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Miles stared at the meager flames flickering in the hearth. The rich, robust scents of stewing meat simmering in a pot over the fire filled the small cottage. Despite the fact he had been kidnapped and taken prisoner, his stomach rumbled.
His wrists ached. Not only were they tied together, but he was bound to a high-backed wooden chair, his arms pinned behind him. He attempted to wriggle his ankles, but the boy had done his task too well. The ropes securing his feet to the chair legs didn’t budge. Both ankles and wrists stung without proper circulation.
And so he’d sat. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? Perhaps three? His thoughts dwelled on the fate of Hudson and Charles. His throat tightened. Could the baby survive in the cold temperatures, especially if no one came upon them? Oh, God. If the baby died—his son and his miracle child with Emmaline—would she ever forgive him? Buck up, old man. Start thinking like an agent and find a way out.
He ran his tongue along the corner of his mouth. The sharp metallic taste of blood met his palate from where Mrs. Peterson had hit him with the butt of her pistol upon arrival at the cottage. Right. Think like an agent. At the moment, the one thing he had in his favor was his ability to charm with his words.
Miles cleared his throat and addressed the son, who had remained in the structure while the mother had gone outside. “What now, Thomas?” His voice sounded raspy from his parched throat, but he gazed steadily at the youth. “Somehow, I doubt I’m here to share your Christmas Eve festivities.”
“Mother told me to watch you.” His shrug lifted his slight shoulders, but he didn’t move from his perch on a rough-hewn stool near the door. Neither did he release his death-grip on the pistol he held.
Miles gestured at the weapon with his chin. “Do you know how to fire a gun?”
The boy gazed at the pistol. “No.” He returned his focus to Miles. “Father always said...” He softly cleared his throat. “...always said a man of worth didn’t need a weapon to make his case or persuade.”
That was true enough. At one time, Peterson had strong negotiation skills. And he knew how to fight with his fists. Drawing a weapon was the last resort.
Obviously, Thomas still thought about his father and felt his loss keenly. “Will your mother kill me?” How odd it was that the boy resembled Peterson so closely. Both happiness and a trace of sadness cycled through him. No matter how the former valet’s life had ended, Miles would always remember him.
And miss him.
“I think so.” He glanced at the window to the left of the door. When he swung his gaze back to Miles, fear and worry clouded his eyes. “She means to hang you, Lord Archewyne.”
Nothing says Christmas like killing a peer and then sitting down to a hunter’s stew afterward. He bit back the urge to speak further sarcastic commentary aloud. “Ah, so I will suffer like your father did.” Miles continued to hold Thomas’ gaze while his stomach muscles cramped. This was quite the coil. Yet he firmly believed that talking—perhaps even understanding—was the way to peace. “When I knew him, your father was a fine man.”
That, at least, was the truth. The years Peterson had been his best friend and associate, both in the military and in the field as agents, the former valet had been without reproach. He had trusted the man with his life. Hell, he’d even sent him to guard Emmaline when she’d returned to Cairo. He and Peterson had defended England’s interests together, fought on the same side, done whatever it had taken to keep king and country safe.
Before Peterson’s ideals were compromised and his world slid sideways.
Thomas nodded. “I didn’t know him very well, my lord.” He drummed the fingers of one had on his knee. “I... wish he would be remembered as that man instead of...” The boy gestured a hand in dismissal.
“Instead of the traitor he became,” Miles finished in a whisper. He glanced around the simple room. As cottages went, it was a decent place to live, bigger than other tenant houses, modest for a man who’d made his living as an earl’s valet. Nothing in the personal effects indicated Peterson had ever spent time there. Had it always been that way, or had the widow cleared all traces of him from the home out of grief or anger? “How often did he visit?” Hell, he never knew Peterson was married with a child, let alone lived on his own damn property. I should have paid closer attention, or at the very least asked more questions. And he couldn’t blame it on being distracted by Emmaline since she’d only been in his life for a few months before his former valet went rogue.
The fault was his own, and it would haunt him until he took his last breath. Ironic, that. He was regularly visited by the ghosts of innocents who’d died while he’d pursued a criminal, of specters of the men and women he’d personally killed in defense of the Crown. Why would his former best friend be any different? All of those demons he’d never shared with Emmaline, not even to purge his own soul. Sometimes, a man shouldn’t forget what he’d done—so he wouldn’t make those same decisions... or mistakes.
“Every Sunday when he was in England.” The drumming ceased. “Months before he, uh...” The youth swallowed hard. “Months before he left to go abroad that last time, he kept telling me he wished things were different, that he was trying to make things better for us, that he knew I would do him proud someday.” His voice cracked. “That he hoped life would be easier for me than it had been for him.” The boy sent a hopeless look to Miles. He shrugged again and laid the pistol in his lap. “I didn’t understand what he meant.”
Miles heart squeezed. Damn you, Peterson! If you were having second thoughts, you should have talked to me about it. Which proved the man hadn’t wanted, deep down in his heart, to make those steps he had. Small comfort now. “He knew he would betray England... betray me. Betray you and your future.” Peterson had tried to tell his son, in a roundabout way, that there was a chance he wouldn’t come back from that mission. “He was telling you goodbye.”
“Father wasn’t affectionate much.” He shook his head. “How could he do something like that?” Thomas asked in a hushed voice. “I pretended he was a hero, and when he went with you he was keeping us all safe.”
“He was a hero, many more times than he wasn’t. Do not ever forget that.” Surprised at the almost savage tone in his voice, he attempted a more modulated timbre. “I’m sorry.” Miles frowned. “It’s never comforting when we find out the truth of the people we are close to, the ones we idolized.” He knew from experience. “My own father held ideals that were at cross purposes to mine.” After blowing out a breath, he said, “He wasn’t a kind man, thought more of tradition and outward appearances than if his sons were happy or even content.”
They both jumped when the thick oak door opened abruptly and swung inward. Cynthia Peterson stood in the frame, a lit lantern in one hand. Her accusatory gaze darted between them. “You are talking to this murderer? Why?”
Thomas slipped off the stool and pointed his gaze to the wooden floor. He set the pistol on his abandoned seat. “No reason, but there is something about him that makes me feel better.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. After setting the lantern down on a nearby table, she slammed the door. Little eddies of snowflakes blew like a whirlwind around her. “He killed your father. Best have no soft feelings for one such as him.” The widow dropped a hand onto her son’s shoulder and then gave him a little shove. “Find your coat. The tree is ready.”
“Mother.” The boy dug in his heels, and with a furtive glance to Miles, he rushed on. “Why must we do this?”
“You know why.” There was no room for argument in her tone.
Thomas took a step toward her with a hand extended in entreaty. “It makes us no better than criminals.” His swallow was audible. He lowered his voice. “No better than... Father.”
“How dare you.” The widow pounced. She slapped the boy’s face. He fell to his knees with a whimper. “Your father was everything good and kind in this world.” She turned and trained her anguished stare onto Miles. “This man, this peer, is the reason your father—my husband—is dead.”
“Enough.” The authoritative ring in the command captured their attention. Miles strained at his bonds. They didn’t give, and neither did the pain in his wrists and ankles lessen. “The both of you, listen to me.”
“No. You had time enough to say your peace.” The widow shook her head. A lock of blonde hair fell loose from the knot at the back of her head. “The one sound I wish to hear from you is a death rattle.”
“My dear Mrs. Peterson,” he began.
“I am not your anything!” With quick, angry steps, she crossed the floor and closed the distance between them. She raised a hand and he steeled himself for the sting of her next slap, but when Thomas shot to his feet, she hesitated. “I have lived months for this moment.”
Hope sprang into Miles’ heart. She was at odds with herself. He still had a chance at escape. “Cynthia.” When she retreated a step, he continued, “There was a time in my life when I thought things, motives, decisions, were always a black and white issue.” He frowned. Interesting, that. When had his opinions changed? His heart squeezed again. When Emmaline arrived. Now was not the time for inward musings. “I suppose I have the tendency to think that way still.”
The widow merely stared at him, confliction warring in her eyes and expression.
Miles sighed. “I had assumed that a man—or woman—could either be this or that, good or bad. Nothing between one of those two options.” Once more he lapsed into reflective silence, choosing his words carefully. They would either disarm or enrage. “Ever since Peterson’s betrayal—”
“He was betrayed by you,” she interrupted.
“—I have struggled,” he sailed on as if she hadn’t cut in. “My thoughts on the matter have tortured me too many nights. My own feelings regarding your husband—my friend—have made me doubt what happened and why.” He glanced at Thomas, who stood watching with wide, round eyes. For the child, he would do his deuced best to diffuse the situation. “Did your husband do right by his family? I have no idea, for he never mentioned either of you to me, never told me you lived on this property.” He swallowed as his mind spun. “Did Peterson do right by his country? There were times when I would never have questioned his loyalty, so at the end, it is not for me to say.”
“What exactly are you trying to tell me, my lord?” Cynthia crossed her arms over her chest. “Time grows short.”
“Oh, it does indeed. For all of us,” he agreed. “Which is why it is important never to waste those precious moments on hate.” He wriggled his wrists. God, they ached. “Did I do right by Peterson and my country?” He looked at Thomas and then at Cynthia, these two hurting souls whose lives had been torn apart by matters beyond their control. “Yes, to a certain point I believe that I did, but perhaps I could have done more. I could have offered to see your husband rehabilitated had the powers-that-be in government let me.”
She stifled a cry with a hand to her mouth.
His gut cramped. Damnation, such a thing was difficult. Too many pieces had been at play, and none of the men involved considered the lives they destroyed with events after a suspect was sent to Newgate. Even a traitor. “Would the chance at rehabilitation have worked? I don’t know.” He shook his head. “We will never know at this point, but if you let me, I will attempt to atone for what happened.”
“How?” The widow snorted. “My husband is dead. You cannot bring him back.”
“I cannot, this is true.” Miles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. At least she hadn’t dragged him out of the cottage yet. “Consider young Thomas there.” He flicked his gaze to the boy. “He’s a fine lad, yes? Brave and determined, that one. Much like his father was when I first met him.” He cleared his throat as emotion choked him. “It’s not your son’s fault his father made the choices that he did.”
“No, it isn’t.” She retreated another step. “He was always strong-willed.”
“It isn’t my fault either.” He blinked away suspicious moisture from his eyes. Finally, he believed that. A man made his own choices and had to live with the consequences. “Do not punish Thomas for what your husband did. A man has to stand by his own decision in life. Period. They belong to no one else. Another man—another woman—should not carry that burden.”
Thomas crept forward, but neither of the Petersons spoke.
“In an effort to make whatever I can right between all of us and to honor the memory of my friend—your loved one—I am willing to offer Thomas a position in my household here at Archewyne Hall. He can apprentice for a footman, stable hand, or wherever his skills lie.” Such a thing had worked out well for Alberto, the Italian youth he’d hired while in Italy. Now, the young man was a footman-in-training. In two years, he would work inside the London townhouse based on his looks and ability to utilize languages. Each time he checked in on Alberto, the reports were glowing from all sides, including the young man’s.
“There is much to think about.” He sought out the widow’s gaze and held it, willing her to understand and know he was sincere. “It is my fondest wish that I haven’t offended you, but that this arrangement will prevent you and Thomas from struggling financially. It will help guide the boy and keep him out of trouble, make him into the image of the man his father would be proud of.”
“No.” Cynthia vehemently shook her head. “No. You cannot fix everything with words and empty promises. That’s exactly what you lofty lords do, and when it comes time to deliver, you are nowhere to be found.”
“I’m not that sort of man.”
“Look what you did to my husband!” Panic and hysteria had returned to her voice as she began to pace. “How can I trust you now?”
Miles stifled a sigh. “You can’t.” This wasn’t going well. He shifted the best he could while bound to the chair. “You may take my word. I keep my promises.”
“Mother, I think—” Thomas was interrupted by his mother spinning about and yanking her pistol from his abandoned stool.
“No more talking.” She trained the weapon at Miles’ chest. His pulse accelerated. Would he die in this cottage, without his loved ones around him? “My husband needs to be avenged. Only then can I rest.”
Thomas shot a frantic glance to Miles before darting in front of his parent. “Listen to me, Mother.” He held up his hands in entreaty. “I want to go into the employ of Lord Archewyne.”
“I knew you were an intelligent lad,” Miles said with enthusiasm. He had one last chance to convince the unstable woman to turn him loose. “If you do well, Thomas, you can advance into other positions, on any of the Archewyne properties. If not with me, I shall be happy to write you references for employment elsewhere. I have many connections throughout the ton.”
Perhaps, if the youth did well enough, he might be groomed for Rathesborne’s service, but trust would have to greatly be extended, for he would always be the son of a traitor. Still, it was hope—for all of them.
“Please, Mother. Let me do this.” Thomas slowly lowered his hands and faced his parent. “I think Father would endorse this decision. He always told me the earl was an honorable man.”
Cynthia didn’t relax her stance with the weapon. “Sending my son into your service won’t bring back my husband,” she said in a quiet voice.
“No, it won’t, but it will give your son hope and a future, so that he might make his father proud. What else does he have to look forward to?”
Her hand shook. “He is all I have left to remember Casper by.”
“I know.” Miles held her gaze for long, agonizing moments. “I will see that he’s well taken care of. Thomas can visit you every Sunday.” His attempt to roll his shoulders didn’t bring cessation from the pain. “If your boy isn’t content with me, I will do everything in my power to place him in a household where he will be.” His attention never wavered. “I failed your husband, Cynthia; I won’t fail his son.”
It was the best he could offer. She would either accept it or she wouldn’t.
Long silent moments passed before she spoke again. “He may go, Lord Archewyne.” Tears pooled in her eyes and she lowered the pistol to her side. “I apologize for the horrid treatment here.” Weakly, she waved the pistol to presumably encompass the kidnapping. “I miss Casper so much. I knew not what to do.”
“Understandable.” He kept his voice low and even. Emotions were a volatile thing.
“And I hate...” Her voice broke. “... that he did what he did.” She scrubbed at the tears on her cheek. “Regardless of what happened, you have been affected too.”
“I have.” He bowed his head in the face of her palatable grief. Her emotions triggered his own response. Tears welled in his eyes, and he let them fall unchecked. Now was not the time for a stiff, upper lip. “It is part of life.” He didn’t know if he spoke to her for to himself.
A forceful knock on the cottage door prevented further conversation.
Miles brought his head up. “Wassailers, perhaps?” The evening grew late.
“They never come here.” When Cynthia swung open the door, he gasped.
“Emmy.” My wife is here. Never had he seen a more beautiful sight.
She stood in the frame with her dagger in hand. The skirts of her crimson and ivory gown were a brilliant puddle against the stark white of the snow. The black of her cloak was like an extension of the dark, velvet sky as it rippled in the breeze. But it was the determination and hellfire burning in her emerald eyes that held him captive.
God, she’s magnificent.
Unfortunately, the gaggle of geese at her feet destroyed the vengeful goddess image she owned. As soon as the water fowl caught a glimpse of him, they surged ahead of her into the cottage and gathered around his chair, honking with jubilation. A few of them flapped their wings. Snowflakes and downy feathers floated on the air. One of them bumped a bill against his knee and peered up at him with an unblinking black eye.
“Miles!” His wife rushed inside, and when she saw the pistol in Cynthia’s hand, she uttered a cry of anguish. “You did this.” Emmaline was a flash of scarlet, so fast did she move. She shoved the woman against the still-open door, which crashed the panel into the wall. “Release him this instant or I will kill you.” She pressed the tip of her blade to the widow’s throat. Two of the geese, sensing danger no doubt, ran squawking and honking to Emmaline’s location. Their webbed feet slapped against the floorboards.
Fear sprang into Thomas’ eyes. “My lady, stop—”
“Emmaline, hold—”
Both his and Thomas’ entreaties were cut short by the appearance of Jonathan, who jogged to the gaping doorway, his expression that of a particularly violent storm. He sucked in lungfuls of air. “What the devil is wrong with you, Lady Archewyne?” Anger mottled his face. “You could have been running headlong into danger. And leaving without a word?”
Miles couldn’t help his grin. When would Jonathan learn that trying to prevent Emmaline from doing anything she set her mind to was near impossible? “Stand down, Lord Trewellain. Enough, Emmaline. Sheath your weapon. All is well here.” He cocked an eyebrow while attempting to ignore the goose standing on one of his boots. He couldn’t even shake off the bird due to still being tied. “Jonathan, your assistance on these ropes please.”
The viscount eyed the feathered protectors with a slight grin. “Do you suppose they’ll allow me to come close enough to free you?”
Embarrassed heat slapped Miles’ cheeks. “Shut up and help me.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur as activity filled the cottage. By the time the bonds were released, explanations were given. Thomas, acting as the man of the house, offered a meal of their stew, which Miles declined. The geese milled about, hunting beneath the furniture for bits of dropped food.
“I’m sure your dinner tastes as wonderful as it smells, but why don’t you accompany us back to the Hall? There is plenty of food there as well as entertainment and celebrations.” He groaned as he stood and then grunted when Emmaline embraced him without thought as to the company around them. The geese, spying his movement, flocked back around his boots as if worried he would desert them.
“Dearest, your hem is sodden.” He’d spied that evidence before he’d been released. “I’m sure your slippers are wet and your feet frozen.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She covered his face with feather-weighted kisses while two of his feathered guards stamped upon his boots and occasionally poked his knee with their bills. “You are unharmed?”
“Yes.” He humored her while she traced his face and body with her gloved fingertips, no doubt searching for wounds. She tsked her tongue when she came upon the chafed and reddened skin on his wrists. “I am fine. Stop fussing.”
“Is there something you would say, my love?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye when she finally returned her attention to his face.
Other than you are a force when you are angry? As much as he wished to kiss her senseless, he pulled away. “Not in front of these fine people.” Miles glanced over her shoulder and caught Jonathan rolling his eyes. “I merely wish to spend the evening surrounded by my family and those I love.” He met Cynthia’s sad gaze. “And with new friends.” When one of the geese honked an overly loud note, he snickered. “And perhaps with my flock.”
Jonathan snorted but said nothing even as his lips twitched.
“Are you certain that’s wise? I mean, with the people, not the birds,” Emmaline asked with heavy skepticism. “In light of everything—”
Miles rested a finger against her lips which were chilled. Really, the woman required copious amounts of kissing, if only to warm her through. “Yes, quite certain. Jonathan will escort you and Mrs. Peterson to the Hall. Thomas will help me gather the greenery I am still in need of.” When she would have voiced a protest, he grinned. “I promised you the fir boughs and mistletoe. And a Yule log. I must not forget that.” He looked once more at Cynthia, whose eyes glimmered with moisture. “My word is my bond.”
Christmastide was a time to practice forgiveness and acceptance. And it started with him.