Christopher de Champs, Earl of Wyckburg, stared at the young woman in his arms. His breath left him as quickly as his wits. To say she was beautiful would have been a tragic understatement. For the first time in three years, his dormant heart awoke and took a good look.
No. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He wouldn’t condemn another woman. Too many former Countess Wyckburgs filled the family crypt, his own sweet wife among them.
He tore his gaze off the woman in his arms and carried her to the waiting coach, where he promptly bundled her into a blanket. He pulled off her half boots and rubbed her feet to restore the circulation before he placed her feet atop a rag-wrapped brick. He put another brick against her back. She mumbled, pushing at the hot bricks. After ensuring they weren’t burning her, he wrapped her again, holding her against the sources of warmth.
His gaze drifted to her face—lovely, delicate features and a full mouth, framed by a dark green hood. A light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheekbones revealed her propensity to spend time outdoors without a bonnet. Judging by her fine clothing and smooth hands, she was a well-bred lady of quality. He never attended society functions, so he had no idea as to her identity.
One of his footmen, Hobbs, arrived with an older woman about half his size. A bruise spread over her wrinkled forehead. They bundled her in warmth, and Hobbs cradled the old woman as if she were his own grandmother.
The strangers’ coachman stuck in his head. Icicles clung to his beard, and his lips were purple. “All set?” the driver asked through chattering teeth.
Christopher motioned. “You get in too. You’ve been out in that weather too long.”
“’Twouldn’t be right, milord.”
“Get in, man, before you freeze to death. This weather leaves no room for propriety.”
The driver climbed in, his shaking hands struggling with the door. Once they were seated, the coach lurched forward. With one arm holding the unconscious young lady, Christopher reached into a compartment and withdrew a flask wrapped in cloths to keep it warm.
He handed the flask to the coachman. “Mulled wine. Drink up.”
“Thankee kindly.” He drank deeply and passed the flask back.
“Where were you headed?”
“Birchwood Manor, the Fairchild place down the road.”
Christopher choked. “Fairchild?”
“Yes m’lord. Storm didn’t look that close when we left town, or I woudn’t’ve risked it.”
Fairchild. The woman in Christopher’s arms descended from the very witch who had cursed his family generations ago. Though tempted to open the carriage door and throw out the witch’s spawn—or run a blade through her—he gritted his teeth and remained still. As his gaze strayed back to the unconscious young woman, all thoughts of revenge faded to impotent wishes. He couldn’t very well condemn a lady for a crime her ancestor committed. Besides, no one believed in witches anymore. He hardly believed in them himself. He was an educated, enlightened man, but five generations of family history, not to mention his personal loss, left no room for doubt.
As he looked into the young woman’s angelic face, thoughts of retribution melted like snowflakes on a flame. Besides, Christopher was no murderer, and seeking revenge wouldn’t bring his wife back. No, he’d keep his distance and rid himself of the chit as quickly as the storm allowed.
“My thanks for your aid, milord,” the driver said. “We wouldn’t have lasted long in that weather.”
Christopher nodded numbly. The woman in his arms mumbled, her eyes fluttering but not quite opening. Christopher pressed the flask to her mouth and ordered her to drink. She swallowed and coughed, her eyes still fluttering. Twisting against him, she pushed back her hood back, displaying a halo of abundant auburn hair.
He might have known. A redheaded witch like her Irish ancestor. It was just his luck that his foe would fall into his hands, leaving him with the dilemma of what to do with her.
As the coach rolled to a stop, Christopher gathered up the unconscious woman and hurried inside, followed by Hobbs carrying the old woman, and the coachman following.
Christopher thrust his bundle at the nearest footman. “Take them to whatever room Mrs. March prepared for our… guests.” Guests. He almost snorted. There hadn’t been guests in the castle for years. His housekeeper was probably having an apoplexy. “And see to their coachman.”
A footman motioned to the coachman, who stood holding his hat awkwardly, and they left together. After discarding his snow-covered overcoat and hat, Christopher stalked to his study. Pouring himself a cup of mulled wine, he sipped the hot liquid and stared into the fire.
The door burst open, and his sixteen-year-old brother-in-law charged in. “Is it true?” Henry asked urgently, his eyes wide. “She’s a Fairchild?”
“So their coachman says.”
“And with red hair, too, just like the witch…” Henry trailed off then fixed a piercing gaze on Christopher. “Are you going to kill her?”
Christopher choked. “Henry!”
“Well?”
“One doesn’t go about murdering hapless young women in their sleep without bringing the law down upon one’s head. Not to mention, I have no stomach for it.”
“Your enemy has been delivered into your hands. This is your chance to break the curse.”
“I have no way of knowing if killing the ancestor of the witch will lift the curse. And as I said, I’ve no stomach for murdering anyone, especially not a woman.”
“If she were a man, you could challenge him to a duel.”
“Common as they are, duels are illegal, as you well know. When did you become so bloodthirsty?”
“The moment I saw that red hair and heard the name Fairchild. You and your family have been dealt a sore injustice. As have I.” The lad clamped his mouth shut and blinked rapidly.
Christopher sank into an armchair near the fire. “Indeed.”
“I don’t suppose my killing her would lift the curse, but it would serve justice.”
Alarmed, Christopher leaped to his feet and went to him. Placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders, he peered into Henry’s eyes and waited until their gazes met. Solemnly, Christopher said, “Henry, that girl upstairs did not kill your sister. You cannot even think of harming her. What you are suggesting is morally wrong.”
Tears filled Henry’s eyes. “It’s not fair. Jane didn’t hurt any of them. And she died such an unnatural death.”
“You’re right; it isn’t fair.” Christopher stared unseeing at the dark window, reliving every labored breath his beloved wife took before her last. He curled his hand into a fist. “Promise me you won’t hurt the Fairchild girl.”
Silence.
“Henry.”
The young man heaved a sigh. “I promise I won’t hurt her.”
Satisfied, Christopher sat once again and stared into the fire, his thoughts consumed by the beautiful, fiery-haired enemy upstairs.