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Miss Merry’s Christmas and A Christmas in Manchester

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Christmas Cookie Exchange!!

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Name that book!!!

Many years ago (even before my tv watching time) there was a show called “Name that Tune.” Songs were played and contestants had to ring a bell and ‘name that tune.’ That’s where my book contest title comes from.

Lord William and Lady Amy are at it again. Can’t they even have a nice calm Christmas with their two year old son, George? Things seemed normal until a dead body shows up in the Village of Wethingford. Of course, the local constable turns to them for advice.

Will advice put them and their son in danger?

Enter the contest to name this book. The winner will receive recognition in the book and receive fa ree signed copy of the book.

Here ye go folks! Have at it!

(Contest closes October 15th)

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My Own True Love

A Christmas Regency Romance short story

My Own True Love

By: Callie Hutton

Pemberton Hall

May, 1814

          She’s here.

A jolt of excitement shot through Marcus, Viscount Weatherby, as he spotted Lady Dorothea Ambrose after scanning the crowd packed into the ballroom at Pemberton Hall. He had carelessly tossed aside the invitation he’d received to the lavish ball the Earl and Countess of Pemberton hosted each year. Then when Penrose mentioned at White’s yesterday that Lady Ambrose would be in attendance, he knew nothing could keep him away.

Dorothea–my Dorothea.

Almost as if connected by an invisible cord, he headed in her direction, snatching two glasses of champagne from a passing footman. Trying his best to shoulder his way through, he groaned in frustration when Lord Leighton stepped up to Dorothea and extending his arm, led her to the dance floor seconds before Marcus reached the spot where she’d stood.

He downed both glasses and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched her turn in Leighton’s arms. His stomach muscles tightened when she smiled up at her partner, her lovely face awash in pleasure.

In the three years he’d been in India, she’d not changed from the beautiful, passionate woman he’d had one glorious night with. A night they were not destined to repeat with her parents announcing her betrothal to the Earl of Ambrose a mere two days later.

Piled in a knot at the top of her head, her golden hair caught the sparkling candlelight as she turned and twirled, the slender twists of curls at her temples caressing her creamy skin. He knew first-hand her crystal blue eyes would be glowing with excitement. His fingers itched to cup her face and cover her lush mouth in a soul-searing kiss.

Once again, the rage and hopelessness of reading her betrothal announcement in the newspaper swept over him. His beautiful Dorothea to be sold in marriage to a man old enough to be her grandfather.

He turned as someone slapped him on the shoulder. “Weatherby. Thought you gave up on these affairs.”

Marcus shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to pop in once in a while.” He lowered his gaze to the cane Richard, Viscount Tetterly, leaned heavily on. “What the devil happened to you?”

Tetterly grimaced. “Attended a hunting party last weekend at Manchester’s place.” He joined Marcus against the wall, sighing with relief at the added support to his frame. “Lord Buckley insisted on hunting those drat little birds. Had the beater thrashing the bushes to get the little devils moving. Wouldn’t you know one of them flew up into a tree. So as Buckley took aim, he stumbled backward, knocking me to my arse, then landed on my bent knee.”

Marcus grimaced. “Sounds painful.”

“With Buckley’s girth, I’m deuced lucky he didn’t break the bloody thing. I’ll be hobbling around for weeks.” He grinned. “You should have seen the head gardener railing against the beater for ruining his shrubs.”

Tetterly sipped his whiskey. “You didn’t answer my question. What brings you here? Could’ve sworn hearing you loudly proclaim you’d never again step a foot in a ton affair, right before you hied off to India.”

“No particular reason. Since I’ve returned I thought it would be pleasant to attend an event with my friends whom I haven’t seen in a while.”

Terrerly snorted his opinion of that. He studied Marcus for a minute, then turned to see what had captured his friend’s attention. “Ah. The fascinating Lady Ambrose. I should have guessed.”

Marcus stiffened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Give over, old man. If I remember, you and the charming lady were quite the thing before her parents whisked her off the marriage mart and betrothed her to Ambrose. A shame, that.”

“Excuse me, I need to speak with someone.” Marcus pushed away from the wall and made his way through the dancers returning to their chaperones.

*

Dorothea curtsied to Lord Leighton, then snapped her fan open, moving the heated air across her face. She fingered the dance card dangling from her wrist. The next dance, the first waltz of the evening, had been promised to her old friend, Stephen.

“He’s here.”

Dorothea turned toward the whispering voice. Her best friend, Lady Cecile, the Duke of Alford’s sister, grasped Dorothea’s elbow in a grip sure to leave marks on her tomorrow.

“What are you talking about? Who’s here?”

“Weatherby.”

Dorothea felt all the blood drain from her face. “No. He is far away in India.”

Cecile shook her head. “I had it on good authority he returned a few weeks ago, and he’s here now.” She glanced up, her eyes growing wide. “In fact, he’s headed this way.”

Dorothea whipped her head around to see Marcus stalking in her direction, a slight smile on his beloved face. Beloved−hah! She hated him. He’d left her when she needed him the most.

“Cecile, you must go with me to the ladies’ retiring room. I can’t face him. I’m still too angry.”
          “You must. The day was bound to come when he would return home. You can’t avoid him forever.”

“Maybe not, but I can right now.” She scurried away, dragging Cecile with her. Dorothea glanced over her shoulder to see frustration on Marcus’s face. Tall, dark haired, with the perpetual curl falling over his forehead, her heart melted despite her resolve. His broad shoulders were encased in a tight fitting black jacket above black breeches outlining every muscle in his powerful legs. The hunger in his hazel eyes started the same fluttering in her stomach as it had three years ago. She dragged her gaze away, and attempted to fill her lungs with air as she propelled Cecile forward and jostled people out of the way to make her escape.

*

Marcus watched Dorothea skitter away from him, dragging Lady Cecile with her. Why the devil did she look angry? With him? He ran his fingers through his hair, and caught the last glimpse of her blue silk gown as she made her way up the stairs. From past experience he knew women could be doing whatever it was they did in the retiring room for ages. He sighed and turned on his heel, heading to the card room.

He took a seat across from Lord Swann, who most likely was dodging all the females in his family. Seven daughters, and not one of them wed. Marcus had seen them floating by before in a group of pastel gowns like a bouquet of wildflowers. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight of Lady Swann, her face flushed from the effort of trying to chaperone that gaggle.

“Weatherby.” Swann nodded in his direction, and began to deal the next hand. Marcus picked up his cards and studied them, pleasantly surprised.

He passed the next hour winning and losing, until finally confident that Dorothea would have returned to the ballroom by now, pushed his chair back, gathered his winnings, and left the room.

It didn’t take him long to spot her. She and Lady Cecile had their heads together, chatting behind their fans. They made a captivating pair. Dorothea with her pale beauty, and Lady Cecile with her dark hair and snapping brown eyes.

He ate up the distance between them, hurrying before someone else claimed Dorothea for a dance.

Two red dots appeared on her cheeks when she spotted him, and once again she turned to flee. He took one long stride and managed to grasp her hand to stop her. Lady Cecile cast him a slight smile, her eyes twinkling. It appeared the girl seemed relieved. He’d heard she was quite the romantic. Perhaps he’d thank her one day for keeping Dorothea from catching sight of him too soon.

“Lady Cecile. You’re looking splendid this evening.” He bent over her hand and gave it a slight kiss. Then he turned toward Dorothea and his heart stopped. All the memories of their one night together flooded his senses. In a flash he saw her perfect rose-tipped breasts, heaving with passion, her eyes a deeper blue as she stared up at him and whispered she loved him. He still smelled her fragrance, a light floral scent, along with the heady perfume of her arousal. Startlingly delightful, she was all grace and beauty. And glaring at him in anger.

What the bloody hell?

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Ambrose?”

She raised her chin and stiffened her shoulders. “I’m afraid not, my lord, it appears my partner stands behind you.”

“That’s right, Weatherby. Lady Ambrose is mine for this dance.”

Marcus turned to face Lord Beaumont, a smile on his pleasant face.

“If you will excuse us.” Beaumont reached for Dorothea’s hand.

Marcus rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Say old man, do me this favor, if you will.”

Beaumont glanced between Marcus and Dorothea, and shrugged. Extending his hand to Lady Cecile, he asked, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

She curtsied gracefully, then raised a blushing face to him.

“Shall we?” Marcus extended his arm to Dorothea.

Dorothea bristled. “It appears you’ve left me no choice, my lord.”

*

It was truly foolish to continue to avoid Marcus. As Cecile had remarked, Dorothea had to face him sometime if he planned to make his home in England again. From the gossip she’d picked up in the retiring room that was precisely his intention. If she could just get through this one dance, she would wish him well, and return to her comfortable life with her pride and secret intact.

As they lined up for the quadrille, she snuck a peek at him. His dashing good looks had been enhanced by the slight tanning of his skin. She shivered remembering his strong hands stroking her body until she felt as if she would catch fire. Their one night of passion—any nights after that cut short by her parents’ edict to marry Ambrose, and Marcus’s unexpected abandonment.

Oh, how she hated her parents then. But nothing compared to the wrath that enveloped her at Marcus’s easy acceptance of her betrothal. They’d made love, and she envisioned her life with him. Then within days of that blasted newspaper announcement he apparently threw up his hands in acceptance and left for India. And took her heart with him, never suspecting what he’d left behind.

The dance began, and they came together.

“I’ve missed you.” Marcus touched her hand lightly as they moved around each other.

“Indeed?” She put as much disdain into that one word as possible.

They retreated once more and switched partners. Their eyes remained linked as they studied each other as they moved, like two animals, circling, waiting for the other to strike first.

“I wish I could offer condolences for your late husband, but I’m afraid I’m too selfish to feel remorse.” They came together, and then parted quickly as they again circled each other.

They touched hands and moved in time with the music. “I want to talk with you when this is over.” Marcus squeezed her fingers before releasing her.

Dorothea hesitated, losing her steps, receiving upraised eyebrows from Lord Hawthorne to her right, who waited for her to circle him.

“No thank you, my lord. My next dance is spoken for.” She whispered furiously.

Marcus reached out and tore the small card that dangled from her wrist by a slim gold ribbon. “I own all your dances for the rest of the evening.”

They remained in stony silence as the dance proceeded. When the final notes faded away, Dorothea turned to hurry back to her safe spot next to Lady Cecile. Marcus took her arm, and in a firm grip, moved her in the opposite direction. “This way, my lady.”

Left with no alternative save making a fool of herself, Dorothea moved with him, her spine rigid.

*

Whenever he’d thought of his reunion with his one true love, Marcus had never imagined Dorothea enraged. Her misplaced anger smarted, since her parents were the ones who’d torn them apart. He led her down the corridor where he remembered the library was located. Marcus placed his hand on her lower back as they arrived, opening the door and ushering her in. Someone had been thoughtful enough to light a fire, giving off warmth to the dark, silent room. They moved closer to the flames, warming themselves.

He leaned his shoulder against the mantle and studied the only woman he’d ever loved, her exquisite features tightened. “Dorothea. I…I don’t even know where to start.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then stopped, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m not good with words, but I want you to know I still love you, and now that you’re free, I want to marry you.”

She jerked back as if slapped. “How dare you!”

His brows rushed together. “My dear, I get the distinct impression you’re angry with me.”

Dorothea raised her chin. “Do you think so? Very astute, my lord.”

He placed his hand on her soft cheek. “Dorothea, what’s wrong?”

Tear-rimmed eyes met his and her voice shook. “Why didn’t you come for me?”

Marcus shook his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The night after the announcement appeared in the newspaper−without my permission, or knowledge−I packed my suitcase and waited for you to come for me.” She swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. “I thought you loved me.”

Marcus pulled her into his arms. “Oh, sweetheart. I did—I do. And coming for you was precisely my plan. I’d arranged for us to run off to Gretna Green.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father caught me about to raise a ladder to your bedroom window. He brought me inside, gave me a drink of whiskey and explained that you were in favor of the match, and had left me a note.”

Dorothea frowned. “A note? I never wrote a note.”

He swore he could hear the sound of his heart landing in his stomach. “No note?”

She slowly shook her head. “No.”

“But he showed me…and I believed the bastard…” He glanced at her. “Sorry.”

Dorothea collapsed into a chair in front of the fire. “They lied.” She raised her gaze to him. “They lied to you. I never wrote a note. On my wedding day I was so livid with both them and you, I thought I would expire from it.”

Marcus dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her soft hands in his. “My poor Dorothea. No wonder you’ve been so angry with me. I loved you then, and I love you now. I never would have abandoned you. Never.” He reached out and cupped her chin, his mouth covering hers hungrily.

Tentatively at first, then with a firmer grip, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, moaning as he slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting her sweetness. He pulled back and kissed her eyelids, her nose, her chin. “I’m so very sorry.” He leaned back “I, too, felt betrayed. I thought you loved me, and after our night together would never give yourself to another man.”

“I didn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. “But you were married, how did…”

Dorothea shook her head. “Ambrose was feeble. He tried. Oh, Marcus, it was horrible. But the few times he attempted to bed me, he never succeeded. Then he died peacefully in his sleep only a few months after we married.”

She shivered, remembering those times. Ambrose’s hands were cold as ice, his pale body aged and sagging. When she’d lain awake after his attempts, remembering Marcus and their lovemaking, she’d beaten her pillow in frustration and cried herself to sleep.

Marcus brought her fingers to his mouth to kiss each tip. “I thought I heard you had a child, a little girl?”

She took in a deep breath. This was it, no more secrets. “I do.”

“Then how…?” At the look of love on her face, he knew the answer. “I have a daughter?” Stunned, his lips were barely able to move.

He’d left her with a child!

Unable to speak, she nodded, tears spilling from her beautiful eyes. “Yes, Marcus. You have a daughter. Elizabeth is just past her second birthday.” Trembling fingers reached out and touched his face. “She has your eyes.”

Feelings of love, pride, guilt, and longing washed over him. He was a father! He and Dorothea had created a little girl from their love. Speechless for probably the first time in his life, he pulled her onto his lap on the floor, and kissed her with all the passion and love in his heart.

He pulled away. “We must marry immediately.”
          Dorothea grinned. “We have to post the banns, and plan a ceremony.”

Marcus stood, and pulled her up. “Fine, plan whatever you want. But now I want to make love to you more than anything in the world.”

“I’m a house guest.” She cast him a sideways glance, her cheeks a charming shade of pink.

His heart leapt. “And that means  . . .” He raised his eyebrows.

“I have a room.” She cast him a siren’s smile.

His body came alive and he barely got out the words. “Lead on, my lady.”

Hand in hand, they raced up the stairs, barely noticing Lady Cecile grinning from her spot behind the potted plant at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ah, love.” She sighed and returned to the ballroom.

The End

By: Callie HuttonPemberton HallMay, 1814 She’s h...

By: Callie Hutton

Pemberton Hall

May, 1814

          She’s here.

A jolt of excitement shot through Marcus, Viscount Weatherby, as he spotted Lady Dorothea Ambrose after scanning the crowd packed into the ballroom at Pemberton Hall. He had carelessly tossed aside the invitation he’d received to the lavish ball the Earl and Countess of Pemberton hosted each year. Then when Penrose mentioned at White’s yesterday that Lady Ambrose would be in attendance, he knew nothing could keep him away.

Dorothea–my Dorothea.

Almost as if connected by an invisible cord, he headed in her direction, snatching two glasses of champagne from a passing footman. Trying his best to shoulder his way through, he groaned in frustration when Lord Leighton stepped up to Dorothea and extending his arm, led her to the dance floor seconds before Marcus reached the spot where she’d stood.

He downed both glasses and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched her turn in Leighton’s arms. His stomach muscles tightened when she smiled up at her partner, her lovely face awash in pleasure.

In the three years he’d been in India, she’d not changed from the beautiful, passionate woman he’d had one glorious night with. A night they were not destined to repeat with her parents announcing her betrothal to the Earl of Ambrose a mere two days later.

Piled in a knot at the top of her head, her golden hair caught the sparkling candlelight as she turned and twirled, the slender twists of curls at her temples caressing her creamy skin. He knew first-hand her crystal blue eyes would be glowing with excitement. His fingers itched to cup her face and cover her lush mouth in a soul-searing kiss.

Once again, the rage and hopelessness of reading her betrothal announcement in the newspaper swept over him. His beautiful Dorothea to be sold in marriage to a man old enough to be her grandfather.

He turned as someone slapped him on the shoulder. “Weatherby. Thought you gave up on these affairs.”

Marcus shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to pop in once in a while.” He lowered his gaze to the cane Richard, Viscount Tetterly, leaned heavily on. “What the devil happened to you?”

Tetterly grimaced. “Attended a hunting party last weekend at Manchester’s place.” He joined Marcus against the wall, sighing with relief at the added support to his frame. “Lord Buckley insisted on hunting those drat little birds. Had the beater thrashing the bushes to get the little devils moving. Wouldn’t you know one of them flew up into a tree. So as Buckley took aim, he stumbled backward, knocking me to my arse, then landed on my bent knee.”

Marcus grimaced. “Sounds painful.”

“With Buckley’s girth, I’m deuced lucky he didn’t break the bloody thing. I’ll be hobbling around for weeks.” He grinned. “You should have seen the head gardener railing against the beater for ruining his shrubs.”

Tetterly sipped his whiskey. “You didn’t answer my question. What brings you here? Could’ve sworn hearing you loudly proclaim you’d never again step a foot in a ton affair, right before you hied off to India.”

“No particular reason. Since I’ve returned I thought it would be pleasant to attend an event with my friends whom I haven’t seen in a while.”

Terrerly snorted his opinion of that. He studied Marcus for a minute, then turned to see what had captured his friend’s attention. “Ah. The fascinating Lady Ambrose. I should have guessed.”

Marcus stiffened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Give over, old man. If I remember, you and the charming lady were quite the thing before her parents whisked her off the marriage mart and betrothed her to Ambrose. A shame, that.”

“Excuse me, I need to speak with someone.” Marcus pushed away from the wall and made his way through the dancers returning to their chaperones.

*

Dorothea curtsied to Lord Leighton, then snapped her fan open, moving the heated air across her face. She fingered the dance card dangling from her wrist. The next dance, the first waltz of the evening, had been promised to her old friend, Stephen.

“He’s here.”

Dorothea turned toward the whispering voice. Her best friend, Lady Cecile, the Duke of Alford’s sister, grasped Dorothea’s elbow in a grip sure to leave marks on her tomorrow.

“What are you talking about? Who’s here?”

“Weatherby.”

Dorothea felt all the blood drain from her face. “No. He is far away in India.”

Cecile shook her head. “I had it on good authority he returned a few weeks ago, and he’s here now.” She glanced up, her eyes growing wide. “In fact, he’s headed this way.”

Dorothea whipped her head around to see Marcus stalking in her direction, a slight smile on his beloved face. Beloved−hah! She hated him. He’d left her when she needed him the most.

“Cecile, you must go with me to the ladies’ retiring room. I can’t face him. I’m still too angry.”
          “You must. The day was bound to come when he would return home. You can’t avoid him forever.”

“Maybe not, but I can right now.” She scurried away, dragging Cecile with her. Dorothea glanced over her shoulder to see frustration on Marcus’s face. Tall, dark haired, with the perpetual curl falling over his forehead, her heart melted despite her resolve. His broad shoulders were encased in a tight fitting black jacket above black breeches outlining every muscle in his powerful legs. The hunger in his hazel eyes started the same fluttering in her stomach as it had three years ago. She dragged her gaze away, and attempted to fill her lungs with air as she propelled Cecile forward and jostled people out of the way to make her escape.

*

Marcus watched Dorothea skitter away from him, dragging Lady Cecile with her. Why the devil did she look angry? With him? He ran his fingers through his hair, and caught the last glimpse of her blue silk gown as she made her way up the stairs. From past experience he knew women could be doing whatever it was they did in the retiring room for ages. He sighed and turned on his heel, heading to the card room.

He took a seat across from Lord Swann, who most likely was dodging all the females in his family. Seven daughters, and not one of them wed. Marcus had seen them floating by before in a group of pastel gowns like a bouquet of wildflowers. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight of Lady Swann, her face flushed from the effort of trying to chaperone that gaggle.

“Weatherby.” Swann nodded in his direction, and began to deal the next hand. Marcus picked up his cards and studied them, pleasantly surprised.

He passed the next hour winning and losing, until finally confident that Dorothea would have returned to the ballroom by now, pushed his chair back, gathered his winnings, and left the room.

It didn’t take him long to spot her. She and Lady Cecile had their heads together, chatting behind their fans. They made a captivating pair. Dorothea with her pale beauty, and Lady Cecile with her dark hair and snapping brown eyes.

He ate up the distance between them, hurrying before someone else claimed Dorothea for a dance.

Two red dots appeared on her cheeks when she spotted him, and once again she turned to flee. He took one long stride and managed to grasp her hand to stop her. Lady Cecile cast him a slight smile, her eyes twinkling. It appeared the girl seemed relieved. He’d heard she was quite the romantic. Perhaps he’d thank her one day for keeping Dorothea from catching sight of him too soon.

“Lady Cecile. You’re looking splendid this evening.” He bent over her hand and gave it a slight kiss. Then he turned toward Dorothea and his heart stopped. All the memories of their one night together flooded his senses. In a flash he saw her perfect rose-tipped breasts, heaving with passion, her eyes a deeper blue as she stared up at him and whispered she loved him. He still smelled her fragrance, a light floral scent, along with the heady perfume of her arousal. Startlingly delightful, she was all grace and beauty. And glaring at him in anger.

What the bloody hell?

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Ambrose?”

She raised her chin and stiffened her shoulders. “I’m afraid not, my lord, it appears my partner stands behind you.”

“That’s right, Weatherby. Lady Ambrose is mine for this dance.”

Marcus turned to face Lord Beaumont, a smile on his pleasant face.

“If you will excuse us.” Beaumont reached for Dorothea’s hand.

Marcus rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Say old man, do me this favor, if you will.”

Beaumont glanced between Marcus and Dorothea, and shrugged. Extending his hand to Lady Cecile, he asked, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

She curtsied gracefully, then raised a blushing face to him.

“Shall we?” Marcus extended his arm to Dorothea.

Dorothea bristled. “It appears you’ve left me no choice, my lord.”

*

It was truly foolish to continue to avoid Marcus. As Cecile had remarked, Dorothea had to face him sometime if he planned to make his home in England again. From the gossip she’d picked up in the retiring room that was precisely his intention. If she could just get through this one dance, she would wish him well, and return to her comfortable life with her pride and secret intact.

As they lined up for the quadrille, she snuck a peek at him. His dashing good looks had been enhanced by the slight tanning of his skin. She shivered remembering his strong hands stroking her body until she felt as if she would catch fire. Their one night of passion—any nights after that cut short by her parents’ edict to marry Ambrose, and Marcus’s unexpected abandonment.

Oh, how she hated her parents then. But nothing compared to the wrath that enveloped her at Marcus’s easy acceptance of her betrothal. They’d made love, and she envisioned her life with him. Then within days of that blasted newspaper announcement he apparently threw up his hands in acceptance and left for India. And took her heart with him, never suspecting what he’d left behind.

The dance began, and they came together.

“I’ve missed you.” Marcus touched her hand lightly as they moved around each other.

“Indeed?” She put as much disdain into that one word as possible.

They retreated once more and switched partners. Their eyes remained linked as they studied each other as they moved, like two animals, circling, waiting for the other to strike first.

“I wish I could offer condolences for your late husband, but I’m afraid I’m too selfish to feel remorse.” They came together, and then parted quickly as they again circled each other.

They touched hands and moved in time with the music. “I want to talk with you when this is over.” Marcus squeezed her fingers before releasing her.

Dorothea hesitated, losing her steps, receiving upraised eyebrows from Lord Hawthorne to her right, who waited for her to circle him.

“No thank you, my lord. My next dance is spoken for.” She whispered furiously.

Marcus reached out and tore the small card that dangled from her wrist by a slim gold ribbon. “I own all your dances for the rest of the evening.”

They remained in stony silence as the dance proceeded. When the final notes faded away, Dorothea turned to hurry back to her safe spot next to Lady Cecile. Marcus took her arm, and in a firm grip, moved her in the opposite direction. “This way, my lady.”

Left with no alternative save making a fool of herself, Dorothea moved with him, her spine rigid.

*

Whenever he’d thought of his reunion with his one true love, Marcus had never imagined Dorothea enraged. Her misplaced anger smarted, since her parents were the ones who’d torn them apart. He led her down the corridor where he remembered the library was located. Marcus placed his hand on her lower back as they arrived, opening the door and ushering her in. Someone had been thoughtful enough to light a fire, giving off warmth to the dark, silent room. They moved closer to the flames, warming themselves.

He leaned his shoulder against the mantle and studied the only woman he’d ever loved, her exquisite features tightened. “Dorothea. I…I don’t even know where to start.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then stopped, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m not good with words, but I want you to know I still love you, and now that you’re free, I want to marry you.”

She jerked back as if slapped. “How dare you!”

His brows rushed together. “My dear, I get the distinct impression you’re angry with me.”

Dorothea raised her chin. “Do you think so? Very astute, my lord.”

He placed his hand on her soft cheek. “Dorothea, what’s wrong?”

Tear-rimmed eyes met his and her voice shook. “Why didn’t you come for me?”

Marcus shook his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The night after the announcement appeared in the newspaper−without my permission, or knowledge−I packed my suitcase and waited for you to come for me.” She swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. “I thought you loved me.”

Marcus pulled her into his arms. “Oh, sweetheart. I did—I do. And coming for you was precisely my plan. I’d arranged for us to run off to Gretna Green.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father caught me about to raise a ladder to your bedroom window. He brought me inside, gave me a drink of whiskey and explained that you were in favor of the match, and had left me a note.”

Dorothea frowned. “A note? I never wrote a note.”

He swore he could hear the sound of his heart landing in his stomach. “No note?”

She slowly shook her head. “No.”

“But he showed me…and I believed the bastard…” He glanced at her. “Sorry.”

Dorothea collapsed into a chair in front of the fire. “They lied.” She raised her gaze to him. “They lied to you. I never wrote a note. On my wedding day I was so livid with both them and you, I thought I would expire from it.”

Marcus dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her soft hands in his. “My poor Dorothea. No wonder you’ve been so angry with me. I loved you then, and I love you now. I never would have abandoned you. Never.” He reached out and cupped her chin, his mouth covering hers hungrily.

Tentatively at first, then with a firmer grip, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, moaning as he slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting her sweetness. He pulled back and kissed her eyelids, her nose, her chin. “I’m so very sorry.” He leaned back “I, too, felt betrayed. I thought you loved me, and after our night together would never give yourself to another man.”

“I didn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. “But you were married, how did…”

Dorothea shook her head. “Ambrose was feeble. He tried. Oh, Marcus, it was horrible. But the few times he attempted to bed me, he never succeeded. Then he died peacefully in his sleep only a few months after we married.”

She shivered, remembering those times. Ambrose’s hands were cold as ice, his pale body aged and sagging. When she’d lain awake after his attempts, remembering Marcus and their lovemaking, she’d beaten her pillow in frustration and cried herself to sleep.

Marcus brought her fingers to his mouth to kiss each tip. “I thought I heard you had a child, a little girl?”

She took in a deep breath. This was it, no more secrets. “I do.”

“Then how…?” At the look of love on her face, he knew the answer. “I have a daughter?” Stunned, his lips were barely able to move.

He’d left her with a child!

Unable to speak, she nodded, tears spilling from her beautiful eyes. “Yes, Marcus. You have a daughter. Elizabeth is just past her second birthday.” Trembling fingers reached out and touched his face. “She has your eyes.”

Feelings of love, pride, guilt, and longing washed over him. He was a father! He and Dorothea had created a little girl from their love. Speechless for probably the first time in his life, he pulled her onto his lap on the floor, and kissed her with all the passion and love in his heart.

He pulled away. “We must marry immediately.”
          Dorothea grinned. “We have to post the banns, and plan a ceremony.”

Marcus stood, and pulled her up. “Fine, plan whatever you want. But now I want to make love to you more than anything in the world.”

“I’m a house guest.” She cast him a sideways glance, her cheeks a charming shade of pink.

His heart leapt. “And that means  . . .” He raised his eyebrows.

“I have a room.” She cast him a siren’s smile.

His body came alive and he barely got out the words. “Lead on, my lady.”

Hand in hand, they raced up the stairs, barely noticing Lady Cecile grinning from her spot behind the potted plant at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ah, love.” She sighed and returned to the ballroom.

The End

An Author’s Lament on Christmas Eve

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And the author said ‘damn’

I need to get this book

Into my publisher’s hands

Her children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While she got two aspirins for the pain in her head,

Mama in her kerchief and papa in his cap,

She hoped this last revision would be but a snap

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

She hopped from her laptop to see what the hell happened now?

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday to objects below,

When what to her wondering eyes should appear

But her hero dressed as Santa without a white beard−or shirt

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples how cool!

His cheeks were like roses, his chest made her drool

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Fixing the scene in her book where she’d made him a jerk,

And laying his finger under her chin,

He gave her a kiss as wicked as sin,

He sprang to his horse, to his horse gave a whistle,

And left her alone with nothing but sizzle.

But she heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight

Get your ass back to work, it will be a long night!

Aileen Kramer glanced out the car window and her breath c...

Aileen Kramer glanced out the car window and her breath caught at the magnificence of Valentine, Colorado spread out before them like a picture post card. The soft glow from the cabins and snug homes radiated against the glistening snow, serving up a magical backdrop for the SweetHart Lodge, where she and Spencer headed.

Magic. That’s what they needed, and what Spencer hoped to find here. At least that’s what he’d told her when he proposed this trip. Their last getaway before the divorce became final. She slanted a glance at her almost ex-husband. Eight years of marriage hadn’t taken a toll on him as it had her.

At twenty-eight he was still handsome, the lines in his face only adding to his appeal. He’d maintained his muscular build with years on oil rigs. He could easily grace the cover of GQ with thick black hair falling over his forehead, and riveting blue eyes surrounded by eyelashes a woman would kill for.

She, on the other hand, looked every bit of her twenty-seven years, plus many more. Despair and depression did that to a person. She’d stopped paying attention to herself somewhere along the line while she cared for Becky. Then the numbness following her death brought every part of living to a grinding halt. She sighed and returned her notice to the lodge growing closer.

Built on a small rise, with several populated well-lit ski runs behind it, a welcoming sign with two hearts, entwined with the names Val and Tina Hart underneath, teased her lips with a rare smile.

“I’ll drop you off in front and park the car.” Spencer threw the car into park and hopped out. In his usual energetic manner, he strode around the car and opened the door before she could even do it.

She cringed at the hopeful look on his face. Why didn’t he understand there was nothing left in her to give? That everything she was, and would ever be, she’d buried with their three year old daughter?

Please, Spence, don’t make this weekend harder than it already is.

Aileen had been flabbergasted when Spence had stopped by her apartment to suggest a Valentine’s Day weekend fling. ‘One last trip’ he’d called it. When she’d pushed him to tell her why after all this time, he merely asked her to give them one more chance.

Valentine’s Day weekend. They’d had sex for the first time on Valentine’s Day. Two teenagers, fumbling in the backseat of the Kramer family Volvo. She was his first, and he was hers. First and only. For her, anyway. She really didn’t know what Spence had done to relieve the strong appetite he’d always had. Didn’t want to know, either.

“Come on, honey. I understand the owners are a real hoot.”

“Sir, I’ll be happy to park your car.” A young man dressed in black slacks and a hooded jacket with the SweetHart Lodge twinning hearts embroidered on the chest walked up to them, snow crunching under his feet.

“Hey, that’s great, thanks man.” Spence reached in for Aileen’s hand and pulled her out, almost as if he thought she’d rather spend the trip sitting in the car.

He retrieved their two suitcases from the back seat and started toward the door. Aileen glanced back at the car, not anxious to leave the sanctity of the dark interior. Now that they headed into the light, she felt stripped, vulnerable. She would have to spend the next forty-eight hours trying hard to act normal, feel normal.

An older woman dressed in ski pants, furry boots and a white sweater with a huge heart on the front greeted them at the front door. “Howdy, folks. I’m Tina Hart, and welcome to SweetHart lodge.” Had she been dressed in a red and white fur suit she could easily have passed the most cynical child’s scrutiny as Mrs. Santa Claus. Round and red cheeked, her smile took up most of her face. Despite Aileen’s mood, she smiled back at the woman, her spirits lifting.

“We have a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Kramer.” Spence followed Mrs. Hart to the front desk and dropped the luggage at his feet.

“Spence?” Aileen’s heart sped up, and she tugged on his sleeve, pulling him aside. “I thought you said we would have separate rooms?” she whispered, darting  a glance at Mrs. Hart.

“Honey, there’s no point in coming here,” he waved his hand around, “and staying in separate rooms.”

“But you promised.” Her already thumping heart sped up even more. She couldn’t stay in the same room with Spence. No, no. This would never work. She licked her lips and approached the counter. “Is it possible for us to have separate rooms?”

Mrs. Hart glanced briefly at Spence and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kramer, but we’re booked solid for the entire weekend. Valentine’s Day, you know.”

Aileen chewed on her lip. Could she break her promise and insist he take her home, since he’d broken his promise for separate rooms?

Spence rested his palm against her cheek. “Please, honey. Two days. That’s all I’m asking for.”

She gave him a curt nod, rubbing sweaty palms against her thighs. Somehow she’d get through this. Then she’d never have to deal with him again. All the breath left her body as she pondered that thought. Never was a long time.

*

Spencer grabbed their bags and followed the directions Mrs. Hart had given them to their room, leaving Aileen to reluctantly trail behind. He’d known it was a dirty trick to tell her they would have separate rooms when he’d had no intention of doing that. There didn’t seem to be a point to them coming here if they were to be separated. Especially at night. He’d made sure their room had only one bed, too. Although, Mrs. Hart laughed when he’d asked, and assured him SweetHart Lodge would never have rooms with more than one bed. He could almost see her giving him a conspiring wink at the other end of the line.

He slid the plastic card into the reader and pushed the door open. Yes! Perfect. A huge bed sat smack in the middle of the room, covered by a white satin quilt with several pink and red hearts embroidered in the center. Rose petals had been strewn over the generous pillows. The bottle of champagne he’d ordered rested in a silver bucket, beads of condensation running down its sides. The confirmation he’d received from the Lodge assured an unforgettable weekend of Chocolate, Flowers and . . . He knew how he wanted that promise to end.

To the right, he spied the bathroom with a heart shaped tub, big enough for two. Or more, depending on your inclinations. Not his. All he wanted to do was get Aileen in that tub with a glass of champagne in her hand.

All the sorrow of the last two years marked her face. Although he’d loved running his fingers through her long blond hair, her new cut with the springy curls surrounding her cherub face, softened the tense lines. She’d lost weight, and he guessed she barely broke a hundred pounds on the scale. But since she was a tiny woman anyway, she didn’t have the scarecrow look of a fashion model.

But the saddest thing about his wife was her huge brown eyes, that one time sparkled with mischief and humor, and now looked vacant and dead. Like their Becky.

He shook his head, pushing the dark thoughts to the back of his mind. He loved Aileen, and wanted her back. But not the shell of a woman he’d known since Becky’s death. He wanted the woman he’d fallen in love with, who lay in bed beside him at night, whispering, sharing dreams and hopes for the future. The wife who surprised him with special dinners when he returned from work, who loved him with a passion he knew he’d not find anywhere else. Hadn’t tried to find, either.

“Let’s get some dinner.” Spencer shrugged out of his ski jacket and tossed it on the bed.

“All right.” Aileen slowly unzipped her coat, the entire time nervously glancing at the bed.

*

The Lodge teemed with people, couples with their arms wrapped around each other, clutching coffee cups and wine glasses. The lobby stayed cold with guests entering, checking in, and heading to their rooms. They passed the packed cocktail lounge, two bartenders racing from one end of the highly polished bar to the other, pouring beer and mixing drinks. The laughter and shouting rubbed her raw.

Now that she’d seen their room, Aileen knew this entire idea was a huge mistake. Better they should have just parted friends and gone on with their lives.

Spence rested his warm palm on her lower back and bent toward her ear. “Did you want a drink before dinner?”

She shook her head, no point in trying to answer him with all the noise.

He slid his hand up to her shoulder, leaving a trail of fire against her skin, and moved her forward, toward the hostess seating guests. The familiar smell of Spence’s favorite cologne, Giorgio Armani, mixed with the unique scent that was all him, wafted to her nostrils, bringing unwanted memories. Tears sprang to her eyes. Eyes that until now had remained dry for what seemed like forever.

Despite the bustling crowd, they were seated right away, in front of a large bay window with a breathtaking view of the mountain, lit up with red and white lights. A few well bundled skiers rode the lift, skis dangling from their feet and poles clutched firmly in their hands.

“You do know I don’t ski.” Aileen fumbled with the pink cloth napkin, snapping it and placing it on her lap.
            “I know. I thought maybe we could give it a go tomorrow. They have lessons at ten o’clock for beginners.”

“And do they have first aid lessons for the beginners in the afternoon?” She smirked, then her brows drew together. She’d actually said something humorous. It felt odd, actually. Strange. Like she’d crawled out of the rabbit hole to view the real world where she no longer belonged.

Spence grinned. “I’ll have to check the schedule for tomorrow. They have a lot of activities. If we don’t want to ski, we can ice skate, snow tube, take a dance lesson.”

“A dance lesson?”

“Yes. I understand there’s a real hot couple who teach the Salsa.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she grinned. Then his eyes grew heated and her stomach fluttered. Spence could still turn her knees to jelly. But it had been so long since she’d paid attention to those feelings. She flashed back to their room with the one bed. And the sunken bathtub. No. She didn’t want to go there.

The waiter approached them and took their orders, leaving them with a basket of warm rolls. Spence reached for one, and broke it apart. “You look like you’ve lost weight.” He glanced at her as he buttered his roll.

Aileen shrugged. “A little.”

He chewed and swallowed, then wiped his mouth. “How’s the new job?”

“All right. I still can’t believe they hired me as assistant manager.”

Spence leaned back. “Why not? Before Bec… Well, before, when we were first married, you worked as a front end manager in that supermarket.”

“I know, but I’ve only worked as a sales clerk since Bec…” She stopped and dropped her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumped.

“Aileen, we can’t continue to avoid saying her name.” Spence lowered his voice and leaned forward. “She was our daughter. We made her together, we loved her together, and we lost her together.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do this. I have to go home.” She placed her hands on the table to rise, but Spence reached over and stopped her.

“Don’t go. Please.”

“This was not a good idea.” She tugged her hand free, tossed her napkin down, then fled the room, just as the waiter arrived with two plates.

*

“Can you box those up? I’ll take them with me.” Spence spoke to the waiter and watched Aileen retreat, his gut clenched with anger. They had to have this out, and she wasn’t going to run this time, if he had to tie her to a chair with his belt.

The waiter returned to the kitchen, and as Spencer finished signing for their meal at the hostess’s desk, the manager arrived with the boxes. Spencer took them from him and strode toward room 717.

When he entered, Aileen sat on the bed, her arms wrapped around her middle, staring off into space.

“Honey?” When she didn’t acknowledge him, he set the boxes next to the TV and joined her on the bed. “Can we talk?”

She took a shuddering breath, but remained silent.

Spence rose, running his fingers through his hair. He stood in front of her, his hands on his hips. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head, a low keening sound coming from her stiff body as she rocked back and forth.

Spence sat again, unclenched her arms and took her ice cold hands in his. “Honey, it’s time. Talk to me.”

“I can’t.” Her soft whisper tortured him.

“Yes, you can. Try.”

He remained silent gripped by the pain in her face. Eventually, she seemed to draw strength from somewhere deep inside her.

She started off soft, slow. Then like a wave engulfing the shoreline, the words tumbled out. “All the months of Becky’s illness, the trips back and forth to the hospital, the hopes that a new treatment for her leukemia would surface before it killed her, I was alone. You never talked to me, never told me how you felt.” Her bleak eyes pinned him.

“How do you think I felt?” His voice rose, bouncing off the walls of the room. He took a deep breath and spoke softer. “I couldn’t tell you. Don’t you see? You pushed me away. I tried. God did I try, but you never wanted me, never cared that I was suffering, too. You closed me out when I needed you the most.”

“Becky needed me!”

“And so did I.”

Aileen’s throat worked, misery on her face. “You never told me. You went to work, came home and ate, and went to bed. The only time you spoke out loud was when you talked to Becky.”

“God, honey, don’t you remember? You were like delicate glass, so fragile, ready to shatter. What was I to do, add the burden of my grief to yours? Watch you crumble like dust, and leave me forever?” He whispered, almost to himself. “Like Becky did.”

“Don’t do this, Spence. Don’t dredge all this up again. This was a mistake, coming here. I’m leaving.” She attempted to stand, but he grasped her shoulders.

“No! You’re dying inside, Aileen. You’re fading, disappearing. And I can’t let you go.” He kneaded her arms. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I need you. You’re the only person in the world who feels like I do, who’s suffered like I have.”

She closed her eyes, but didn’t move away. “You’re wrong. I’m not dying, I’m already dead.”

“No, you’re not.” He shook her slightly as her mouth worked, fighting back tears. “Cry, dammit. You never cried even one single tear while Becky was sick, at her funeral, or after. You have to get it out. Cry, honey, cry, please.”

“I can’t”

“Why not?”

Her voice grew thick. “Because if I start, I’ll never stop. Don’t you understand? As long as it’s bottled up inside me, I can stand it. If I let go…”

“Let it go, baby, please,” he pulled her to his chest and whispered in her hair, his lips leaving a scattering of kisses along her forehead

She shook her head frantically, taking great gulps of air. Then her shoulders started to shake before racking sobs burst forth from her body. Spencer drew her onto his lap, nestling her in his arms. He rubbed her back as her body trembled, losing her breath at times as her grief erupted in a torrent of weeping.

Time stood still, their combined grief the only presence in room 717 at the SweetHart Lodge, as they clung to each other like they should have two years before.

Soon Spence’s tears mixed with Aileen’s, and they hung on, so tightly he knew there would be marks on her thin arms tomorrow. She burrowed into his chest as if she wanted to enter his body, lose herself, become part of him.

After about a half hour, when Aileen’s sobs had turned into soft hiccups, he kicked off his shoes and removed hers. He left her long enough to pull down the quilt and slide her under it. She rolled to him as he climbed in alongside her.

Spence settled her on his shoulder. “Sleep, baby. Right here in my arms where you belong.”

*

Bright sunshine poured through the immense wall of windows as Val Hart took his usual stroll through the dining room, happy to see a full house again. Even though The SweetHart Lodge always did a good year round business, he always liked Valentine’s Day weekend the best. The place was crammed full with lovers. It brought a glow to his old heart. Made him appreciate his Tina even more.

He stopped and chatted with a few diners enjoying their breakfast. He spied a couple in the corner, eyes for no one else but each other. “Howdy, folks. Glad you joined us.”

The man stood and shook hands. “Spencer Kramer, sir. And this is my wife, Aileen.”

“And I’m Val Hart.” He studied their hands clasped together like they would never let go. “Let me guess. Y’all are newlyweds, right?”

They glanced at each other and smiled. “Yeah. Newlyweds I guess you could say that,” the man said as he moved his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed the golden band on the third finger of her left hand. “Newlyweds.”

Val grinned and moved away. He could always pick ‘em out.

The Gold Band – a Valentine’s day story

Aileen Kramer glanced out the car window and her breath caught at the magnificence of Valentine, Colorado spread out before them like a picture post card. The soft glow from the cabins and snug homes radiated against the glistening snow, serving up a magical backdrop for the SweetHart Lodge, where she and Spencer headed.

Magic. That’s what they needed, and what Spencer hoped to find here. At least that’s what he’d told her when he proposed this trip. Their last getaway before the divorce became final. She slanted a glance at her almost ex-husband. Eight years of marriage hadn’t taken a toll on him as it had her.

At twenty-eight he was still handsome, the lines in his face only adding to his appeal. He’d maintained his muscular build with years on oil rigs. He could easily grace the cover of GQ with thick black hair falling over his forehead, and riveting blue eyes surrounded by eyelashes a woman would kill for.

She, on the other hand, looked every bit of her twenty-seven years, plus many more. Despair and depression did that to a person. She’d stopped paying attention to herself somewhere along the line while she cared for Becky. Then the numbness following her death brought every part of living to a grinding halt. She sighed and returned her notice to the lodge growing closer.

Built on a small rise, with several populated well-lit ski runs behind it, a welcoming sign with two hearts, entwined with the names Val and Tina Hart underneath, teased her lips with a rare smile.

“I’ll drop you off in front and park the car.” Spencer threw the car into park and hopped out. In his usual energetic manner, he strode around the car and opened the door before she could even do it.

She cringed at the hopeful look on his face. Why didn’t he understand there was nothing left in her to give? That everything she was, and would ever be, she’d buried with their three year old daughter?

Please, Spence, don’t make this weekend harder than it already is.

Aileen had been flabbergasted when Spence had stopped by her apartment to suggest a Valentine’s Day weekend fling. ‘One last trip’ he’d called it. When she’d pushed him to tell her why after all this time, he merely asked her to give them one more chance.

Valentine’s Day weekend. They’d had sex for the first time on Valentine’s Day. Two teenagers, fumbling in the backseat of the Kramer family Volvo. She was his first, and he was hers. First and only. For her, anyway. She really didn’t know what Spence had done to relieve the strong appetite he’d always had. Didn’t want to know, either.

“Come on, honey. I understand the owners are a real hoot.”

“Sir, I’ll be happy to park your car.” A young man dressed in black slacks and a hooded jacket with the SweetHart Lodge twinning hearts embroidered on the chest walked up to them, snow crunching under his feet.

“Hey, that’s great, thanks man.” Spence reached in for Aileen’s hand and pulled her out, almost as if he thought she’d rather spend the trip sitting in the car.

He retrieved their two suitcases from the back seat and started toward the door. Aileen glanced back at the car, not anxious to leave the sanctity of the dark interior. Now that they headed into the light, she felt stripped, vulnerable. She would have to spend the next forty-eight hours trying hard to act normal, feel normal.

An older woman dressed in ski pants, furry boots and a white sweater with a huge heart on the front greeted them at the front door. “Howdy, folks. I’m Tina Hart, and welcome to SweetHart lodge.” Had she been dressed in a red and white fur suit she could easily have passed the most cynical child’s scrutiny as Mrs. Santa Claus. Round and red cheeked, her smile took up most of her face. Despite Aileen’s mood, she smiled back at the woman, her spirits lifting.

“We have a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Kramer.” Spence followed Mrs. Hart to the front desk and dropped the luggage at his feet.

“Spence?” Aileen’s heart sped up, and she tugged on his sleeve, pulling him aside. “I thought you said we would have separate rooms?” she whispered, darting  a glance at Mrs. Hart.

“Honey, there’s no point in coming here,” he waved his hand around, “and staying in separate rooms.”

“But you promised.” Her already thumping heart sped up even more. She couldn’t stay in the same room with Spence. No, no. This would never work. She licked her lips and approached the counter. “Is it possible for us to have separate rooms?”

Mrs. Hart glanced briefly at Spence and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kramer, but we’re booked solid for the entire weekend. Valentine’s Day, you know.”

Aileen chewed on her lip. Could she break her promise and insist he take her home, since he’d broken his promise for separate rooms?

Spence rested his palm against her cheek. “Please, honey. Two days. That’s all I’m asking for.”

She gave him a curt nod, rubbing sweaty palms against her thighs. Somehow she’d get through this. Then she’d never have to deal with him again. All the breath left her body as she pondered that thought. Never was a long time.

*

Spencer grabbed their bags and followed the directions Mrs. Hart had given them to their room, leaving Aileen to reluctantly trail behind. He’d known it was a dirty trick to tell her they would have separate rooms when he’d had no intention of doing that. There didn’t seem to be a point to them coming here if they were to be separated. Especially at night. He’d made sure their room had only one bed, too. Although, Mrs. Hart laughed when he’d asked, and assured him SweetHart Lodge would never have rooms with more than one bed. He could almost see her giving him a conspiring wink at the other end of the line.

He slid the plastic card into the reader and pushed the door open. Yes! Perfect. A huge bed sat smack in the middle of the room, covered by a white satin quilt with several pink and red hearts embroidered in the center. Rose petals had been strewn over the generous pillows. The bottle of champagne he’d ordered rested in a silver bucket, beads of condensation running down its sides. The confirmation he’d received from the Lodge assured an unforgettable weekend of Chocolate, Flowers and . . . He knew how he wanted that promise to end.

To the right, he spied the bathroom with a heart shaped tub, big enough for two. Or more, depending on your inclinations. Not his. All he wanted to do was get Aileen in that tub with a glass of champagne in her hand.

All the sorrow of the last two years marked her face. Although he’d loved running his fingers through her long blond hair, her new cut with the springy curls surrounding her cherub face, softened the tense lines. She’d lost weight, and he guessed she barely broke a hundred pounds on the scale. But since she was a tiny woman anyway, she didn’t have the scarecrow look of a fashion model.

But the saddest thing about his wife was her huge brown eyes, that one time sparkled with mischief and humor, and now looked vacant and dead. Like their Becky.

He shook his head, pushing the dark thoughts to the back of his mind. He loved Aileen, and wanted her back. But not the shell of a woman he’d known since Becky’s death. He wanted the woman he’d fallen in love with, who lay in bed beside him at night, whispering, sharing dreams and hopes for the future. The wife who surprised him with special dinners when he returned from work, who loved him with a passion he knew he’d not find anywhere else. Hadn’t tried to find, either.

“Let’s get some dinner.” Spencer shrugged out of his ski jacket and tossed it on the bed.

“All right.” Aileen slowly unzipped her coat, the entire time nervously glancing at the bed.

*

The Lodge teemed with people, couples with their arms wrapped around each other, clutching coffee cups and wine glasses. The lobby stayed cold with guests entering, checking in, and heading to their rooms. They passed the packed cocktail lounge, two bartenders racing from one end of the highly polished bar to the other, pouring beer and mixing drinks. The laughter and shouting rubbed her raw.

Now that she’d seen their room, Aileen knew this entire idea was a huge mistake. Better they should have just parted friends and gone on with their lives.

Spence rested his warm palm on her lower back and bent toward her ear. “Did you want a drink before dinner?”

She shook her head, no point in trying to answer him with all the noise.

He slid his hand up to her shoulder, leaving a trail of fire against her skin, and moved her forward, toward the hostess seating guests. The familiar smell of Spence’s favorite cologne, Giorgio Armani, mixed with the unique scent that was all him, wafted to her nostrils, bringing unwanted memories. Tears sprang to her eyes. Eyes that until now had remained dry for what seemed like forever.

Despite the bustling crowd, they were seated right away, in front of a large bay window with a breathtaking view of the mountain, lit up with red and white lights. A few well bundled skiers rode the lift, skis dangling from their feet and poles clutched firmly in their hands.

“You do know I don’t ski.” Aileen fumbled with the pink cloth napkin, snapping it and placing it on her lap.
            “I know. I thought maybe we could give it a go tomorrow. They have lessons at ten o’clock for beginners.”

“And do they have first aid lessons for the beginners in the afternoon?” She smirked, then her brows drew together. She’d actually said something humorous. It felt odd, actually. Strange. Like she’d crawled out of the rabbit hole to view the real world where she no longer belonged.

Spence grinned. “I’ll have to check the schedule for tomorrow. They have a lot of activities. If we don’t want to ski, we can ice skate, snow tube, take a dance lesson.”

“A dance lesson?”

“Yes. I understand there’s a real hot couple who teach the Salsa.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she grinned. Then his eyes grew heated and her stomach fluttered. Spence could still turn her knees to jelly. But it had been so long since she’d paid attention to those feelings. She flashed back to their room with the one bed. And the sunken bathtub. No. She didn’t want to go there.

The waiter approached them and took their orders, leaving them with a basket of warm rolls. Spence reached for one, and broke it apart. “You look like you’ve lost weight.” He glanced at her as he buttered his roll.

Aileen shrugged. “A little.”

He chewed and swallowed, then wiped his mouth. “How’s the new job?”

“All right. I still can’t believe they hired me as assistant manager.”

Spence leaned back. “Why not? Before Bec… Well, before, when we were first married, you worked as a front end manager in that supermarket.”

“I know, but I’ve only worked as a sales clerk since Bec…” She stopped and dropped her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumped.

“Aileen, we can’t continue to avoid saying her name.” Spence lowered his voice and leaned forward. “She was our daughter. We made her together, we loved her together, and we lost her together.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do this. I have to go home.” She placed her hands on the table to rise, but Spence reached over and stopped her.

“Don’t go. Please.”

“This was not a good idea.” She tugged her hand free, tossed her napkin down, then fled the room, just as the waiter arrived with two plates.

*

“Can you box those up? I’ll take them with me.” Spence spoke to the waiter and watched Aileen retreat, his gut clenched with anger. They had to have this out, and she wasn’t going to run this time, if he had to tie her to a chair with his belt.

The waiter returned to the kitchen, and as Spencer finished signing for their meal at the hostess’s desk, the manager arrived with the boxes. Spencer took them from him and strode toward room 717.

When he entered, Aileen sat on the bed, her arms wrapped around her middle, staring off into space.

“Honey?” When she didn’t acknowledge him, he set the boxes next to the TV and joined her on the bed. “Can we talk?”

She took a shuddering breath, but remained silent.

Spence rose, running his fingers through his hair. He stood in front of her, his hands on his hips. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head, a low keening sound coming from her stiff body as she rocked back and forth.

Spence sat again, unclenched her arms and took her ice cold hands in his. “Honey, it’s time. Talk to me.”

“I can’t.” Her soft whisper tortured him.

“Yes, you can. Try.”

He remained silent gripped by the pain in her face. Eventually, she seemed to draw strength from somewhere deep inside her.

She started off soft, slow. Then like a wave engulfing the shoreline, the words tumbled out. “All the months of Becky’s illness, the trips back and forth to the hospital, the hopes that a new treatment for her leukemia would surface before it killed her, I was alone. You never talked to me, never told me how you felt.” Her bleak eyes pinned him.

“How do you think I felt?” His voice rose, bouncing off the walls of the room. He took a deep breath and spoke softer. “I couldn’t tell you. Don’t you see? You pushed me away. I tried. God did I try, but you never wanted me, never cared that I was suffering, too. You closed me out when I needed you the most.”

“Becky needed me!”

“And so did I.”

Aileen’s throat worked, misery on her face. “You never told me. You went to work, came home and ate, and went to bed. The only time you spoke out loud was when you talked to Becky.”

“God, honey, don’t you remember? You were like delicate glass, so fragile, ready to shatter. What was I to do, add the burden of my grief to yours? Watch you crumble like dust, and leave me forever?” He whispered, almost to himself. “Like Becky did.”

“Don’t do this, Spence. Don’t dredge all this up again. This was a mistake, coming here. I’m leaving.” She attempted to stand, but he grasped her shoulders.

“No! You’re dying inside, Aileen. You’re fading, disappearing. And I can’t let you go.” He kneaded her arms. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I need you. You’re the only person in the world who feels like I do, who’s suffered like I have.”

She closed her eyes, but didn’t move away. “You’re wrong. I’m not dying, I’m already dead.”

“No, you’re not.” He shook her slightly as her mouth worked, fighting back tears. “Cry, dammit. You never cried even one single tear while Becky was sick, at her funeral, or after. You have to get it out. Cry, honey, cry, please.”

“I can’t”

“Why not?”

Her voice grew thick. “Because if I start, I’ll never stop. Don’t you understand? As long as it’s bottled up inside me, I can stand it. If I let go…”

“Let it go, baby, please,” he pulled her to his chest and whispered in her hair, his lips leaving a scattering of kisses along her forehead

She shook her head frantically, taking great gulps of air. Then her shoulders started to shake before racking sobs burst forth from her body. Spencer drew her onto his lap, nestling her in his arms. He rubbed her back as her body trembled, losing her breath at times as her grief erupted in a torrent of weeping.

Time stood still, their combined grief the only presence in room 717 at the SweetHart Lodge, as they clung to each other like they should have two years before.

Soon Spence’s tears mixed with Aileen’s, and they hung on, so tightly he knew there would be marks on her thin arms tomorrow. She burrowed into his chest as if she wanted to enter his body, lose herself, become part of him.

After about a half hour, when Aileen’s sobs had turned into soft hiccups, he kicked off his shoes and removed hers. He left her long enough to pull down the quilt and slide her under it. She rolled to him as he climbed in alongside her.

Spence settled her on his shoulder. “Sleep, baby. Right here in my arms where you belong.”

*

Bright sunshine poured through the immense wall of windows as Val Hart took his usual stroll through the dining room, happy to see a full house again. Even though The SweetHart Lodge always did a good year round business, he always liked Valentine’s Day weekend the best. The place was crammed full with lovers. It brought a glow to his old heart. Made him appreciate his Tina even more.

He stopped and chatted with a few diners enjoying their breakfast. He spied a couple in the corner, eyes for no one else but each other. “Howdy, folks. Glad you joined us.”

The man stood and shook hands. “Spencer Kramer, sir. And this is my wife, Aileen.”

“And I’m Val Hart.” He studied their hands clasped together like they would never let go. “Let me guess. Y’all are newlyweds, right?”

They glanced at each other and smiled. “Yeah. Newlyweds I guess you could say that,” the man said as he moved his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed the golden band on the third finger of her left hand. “Newlyweds.”

Val grinned and moved away. He could always pick ‘em out.

Death and Deception

Chapter One

June, 1892

Bath, England

Lord William Wethington cringed as his wife of one year, Lady Amy Wethington glared across the bedchamber at him, her hands on her hips. “You promised I would be able to continue writing once we married. If I remember correctly—and I do—it was the one condition I insisted upon when I accepted you.”

They were preparing to retire for the night and his wife looked tired. He’d already consulted with her midwife, Mrs. Jane Fleming, who had agreed that Amy should rest more. “Yes, I did, my dear, but you are six months into your confinement, and you must cut down on your work. I feel it is taxing you. I heard you crying last night as you pounded away on that infernal noisy typing machine.”

She raised her chin. “I was not crying; I was merely feeling the pain of my main character. It is what a good author does. And furthermore, that wonderful machine cuts down the amount of time it takes to finish a book.”

William sighed, knowing this was not going to be an easy conversation. “If I remember correctly—and I do—,” he grinned as he used her very same words, “your publisher didn’t even give you a deadline since you are in a delicate way.”

Amy narrowed her eyes. “I knew I should not have told you that bit of information. However, that matters not. I have my own standards and it has always been my intention to finish this book before the baby arrives.”

“I do not agree, wife.” He walked toward her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “The last thing you need is to push yourself and put more of a strain on your body.” He kissed her forehead. “I do worry about you, you know.”

She huffed and turned to climb into bed. The fact that she didn’t continue the discussion told him much. His spitfire wife would not have given up so easily. Could it be he’d actually won the argument?

Almost as if she’d read his mind, she said, “And do not congratulate yourself on having succeeded. I am merely too tired to argue.” She shifted onto her side and watched him enter the bed.

After climbing in behind her, he said, “Aha! You see, love, that is my point.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Good night.”

What he really wanted to do was retire to his country home until after the baby was born. He could easily run his estates from there and the move would get his wife out of the foul city. Fresh air, paths to walk, and good food were the best things for pregnant women. Not stress, city air, and manuscript deadlines.

In fact, he mused, a permanent move would be for the best, but Amy’s family were all in Bath now that her brother and father had moved their businesses from London. There was also her Aunt Margaret who practically raised her that Amy would most likely be loath to leave.

He was sure he’d also have to fight an additional battle with her brother Michael, whose wife was Amy’s best friend and also enceinte. Then there was their book club friends, church family, and of course, her publisher.

Maybe if he prevailed upon Lady Margaret to step in and attempt to convince Amy to work less, it might go better.

William rolled onto his back and glanced over at Amy who was already asleep. Mrs. Fleming had also assured him that his wife was in the best of health and even though at seven and twenty years was not as young as other first-time mothers, she saw no reason why things should not go well.

He’d thought about approaching her publisher to request he encourage her once again to cease trying to finish the book, but if she ever found out, he would need to move to the other side of the earth. That is if his bruised body could make the journey.

With all of that ruminating in his mind, he finally fell asleep.

* * * *

The next morning, he joined Amy at the breakfast table. She appeared a tad lethargic and kept yawning.

“Why did you leave the bed if you are still tired?” he asked as he placed the napkin on his lap. With a nod to the butler in attendance who poured his coffee, he studied his wife’s features. Yes. She was definitely peaked.

She rested her chin on her upraised hand. “Husband, you may officially congratulate yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows, hoping, but not expecting her to bow to his wishes about writing. “Why is that?”

Amy studied her plate and sighed. “Not only am I especially tired at the end of each day, but my gestating muse has apparently flown out the window. For the first time in my writing career, I cannot think of plot points, twists, and red herrings.”

“Since I assume you are not referring to food items, it appears you will set your work aside for now.”

She waved her finger at him. “Yes. For now. I fully intend to continue my current novel once the baby is born and things have settled down. Hopefully I will then regain my normal frame of mind.” She picked up her fork again. “One hopes, anyway.”

“I have a great deal of faith in you.”

“The problem is, I know without my writing, I will remain restless. I do need something to fill my time.”

“Needlepoint?”

She pulled a face. “No. That is not one of my skills.”

“Gardening?”

She shook her head. “I tried to grow some pretty flowers in the area where the gardener keeps such a lovely spot.” She shrugged. “They died, and he suggested I take up needlepoint.”

He didn’t mention knitting since she’d tried that once before and the resulting ‘item’ was eventually trashed. He still had no idea what it was she was knitting, but grateful she hadn’t presented it to him as a gift, expecting him to know what the devil it was.

“Painting?”

“That would require an investment in brushes, canvases, and paint.”

William smiled at her attempt to economize. “We can certainly afford it.”

“I will keep it in mind, but I don’t feel a strong pull toward the idea. Aunt Margaret has always been the artist in the family. Just another attribute of hers I did not inherit.”

Once he finished his breakfast of sausages, eggs and the scrumptious scones Cook produced a few times a week, he wiped his mouth and stood. “I am off, my dear. I’ve meetings with some of the other members of parliament to discuss a new bill we wish to present at the next session.”

Amy tilted her head to receive his kiss on her cheek.

William walked to the doorway, stopped, and turned. “I suggest you take a nap today.”

Amy waved him off, placing her other hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn.

* * * *

“I honestly do not understand why I keep Mrs. Fleming on as my midwife. She is rude, condescending, and unlikeable.” Lady Eloise Davenport, Amy’s sister-in-law and best friend reached for another pastry. “She even told me I needed to cut down on my eating because I was growing too large.”

Amy smiled and kept her opinion to herself, lest she hurt Eloise’s feelings. She was a good month behind Amy in her pregnancy, but she had gained about a half stone more.

They were spending their afternoon visiting, something they did each day. Luckily for Amy, when Eloise and Michael eloped last year, Michael had already moved his business to Bath, so it made sense to rent a townhouse for them to live in, near enough to Amy and William that they were able to maintain their close relationship. Michael had claimed to have no desire to retire to his country estate.

But what she said about their mutual midwife was certainly true. Amy didn’t find her very likeable herself. “I agree,” she said. “But I’m afraid I am stuck with her, though. William did quite a bit of research when we learned I was increasing. Mrs. Fleming, as she’s told us many times before, has been trained and certified as many practicing midwives have not. He said he wanted the best for me.”

“How sweet,” Eloise said, munching on the apple tart. “Michael hasn’t said that, but I know he feels that way.”

“True,” Amy nodded, sipping her tea. “He’s been my brother for twenty-seven years, and I can tell you he is not one to put his feelings into words.”

“Yes, I know,” Eloise added, “but he does have his ways to show me.” She grinned and a slight blush appeared on her face. Since they were discussing her brother, Amy did not want to continue the conversation along that line.

“Lady Wethington, Mrs. Fleming has called.” Filbert, the butler who manned the front door entered the drawing room.

Amy turned toward the door. “I wasn’t aware I am due for a visit,” she said to Eloise. She looked back at the butler. “Nevertheless, please show Mrs. Fleming in.”

The two women looked up expectantly when Mrs. Fleming entered the room. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fleming, to what do we owe this visit?”

The midwife raised her sharp chin, as if Amy was challenging her. She really was not a pleasant person. “I know it is a bit early, but I have taken on a few new mothers and according to my list, this was the best time for me to see you.” Mrs. Fleming regarded Eloise. “Since you are here, Lady Davenport, I can take a quick assessment of you as well, since you are next on my list.”

Amy glanced at Filbert who lingered at the door. “Please have Cook send in hot tea.”

Mrs. Fleming waved her hand. “No need, Lady Wethington. I will do my exam and be on my way.” She eyed their teacups and pastry plates. “I am much too busy to spend my precious time socializing.”

Amy drew in a breath at her comment as the midwife began with a series of questions about Amy’s health and general welfare. “Any depressive or negative thoughts?”

Besides you?

“No. You might be interested to know that I put my recent book aside until after the baby is born. Lord Wethington thought the stress and strain were not good for me or the baby.”

“A very wise man, my lady. Because you tend to write dark matters, it is the general opinion among those of us who are properly trained and certified that a mother’s negative thoughts can affect the child.”

Amy and Eloise shared an amused glance. Mrs. Fleming was always very proud of the fact that she was one of only a few properly trained and certified midwives in Bath.

Once she ascertained that Amy was fit, she turned her attention toward Eloise. “I see you are still eating too much.” She pointed to a piece of the apple tart Eloise popped into her mouth.

Jumping to her friend’s defense, Amy said, “I am somewhat knowledgeable about pregnancy, Mrs. Fleming, having done quite a bit of reading on the matter. The current thoughts are an expecting mother should eat and drink whatever appeals, and as much as she likes.”

Mrs. Fleming’s face turned bright red, then she adopted a patronizing demeanor. “Lady Wethington, I bow to your superiority in matters of murder, based on your dubious hobby of writing such things, but I assure you I am thoroughly educated and well-informed on the subject of pregnancy and childbirth. It is our thoughts that too much eating makes for a heavy baby, and therefore a more difficult birth.” She began her assessment of Eloise.

Well, then.

The woman managed to insult both her clients in less than ten minutes. Rather than argue the point with the woman, once she was through, Amy merely stood and smoothed out her skirts, a signal that the midwife’s examination of the women was finished. “I will show you to the door.”

Mrs. Fleming hurriedly gathered her things, and chin thrust forward, marched behind Amy to the entrance. Amy turned to her and offered what she hoped looked more like a smile than the scowl she was afraid was all she could manage. Not waiting for Filbert, Amy opened the door. “Have a good day, Mrs. Fleming, and I wish you a pleasant day.”

Mrs. Fleming nodded and marched through the door which Amy closed with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary.

“Well, I never,” Amy said as she joined Eloise in the drawing room. “That woman might be properly trained and certified, but she certainly does not comport herself as caring and kind.”

As if to dispute the midwife’s advice, Amy sat across from Eloise, reached for another tart from the tray, and took a large bite. “Take that Mrs. Fleming.”

They both laughed as the crumbs fell from Amy’s mouth in a most unflattering and unladylike display.

No Room At The Inn

My characters, Lady Sarah Lacey and Professor Braeden McKinnon from The Highlander’s Accidental Marriage are travelling on Christmas Eve from their home at the University of Edinburgh to her twin sister, Lady Sybil’s home at Bedlay Castle forty miles away for the holidays. Braeden is not happy with the trip because his wife is in her final month of pregnancy, but unable to deny his love anything, he agrees to her wish to spend Christmas with her sister.

‘Twas Christmas Eve, and leaning heavily on Braeden’s arm, Sarah entered the main room of the coaching inn. Thank goodness a strong fire had been built up and the place was warm. She stiffened as another pain shot from around her back to her belly. She glanced up at her husband to see if he had noticed, and breathed a sigh of relief when he seemed focused on the innkeeper who approached them.

“Ach, good afternoon, sir. ‘Tis a nasty day out there for sure, and I see from yer coat that the snow has started.” The innkeeper made a quick bow, the directed them to a table near the fireplace. “Will ye be needing a room?”

“I dinna think so. My lady wife and I are on our way to visit her sister at Bedlay Castle, but ‘tis taking longer than we planned. She is feeling poorly and I thought we could stop for some tea and perhaps a small meal.” Braeden helped her into the small wooden chair, which she eyed skeptically, not sure if it would hold her bulk.

“Aye, I can serve ye a fine lamb stew my wife has simmering in the kitchen, along with a nice pot of tea and warm bread.. ‘Tis a good thing ye aren’t in need of a room because we dinna have one available at present.” The innkeeper glanced quickly at Sarah’s protruding stomach and said, “Looks like ye have a little one on the way.” He narrowed his eyes. “Verra shortly.”

Sarah held in the groan as once again her stomach muscles tightened. She hadn’t really wanted to stop, preferring to continue on to her sister’s home since it appeared the babe was anxious to make its appearance, but Braeden had insisted. She feared if she told him why she wanted to persist in their journey he would have panicked, and made things worse.

“Are ye feeling all right, lass? Ye look a little pale.” Braeden hovered over her as he helped her remove her pelisse. Sarah glanced at her belly and marveled once again at the life contained therein. As she was wont to do of late, tears gathered at the thought of the babe. A white linen handkerchief appeared in front of her eyes which she used to wipe her wet cheeks.

“Aye lass, for sure yer a watering pot these days.” Braeden took the chair alongside her and clasped her hand in his. “I ken ye wanted to hurry to yer sister’s, but I think ye need some time out of the carriage and a cup of tea to restore ye.”

She patted his hand. “Yes, you were right.” Sarah sucked in a breath and gripped Braeden’s hand with such force he winced.

“What?” Panic already graced his voice.

Sarah let out a slow breath and said, “I think the babe might be eager to meet his parents.”

His eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Now?”

She nodded.

Braeden jumped up, knocking his chair over. “Innkeeper!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Are ye sure, lass?”

Sarah gave him a slight smile and nodded once again. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Well, tell him he canna. I mean, yer his mum, make him obey.”

Despite her fear and pain, Sarah burst out laughing. “I have no control over this.”

The innkeeper hurried in, a stout woman wiping her hands on a stained apron behind him. “What is it, sir?”

“We need a room. A bed. And a midwife. Now.”

The innkeeper stood before them, wringing his hands. “I’m verra sorry, sir, but I have no more rooms.”

Sarah covered her face with her hands and groaned.

“What? What?” Braeden was near hysteria. What in heaven’s name happened to her clear, calm husband?

“Do you not see the humor in this?” Sarah bit back her laughter at the tense expression on her Braeden’s. She doubted he would find humor in this at all.

“What are ye talking about, lass? What’s funny?”

She placed her hand on her aching back. “It’s Christmas Eve, I’m about to deliver a babe, and there is no room at the inn.”

He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. She could almost see him re-playing the words in his head, trying to make sense of it. When he continued to stare, she waved at him. “Never mind. I’ll explain it another time.” Where was her genius husband when she needed him?

The innkeeper’s wife stepped up to her. “I am terribly sorry about the lack of a room, my lady. ‘Tis not my intention to insult ye, but ye are more than welcome to use—“

“The stable?” Sarah burst out laughing just as a pain hit and her mirth turned into a very loud groan.

“Nay, my lady!” The woman gasped. “I would never put ye in with the animals.”

“And it has already been done,” Sarah mumbled. Did no one except her see the irony of the situation?

“I can let ye make use of our bedroom, behind the kitchen. ‘Tis not much, and again I apologize, and dinna mean to offer ye insult, but at least ye can have privacy.”

Braeden gripped Sarah’s elbow and helped her up. “That would be fine, madam. My wife and I appreciate your consideration.”

Sarah walked slowly behind the woman, Braeden’s arm wrapped securely around her shoulders. He leaned in close to her ear. “Couldn’t ye have waited just a few more hours, lass?”

“Tell it to the babe.”

It had been hours since the midwife had arrived and remained cosseted with Sarah in the small bedroom at the back of the inn. Braeden walked the boards under his feet in front of the fireplace, amazed he hadn’t worn them out. Over time, Sarah’s moans had turned into screams and cuss words he had no idea his wife kenned. He’d decided two hours ago he and Sarah would have a celibate marriage going forward.

The front door of the inn opened and Sybil, Liam, and his mother barreled through. “We left as soon as we received your message. Has the babe been born yet?” Sybil shrugged out of her pelisse.

“No.” Braeden rubbed the back of his neck. “I dinna ken how much longer she can last.”

Sybil rested her palm on his arm. “It is terrible to listen to, but all will be fine. Trust me.” She pulled off her gloves. “Where is she?” A loud scream echoed through the room. “Never mind. I believe I can find her.”

Sybil and Lady McKinnon hurried to the back of the inn.

Liam slapped Braeden on the back. “Let’s have a bit of whiskey to celebrate the arrival of the bairn.”

Braeden shook his head. “Nay. I have to keep a clear head.”

The two men sat in silence, with Braeden hopping up and down to pace for another hour before Sybil entered the room, her face beaming. “Braeden. Go meet your babe.”

He jumped up, and once again his chair went flying. “It’s over?”

When Sybil nodded, he shouted. “Praise the Lord!”

Sarah rested against the propped up pillows, her hair plastered to her damp forehead, but with a smile on her face. She held a small bundle that moved as he stared at the sight. Cupping the babe’s body with one hand she held out her arm. “Come say hello to your son.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “A boy?” He felt the sudden need for the handkerchief he’d given her before.

“Yes.”

Braeden sat alongside her and gazed at the face of the beautiful child he and Sarah had made together. Truly a miracle.

The door to the bedroom eased open and Sybil, Liam and Lady McKinnon entered. Each carried a gift for the child. Sarah shook her head. The entire night was becoming surreal.

Even though it was the middle of the night, with no rooms available, the visitors returned to Bedlay castle with a promise from Braeden that he would bring his family to them as soon as they were able.

The innkeeper’s wife insisted they stay in their bedroom until the next day when two rooms would become free. They were more than happy, they said, to sleep by the warm fireplace in the kitchen for the few hours left to the night.

About an hour after things had settled down, exhausted, but unable to sleep, Sarah gazed at the face of her child tucked in between her and her sleeping husband on the bed. She ran her finger over the fuzz of the baby’s head, then glanced out the window.

A lone bright star shone overhead in the sky, winking down at her. The end of a perfect—albeit very strange—night.