How the Dukes Stole Christmas Read online

“Six months hence.”

  Six months and she would enter a convent. The fact rubbed him wrong.

  What a waste. The thought flashed unbidden across his mind. Unbidden and unwanted.

  Why should he care what the girl sitting in front of him did with her life? He’d just met her. To be certain, she was his responsibility since her parents had left her behind, but there it ended.

  He didn’t even know her name—this lass who was occupying far too much of his thoughts and lap.

  “What’s your name?”

  Her words were carried away on the wind, but still managed to reach his ears. “You know my name.”

  “Your Christian name. We’re well past formalities.” His hand flexed on her waist as though to remind her of the intimacy between them, but that was a mistake because it made him even more aware of how her waist dipped above nicely flaring hips—hips that rocked into him as his mount carried them toward his home. His grip tightened and he couldn’t resist a slight spreading of his fingers over her ample flesh.

  “Oh.” She paused on a breathy sigh, clearly aware of his touch. “Annis.”

  “Annis.” Sister Annis.

  It had a wretched ring to it. Except she wouldn’t be called that. She would adopt another name after she took the veil. Because she would be someone else then. Someone he couldn’t think of in such a fashion. Someone who would never think of him or this time in Scotland, and damn it all but that bothered him because he knew he would not forget her.

  Chapter Six

  They rode into the night, the moon high overhead, snow falling and draping the land in a hush of white.

  The horse’s hooves sank ankle-deep in a succession of steps. Annis marveled that they did not become lost in the endless expanse of snow, but the duke guided his stallion with easy confidence. His long arms wrapped around her, hands holding loosely on the reins. She felt all of him like a never-ending embrace. She might be cold but she knew it would be so much worse if she didn’t have his heat radiating through her.

  She was glad for the shelter of his body. Truly. Despite the race of her pulse or the untoward thoughts running through her mind at his nearness. It was most disconcerting. She had felt his hand on her hip earlier like a brand. Through all their layers of clothing, his touch had singed her—the only point of heat on her body.

  Annis was not one to let a handsome man turn her head. She’d always taken pride in that. She liked her books and walks and gardening—much to the gardener’s displeasure—and her solitude, hard-won as it was. She didn’t drown herself in scandal sheets or make eyes at every nobleman without a hump on his back and chronic foul breath. Her sisters’ criterion wasn’t too particular.

  Once she had both feet planted on the ground again and some distance from the Duke of Sinclair, all her inappropriate thoughts about him would be a thing of the past. She was almost certain of that.

  At times he stopped, turned, and checked on Angus and Fenella riding stalwartly behind them.

  Dare she say it? He cared. He was solicitous of others. Grumpy but solicitous.

  It was bewildering.

  What noble duke left his home in the cold of night to fetch two servants from a nearby property because he feared for their safety?

  She thought of the one other duke she’d met. Well, she had met him in a manner when they first moved to London. She had never felt so small as she had in that single encounter.

  The Duke of Sommerton was as old as her father and much too puffed up with his own self-importance to speak to her on the single occasion they came in contact. Beyond slighting her, he had slighted Papa, too, which seemed the height of absurdity as the duke had deigned to invest in one of Papa’s many business ventures, and they had met several times over the matter, but in the glittering drawing rooms of the ton Sommerton couldn’t be counted upon to greet her father or his family.

  He’d snubbed them cold publicly, mortifying Mama. In that moment, Mama vowed her daughters would have titles all and set about on such quest with dogged resolve. Much to Annis’s chagrin, she and her sisters were plunged into an intense education on all things dealing with the aristocracy. They were called upon to cite from memory all the noble families in the land. They were drilled constantly on matters of etiquette, dance, flower arrangement, voice and pianoforte lessons.

  It was misery, and that’s when Annis decided she would enter a convent. It had struck her as a sound escape plan.

  Papa hadn’t been too difficult to persuade on the matter. His own mother had been a very devout Catholic, and the vestiges of faith still adhered.

  Annis only had to suffer six more months on the marriage mart. Six more months of living in a cage, of feeling like a piece of meat at auction, scorned by the likes of men such as the Duke of Sommerton.

  According to Fenella, three of those six months would be spent here in the Highlands.

  The man behind her shifted, reminding her that, while she would be spared her mother’s last desperate efforts to find Annis a husband, she would not be spared the duke.

  Of course, she would not be spared the duke. He would be part of those three months. At least for a little while. Certainly not the entire three months.

  The thieves would be apprehended eventually, and she, Fenella, and Angus would return to their own home. It would be most unseemly to stay longer than necessary at Glencrainn. Especially with a duke who didn’t want her around, who suspected she had orchestrated being left behind so that she might trap him into matrimony.

  Despite that, he was nothing like Sommerton. He spoke to her. He saw her as a person. A person worth saving from the threat of brigands. There was that. He was very un-duke-like. A good thing, to be certain. He might have expressed a desire to kiss a sheep’s arse rather than marry her, but there was something decidedly noble about him. He tugged his mount to one side and surveyed the older couple behind them again.

  “Are they well?” she asked, her teeth gritting against the biting cold.

  Fenella and Angus had wrapped their heads with heavy tartan, leaving only their eyes to peer out.

  “Those old birds? They’re fine. Between the two of them, they’ve lived over a hundred Scottish winters.”

  She nodded in understanding. They were managing better than she was because she was so cold now she couldn’t feel her toes inside her boots anymore. But she didn’t complain. They could only press on. There was no going back.

  “And how many Scottish winters have you lived through, Your Grace?” she asked through shivering lips, teeth knocking.

  “Is that your way of asking my age, Miss Ballister?” His deep brogue vibrated from his chest into her back. “You mean your mother left that out of her research?” He adjusted behind her, his broad chest bumping her back. The white puff of his breath flowed past her head and into the air in front of her. “And out here everyone calls me Sinclair.”

  Of course, he would eschew formality. He had done everything else in seeming opposition to ducal pomp and manners.

  “My mother talks about a great many things. I confess I do not pay attention to all of them.” When Mama started talking dukes, Annis tended to block out her voice. Sommerton had soured her that much.

  “Well, I’m thirty.”

  “And yet unwed? Hmm. Perhaps you should listen to Fenella and wed. I have several sisters, as you know.”

  He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter. It was pleasant—the sound deep and delicious. Like warm chocolate on a chilled morning.

  “Which one would you recommend? The one who shoved you from the carriage? Or the one who punched the dark-haired one in the face?”

  She fought back a giggle. It wasn’t amusing. At the time, she had felt more like crying than laughing, but here she was, enjoying herself with him.

  Suddenly, he fell silent. He pulled back on the reins and motioned for Fenella and Angus to stop and hold silent, as well.

  He peered into the stretch of shadows.

  She followed his g
aze, seeing only a horizon of snowcapped mountains. She held her breath, staring into the night, grateful for the moonlight reflecting off the snow and saving them from complete darkness.

  “What—”

  He swiped a hand through the air to silence her.

  “Come. Quickly,” he whispered. Dismounting, he reached up for her, swinging her down beside him. She staggered a bit, unsteady on her feet, especially in the heavy snow. Fenella and Angus followed suit. They led their three horses to a small copse of trees, guiding the animals well within the gnarled trunks that poked up and peeked out from the snow.

  He motioned for them all to crouch low. Angus’s knees cracked as they sank down into the snow. Fenella muttered something in Gaelic, her words muffled with her thick tartan.

  Annis shivered, peering out between the trees, not sure what it was they were waiting for, but her pulse hammered.

  Then she saw it. Or rather them. At least a dozen horsemen.

  “There they be. Thieving low-born scoundrels,” Fenella grumbled, “forcing an old woman from her bed at night and out into the snow.”

  “Shh.” The duke cast Fenella a reproving look.

  Annis couldn’t look away from the group of men. She’d never seen a criminal up close before and here were a dozen of them.

  They were a motley band attired in dark clothing and faded tartan. Tufts of snow covered the heavy beards on their faces. They looked lean and hardened, heads bent against the onslaught of wind and snow as they rode at a steady clip.

  “Heading right fer our home,” Fenella whispered. “They’ll make short work of the food stores.”

  Sinclair nodded grimly, not taking his gaze off them.

  Her chest loosened and released a shuddering breath. Those men could have been her fate. If Sinclair hadn’t come for them, she would have been left to face them with only Angus and Fenella at her side. She glanced at his face again, profoundly grateful right then.

  A short bark attracted her attention. A sheepdog ran at the front of the horsemen. It paused and lifted its nose, sniffing, indifferent to the riders moving on without him.

  Of course, dogs possessed a keen sense of smell. Could he detect them? Would he expose them?

  Unthinkingly, she reached for Sinclair’s arm. Warm fingers reached up to cover her hand and squeeze reassuringly. She should shrink from such intimate contact, but there was nothing circumspect about this situation. His touch, his nearness, made her feel safe.

  One of the riders stopped and shouted a command. The sheepdog snapped his attention forward and trotted after the brigands.

  She expelled a heavy sigh. Although the relief did nothing to ease her tension. She was too cold to relax. Her muscles were frozen stiff.

  The four of them waited until the riders were well out of sight before pushing to their feet. Annis moved a pace before realizing that the duke still held her hand.

  Awkwardness consumed her. The only time a man had ever held her hand was while dancing. This felt decidedly different. She stumbled a step, staring down at their joined hands. Even through their gloves she imagined she felt every line, every callus, and the very pulse at the base of his palm.

  Odd, funny little flutterings swam through her middle. She yanked her hand free with more force than necessary and lost her balance. Her arms swung wildly as she tried to stop herself from falling. She took one more step back, hoping to find purchase. Instead her foot came down on a twisting bit of exposed root.

  She went down with a sharp yelp.

  She caught a flash of Sinclair’s face, of his hand reaching to grab her. Then nothing. Not the cold. Not anything.

  Blackness.

  Chapter Seven

  Calder carried her inside, not bothering to explain the unconscious woman in his arms to his perpetually stern-faced housekeeper, who rushed forward to meet them in the foyer. Miss Ballister was beyond cold, her dress and cloak solidly wet from her fall in the snow and crusted with ice. The fabric crackled against his gloved fingers.

  “Mrs. Benfiddy, please see tae Fenella and Angus.” He nodded behind him to where they followed closely. “And then bring more blankets tae my chamber.”

  He had no doubt the crotchety siblings would apprise his housekeeper of everything. Fenella and Angus were second cousins to Mrs. Benfiddy. In fact, the pair was related to most of his household staff. This part of the Highlands was tight-knit. Decades might have passed, but the effects of Culloden could still be felt. Those who hadn’t died at Culloden, starved in the years following, or emigrated, had remained and banded together. They were still banded, even if his grandfather had been bequeathed with some ridiculous title by an English monarch. He was still part of this land and these people, no matter how many title-hunting misses showed up on his doorstep.

  He wound his way up the stairs, Miss Annis Ballister a deadweight in his arms. Her skin had a waxy appearance that did not bode well. Calder took the steps more quickly.

  The heavy scent of fir and pine filled his nose. The staff had wrapped the banister in greenery to mark the holidays as they did every year. The entire castle was full of holly boughs and ribbons and greenery all in preparation for the Christmas Eve assembly Mrs. Benfiddy insisted they host annually. Everyone attended from the nearby villages. This year, however, with the recent robberies, there would be no such festivities. Mrs. Benfiddy was not happy with his decision, but it would present too grave a risk for his tenants to leave their homes unattended. He’d have none of his people victimized.

  He carried Annis into his chamber and settled her on the very same bed that his great-grandmother had brought over on a ship with her from France. It was an extravagant four-poster beast situated at the center of the room. Perhaps he should take pause at placing her in it, but it seemed the place for her. It was the nicest bed in the castle, and she deserved that.

  Leaving her side, he quickly moved to the fireplace. It was the largest in the keep, even greater than the one in the great hall. Several men could stand within it. He tossed several more logs into it, stirring the near-dormant fire to a crackling roar.

  He turned back for the bed and started on her boots, but the laces were frozen stiff. They would take forever to unlace. With a grunt, he unsheathed his dagger and cut through them. He tossed them aside and stripped off her socks, gasping when he touched the cold blocks of her feet. And the lass had not uttered a complaint. “Ah, hell.” He chafed his hands over them, trying to chase away the blueness from her skin.

  “Och, make haste and let us rid her of all her wet clothes.” Mrs. Benfiddy’s efficient tones rang out as she strode inside the room with an armful of blankets. A maid followed fast, carrying ceramic hot water bottles. His housekeeper dropped the additional blankets on the foot of the bed and made short work of undressing Miss Ballister, snapping at him to turn away the moment before she and the maid slipped off the lass’s chemise. “Now hand me more blankets.”

  Turning, he observed that she was tucked under his bedcovers, only her bare shoulders peeping above the edge. He swallowed hard and cursed under his breath. Now was not the time to yearn for a glimpse of her body. He was not some letch. He shook loose a blanket and covered her with it. Mrs. Benfiddy added another and then moved to examine Miss Ballister’s head and the knot there she’d received when she tripped.

  “She fell and struck her head,” he explained anxiously.

  “Looks like a right nasty bump.” Sighing, she stepped back, her hands leaving Miss Ballister and falling to her sides.

  He looked at her expectantly. “What now?” His gaze darted from the female in his bed to his housekeeper, a woman he estimated to be as old as the stone walls sheltering them. She’d been here long before his birth and he suspected she’d be here several decades longer yet. She looked precisely as she had when he was a lad of five. White-haired, worn skin translucent—thin and pale as milk. She was the wisest person he knew and had delivered more babes than there were stars in the sky. She’d raised him after he lost his par
ents and there was no one in the world who put him more at ease. Only right now, she was falling short in that regard.

  Mrs. Benfiddy took several more steps from the bed and gave another shrug. “No telling if the knock tae her head did any real damage. If she wakes, she’s fine.” She waved a hand as if he were an overly fretful mother.

  Hardly the most heartening advice. “That’s it?”

  “Keep ’er warm. Pray. And wait.” That said, his housekeeper turned and shuffled from his bedchamber, shutting the door after her with no concern for propriety. As though her master brought strange unconscious Englishwomen home all the time and together they stripped them of their garments and tucked them into his bed. Just another day at Glencrainn.

  Calder looked down again at the alarmingly gray pallor of Miss Ballister. Wait and pray. He did not count himself to be very good at either of those tasks. He’d prayed and waited as his parents and little sister fell sick from the cholera pandemic nearly two decades ago. It had been Christmastime then, too. He’d sat before the small nativity set that his mother put on display in the drawing room and prayed to the tiny baby Jesus. Still, he had lost them.

  Every Christmas since was a gloomy stretch of days he simply endured. He permitted the usual festivities among his staff. He wasn’t so much of a grump that he would stop them from celebrating. He said nothing as they decorated the castle from top to bottom. They celebrated. He did not. Christmas was a joy for others, but reminded him only of pain and loss.

  He stared down at the lass in his bed, a strange thickness in his throat as he contemplated the possibility that she might die. Just as his family had.

  She tossed her head and let out a pained little whimper, shifting so that more of her throat and shoulders were exposed to his view. Her light brown hair tangled loose around her shoulders. Her lips were still blue-tinged, and he knew that wasn’t good.

  He’d lived through enough Highland winters to know the signs of someone on the brink of freezing.

  He touched her forehead. Still like ice. He glanced around his chamber. The fire was at full roar, but it wasn’t helping fast enough. The cold had its teeth in her and didn’t want to let go. Damn it. He glanced from her and down to himself, still fully clothed in his own snow-dampened garments.