How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 21

  As Calder’s grandfather had been awarded the title of Duke of Sinclair for his service at Waterloo, Calder knew it would only be a matter of time before the Ballister females showed up on his doorstep. A duke was a duke, after all. Even if his pockets didn’t run as deep as the Ballisters. Even if he was Scottish and master of a mere run-down Highlands castle.

  Staring at the most palatable of the Ballister daughters, suspicion niggled in the back of his mind. He could almost imagine they left her here on purpose. Deliberately.

  If the scheming Mrs. Ballister knew anything of winter in these parts, it would not be too difficult to conceive such a plan. However, how could she have anticipated the brigands terrorizing homes throughout the countryside? That was too far-fetched.

  Angus emerged with a small knapsack in tow. “No’ keen on being murdered in m’bed. Let’s be off then.”

  Calder nodded and relieved Miss Ballister of her bag, pausing as he noticed Fenella’s rheumy gaze narrowing on the two of them. She doubtless read far too much into the simple courtesy. He recognized the cunning there. She was probably wondering how soon she could get her damnable love biscuits down his throat.

  “I’ll need use of yer kitchen,” Fenella declared, seeming to confirm his suspicion. “Hope yer cook won’t stand in my way.” She gave a militant nod.

  Fenella and his cook would definitely be coming to blows. His cook would not be a fan of another person invading her kitchen.

  He turned for the door, more eager than ever to be on his way. He needed a respite from Fenella’s ridiculous notions.

  Miss Ballister arched an eyebrow as he pulled open the door. “Something amiss?”

  “Nay,” Fenella quipped, patting her book and stepping out ahead of them into the bitter cold. “Once ye each have some of my biscuits, all will be well.”

  Miss Ballister’s smooth forehead knitted in bewilderment as she lifted her fur-lined cloak off her arm and slid it over her shoulders. “Biscuits?”

  “Och, no more talk of yer love biscuits, woman,” Angus snapped.

  “Those biscuits are responsible for many a merry match,” Fenella countered in indignant tones. “The vicar and the Widow Grant and the smithy’s son? The lad can thank me for the Orson lass even looking at him.”

  “Love biscuits?” Miss Ballister echoed as she stepped outside, her voice twisting into a sharp gasp of shock at the sudden cold.

  Calder lifted the flaps of his greatcoat to better ward off the bite of frigid air. “She speaks of shortbread. Nothing more. Ignore Fenella,” he advised as Angus locked the keep’s great front door behind them. A feeble precaution. With this place empty, the brigands would make short work of the windows.

  “Much luck with that,” Angus grunted, tucking the keys back inside his coat before turning and moving into the sharp angle of wind and snow. “Fenella is no’ one tae be ignored on any matter.”

  “Words tae heed,” Fenella chimed in with a hard nod, her pointed gaze flipping back and forth between Calder and the lass. “Words tae heed.”

  Shaking his head, Calder turned for the stable, but stalled as he glimpsed the twitch of Miss Ballister’s smile on her full lips. Pink, plump lips parting enough to reveal her teeth—straight white teeth save for one incisor that was slightly crooked. That tiny imperfection fascinated and drew his gaze, tightening his stomach muscles. Her smile was a bit of sunshine amid this winter’s night.

  He looked away. No sense looking for sunshine in this storm. “Let’s make haste.”

  Chapter Four

  Of course there were only three horses. Sinclair wasn’t counting on her presence.

  As there were no other horses in the stables—her family took them all when they departed—four people would have to mount three horses. Mathematics had never been her strongest subject. She was much more suited to history and science and languages, and yet even she knew the numbers didn’t compute. Two of them would ride one horse.

  Annis knew that fate was to be hers even before she felt the duke’s gaze land on her. She could do nothing more than squeak as his hands circled her waist and lifted her, plopping her on the saddle. He swung up behind her and gathered the reins.

  She rode wedged snugly against him. There was no other choice, but that did not stop the awkward embarrassment. No man had ever held her this closely. Especially no man like him. A man that affected her senses.

  Cold wrapped around them. If they took to a path it was not in evidence, eaten up in swirls of wind and writhing snow flurries.

  The snow fell in a deluge, pelting hard at the exposed skin of her face and neck, heedless of her hood. She would be quite wet by the time she reached his home. That made her squirm uneasily. She’d read plenty of accounts of people who died when exposed too long to conditions like this.

  Despite the elements, they forged ahead, traversing at a steady clip. Even with warm pinpricks of embarrassment rushing over her from the proximity of the duke’s body to her own, she could not stop shivering. Her fur-trimmed cloak had been perfectly suitable in Town, but it wasn’t enough to ward off this Highland wind.

  Sinclair muttered something and pulled her against his chest. She’d been trying so valiantly to keep herself from leaning back into him. Now he brought her in closer, opening his greatcoat to snuggle her inside, sharing his warmth.

  She parted her chattering teeth. “You don’t have to—”

  “Quiet,” he growled.

  She sniffed. “You don’t have to be rude—”

  “You’re shaking so hard I can hear your teeth clacking.”

  She brought her gloved hands to her mouth and blew air into them, trying to do what she could to warm herself. They continued on through the winter night. It was almost eerily quiet, only the murmur of snow and the whisper of wind and hooves lifting and falling.

  She thought about her family. They were undoubtedly tucked in for the night at some inn, warm under the covers. Her sisters were likely squabbling, the sheer number of them forcing them to share beds. She knew they were loathing every moment of that and not giving her a passing thought. Shaking off the grim reminder of the family who left her behind, she redirected her attention.

  “How far is it?” When she’d made the trip with her family it had been by carriage and they had stuck to a road.

  Sinclair didn’t reply. She sought to fill the silence. “Fenella,” she began. “She’s . . . interesting. A bit eccentric.”

  “Aye. You could say that. Interesting. Eccentric. Possibly senile. Possibly a witch. She’s fortunate she’s well-favored enough in these parts and hasn’t been dragged tae trial.” Annis felt his shrug around her and it only made her more aware, more sensitive to the endless breadth of his chest. “Does one ever really know?”

  “A witch? Surely you jest.” She twisted around for a glimpse of his face to see if he was serious. She could read nothing of his expression. However, she was treated to the reminder of how very handsome he was. Blue eyes and midnight hair. His eyelashes would be the envy of any woman. She quickly faced forward again, her breath falling a little faster.

  “What would you call a woman who believes in magical shortbread?” he asked with a snort.

  She released a slow gust of air, rolling that question over in her mind. She rotated her shoulders and sneaked a glance at the old woman in question. Fenella wore a stoic expression, staring straight ahead, but her lips moved in private conversation, talking to herself. She wasn’t close enough for Annis to hear the words. Were they some manner of incantation?

  “You might have had the right of it with senility.” Because certainly there was no such thing as magic biscuits. Absurd.

  “Och. You mean you don’t believe in spells or the power of love biscuits?”

  Annis twisted one shoulder in a semblance of a shrug, suddenly feeling a little bad for Fenella. “To be fair, there are some things, many things in this life, that are beyond logical explanation.”

  “You do believe in such fanciful notions the
n?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She bristled at the mere suggestion. She was not like other girls. She was not like her sisters. She did not believe there was a knight in shining armor out there for her. She didn’t believe romance and love were fated. Nor was the dramatic fluff within novels the stuff of reality. “What brought about this talk of love biscuits anyway? What does a love biscuit even do . . . purportedly?”

  “Oh, did you no’ realize?”

  Annis shook her head, for some reason nervous. The horse whinnied, jangling its bridle, as though sensing her sudden unease.

  “She intends tae make these biscuits for me,” he explained.

  “For you?”

  “Aye, tae make certain that I’m amenable tae your charms, Miss Ballister. Fenella believes her infernal biscuits capable of weaving some influence in matters of the heart.”

  Her mouth opened and shut several times, her mortification only deepening. She might have escaped Mama’s matchmaking efforts, but now she had to contend with Fenella? Suddenly his bigger body beside her felt like a boulder, its shadow deep and impossible to escape. She leaned forward to sever contact between them. “What absurdity!”

  Annis turned around as much as she could, glaring at Fenella who trotted a few yards behind them, her lips still moving in conversation. The momentary pity she felt for the old woman vanished.

  Her gaze shifted to the duke. “Why would she do that? Why would she want us . . .” She couldn’t even say it aloud. It was too far-fetched. This was worse than with her own mother. Mama had not attempted to match her specifically to him. She’d tossed all her unattached daughters at his head in the hopes one might ensnare him. Annis felt uncomfortably targeted.

  “Apparently she likes you, Miss Ballister. She likes you a great deal.”

  She digested that. She had spent a good bit of time chatting with the housekeeper over the last fortnight. Fenella’s company was an improvement over her sisters, after all. She hadn’t realized it would plant such notions in the old woman’s head. “And for that she thinks we should . . . attach ourselves?”

  “Indeed, she does.”

  “We don’t even know each other.” Yet. She would be under his roof for months.

  “That’s of no matter to her. She knows us and she likes us both, therefore she has decided we would pair well.”

  “As soon as we reach your home, I shall persuade her to forget all about the idea of you and me.” And all about her silly love biscuits.

  He grunted in response to that and she felt him shift in the saddle against her. Heavens. He was hard. Solid. Definitely not like her soft and pudgy father. Even Imogen’s husband-to-be was nothing like him. The baron might be young, but he was an inch shorter than Annis and as plump and squishy as a babe.

  The difference between this man and the men of her acquaintance was glaring. However much she rejected the idea of him as attractive, her body wholeheartedly accepted his appeal.

  She shivered, and this time she wasn’t entirely certain it was a result of the cold.

  “This cloak of yours is ill suited for this weather.”

  “I’m not as accustomed as you are to this clime.”

  “Did you no’ explain that tae your parents?”

  “My parents?” What did her parents have to do with the weather here?

  “Aye, when they sent you knocking on my door in the hopes that you might win me, did you explain tae them that Highland winters did no’ suit you?”

  “Win you?” Indignation flared in her chest. It was bad enough Fenella was playing matchmaker, but he thought she was complicit in her parents’ machinations?

  Sinclair continued, “I confess I dinna see myself as such a prize, but this pesky title of mine is quite another thing. It’s a yoke about my neck, but coveted by many.”

  “Well, not by me!”

  “Indeed.” The single word was rife with disbelief.

  “Indeed,” she agreed. “Your title is no lure to me, nor are you.” Contrary to how attractive she found him. “It would take more than a title to induce me to marriage.”

  She tossed her head inside her overly large hood. Her ice-caked hair struck her cheeks in stinging pricks. She wished she had taken the time to pull the heavy mass up, but she had been in such a hurry.

  “I should warn you,” he said near her ear. “Dinna feel encouraged because you’ve charmed Fenella. If you’ve designs on me, it’s pointless. No matter how long we are stuck together. I’ll no’ be bound tae one such as you.”

  “Such as me?” Oh, the arrogance!

  “Aye.”

  He made it sound as though she were some devil come to corrupt him. How very wrong he was. The suggestion that she wished to be bound to any man was preposterous. She laughed, long and hearty. She could not stop herself.

  “I’ve said something amusing?” the duke grumbled.

  “Yes. You think me intent on marrying you. It is very amusing. My sisters would certainly think so. I’m the most unmarriageable of us all and that’s by choice. My choice.”

  He snorted. “No eligible female is opposed tae marriage. It is a condition of birth, I suspect.”

  “I am opposed. I want to take vows.”

  “Take vows?” he echoed, his voice fraught with skepticism.

  How she longed to dash that doubt. The truth should do that. Aptly so.

  She watched his face, annoyed to see the doubt reflected there. He did not know her. Not in the least. He thought her cut from the same cloth as her sisters.

  “Yes,” she asserted. “I want to be a nun.”

  Chapter Five

  Her words rocked through him. She wanted to be a nun? Calder didn’t know what surprised him more. The words themselves? Or the keen disappointment he felt? Disappointment that was not his right to feel. She wanted to live a life in service to God. He should hold her in esteem for that. Not begrudge her.

  Even with an abbey not very far from Glencrainn, he had never known a girl to take the veil and enter its hallowed walls. None of the girls he grew up with had such aspirations. All of them wanted to be wives and mothers.

  He’d encountered the nuns from the abbey on more than one occasion over the years. They were women of advanced age. He tried to imagine Miss Ballister among them. It was a difficult image to swallow. She was young and vibrant—and practically sitting atop his lap, affecting him in ways a nun should not affect him.

  “Why do you want tae be a nun?” He knew it shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care. He also shouldn’t be so aware of how nicely her body fit against his. Or the delicious floral aroma of her hair, wafting on the frosty air. He wanted to pull back her hood and bury his nose in the mass.

  She wasn’t a small female. Her proximity confirmed that. She was solid and nicely curved, built for pleasure. He was a big man, and she would fit him perfectly. To think of her shrouded in a habit and veil for all her days was unfortunate.

  Damn it. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman. That was it. He should rectify that so he could stop thinking about what Miss Ballister, self-avowed nun-to-be, looked like out of her clothes.

  “My days spent in thoughtful contemplation. No shrieking siblings. Time to garden. Tranquil walks. Time to read books on history and science. Abbeys boast impressive libraries, you know.”

  “And prayer,” he reminded her, amused that she had failed to list that rather significant detail. “Dinna forget the hours devoted tae prayer.”

  “Yes. Of course. Prayer.” She nodded somewhat agitatedly. “I know that,” she snapped. Did she truly know that, though? Had she given that part of becoming a nun serious consideration?

  “Do you? Because it sounds like you’re contemplating a nunnery to escape your family.”

  “Well, you’re mistaken. I’m a very spiritual person.” Affront dripped from her clipped tones, and her body with all its pleasing curves stiffened against him.

  “I must confess you do no’ seem the type.”

  “Type?
”

  “Aye. The nun type.” He grinned. It really was rather comical to imagine. She was too fiery. Not in the least serene. He’d gathered that within moments of meeting her.

  “And what do you know of nuns, Your Grace? Or me, for that matter? Do I not seem a spiritual person?” Indignation hummed through her and her stiff body, leaning forward away from him. He tugged her back against him, quite liking the feel of her and loath that she should pull away from him even if he was being an ass and behaving as though her becoming a nun was a personal insult to him.

  Calder suddenly realized he was smiling. It might be the middle of the night and he might be freezing his balls off, but the lass was damned diverting. In fact, he had been smiling throughout this entire conversation. He could not recall a time when he had enjoyed a female so much.

  He killed his smile. She was not enjoyable. She was unacceptable in every way. An English heiress with an insufferable family. She knew nothing of the Highlands. Not its customs, nor its people. Oh, and there was the not-so-minor fact that she planned to be a nun.

  He needed to get his mind out of the gutter and stop enjoying the sensation of her against him. She would be on her way eventually. When this infernal snow melted, her family would reclaim her.

  Not soon enough for his peace of mind.

  She continued, “You may rest easy. Unlike my sisters, I’ve no designs on you. Papa promised that I could enter a convent if I’ve not married by my twenty-first birthday. Mama may not be pleased about that, but his word is final.”

  “And when is that?”

  “When is what?” She twisted to look up at him, a backside that felt alarmingly lush grinding against him and sending a spike of arousal straight to his groin.

  “When is your birthday?” he clarified.