and thin. I know you’ll understand that, since you show all the signs of being the same way. So say yes?”

“It’s a generous and timely offer, Edmund. But what about Ariadne?”

“That, my dear chap, is where my wife and her cunning plan will step in.”

Michael swallowed. “Er, what cunning plan is that, Edmund?”

The Baron’s grin was undoubtedly smug. “I think you’d better come with me.” He stood and looked at James and Simon. “Gentlemen? We’re needed.”

*~~*~~*

“Oh, this is lovely,” Ariadne purred, stroking the silk of a charming gown Letitia had produced from the back of a cupboard.

“Skirts are a bit shorter now,” muttered Rosaline.

“But still…” The delicate lace covering the bodice carried on down over the puffed silk sleeves to the wrists, where pearls were sewn closely together, forming a gleaming cuff.

“Try it on.” Letitia began to undo Ariadne’s lacings.

“Oh, but…isn’t it a bit formal for today? I would think this is more along the lines of a gown for an evening occasion…”

Her protests were, as one would expect, completely ignored by the other two women, intent on divesting her of her outer garments and slipping the heavy silk over her head.

She was out-womanned, captive to their attentions, and they brushed aside any attempts to protest. Although she wanted to explain that she wasn’t even close to being worthy of a gown such as this, any comments to that effect were disdainfully ignored, making her feel even more guilty for having uttered them.

She was rolled up, foot and guns, as the saying went.

Finally, after a lot of tweaking, tugging, muttering and straightening, they allowed her to look in the long glass by the cupboard.

And her breath left her lungs with an audible whoosh.

“Oh, my…”

Bereft of words, she stared at the vision in the mirror, unable to believe that it was her own reflection. The soft pink brought out the cream of her skin, and her hair shone with highlights she’d never noticed before. Her eyes looked brighter somehow, and she lifted her chin, feeling for that instant like a princess.

“Ah, here it is. I knew there was something.” Rosaline emerged from a pile of tissue paper with a small bunch of flowers, tiny roses affixed to a jewelled clip. She tucked it into the dark curls and stood back with a satisfied nod.

“That’s it. Perfect.”

Ariadne swallowed. “I…it’s…oh Lord, I’m going to cry…”

“No, you’re not.” Letitia swept her away from the mirror. “Come along now. There’s somewhere we have to be.”

“What? Where?” Ariadne was jolted from her royal fantasies when her right arm was firmly grabbed by Rosaline, and Letitia took the left.

Thus bracketed, she was led from the room, and almost force-marched along the corridor and down the stairs. “Just a minute. Where are you taking me? Wait, wait…”

“Can’t,” said Rosaline firmly.

“No time,” added Letitia in stern tones.

“Ladies.” Chidwell waited at the bottom with two maids, each holding cloaks. He had one over his own arm, which he wrapped around Rosaline’s shoulders.

The other maids did the same to Letitia and a very confused Ariadne.

“Come with me.”

The tone of command had everyone paying attention, and Ariadne realised that Rosaline, no matter what she might have been before her marriage, was born to be a Baroness. She was kind, attentive, generous—and completely ruthless when it came to being obeyed.

It never entered Ariadne’s mind to refuse; she followed the other two out the front door of Ridlington Chase and into the brisk, cold air of Christmas morning. The walks had been swept, and within moments she saw the Church of St. Simon, appropriately named after a long-ago saint. She’d heard the story last night. Now she would see the interior of the church itself, apparently, since that was where they were headed.

She felt a little overdressed for a Christmas service, but perhaps things were different in this part of the country. Letitia and Rosaline were also attired in elegant finery, so Ariadne crossed mental fingers that she would fit in. They reached the half-open door and Rosaline entered first, followed by Letitia and finally Ariadne.

All the candles were lit, so it was a bit dazzling, but Ariadne found that hands had removed her cloak and she stared around at the small congregation. She couldn’t see the altar, but there were more than a few heads, lots of lovely hats, and great cascades of holly, ivy and fir decorating the old stone walls.

It was lovely; it smelled of incense and people and old wood; a fragrance that varied little from church to church and probably century to century.

All these things dived into Ariadne’s consciousness as she looked around, only to be jerked from her contemplation by someone putting something into her hands.

“You need this,” said Letitia.

“With our love,” said Rosaline, patting her hands.

Ariadne looked down to find herself holding a beautiful branch of mistletoe around which someone had tied several silver ribbons.

The aisle cleared and suddenly Edmund was beside her, holding out his arm. Numb, she took it without thinking, and found he was walking her down the aisle to…

Oh my God.

She was getting married.

*~~*~~*

Michael knew the instant she grasped the meaning of this whole arrangement.

Her eyes darted to his, her cheeks paled and she risked a quick glance at Edmund, who looked down at her and smiled reassuringly.

Her throat moved as she swallowed, and Michael guessed she felt much the same as he did. Scared, excited and so filled with love and joy he wanted to burst with it. He couldn’t keep his own smile from breaking out as she came to his side, released into his care by his new stepbrother.

He took one moment to nod at Edmund. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Be happy,” Edmund whispered back.

Simon, in his clerical vestments, took over, and the service began with a brief introduction, letting those present know that a relative, Mr Michael Wynstanley, was to wed today and the happy couple would become part of the Ridlington family.

Simon phrased it so well, so beautifully, that he wanted to murmur in delight along with the congregation. He felt a shiver pass through Ariadne’s arm, and he squeezed it with his, leaning to her and bending close to her ear. “I love you.”

Once again her throat moved and she looked up at him, her eyes filled with emotion.

Then Simon spoke, the words handed down for many generations, and the ceremony began.

By the time he was directed to “kiss the bride”, Michael’s heart rate had lessened and he had found his feet once more. He was exactly where he wanted to be, surrounded by a new family and holding the hand of his new bride.

He followed directions most precisely, giving his bride as romantic and passionate a kiss as he could manage. The attendees approved with a rumbling cheer.

“Oh my God, we’re married,” she stuttered as he drew back. “How? I don’t understand any of this.”

“Hush, Mrs Wynstanley. I’ll explain it all later. Or rather, Simon will. There are a lot of legal bits I don’t understand myself yet.” He leaned toward her ear. “I think some of it has to do with smudging the register in a few places. The rain, you know.”

“What rain?”

“Never mind.”

Since there was still a short Christmas service to come, Michael and Ariadne took the places assigned to them as newlyweds, front and centre of the Ridlington pew. The carols were familiar, the prayers joyous and uplifting. And when Simon gave the final blessing, Michael was surprised by the applause that rang through the church along with the cheers of  “Merry Christmas”.

He couldn’t let go of Ariadne’s hand, he realised. He’d been holding it since they’d wed, and although he’d had to substitute a simple ring hastily borrowed from Rosaline’s jewel box, the mere sensation of “his” ring on her hand had thrilled him beyond measure.

“Let’s go, love.”

The occupants of the pew rose en masse, and filed out according to custom, picking up their cloaks before leaving. Simon was outside, wishing everyone good cheer, and promised to get back to the Chase as soon as he could.

“Don’t start the party without me,” he called after Edmund.

“We’ll wait. But not too long,” his brother grinned.

Luckily Simon was done quickly, and in less than an hour everyone was in the Ridlington dining room, around a table laden with the foods of the season.

A large fruit cake sat high above the dishes, and mistletoe was definitely the theme, since there were green icing leaves and lots of brown icing branches decorating it, along with silver ribbons and white bonbons.

“It’s lovely,” stuttered Ariadne, her eyes wide. She clung to Michael, her fingers tightly intertwined with his. “I’m…I’m in shock, I think.”

“Me too,” he answered. “But it’s what I wanted for us, my love. And I hope it’s what you wanted too.”

She smiled at him. “How could it not be? A real wedding, such happiness, a family…” she took a breath. “I have to stop. I’ll cry otherwise.”

“No tears today, my darlings.” Rosaline came up to them in time to hear Ariadne’s comment. “Love and happiness to you both. Now.” She glanced at the door. “Will you come and speak to Sir Arthur? He’s better today. Much better, I’m happy to say, and Edmund told him of your plans. I think he’d like to hear them from you.”

“He’s not the only one,” said Ariadne, flashing Michael a quick look. “We have plans?”

“Wonderful plans, Mrs Wynstanley. You’ll love them. Let’s go and tell Sir Cathbad.” He laughed as he drew her toward where the old man had taken a seat.

Hours later, after food, laughter, and the first Christmas he could remember being so filled with joy, Michael finally got to be alone with his wife. “Are you satisfied?” He struggled out of his jacket in front of the fire in Ariadne’s room which had become theirs.

She watched him and smiled. “Not yet.” Her tone was wickedly enticing.

“I meant with the living arrangements.” He slowly pulled his cravat loose, his eyes looking her up and down.

“Oh yes,” she nodded, undoing the buttons at her wrists. “I think it’s magnificently perfect. And Joshua will adore being the eldest of the cousins.”

“Will he like me, do you think?” He asked the question that had been at the back of his mind all day. “I have married his mama, and am now his papa, and he hasn’t even met me.”

“It will take some time,” she answered honestly. “But Joshua is a six-year-old boy who needs a good and loving father. You know what a good father should do and be, because you didn’t have one. I think the two of you will be fine.”

“There is work to be done at Scandal Manor,” Michael unbuttoned his waistcoat and slid out of it. “And our Sir Cathbad to care for.”

Ariadne pulled pins from her hair, letting the curls fall free. “Joshua also needs a grandfather, Michael. I can’t think of anyone better suited for the job than that lovely gentle man. And neither of us is afraid of hard work.”

He unfastened his shirt and tugged it from his breeches, watching her as he reached down to pull it over his head and toss it away. “And how do you feel about living there with me for a husband?” He undid his breeches.

“I can’t really answer at this moment.” She turned around, raised her arms and lifted her hair away from her shoulders. “I might be able to assess the situation with more accuracy if you’d be kind enough to unlace my gown. I think the snug fit is impairing my thinking…”

“If it’s a snug fit you’re complaining about, let me refer you to my breeches…” he muttered, fingers busy on the ties and buttons at the back of her gown.

“Then perhaps you should remove them, sir. I’d not wish for you to be uncomfortable…”

That was all it took.

Less than a minute later, Michael held his naked wife in his arms and tumbled with her onto the bed. “God, Ariadne, I feel as if I’ve waited a lifetime for this…” He ran his hands over her curves and made her shiver with desire.

“Touch me—everywhere,” she urged, taking her own advice and stroking whatever skin she could reach.

The heat between them billowed and flared, their kisses inflamed them, their caresses stoking the blaze.

And when the new Mr and Mrs Wynstanley were united in the most magnificent of ways, Michael paused, closing his eyes and sinking as deep into the moment as he was into his wife.

“Ariadne. This is…where I belong.”

She caught her breath beneath him, her hands on his buttocks keeping him buried within her. “Michael, you fill all my empty spaces, not just this one.” She let her body clasp him tightly.

“Jesus,” he whispered, his hair falling over his face. “Do that again…”

Promising herself that she would be an obedient wife, Ariadne obeyed. Several times.

The results were most satisfying for both of them.

A while later, Michael disentangled himself from his wife and the bedding, both of which had become rather tumbled during their marital explorations of each other.

Ariadne chuckled. “Tired, husband?”

“Exhausted.” He put another log on the fire. “I may never recover.”

“Then come back to bed and let me hold you in my arms. If you’re going to expire, you might as well do it in comfort.”

He returned, sorting out the quilts and linens and tucking them both together into a snug cocoon of warmth. “What a Christmas,” he mused.

“The best ever,” she agreed.

“So many changes. And all because I took shelter in a tent and saw you in that mirror.”

“Oh my God.” Ariadne sat up, heedless of her nakedness. “Winnie and Rodney. What on earth do you think they’ll have to say about all this?”

Michael, confronted by the luscious sight of his new wife’s breasts, full and firm and just begging for attention, followed his instincts. He lifted himself up, turned her to him, and proceeded to pepper her with teasing kisses.

“Well, we won’t know until we tell them, will we?” He suckled a nipple, murmuring his delight.

“Ooh…no, I suppose…not…” Ariadne forgot about everything except the man in her arms.

Meanwhile, many miles away…

“Get the bags out, Rodney.” Winnie yelled down the hall as her husband came running.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, me darlin’. Not a damn thing.” She looked up from her crystal ball, and the image of naked lovers faded into nothingness. “Jes’ get yerself ready ter travel. We got a new ‘ome.” She glanced at the mistletoe on the little table beside the crystal. “Yer worked yer magic, didn’t yer? I knew yer would…I jes’ knew it…”

Epilogue

The Summer Solstice - 1818 - Scandal Manor, near Tilton Pond, Southern England

“Where’s your grandfather, Joshua?” Young Hugh Ridlington ran after his cousin, waving his rowan wand wildly in the air and yelling at the top of his lungs. “Oh, I see him. Wait for me…”

The two boys headed to a shaded corner of the field where an elderly man sat in state, a wreath of green leaves around his white hair and his matching beard tumbling softly down over a simple robe. He was smiling, his cheeks bright, his hand waving as his adopted grandchildren ran toward him and beside him sat an older woman with a similar wreath wrapped around her head.

“Sir Cathbad is relishing the day,” observed Mrs Ariadne Wynstanley to her sister-in-law Mrs Hecate Ridlington Casey. “And it would appear that Winnie is, too. I truly never imagined she and Rodney would become so attached to him.”

“He’s such a gentle soul. The children could not have a better example of good grand parenting.” She chuckled and then watched her daughter managing a few steps all by herself as she chased a butterfly. She dropped, her tumble softened by the green grass. Her giggle made both women smile.

“She’s a lovely magic child,” said Ariadne.

“I’m afraid she might be,” said Hecate wryly.

“If the magic’s there, it’s there, no point in fighting it.” said Ariadne. “We both know that better than most.”

Hecate nodded. “And at least I know how to help her manage it.” She glanced at Ariadne. “Do you think your future addition will have a little magic of their own?” Her gaze dropped to Ariadne’s still flat belly.

“How did you…” Ariadne’s eyes widened, then she burst out laughing. “Just don’t say anything yet please? It’s too early.”

“You have my word.” Hecate looked smug. “But all will be well, let me just assure you of that.” She reached out and picked up Ariadne’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

In concert, the two of them turned to observe the assembled gathering, all celebrating what everyone else would call Midsummer’s day. Here at Scandal Hall, however, it was the Summer Solstice, as proclaimed by their very own Arch-Druid…none other than Sir Cathbad.

The games, the fun and the food were basically the same, but there were rowan sticks for magic wands, lots of flower garlands for the ladies—which they all enjoyed, regardless of age—and an interesting ceremony at noon, when Sir Cathbad made an impassioned plea to the sun, at the peak of its power, to bless them all for the next twelve months.

Everyone endorsed the sentiment and cheered lustily, although many were privately wondering what the old man was blabbering on about. However, since he was a well-loved member of the little community, all were happy to go along with his antics. Besides, there was a keg of Chillendale ale to enjoy. Much could be forgiven if there was to be Chillendale ale.

“Yer girls keepin’ an eye on the little ones, then, are ye?”

Ariadne rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear worrywart. They’re having a lot of fun and quite safe.”

Winnie strolled by, her wreath now a bit lopsided. “That’s good then.” She glanced at the two of them and shook her head. “I gotta say there’s power ‘ere ‘round yer. Both of yer. Dunno if’n I should be ‘appy or bloody terrified.” With a shrug she walked on.

Hecate and Ariadne stared at each other for a moment or two, then laughed.

Michael Wynstanley walked along the side of the field with a tall man who gazed over at his wife as he heard the sound of her laughter.

“Seems the Irish know how to pick ‘em, doesn’t it?”

“That it does, Finn. That it does.” Michael nodded. “And yours has a lot more in the way of gifts than mine.”

“Jealous?” Finn’s wicked grin filled his sea-blue eyes.

Michael took a breath. “Of her gifts? No. And not of anything else either. Hecate’s a wonderful, lovely lass, and she’s a great mother to boot.” His eyes drifted to Ariadne. “But my own woman’s possessed of more magic than I could ever have imagined. She’s given me a son to love like he was my own.” He turned to Finn. “And if you’ll keep the business to yourself, she’ll be giving us another child to love early next year.”

Finn’s face lit up and he punched Michael in the arm. “There ye are, boyo. That Irish spirit works every time. Congratulations.”

Michael’s fierce eyebrows shot up as the man grabbed him and hugged him hard.

“Well. Um…thank you.” He chuckled at Finn’s exuberance. “Remember. I’ve not told the family yet, so this is under your hat for now.”

“And there it’ll stay, even though I’ll get hell in spades from Hecate if she finds out I knew before she did.”

James FitzArden approached them. “Stop hugging. It’ll give everyone ideas.”

Both men burst out laughing at his laconic rebuke. “Jealous, are you then, Sir James?” Finn opened his arms in invitation.

He held up his hand. “No. Don’t even consider it.” Then he pulled something from his pocket. “Here you are, Michael. As promised. The matter’s done.”

“Really?” Michael gulped and opened the letter.

“Really,” smiled James. “I think my London lawyers rather overwhelmed your wife’s relatives. They have sold the house for an excellent price, which is now secreted away in an account at Coutt’s bank, for Joshua and all future Wynstanleys.” He grinned. “Damned good interest rate too. It’ll be a grand nest egg when Joshua reaches his maturity.”

“James, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need, old lad. You’re family.”

“I am still trying to understand all that the word means, and you’ve added to it today. Thank you anyway.”

“More hugs?” inquired Finn hopefully.

James sighed as Michael laughed and the three men wandered on into the crowd of merrymakers trying to knock over a row of tankards with a wooden ball.

Edmund, Baron Ridlington, sat on a blanket beneath a tree with his arm around his wife. Baroness Ridlington was wearing a very comfortable floppy hat she’d borrowed from the baker’s wife and enjoying a crisply baked pastry filled with summer apples. Her husband took a bite. “That is one remarkably fine pie,” he observed, after chewing, moaning a little, and swallowing.

“Do you know you make that sort of sound when we’re in bed together?”

His eyebrows waggled. “You’re every bit as tasty, my love.”

Rosaline coloured, but rolled her eyes. “Smooth tongued devil.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “And you love me for it.”

“Always have. Always will.”

Their eyes turned to the gathering before them. “This is a fun idea,” Rosaline remarked. “Midsummer Day. An important day for everyone hereabouts. I’m glad we’re celebrating, even though I’m disappointed you didn’t wear the robe Sir Cathbad had ready for you.”

“I might put it on later.” He looked innocent. “Of course I can’t wear anything beneath it.”

“Edmund, for a Baron you have an extremely naughty mind.”

“Rosaline, for a Baroness you have an amazing understanding of my extremely naughty mind.”

Rosaline leaned over, kissed her husband soundly, and then repeated herself. “Always have, always will.”

Edmund kissed her back and then sighed. “I think we’ve done well, don’t you? It’s been a long time since that day in the graveyard when we first met…”

“Yes. We have done well.” She watched her family as they played, laughed, rolled in the grass and enjoyed themselves in whatever way met their fancy. “By the way, that day in the graveyard? I’m not sure I ever mentioned it, but I think I fell in love with you at the exact moment the casket hit your head…”

Edmund burst out laughing at the memory, a rich, happy sound that echoed around the field and brought answering smiles to the faces of those who heard it.

Yes, they had done well.

Very well indeed.

THE END

If you missed...

Any of the exciting Ridlington adventures, all six books are currently available for your reading pleasure.

Book 1 - Edmund’s story – The Landlocked Baron.

Book 2 - Simon finds love – St. Simon’s Sin

Book 3 - Letitia asserts her womanly strengths – Word of a Lady

Book 4 - Kitty gets into trouble – The Mistress Wager

Book 5 - Richard meets some otherworldly beings – Blackmail and the Bride

Book 6 - Hecate stumbles into a mystery – Heart in Hiding

And yes there are two Christmas novellas featuring characters from this series; here’s a quick peek...

Mistletoe Masquerade

(released Christmas 2017), so this will take place after Letitia’s story in Word of a Lady:

Chapter One

The problem of Harriet Selkirk had been bothering Paul DeVoreaux like a mildly irritating toothache. It wasn’t the woman herself, but her situation that had him frowning at times. Her history with her truly awful Aunt and Uncle was appalling; and her desire to vanish understandable.

Bumping into Letitia Ridlington, and becoming her “maid” had solved the problem temporarily, and also cemented a friendship between the two women. But now, with Letitia about to be married and move to FitzArden Hall with her new husband…well, Harriet knew it was time for her to make changes.

Paul agreed.

There was something about her he found appealing beyond the ordinary set of virtues. She was pretty, of course. Some might say beautiful. She was intelligent, well-read and not afraid to voice her opinions in conversation.

She could also blend into a crowd so well you wouldn’t notice her even if you were looking for her.

Which was all well and good, but no help in determining what she was to do with herself now that Letitia no longer needed a maid. Paul decided it was time to lend a hand…and perhaps solve a small problem of his own. They both needed to lay low, to hide away from the light of public scrutiny and let London Society roll on without them.

Hence their ride through the bitter cold of a late afternoon in December. They’d hoped to make an earlier start, but as Paul well knew, women took forever to say goodbye, even if it was just for a short walk.

But finally they had arrived…and there it was. As she had said, a fairy-tale concoction of a hunting box, designed with whimsy and charm. He seriously doubted that the Right Honorable Jonathan Inchworthy had ever allowed a hound near the place. He didn’t personally know the man, but his name was familiar. The only hunting he was known for was that of the newest wealthy debutante, or the latest in notorious mistresses.

But Paul wasn’t about to mention that to Harriet. There were a few other things he chose to keep to himself as well. For now, anyway. Things concerning a future which was uncertain, to say the lease.

They arrived at the front door, and she looked at him. “Will your key allow us to enter here? Or is there a servant’s door at the back?”

Paul blinked. “Damn. I forgot we’re supposed to be below stairs.” He grinned. “However, since it’s dark as the night, I doubt anyone will fuss unduly if we use the front door. And I’m pretty sure this is the right key.

Suiting words to action, they dismounted, unfastened their bags and let themselves into the darkened house, since Paul’s assumption had been correct. He did have the front door key.

Harriet peered into the gloom. “Might there be lamps, do you think?”

There was a bump and an oath. “I think I found a big one.” Paul lit a lucifer and the glow revealed a large statue, shaped like a rather slender doe on her hind legs. A lamp dangled from her mouth, but it was devoid of candles.

“Good grief.” Harriet blinked. “That’s rather…er…”

“Outlandish? Garish? Other words ending in -ish?”

“Well, it’s not my taste, but I’m sure someone loved it. They must have.” She touched it with the tips of her fingers. “A good dusting and that bronze will glow.”

“Add it to the list,” muttered Paul, looking around at the front hall.

From the little he could see, there was enough dust and dirt to keep Harriet busy for a month, but looming shapes told him that at least some of the furniture had been covered when the last tenants departed.

“Let’s see if we can locate a usable room,” he suggested. “I don’t think we should even try going upstairs right now. It’s too dark and if there’s a problem with the stairs…”

Harriet’s gulp was audible in the silence. “You have a good point.” She sighed. “We should see if we can start below stairs. Where would there be a parlor?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I can say that I see a candle here. On this little side table.” Triumphantly, Paul lit another lucifer and the bright flare of illumination as the wick caught brought a smile to his lips. “Now. About that parlor…”

*~~*~~*

Harriet caught a glimpse of his face in the candlelight, all honed cheekbones and smiling lips. He exemplified the Byronic hero so many of his contemporaries emulated, but few achieved.

She wondered how he’d remained unwed, then recalled the terrible scandal that had driven him from his family and his country for so many years. Her heart ached for him; she was only too aware of what loneliness could be, and he must have experienced it in great measure.

“This looks promising…” He moved to a door and pushed it open. “Aha. Once again the amazing DeVoreaux instinct triumphs.”

It had indeed. A large staircase led downward and within moments they were in the servants’ area below stairs. A good-sized kitchen confronted them and a corridor leading off to one side promised more rooms. He opened the first door, and grinned, walking inside. “Am I brilliant?”

Whisking off covers, Paul traversed the room, wielding the sheets like a magician revealing a well-upholstered rabbit.

“Oh, this is perfect.” Harriet smiled as two large sofas appeared. “Do you think we dare risk a fire?”

He walked to the hearth, bent low, then nodded. “There’s ash here, and it isn’t ancient.” He peered as far up the chimney as he could, and moved the damper, backing away as he did so, just in case. “No debris stuck up there either. I think we can risk it.” He looked around. “We have to risk it. It’s getting damn cold.”

“Well, if we can build a fire, that will go a long way to warming things up.” She surveyed the room. “The curtains are old, but sturdy, and I’m happy to say I see no signs of other residents.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Mice.”

“Ah.”

A sound behind them made them both jump, and a pair of shining eyes sparked a gasp in Harriet’s throat.

“Meow.”

She heaved a breath of relief. “Well that explains that. Hullo, little one. Thank you for keeping the house clean.”

The cat disappeared, as cats are wont to do, and Paul chuckled. “Very smart to leave a cat on guard. Now. Let’s see if the kitchen works.”

They continued their investigations, pleased to discover that the basics for a comfortable evening were at hand.

There was a pump in the kitchen, and only a few steps to an attached outhouse.

Fresh water was welcome, and when a cache of candles was discovered, they happily illuminated both kitchen and parlor.

Paul made good on his promise to light fires, starting up the stove with ease, thanks to dry kindling and several large logs tucked in one corner. Then he announced he’d see to their horses, and bring in their meager baggage.

Harriet found a kettle and a little tea, so although there was no milk, they could have something warm to drink when he returned.

All things considered, it had been better than she’d expected, and as she settled onto “her” sofa and tucked her cloak snugly around her, she said as much to Paul.

“This is a lot better than it could have been, isn’t it?” She stared into the glowing fire.

“Yes, indeed. The stables are sturdy and intact, as one would expect for a hunting box, and there’s hay there. I think there may be a paddock…I’ll check in the morning to see if we can turn them out to graze for a bit. We are quite lucky,” Paul yawned. “Let’s hope it holds.”

She nodded. “We need to stock the pantry, of course. And I suppose we need to make sure our story coincides, because if the villagers of Pineneedle Drift are anywhere near as nosy as those of Ridlington Vale, they’ll be on us like a pack of hounds scenting a fox.”

“Well put,” he answered. “But I think we’ll be all right. If we just keep telling them that we’re servants, and we don’t know who our master—that’s Mr. Jonathan Inchworthy, remember—is inviting down for a hunting party, they should accept that without much question.”

Harriet nodded and pushed at the cushion beneath her head. “I hope so.”

“Best say we’re from London,” he added, his voice thoughtful. “Looking to get away from the dirt and hustle.”

“Agreed,” she said, warmth seeping through her. “Do we know anything about these guests you said might arrive soon?”

“Not a thing, I’m afraid. The whole matter was conducted by mail, and I have a horrid feeling one or two letters might have been lost on the way. All I know is that a small party wished to spend Christmas out of town, for whatever reason. They’ll be leaving after Boxing day, I believe.” He yawned. “We’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

A comfortable silence ensued, broken only by the popping of the logs on the fire. The room glowed gold, the flames flickering oddly over the carved cornices.

She jumped a little as something landed on her feet, but the ensuing tiny meow and kneading sensation on her cloak reassured her it was only the cat joining them in the warmth.

“You need a name,” she murmured.

“Paul,” muttered a sleepy voice.

“The cat, silly…”

A snore was the only response. And it was a comforting sound that lulled both Harriet and her feline bedmate into a sound sleep.

Of course the fun begins when the hunting party arrives – and it’s not just game they’re looking for. Paul and Harriet have to be creatively inventive…but they’re both up to the task. It’s the whole falling-in-love business that upends their lives!

Music and Mistletoe

(released Christmas 2018), so this will take place after Hecate’s adventure in Heart in Hiding:

Chapter One

“Grace, what the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Max Seton-Mowbray stalked down the impressive staircase of Mowbray House to see his sister standing beside several valises, tying her bonnet beneath her chin.

She lifted an eyebrow. “What does it look like, brother dear? I’m going home. And don’t shout at me like that. I’m your older sister, remember. I deserve a little respect.”

Max sighed. “You’re leaving. The day before the only real concert in town this month. The one it took me three weeks to get seats for. The one you said you wanted to attend more than anything.” He frowned, his forehead crumpling with the force of it. “Two days before Christmas. This was to be a special gift, Grace. How could you?”

She lifted a hand to her face, the fingertips finding the roughened skin of the scars that criss-crossed her skin from eyebrow to earlobe. “You know why. I can’t do it, Max. I thought I could. I wanted to. But this morning, when I awoke, I knew immediately. I just cannot do it.”

“Let’s talk about it.” He took her hand.

“There’s nothing to discuss.” She withdrew her hand.

“Don’t make me do it…” he threatened.

“You wouldn’t…”

“Hah. You’re so wrong…” He grabbed her in a practised move and tossed her bodily over his shoulder.

She shrieked. “Max, dammit, put me down, you oaf.” She pummelled his back with her fists, to no avail. He was taking her into the parlour whether she liked it or not.

“Do you need any assistance, sir?”

“No thank you, Deery. I can manage. But answer the door will you? I believe I heard a knock.”

Her brother’s nonchalance irritated Grace beyond belief. “Put me down, Max. This is most unseemly of you.”

“Unseemly?” He ignored her attempts to shatter his spine. “Unseemly is trying to walk out of your brother’s house without a farewell or explanation. Unseemly is turning your back on a special treat that someone—that would be me—worked quite hard to procure.” He dropped her into a chair.

She bounced back to her feet. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate the thought.” She poked a finger in his chest. “I do. I thanked you several times. But you know damned well why I always run away at the last minute.”

“Stop poking me and don’t swear,” reprimanded Max.

“You are my brother not my mother. As such, I love you dearly but I will not—repeat not—be bound by your every command. You are overbearing, arrogant and how Kitty puts up with you I have no idea at all.”

At this point Max winced, since her voice was approaching the level of a flock of screech owls.

“And in addition, if I want to leave I shall leave. I think the time of asking your permission is well past, dear brother. In fact, there never was a time I needed your permission for anything. So I’m going to leave whether you like it or not.”

She stalked around him, nose high in the air, then glanced back over her shoulder. “Give the tickets to someone else.”

Marching to the door, she promptly caught her boot on the edge of the carpet and cannoned forward—right into a rather elegant waistcoat.

Swept off her feet by a pair of strong arms, she let out a tiny squeak of surprise.

“Oh blessed are the gods for delivering the most delicious of fruits into my grasp,” said Sir Peregrine Hawkesbury. “My prayers fell not upon deaf ears, since the tree of delight has offered up such sweetness.”

Max rolled his eyes at the sight of his sister held high against his friend’s chest.

Grace looked up at her saviour’s face, a degree of scepticism on her countenance. “Shakespeare?”

“Hawkesbury. I’m sure the bard has an apt quote for this moment, but damned if I could think of one. So I improvised.”

Deery stepped forward. “Sir Peregrine Hawkesbury has arrived sir.” His voice was level, as if seeing guests catch ladies in their grasp was a routine matter at this hour of the morning.

“The master of the obvious,” muttered Max. “Thank you, Deery. Is there tea?”

“There is always tea, sir,” bowed Deery. “And since this is your abode, I need not mention that there is also food awaiting your presence in the small salon. I believe you know the way.” He strode off, back rigid, missing Max’s grin.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you, Deery,” he called after the retreating butler.

“Neither do I, sir.” The answer was faint but clear.

“Damned help. Getting above themselves these days.” Max turned to Perry. “You can put her down anytime. Her brain may have departed, but her legs still work and she’s no lightweight as I just discovered.”

“I do so adore such overt demonstrations of familial affections,” said Perry, letting Grace slide to the floor from his grasp, and tugging at his waistcoat. “Thou could’st never be a burden to these arms, my sweet,” he said to her, “Since thy smile has put wings on my heart.”

“Do give over, Perry,” admonished Grace, straightening her skirts. “But thank you for catching me. Which you wouldn’t have had to do if my insanely arrogant brother hadn’t angered me to the point of…of…” she ran out of words.

“Point non-plus?” suggested Perry.

“Yes. That.” Grace smiled at him. “Your quotations may need work, but your ability to find the perfect expression is flawless.”

He bowed. “You honour me. Now then. Since Deery mentioned tea and food, I have discovered myself to be quite sharp-set. Shall we treat ourselves, dear Grace?” He extended an arm to her and prepared to escort her to the salon.

“What about me?” Max blinked at them.

“It’s your house, dear boy. I would think it would be all right for you to have tea as well.” Perry glanced at him. “But there will be no shouting, poking of fingers, or picking anyone up like a sack of potatoes. Is that understood?”

Max sighed. “Spoil sport. Just wait until she gets started on you.”

“I look forward to it,” grinned Perry.

*~~*~~*

Grace found herself sitting and drinking tea in Max’s parlour, instead of being conveyed back to her snug country home not far from London.

Quite how this had happened she wasn’t sure, given her firm intention of leaving before breakfast, but she’d hazard a guess that the gentleman sitting opposite had a lot to do with it.

She’d met Sir Peregrine some time ago, during the turbulent period of Max’s affair and courtship of Miss Kitty Ridlington, the firebrand of a woman who was now his wife and mother of darling Margaret. Perry had been a rock of commonsense during that time, and she’d come to know him as a charming, intelligent and reserved man, with a wicked sense of humour, as he’d betrayed this morning with his absurdly well-improvised Shakespeare quotations. He was one of the few people with whom she felt no need to hide her scars.

His demeanour was one of elegant simplicity; no Dandy tendencies or Byronic affectations. This morning he was garbed in a deep blue jacket and tan breeches, his boots mirror-bright, his waistcoat a whimsical shade of green. The shirt above it was pristine white and his cravat secured with a simple gold pin.

Perhaps it was the touch of silver above his ears, or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled…whatever it was, Grace had privately confessed to more than a few tugs of attraction whenever he was present. His behaviour toward her had always been correct, lighthearted and everything it should be.

If she sensed a little touch of flirtation in some of his comments, well…it was more because she wished they were there. For surely she could not be the object of anyone’s personal interest. She was too old, for one thing, and too…

“What do you think, Grace?” Max interrupted her inner cogitations.

She blinked. “Forgive me. My mind was elsewhere.” She gave her annoying brother an apologetic grin. “What do I think of what?”

“Perry’s suggestion.”

“Goodness, I really must have been miles away.” Turning to the other man, she sighed. “I am sorry. What was your suggestion, Perry?”

He grinned. “No apologies necessary. My own mind wanders when Max starts on his stories.”

“Hey.” An outraged exhalation from her brother.

“Hush, Max. ’Twas all my fault. Now, Perry…please? Your suggestion?”

“As I was explaining to Max, I am looking at purchasing a tidy property outside London. I know you have a home in the country, and I was wondering if you’d be good enough to come and look at it with me this morning?”

“Oh…I…er…”

“I should perhaps mention I won’t take no for an answer.” He smiled, robbing the words of any sense of being an order.

Which Grace felt they were. “Uh…”

“I will also add that I have requested the staff to provide lunch for us. That way we can take our time.” He leaned back. “I would very much value your thoughts, Grace. I can certainly make judgments on the property; lands, buildings and so on. But I need a better sense of the interior design. Would it suffice for a gentleman of my advanced years? How many rooms do I actually require? Would I be buying a massive ballroom when I really wouldn’t need one, or could I convert such a space into something more useful?” He smiled sweetly. “You can see how much I need your assistance.”

She was not seduced by that smile. Well, not a lot, anyway.

“Surely there are others in your family who would be better able to serve those needs, Perry…” It occurred to her that she knew very little about his family.

He shook his head. “Not really. My only relative is a nephew in Scotland. No help at all.”

“Ah.” No luck there.

“And is there not one wife of a friend who might act as advisor?”

Again he shook his head. “Not a one. They’re all terribly busy this morning.”

She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “How unfortunate.”

“So you see why I’m at my wits’ end. You are my only hope, dear Grace. I must throw myself upon your good nature and beg you to accompany me.”

“The man is offering lunch as well, sister. Take him up on his offer.” Max contributed his mite, earning a look of mild disgust from Perry.

“I believe Grace is above the lure of food, Max. Unlike others in her family.”

“Ouch.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” she expostulated. “Don’t start bickering. I’m not above administering a box to both your ears. And Max knows I will do it.”

“She doesn’t pull her punches, either.” He rubbed one ear as he reminisced. “You have to admire older sisters. If not, you end up with permanently red ears. And one or two frogs in your bed.”

“I did not…” She paused. “Oh. Well. That was a long time ago.”

Perry’s lips twitched. “Frogs?”

“They were the lesser of two evils. I don’t like snakes.” An honest confession.

“That settles it. You have to accompany me. I want to hear more of how you tortured this poor unfortunate here during his misspent youth.”

Max sighed. “You’d better go with him, Grace. He won’t give either of us any peace until you say yes.”

She looked across the table into smiling whiskey-coloured eyes. And surrendered to their mute appeal. “All right. I will go with you, Perry. But we must return right after lunch.”

“Of course, my dear.” He rose and bowed.

He was all smiles and charm. And she had the strangest feeling he was lying through his white teeth.

Being a mature woman, Grace is not easily swayed into romance, but she’s never run into anyone quite so determined as Perry. It’s quite a chase through snow, snowball fights, music and passion…

*~~*~~*

And the one Christmas novella that began this habit (and will introduce you to the glorious beverage known as Chillendale ale - even though it’s got nothing to do with the Ridlingtons)

The Mistletoe Marquess

Prologue

Chillendale Hall glowed with lights as the snow began to fall. It had come early this year, smiled the residents of Little Chillendale, happy because snow was the harbinger of the Festive season. And if anyone knew how to celebrate that time of year it was the hardy folks who called that delightful village home.

There would be parties of children sent out into the forest to gather greenery; sharp bundles of fir, some crisp evergreen leaves and whatever else would work for decorating their homes. Plum puddings and fruit cakes had already been stirred on one special November day and were tucked away in brandy-soaked cloths, aging to perfection. A successful stirring guaranteed good luck in the new year.

All these things were also done at Chillendale Hall, of course, but in that elegant country home, less than a mile from the village that bore its name, there was a great deal more on the list of things to attend to.

Sir Rodney and Lady Jocelyn Chillendale, along with their household, were already preparing for the upcoming events. They were overseeing a variety of activities on the part of their staff; everything from log gathering—with special attention to the selection of the Yule log—a workable baking schedule which would keep the kitchens lively for several weeks, and the final selection of the ale to be served this year.

That was Sir Rodney’s favorite part of the entire process, since it meant he got to spend more than a few days tasting his own ale and wandering happily through the Chillendale cellars, singing carols now and again. The ones he could remember the words to.

He refused to accept he might be a little inebriated, but did wonder now and then how he had lucked into such a delightful chore.

The Young Master—Reid Chillendale—was everywhere, helping where he could, making sure his father didn’t overdo the ale tasting, and also stirring a pudding for luck, when Cook would allow it.

He liked the season and enjoyed the fun, but in the back of his mind lurked a somewhat more troubling spectre.

This year it would be his turn to become The Marquess of Mistletoe—and it would be his turn to take a bride.

Tradition had it that when a young Chillendale man turned twenty-eight and was still unwed, a suitable bride would be chosen and announced at the Mistletoe Ball. The thinking behind the idea was that if a lad couldn’t do it himself after at least a decade of looking, then someone else should damn well do it for him. One such fellow was selected from the pool of eligible lads every Christmas.

Reid had prayed there would be plenty of others in the village of that significant age. But, to his horror, none of the local lads had reached that milestone. He was the only candidate.

Of course, the heir to Chillendale being this year’s Lord Mistletoe was cause for enormous excitement. While none of the village girls really expected to be chosen for Mr. Reid, there were, nonetheless, plenty of fluttering heartbeats beneath the dimity bodices and homespun spencers.

Reid was viewed as the local “catch”; a title he ignored, much as he ignored his height, regular countenance, rich brown hair and dark eyes. He did not think of himself as handsome, or an eligible bachelor. In fact, he seldom thought of himself at all.

His commitment was to Chillendale and the Chillendale ales, which he fully intended to see attain the reputation he knew they deserved.

All this fuss and bother about picking him a wife…well, that was something best left to his mother, if necessary. In his opinion it wasn’t, not right now anyway, but persuading everyone else of that was turning out to be all but impossible.

He’d been to many county affairs, balls, afternoon teas, summer picnics and whatnot, and enjoyed them all. He had friends, a thriving estate he helped run, some wonderful horses, and his life was—not to put too fine a point on it—bloody near perfect; serene and comfortable.

He had absolutely no interest whatsoever in acquiring a wife. And that was that.

But then the days drew in, the snow arrived, and with it the inevitability that he would have to assume the title of Lord Mistletoe for the duration.

And he’d have to accept the wife selected for him.

Lady Jocelyn informed him that there was only one name in the running as far as she and his father were concerned.

Miss Emmeline Southwick, daughter of Sir Francis and Lady Mary Southwick.

Upon being told about Emmeline, Reid had nodded. She was the most suitable, of course. Her background was unimpeachable, her beauty had made her the reigning belle of most every local event in the past two years, and she would be nineteen within a few months. She was due to make her debut in town in the New Year when the Season began.

If Reid didn’t snap her up, declared his mother, then she would be off to London in and he would have lost his chance.

Biting back his immediate response, which was that he really wouldn’t mind very much, he just sighed.

Emmeline was a good sort. A bit girlish, but what young woman wasn’t? She would certainly grace his table, and it wouldn’t be a hardship to have her as his wife.

But something—something he couldn’t describe—was missing.

When she wasn’t there, it took a bit of effort to recall her appearance. There was no…no spark in Emmeline, nothing that lit an answering spark in his heart. Or his body for that matter. In fact, when he actually considered the matter, there wasn’t much spark in his life overall.

And that bothersome notion was what sent Reid out into the first winter snowfall to gather more evergreens for Chillendale Hall.

And changed his life in a most unexpected way.

He couldn’t know that at that very moment, a woman was feeling an unusually strong compulsion to bundle herself into her cloak and go out for a brief walk in the snow…

About the Author

British born and bred, Sahara Kelly has enjoyed writing and reading Regency romances for many decades, beginning in her childhood with books by Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland.

Arriving in America with her almost-complete collection of Leslie Charteris’ Saint novels, all the original James Bonds, and a passion for Monty Python, Sahara’s new life eventually expanded to include a husband, offspring, citizenship, and a certain amount of acclimation to her new surroundings.

She never quite managed to attain a level of comfort with the American way of spelling, however, and creating a Regency novel offers challenges in that regard. So you’ll see words that British readers will recognize, but American readers might perhaps find unusual. It’s a choice… should one write an English romance using English spelling? Sahara has come around to that belief. She can now enjoy the extra “u” which has always seemed so colourful…

After more than two decades of writing, Sahara is now enjoying the greater freedom offered to authors by the rapidly expanding self-publishing scene and looking forward to many more such experiences.

Being freed of external controlling restraints has opened doors—for Sahara and many other writers. There are now no impediments; no obstructions barring the path from writer to reader. Which is, in many ways, exactly as originally intended when that first storyteller sat on a rock outside her cave, tugged her bearskin around her shoulders and smiled at her kids across the open fire with the words “Once upon a time...” (or however it sounded several million years ago.)

To find out more about Sahara Kelly and her writing, please drop by her website and visit her at:

Sahara Kelly’s website

This is where Sahara shares none of the intimate details of her life, but will present you with a list of books she'd like you to buy so that she can go do research on a beach in Aruba and be pampered with massages accompanied by drinks with umbrellas in them. She’ll send you a postcard. Thank you.

When not dreaming of lazing on tropical beaches, Sahara has a modestly active social presence on the Internet. Take a look:

Follow Sahara on Twitter

Friend her on Facebook

Follow her on BookBub

Get lots of her news from Amazon

Also By Sahara Kelly

(*- co-written with S.L. Carpenter)

A Melody for Rose

The Wednesday Club, Book Two

A Gentleman for Judith

The Wednesday Club, Book One

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The Dowager Countess

The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor, Book Two

Lady Adalyn

The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor, Book One

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The Landlocked Baron

Book 1 in the Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington series

St. Simon’s Sin

Book 2 in the Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington series

Word of a Lady

Book 3 in the Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington series

The Mistress Wager

Book 4 in the Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington series

Blackmail and the Bride

Book 5 in the Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington series

Mistletoe Masquerade

A Ridlington Christmas Novella

Music and Mistletoe

A Ridlington Christmas Novella

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The Mistletoe Marquess

Outrageous Ladies

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Honor and Secrets

Book 1 in the Gypsy Gentlemen Series

Control and Compassion

Book 2 in the Gypsy Gentlemen Series

Endings and Beginnings

Book 3 in the Gypsy Gentlemen Series

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Consent

Sword Play

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Oh My Laird!

Book 4 in the Regency Rascals Series

Deverell’s Obsession

Book 3 in the Regency Rascals Series

The Fifth Wife

Book 2 in the Regency Rascals Series

Julia and the Devil

Book 1 in the Regency Rascals Series

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Discreet Madness

The Viscount and the Witch

Feels So Right*

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Whole Lotta Love Series

Love in the Cards*

Love on the Road*

Love Under the Lights*

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Haunted Seductions*

Happy Endings*

With a Little Help from my Friends (with Ciana Stone)

Letting Off Steam

Winding Her Up

Stripping Her Gears

My Renaissance Romance

Hired Help*

Open House

So Into You*

Faerieland needs YOU

My Wish

My Prize

My Hero

Showing Off *

And more…

*~~*~~*

Sahara would like to mention that she and S.L. Carpenter co-own a small business, and have been up and running for over five years. They have blended another of their shared passions — art — and formed an online graphics business focusing on the complicated world of writers. If you’re interested in seeing what they get up to when they’re not writing something twistedly hot and sexy, they’d like to invite you to come visit their company at the link below and check out some of the amazing cover art they’re creating. No wonder they have no time to be bored!

P and N Graphics

www.pandngraphics.com

Happy Reading.