A Christmas delight Read online

  He had the manners of an undergroom. Alice grasped her courage. "I want you to leave."

  "The conservatory?" he asked mildly.

  "Conyngham."

  "No."

  She hadn't expected such a blunt refusal. "Why not? The situation is damnable. You cannot have thought before you came here."

  There was only the moon through the steamy glass to light them, and he seemed shadowed in spirit as well as flesh.

  "I thought a great deal before I came here." •

  "Then why did you come at all? A moment's thought must have shown you how . . . how improper it is!"

  She saw his teeth glint white in a cruel smile. "It won't be improper unless you start tearing your clothes off again, Miranda."

  Alice took three steps forward and hit him with all the rage and pain of six years. He allowed it. She knew that as if everything had slowed down. She watched the angry mark flare on his cheek. She noticed that except for the jerk of his head under the force of her blow he did not move. After a breathless moment he raised the cigarillo to his lips and drew on it. He said nothing.

  Alice had no idea what to do or say. Anything would be feeble. "So you refuse to go," she said at last.

  He blew out smoke. "I have ghosts to exorcise," he said. "Judging from your performance to date, it should be easy."

  "You cannot judge me," she cried. "You took my innocence. You abandoned me!"

  "Did I? Even so, I would have thought you'd had your pound of flesh."

  Alice stepped back, away from his coldness. "I? I have had nothing."

  His lips curled up in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You've had a good swing at me at least. You can't deny that." He crushed out the cigarillo in a potted fern. "Good night, Lady Alice." With that, he walked by her and was gone.

  Alice awoke the next day with a feeling of dread, and this was Christmas Day, which she'd always loved. Had she slept at all? It didn't feel like it, and she remembered countless restless hours tussling with rage, loss, fear, and a twisted, bitter kind of excitement.

  Things were better once her maid, Hobly, brought her coffee—the day was now underway and she could pretend, at least, to be in control. It was better still when Rebecca popped her head around the door. "May I come and drink coffee with you, Alice? We'll never have time for a coze otherwise."

  Rebecca was a slender blonde whose sweet disposition was written all over her face. It wasn't right, thought Alice

  with a spurt of anger, that Rebecca had been robbed of her loving husband by a war which had left Tyr Norman untouched.

  "Oh yes, do! You can go, Hobly. I'll ring when I'm ready to dress." Alice leapt out of bed and led Rebecca into her smalj sitting room.

  "This is so comfortable," said Rebecca as they sat in the chairs in front of a new fire. "Perhaps I should demand something like this now I am back at home."

  "Why not? I decided, since I will not marry, I might as well have my comforts."

  "Will not marry? Alice, of course you will!"

  Alice tempered her words. "Let us say, it's beginning to seem unlikely, and I'm well content. There's space enough for me here even when Roland marries."

  "What about Standon?" Rebecca asked tentatively, "He's such a lovely man, and I'm sure he still cares. I never did understand — "

  "Oh please!" Alice interrupted as cheerfully as she could. "It's such old history. I'm still fond of Charlie, but I assure you I will not change my mind about marrying him. Surely you," she added gently, "who knew real love, can appreciate that fondness is not enough."

  Rebecca looked into the fire, her delicate face unwont-edly sober. "I don't know, Alice. Frederick seems so long ago. I'm lonely, and love . . . love exposes us to such terrible pain."

  Alice closed her eyes, but she could not shut out the knowledge that she too had loved and been deeply hurt.

  "Oh Alice, I'm so sorry!" Alice opened her eyes to see Rebecca's concerned face. "I swore I wouldn't be a shroud at the feast, and here I am giving you a case of the dismals."

  Alice gathered her friend in for a hug. "Don't act for me. Don't ever act for me." They smiled at each other somewhat tearfully, then Alice leapt to her feet. "But we must be up and about if we're to inspect the men at their work."

  "Cutting the yule log? But Alice, it's supposed to be

  the fair maidens who go out to tease. I'm no maiden."

  "I prefer to interpret it as the available young ladies. After all," she added with a wicked look, "who's to say all the unmarried wenches hereabouts have kept their maidenheads?"

  Rebecca gave a startled giggle and hurried off to dress.

  Alice rang her bell for Hobly, reflecting that she was going to have to bridle her tongue or she would end up spilling the truth. Having Tyr Norman here had not only brought old feelings to the surface but was prompting her to speak of matters best left unaddressed.

  With Hobly's help she was soon dressed in medieval style, ready for the first of the twelve days.

  It was the custom at Conyngham for all to wear twelfth-century dress during the festival though some guests were loose in their interpretation. Houpelands and even farthingales had been seen, but generally the loose, comfortable lines of the early middle ages were the norm. The family, of course, had extensive, authentic wardrobes, and there were ample spare costumes for the unprepared guest or one who ran out of appropriate garments.

  Alice was soon dressed in a long linen shift, a gunna of finer linen in a rich buttery cream embroidered in brown and red, and a knee-length tunic of warm red wool. The tunic was trimmed at neck, sleeves, and hem with braid. Alice knotted a silken rope around her hips and Hobly braided her hair into two long plaits interwoven with ribbons. This was one time when her hair came into its own. Alice pulled on stockings and then the long loose braies necessary for riding astride. Low red leather boots completed her outfit.

  She glanced in the mirror and was satisfied. She loved these clothes. She sometimes thought she would have been happier in medieval times, but then she remembered the cold, harsh castles, the chancy supply of food, and the almost incessant warfare, and was pleased to live in a civilized age.

  She picked up her brown cloak lined with vair and went

  off to collect Rebecca and gather up the other young available ladies.

  Rebecca was ready in shades of blue. Miss Carstairs was found to be in a form-fitting outfit more of the fourteenth century than the twelfth, and Alice doubted that even then they had cut the neckline quite so low. The girl was going to freeze for though she had a warm woolen cloak she was leaving it open to display her attributes.

  Susan Travis was anxious in a nondescript garment of brown wool tied around the middle. It was, thought Alice, quite authentic if she wished to play the part of a downtrodden serf. She resolved to take the shy girl on a foray through the Conyngham wardrobes later. For now, she merely supplied a warm cloak, which Susan lacked.

  Before leaving the house, however, Alice had a word with a maid to check the state of the clothes of Miss Travis's parents and to offer additions if required. Then she guided her company to the stables.

  It was a beautiful morning, clear and crisp with the frosted grass crunching under their feet. It was a miracle, thought Alice, but it seemed that Christmas Day was always beautiful.

  Bella Carstairs shivered. "It's so cold. Where are we going?"

  "To find the eligible men," said Alice and pinned the girl's cloak close around her. "They are off finding and cutting the yule log. We will go and tease them."

  Bella cheered up. "Will Lord Ivanridge be there?"

  "I suppose so," said Alice.

  When they arrived at the stables she said, "In the twelfth century ladies rode astride, but you may choose sidesaddle if you wish." Bella and Susan earnestly assured her they did, and Susan asked for a quiet mount.

  Rebecca said to them, "I relish this one chance to ride astride. You should try it, and your modesty is safe." She raised her skirt to show the linen leggings sh
e already wore.

  Susan gasped. "Heavens! What are they?"

  Alice replied. "Leggings, braies, hose. Call them what

  you wish." She produced another two pairs from under her cloak and waved them temptingly. "Are you sure you don't want to try?"

  Bella and Susan were very clear that they did not.

  Soon they were mounted. Alice had come to love her annual experience of riding astride, though she always paid for it with complaints from muscles unaccustomed to the work. Now she wanted to race off at full tilt, but she could see Susan was a nervous rider and Bella was in no mood to hare around, being more concerned with draping her yellow silk skirts and white cloak to greatest effect. Silk, thought Alice, shaking her head. The girl wouldn't wear silk in the morning ordinarily, so why now?

  "Where will we find the men?" Bella asked.

  "In the Home Wood somewhere," said Alice. "It's not far. A few trees have come down there in the last year which will be suitable for burning."

  She eventually got her party up to a canter and began to enjoy herself.

  They entered the wood and stopped to listen. There were voices over to the right but no sound of work. With a sign to her companions to be as quiet as possible, Alice led the way. Bella opened her cloak again. Susan giggled.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," Alice said. "Having difficulty?"

  Six men looked up at the four ladies. As well as Roland, Standon, Ewing, and Ivanridge, there were Lord Garstang and Mr. Noonan. The latter was a little old for this, but he was unmarried and so entitled to take part. It was a shame, however, that he'd chosen to wear the fitting hose and short jacket of the fourteenth century, for he was short and plump. He'd have been much better off in the braies and knee-length tunic worn by the other men, and more comfortable as well.

  "Not at all," said Roland, pretending offense, though the scene was played out much the same way every year. "We are just resting the saw."

  The two-handed saw was propped against the huge tree

  trunk into which they were cutting. They appeared to have gotten halfway through before stopping to refresh themselves from tankards of ale.

  "Don't let it rest too long," said Rebecca with a grin. "We need the yule log today, you know."

  Roland scowled at her. "Saucy wench. All right, men, whose turn is it?"

  "Mine and Standon's," said Ivanridge, shrugging out of his cloak and going to take one end of fhe saw.

  Alice remembered him taking part in this tradition six years ago, but he'd been in uniform. He'd taken off his jacket and worked in shirt sleeves. He'd been dashing no matter what he wore and still was. His medieval clothes were simple homespun browns, but with his forged hardness and his dark hair slightly long, he suited them perfectly. He could have stepped out of a previous century.

  He and Standon began to operate the saw, pushing and pulling smoothly. She dimly heard Rebecca leading the other two maidens in humorous taunts about the men's performance. Even Susan was beginning to get into the spirit of things. Alice was dumb.

  She told herself she couldn't actually see the muscles under that loose clothing, so why could she sense the power of them, imagine them beneath her fingers?

  She broke the spell he was casting on her. "Really, Lord Ivanridge," she called out. "Is that the best you can do? You're hardly making any impression at all!"

  He turned with a challenging smile. "Come and assist us then."

  Alice felt as if she'd stepped into a trap. This wasn't part of the script at all, but everyone was greeting this with huge merriment.

  "You too, Lady Frederick," called Standon. "Come and lend your strength at this end!"

  Rebecca complied instantly, so Alice had little choice. She slid off her horse and walked stiffly towards her tormentor. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked, but quietly.

  "Cutting a yule log," he said.

  He was startlingly unsafe in his loose, homespun garments. As if he sensed her disquiet, he stripped off his tunic to reveal a thin linen shirt. It was slit down the front and showed dark hair curling over hard muscles. Alice's mouth dried.

  "Hot work," he said as he tossed his tunic aside.

  Alice found herself within his arms, back pressed to his hard body. She swallowed and grasped the handle of the saw.

  "Put your hands on top of mine," he said softly against her ear. "We wouldn't want you to get a blister."

  "What of your hands?" she asked.

  He spread them momentarily and she saw the hard skin and callouses. "Sabers and other instruments of death," he remarked.

  He gripped the wooden handle, and Alice put her hands on top of his, seeing how delicate her white hands looked over his. She wasn't going to do much good in this position, but then that wasn't the point. This situation had been devised to torture her. Or seduce her.

  She looked up and saw Rebecca and Charlie on the other end of the saw, laughing. The look Rebecca flashed up at her partner was surprisingly flirtatious.

  Right, thought Alice. Tyr Norman isn't going to have it all his own way. She relaxed against his body and let her hands flex against his. "What now?" she asked, deliberately using a husky tone.

  "Push and then pull, Lady Alice." He leaned against her so that the saw slid toward Standon. Then the saw was pushed back, forcing her against his body. Push and then pull. Push and then pull. Alice allowed her body to fall hard against his at the end of every pull . . .

  He suddenly let go of the saw and stepped back, releasing her. "Whew," he said, wiping his arm against his damp brow. "I think an armful of such beauty saps my strength instead of adding to it."

  He said it jokingly, but he was serious. Alice felt a trium-

  phant smile tug at her lips but controlled it. Ivanridge caught it, however. Alice saw the flash of anger in his eyes, followed by a reluctant gleam of admiration.

  Ewing and Garstang demanded to try the same system and Bella and Susan were persuaded to assist. Alice strolled back towards the horses.

  "You always were full of surprises," Ivanridge said behind her.

  She turned and met his eyes. "Best you remember that, Lord Ivanridge."

  "Oh, I remember it well, Miranda."

  "Stop calling me that!"

  "Why? You are certainly a creature of amazing surprises."

  Alice closed her eyes briefly. "Why won't you just go away?"

  "I told you why."

  She glared at him. "I can make your life extremely difficult, Lord Ivanridge."

  He laughed shortly. "That's an old weapon and worn very blunt." He turned away dismissively. "They're almost through. Amazing what the presence of a few suitably appreciative damsels will do to a man's strength."

  Alice watched him stroll away knowing she was perilously close to tears. She fought them away and pinned on a smile. But what did he mean about an old weapon? She'd never made his life difficult . . .

  A triumphant shout told that the task was accomplished. The men mounted their own horses and everyone rode back to the house together. Egged on by Roland, Alice at last indulged in a flat-out gallop, but she noticed that Ivanridge lagged behind with Susan Travis. Now, what was he about?

  In the stables she lingered until he arrived and sought another moment alone with him. "You will please leave the young and innocent alone, Lord Ivanridge," she told him.

  He led his and Susan's mounts over to a groom. "Am I not allowed simple converse with the female sex?"

  "Not with the likes of Susan, no. If you are feeling amo-

  rous I can recommend a couple of the matrons who are not averse to variety."

  His look was slightly disgusted. "You've added pandering to your hostess duties, have you?"

  Alice winced, knowing she deserved that. "You make me behave like this," she said despairingly. "Please, won't you leave?"

  "No. And Lady Alice," he said with precision, "I have never made you do anything in your life."

  He walked away, and Rebecca took his place. "What's the matter? Lord
Ivanridge looked . . ."

  "Looked what?"

  Rebecca thought about it. "Like a soldier, I suppose. One about to kill."

  Alice shuddered slightly. That was what she sensed in him. A leashed killing anger. Why?

  As Christmas Day progressed, Alice found she had little time to herself, and the little she did steal was spent trying to think of a way to force Ivanridge out or at least change his room. She could come up with neither. There were available rooms, but they were all inferior or very out of the way and she could think of no excuse for the change.

  Instead, over tea, she sought out Charlie and probed for details as to his interaction with Ivanridge.

  Charlie considered her. "What's up? Anyone would think you suspected the man of being a murderer. Or a madman."

  "Of course not," Alice said gaily. "I just feel a little guilty for asking you to share with a stranger."

  "It's no problem, except that he's a restless sleeper."

  "Then he is making it difficult," she said, thinking she saw an excuse presenting itself.

  "Not particularly. Once asleep, I sleep soundly." He apparently felt obliged to reassure her. "We discussed it this morning and he's agreed to wait until I'm asleep before going to sleep himself."

  "What was the problem?" Alice asked, knowing she

  would be wiser to hold onto ignorance.

  "War dreams, I suppose," said Standon. "Don't say anything, Alice. I'm sure he wouldn't want it spoken of."

  So Tyr Norman had nightmares about the war, did he? Served him right. But Alice was bitterly aware of a desire to hold him in her arms and bring him to a sound sleep.

  That night was the Christmas feast, held in the Great Hall. The lofty stone chamber was hung with banners and ancient weapons, and the tables were set down the two long walls. At one end of the large room sat a high table on a dais and at the other stood an enormous fireplace.

  The first order of business was for the unmarried men to drag the yule log to the fireplace while being urged on and tormented by the maidens. Alice deliberately let Rebecca lead the ladies and kept well in the background herself. She was giving Ivanridge no further opportunity to harass her.