By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) (16 page)

“It’s all right,” he repeated with greater assurance. He searched her face, saw enough in her expression, in the emotions clouding her lovely eyes, to know that this was not the time to push further. Not yet.

He needed to think, to assess—and she was too wrought up with emotion; they both needed time.

He glanced around at the now empty hall, then looked back at her and found a reassuring smile. “It’s late. We should go up. Melinda will be wondering where you are.”

She swallowed, nodded, and rose; sliding her fingers from his clasp, she turned toward the archway. By the time she took her first step, she’d drawn her shields back into place; she was Mrs. Claire Meadows, widow and governess, once more.

He’d risen as she had. He walked by her side toward the archway.

A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision had him glancing at the dais.

McArdle was snoring, but the other two…he realized they were pointing, gesturing madly. He looked to where—and saw the mistletoe.

Claire reached the archway. He put out a hand, caught her elbow, and stopped her.

She turned, brows rising.

He bent his head and kissed her, there under the mistletoe.

And it seemed as if he’d been waiting all his life to set his lips to hers, to feel hers soften, then—wonder and joy—firm as she kissed him back.

Not ravenously, but definitely.

For an instant, his heart stood still; in the next, it started to beat more heavily.

Almost certainly by instinct rather than design, she raised a hand and her fingertips lightly grazed his cheek while her lips continued to meld with his.

He didn’t want to end the caress, yet he didn’t want to frighten her. Knew he couldn’t push too hard, not yet.

Yet he couldn’t resist drawing her closer—just a touch. Just enough to feel the promise of her in his arms.

Couldn’t resist letting the simple exchange play out, his lips moving on hers with just enough pressure to evoke a response, perhaps more instinctual than intentional, yet a response nonetheless.

He knew the instant she realized and stopped—and mentally drew back.

Raising his head, he looked into her face. The thud in his bloodstream remained, a needing. Holding her gaze, he quietly stated, “I won’t stop pursuing you.” The truth and nothing more. “I want you as my wife, and I’m not going to give up—on you, on me, on us. I will keep trying to persuade you.”

Sensing the fragile tension that held her, he gently ran the back of one finger down her cheek. “Just so you know.”

Claire blinked. “What if I can’t? What if I say no?”

His gaze didn’t waver; if anything it gained in intentness, in intensity. “I’ll keep asking until you say yes.” He paused, then caught her hand, raised it, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles, holding her gaze all the while. “I’m not going to go away, Claire—I’m not going to give up on you.”

Commitment, devotion, and more shone clearly in his eyes. Claire read the emotions, felt them, recognized and knew them.

There was nothing she could say—there was nothing to be said.

Not now. Not tonight.

Slowly, she stepped back, out of his embrace; he let her go, his arms falling from her. Without a word, she turned and led the way to the stairs.

Daniel followed.

On the dais, Helena sat back in her chair, a smile of smug satisfaction on her lips. “Excellent! I do believe he’ll do.”

Algaria snorted, but didn’t argue.

CHAPTER 6

The wind shrieked and pummeled the cottage. Snow and sleet raked the walls.

Lucilla was distantly aware of the elemental fury outside, of the murmured concerns of her menfolk, and of Jeb, too, as they sat about the table before the fire, but, kneeling by the side of the pallet behind the blanket-screen, she had no time to spare for such minor matters; the baby was definitely on its way into the world, and the manner it had chosen was not going to make its path easy.

She held onto one of Lottie’s hands—or rather Lottie’s fingers had tightened about hers in a crushing grip as she rode out yet another of the increasingly intense contractions. Prudence, steady as a rock, sat on the other side of the pallet, holding Lottie’s other hand. She’d found Lottie a leather strap to bite down on, and in the gaps in between contractions, as Lottie panted and tried to catch her breath, Prudence bathed Lottie’s face with a cloth dipped in snowmelt.

As Lottie’s labor had continued, Jeb had grown increasingly distraught to the point that he was more hindrance than help. To the point that Lottie had to struggle to find the strength to reassure him, rather than him being of comfort to her. Lucilla had stepped in and sent Jeb to sit with the other men; Lottie had nodded, and he’d gone, leaving the three women to deal with the arriving baby without distraction.

“Gah!” Lottie exclaimed around the leather strap. As the fierce grip of the contraction abruptly eased and, gasping, she fell limp, Lucilla quickly examined her, then let the sheet fall back.

“Everything’s progressing as it should.” Lucilla lightly squeezed Lottie’s hand—and exchanged a meaningful look with Prudence. Progressing, yes, but the baby hadn’t turned. It would be a breech birth. The baby hadn’t yet entered the birth canal proper, but soon would—and then everything would need to happen quickly for the child to survive. For them to have any chance of helping it into the world alive.

“How are things going in there, ladies?” Marcus spoke from the other side of the blanket-screen. “Do you need anything?”

“Just keep the fire well stoked and the water hot.” Lucilla glanced at Lottie’s face. “We’ll be a few hours yet.”

Lottie met Lucilla’s eyes; if she hadn’t already been wrung out to limpness, Lottie would have slumped.

“Best to think of tomorrow morning.” Prudence chafed Lottie’s hand. “Of waking up and seeing your new baby in its basket, of holding it in your arms.”

Around the leather strap, Lottie managed a wan smile. “If they’d told me it was this much work, I’d’ve thought twice about the business.”

A smile tugged at Lucilla’s lips. “You’d still have opted to have a bairn. For all that it’s a tortured path to get them here, it’s worth every second in the end.”

“Aye.” Weakly, Lottie nodded. Her eyes drifted closed.

Lucilla looked at Prudence. “I’m going to get some more of the tisane. If Lottie can manage to take a few sips when she rouses again, it’ll help.”

Prudence nodded. Lucilla rose. She stretched her legs, spine, neck, and shoulders, then she turned and sidled out from behind the makeshift screen.

A heavy thud fell on the outer door.

Everyone looked at the thick planks. A branch flung by the wind?

The thud came again, then the latch started to lift.

Sebastian, seated on a stool on that side of the table, rose and lunged to catch the door before the wind could slam it wide.

A snow-encrusted figure—a man—staggered and all but fell inside. A huge, hairy beast the size of a small pony pushed in beside him.

Marcus had rushed to help Sebastian; fighting against the force of the wind, they wrestled the door shut again and managed to get the iron latch back into place.

The huge beast shook itself, sending gobbets of snow and ice flying, and revealed itself to be a huge deerhound; its curious amber gaze traveled the room, then the massive beast sat, its head as high as a man’s elbow, and watched them all.

Lucilla returned her gaze to the stranger. What manner of man came out in a storm like this?

He was tall—as tall as Sebastian—but all else about him was concealed beneath a thick, fur-lined cape. The cowl was up and shaded the man’s features; the body of the cape bulged oddly, as if there were more than a man beneath it.

Judging by the movement of the cowl, the man was scanning the occupants of the cottage from right to left—Michael, Jeb. The man’s gaze reached Lucilla and halted. Arrested. But then, satisfied that the door was secure, Sebastian and Marcus moved back into the room and the man’s gaze continued to them.

After a second of assessing silence, the man raised a mittened hand and put back the cowl.

Jeb reacted instantly. “Mr. Carrick, sir!” Jeb blinked. “Whatever are you doing out on such a night?”

Thick, wavy hair of dark chestnut was speckled with snow. Eyes of richly veined amber perfectly set beneath dark slashes of brows regarded Jeb with a steady gaze. A patrician nose, sharply delineated cheekbones, angular cheeks, and a chin chiseled square completed a striking face.

Thomas Carrick’s gaze shifted to Lucilla. His eyes held hers for a fleeting instant, then he inclined his head. “Miss Cynster.”

Before she could respond—she knew who he was, but she hadn’t set eyes on him for years—Carrick’s gaze passed on to Marcus. Carrick nodded. “Cynster.”

Marcus nodded back. “Carrick.”

Carrick’s gaze passed on to Sebastian, who now stood on his left. Carrick’s brow arched in polite query.

Marcus obliged. “Thomas Carrick—Sebastian Cynster, Marquess of Earith, our cousin. And”—Marcus nodded across the table—“Michael Cynster, Sebastian’s brother.”

“And,” Lucilla said, indicating the screened area with a wave, “Prudence, another cousin, is sitting with Lottie.”

Carrick’s eyes again met hers.

Lucilla realized what his principal question must be. “We were riding along the ridge and Jeb heard us and rushed out to intercept us. He and Lottie needed help, so we came.”

Carrick half bowed. “Thank you.”

He returned his attention to Jeb; lips twisting—whether in a simple grimace or in self-deprecation Lucilla couldn’t tell—Carrick answered Jeb’s earlier question. “None of the other shepherds had seen you for the last few days, and when you and Lottie didn’t come down ahead of the storm… Well, it’s Christmas Eve, and knowing Lottie’s time was near, I thought perhaps you could do with some extra fare.”

Carrick’s shoulders fluidly shifted; the cloak parted as he lifted a jumble of oilskin-wrapped bundles onto the table. “I’ve brought food, and drink, too. I thought you might need it.”

Eyes locking on the bundles, the other men converged on the table. Curious, Lucilla approached the table, too. Carrick appeared to have carried half a larder up the ridge.

“However did you manage to carry all this up through the snow?” Jeb asked.

Turning from removing his cloak and setting it on a peg near the door, Carrick tipped his head toward the side of the cottage. “Sled. I left it out there.”

“You didn’t ride?” Sebastian asked.

Carrick shook his head. “Too dangerous to try to get a horse up that track in weather like this.”

He joined the other men in opening the neatly tied, oilskin-wrapped packages. In short order, cheeses, bread, mince pies, shortbread, a small pat of butter, lard, a ham, bacon, a pie, and various already cooked meats tumbled out onto the table’s surface.

Reaching for a bottle-shaped package, Michael glanced at Carrick. “Bit of a risk, coming out in such a storm alone.”

Carrick didn’t look up from the string he was untying. “I wasn’t alone.” When silence greeted that pronouncement, Carrick’s lips curved and he looked past Michael to the huge hound who, apparently having decided its master was safe enough, had circled to sit to the side of the hearth. “Hesta was with me. She would have pulled me out of any drift.”

They all looked at the huge hound; jaws slightly gaping, huge teeth on display, she looked back at them calmly.

“Useful.” Sebastian had unwrapped one of the three bottles. He held it up. “Whisky. That makes you doubly welcome.”

Carrick’s long lips lifted in a fleeting grin.

Michael had unwrapped a smaller bottle. He frowned. “Gin. Not a drop I favor.”

Carrick glanced at Lucilla. “The midwife told me it might be useful.”

She nodded. “It will be.” She reached for the bottle. While the men separated the various foodstuffs, she uncorked the gin and sniffed; the scent of juniper berries was strong. Going to the pot of tisane she’d earlier brewed and left to the side of the hearth, she picked up the beaker Lottie had been using and tipped a small amount of the gin into it. After corking and setting the bottle aside, she ladled tisane on top of the gin, swirled the concoction, then rose and turned back to the table.

Casting her eyes over the food now spread out on the board, as Jeb brought a collection of tin plates to the table, she instructed, “Set aside slices of that pie for Lottie, Prudence, and me, also some bread and cheese, and make sure there’s some of that ham left on the bone—Jeb and Lottie can use that in the pot, along with any other meats left over.”

Already pulling up stools to the table, the males merely nodded or grunted. Leaving all five to replenish their reserves—sincerely grateful to Thomas Carrick for having thought of Jeb and Lottie’s need and having struggled through the storm to reach them—Lucilla slipped behind the screen again.

Lottie was just regaining her breath after battling through another bout of gripping pain. Lucilla handed her the beaker, and she sipped—then her eyes widened, and she looked questioningly at Lucilla.

“I put some of the gin Mr. Carrick brought into it. It’ll help.” Assuming that Lottie and Prudence had heard everything said beyond the blankets, Lucilla looked at her cousin. “You must be hungry—why don’t you slip out and have some of that pie before it vanishes?”

Prudence thought, then shook her head. “I’m settled here, and Lottie and I know where we are at present. Better you eat, then perhaps bring something for Lottie to see if she can manage it, and I’ll go out and eat then.”

Accepting that Prudence was correct in suggesting that she, Lucilla, would be needed more later rather than immediately, Lucilla nodded and rose again. “All right. I’ll get what I want and something for Lottie and come back right away.”

There was something about Thomas Carrick that…disturbed her. She saw no reason—felt no inclination—to eat at the table with the men.

Ducking back around the hung blankets, she was immediately conscious of Carrick’s gaze—as if he’d been listening and had been determined to look at her the instant she reappeared. He started to rise; suddenly ridiculously flustered, she waved him to sit again. None of the other males had thought of the courtesy.