The longcase clock on the inn’s stair landing chimed quarter-past the hour as Cassie stepped into the Four Feathers. She had persuaded her students Jamie and Jonas Whitlatch to meet her in the inn’s assembly room at two o’clock to help her put up decorations. She doubted the young brothers were sufficiently enthused about their task to have waited for her.
She waved at the innkeeper, Mr. Salsby, stationed at the tap as she hurried by, heading for the passage that led to the back of the inn. At this hour of the afternoon on Christmas Eve day, the taproom was empty of all but the most dedicated customers. Most of the villagers were busy baking, sewing, cleaning, putting up their own greens or performing other tasks as they hurried to finish preparations for the twelve days of celebration that would begin tonight. No adults had been available this afternoon to help finish the work begun that morning.
The passage, dark and windowless, opened into the assembly room, a generously proportioned, handsomely paneled space with tall windows and a long line of straight-backed wooden chairs set against its outer wall. A large stone fireplace anchored the center of the opposite wall, flanked by additional chairs. Like their matching brethren, these were painted a soft deep green, almost as if on purpose for Christmas, although they remained that color all year round, and had done so for enough years to bear a collection of scuffs, chips and scars to show for it.
The room served as the social center of the village and the surrounding area for any large indoor gatherings that Squire Hammon and Lady Anne did not host up at the manor. Cassie’s task was to drape the room in garlands to prepare for the upcoming Christmastide events. A play by the school children and a dance for all the village, among other treats, would culminate in a grand celebration on Twelfth Night itself.
The hall would not be used tonight, for on Christmas Eve the village was always invited up to Highfield Manor following the Vespers service at the church. But those events made her time here short. Her father would say she ought to be using it to center her thoughts on spiritual matters and prepare for the evening’s worship, but the decorating had to be done.
As Cassie entered the hall, she saw that the large pile of pine and holly garland to be hung waited in front of the unlit hearth, but not one single breathing human.
Bother! Her young twin helpers were the eldest and tallest of the children enrolled at the vicarage school over which she presided, and she had been counting on them. Teamwork had worked so well to create the garlands this morning. As they did on this day every year, the village men and women had gathered and bound the feathery pine fronds and twigs of leathery, spiked holly leaves with their bright red berries. There hadn’t been enough time to hang them as well.
Glancing about, she despaired over completing the task. Lovely. Without help, another unfinished task to add to her list. The villagers believed that gathering and putting up greens could only be done on Christmas Eve, so nothing had been done before today. Yet, the greens needed to be up by this evening. What could she do? Her father would have been quick to point out that there was no use in allowing her annoyance to hamper her. She very consciously tamped it down, like banking a fire.
After removing her mittens, she unfastened her wool cloak and spread the wet garment across several chairs to dry. The gray kerseymere pelisse she wore over her dress would have to ward off the chill of the unheated room. The cold would seep into her fingers and toes soon enough.
She should have delegated the decorating to someone much taller than she was. This problem was her own fault. Even on a chair, she could barely reach the molding that ran around the room.
She marched back out to the taproom and inquired if she might have use of the inn’s ladder.
Mr. Salsby was a big, balding man sporting a fringe of hair around the sides of his head that gave him a monkish appearance. Wiping his hands on a towel, he shrugged and looked thoroughly sympathetic as he informed her, “Right sorry, Miss Tamworth. ’Tis still on loan at t’other end of the village for the Dowdings’ roof repair.”
Fine. Chairs were all she had.
Back in the assembly room, she positioned one under the spot where a single garland had been hung this morning. Then she approached the fragrant pile by the cold hearth, breathing in the sweet, fresh scent. Apart from temporary aggravations, she did love the Christmas season!
Selecting a length of garland, Cassie coiled it loosely and thrust an arm through the resulting loops to hoist it onto her shoulder. She needed her hands free for climbing onto the chair.
Hiking her skirts well above her knees, she set one foot on the chair, grabbed the chair back and sprang up, grateful for strong, young legs. The coiled greens were heavy. The sharp ends of some holly leaves poked into her neck, a twig had snagged her hair, and already two of her fingers were sticky from pine sap. The sap would probably stain her pelisse as well. This was the problem of not having helpers.
The sole advantage was: no one to witness the display of her legs. Modesty was wasted in an empty room.
She straightened up and fished for one bound end of the garland. Stretching, she tucked the end over the tail of the previous garland and made certain the same nail held the new one. Her plan was to use all the nails left in place from last year wherever possible.
Maintaining a precarious balance, she paid out a length of garland to form a graceful arc–then discovered she could not reach the next nail. Without a helper to take the garland from her, she had no choice but to release the remaining length while she climbed down and moved to the next spot.
The instant she turned away, the section of garland she had just hung fell with a resounding plop, pulled down by the weight of its unattached length. She looked up at the cross-beamed ceiling as if heaven could grant her patience, and stamped her foot. Truly? If only the Whitlatch boys had waited for her. If only her father had fallen asleep sooner! If only she had someone, anyone, here to help.
Futile wishes. Her father had a firm rule about not indulging in those. Sometimes she found it very difficult indeed. How did you teach your mind–and heart–not to want things? Not to want a different future? Not to wish that magic was real? How lovely to wave a wand and have that garland hang itself! Frowning fiercely, she pushed the chair to its original position, looped the garland over her arm, and climbed carefully back up onto the chair.
Ribbons. Next year, nice, feather-weight red ribbons instead of greens. She could save up pin money and buy them herself–except for one thing. No one here would accept such a radical change. Little Macclow was steeped in tradition, stuck in time. Nothing here ever changed.
Well, at least she could try changing her method. After re-hooking the garland end, she placed the remaining coil on her extended left hand instead of dropping it to the floor. Holding the greens up as high as she could, she grasped the chair back with her other hand, and blindly groped for the floor with one foot. When she’d landed safely, she pushed the chair along with her foot and free hand, trying not to pull on the connected coil of greens.
Now she faced the problem of climbing back up one-handed while holding the garland above her head. That challenge was even more awkward than the original process had been.
She had just accomplished it when the back of her neck prickled, and not from the holly. Was she being watched? She looked toward the passage entrance. Indeed, someone was lounging there, just inside it out of the light. She could not make out who it was.
“Jamie? Jonas? Is that one of you? You are late! Couldn’t you lend a hand here?” Perhaps her not-so-idle wish for a helper had been granted. She hoped whoever it was had not arrived in time to see her climbing the chair with her skirts hiked moments earlier.
There was no response. With a sigh, Cassie released the garland, climbed down and marched towards the doorway. Behind her she heard the soft plop of garland hitting the floor. She stifled her response to that, not suitable for young ears. ‘Bother!’ was not nearly a strong enough word. She could feel her carefully banked annoyance flaring back up.
“Might it occur to you to help instead of merely watching?” she said in a tone perhaps a mite sharper than she intended.
As she approached, the lounging figure straightened and she saw that he held a mug from the taproom. Oh, heavens. Not Jamie or Jonas. And much too tall for a boy. How could she have made such a mistake?
When the man stepped forward into the light, she sucked in her breath. Before her stood a dark-haired stranger with a noticeably fine figure, dressed in a perfectly-fitted russet coat and intricately-styled cravat. Her reaction to his angular face and hooded eyes struck like a rush of wind.
She felt burning color flood into her cheeks. She had just chastised an unknown and very handsome gentleman in her best schoolteacher tone. Where had he come from? Strangers hardly ever found their way to Little Macclow. And how long had he been there, watching her? Mortification was another inadequate word–it did not begin to cover what she felt just now.
“Would you rob me of the only entertainment to be found in this village this afternoon?” He regarded her with a grin that could only be called devilish.
His voice was low and slow, and ignited a flame deep inside her. Was this what people meant when they called something seductive? Clearly he had been watching her climb up and down, apparently enjoying the view. She ought to be highly offended, not ready to swoon at his feet!
“Apparently you only look the part of a gentleman,” she said, grasping for her wits. “A true gentleman would not have–would never have…”
“Feasted his eyes on your delectable form? Admired your effort? But that would have been a cruel deprivation.”
Who was this? He made her want to smile when she ought to be utterly offended. His glib tongue and ability to flatter while being quite rude suggested London society. Another glance at him convinced her, very high circles of London society. Everything about him, from the cut of his coat, the knot of his cravat and the styling of his thick hair, screamed privilege. Quality. But not a gentleman. A true gentleman should never mention it if he had seen something immodest.
“Sometimes deprivation is the only proper course,” she responded, intending a withering tone. Instead, the words just sounded prim and spinsterish. Like the village vicar’s daughter she was. She should not try to match wits with a man like this.
“I have never found ‘proper’ to be my preferred choice,” he said, giving her a long, assessing look that made her toes curl. “As for my being a gentleman, that was an assumption on your part, not any claim I have made.”
He took a step closer to her. “Indeed, you may find I am exactly the sort of not-gentleman with whom young ladies such as yourself are warned against conversing, never mind being caught alone in an unsupervised room.”
That stopped her, as the implications settled into her mind. He made such warnings suddenly seem valid. She opened and closed her mouth, at a loss to reply. Drat him! He caused her mind to move in directions that were not at all seemly.
She glanced around her, as if she did not already know they were alone. Her heart was beating much faster than it should. Was she in danger? Her mortification began to swell into alarm.
He chuckled, as if her growing panic amused him. That drew her gaze back to his face. Not a trace of apology showed there, but heavens, his slow smile was magnetic. Surely she should not be noticing how wickedly curved his lips were. Or how green his eyes. Not just green. A light green, like the sunlit color of rising sea-waves. If she was not careful, she might fall in and drown.
What kind of spell was he working on her? Could Temptation personified just suddenly appear in someone’s path? Truly she had never faced anyone so like the Devil as this man clearly was. She shook her head to rattle loose some sense.
“I believe we have found something to agree upon,” she said, pulling herself together. “Forgive me for assuming you might have manners.
“As for our being alone,” she added, “this is a perfectly public place.”
The villagers believed it was essential, when encountering the Devil, to have a reply to anything he said. Her father would have her head if he caught her indulging in their “magical thinking” as he called it. But still, at Christmas, couldn’t it be possible that miracles and magic might come together in mysterious ways? Why wouldn’t the Devil choose such a time to test one’s heart?
“It seems a bit thin of company for a public place, I would say,” he offered, looking about pointedly in rather the same fashion as she had just done.
“Well, earlier today it was full of people.” A silly, lame answer. Where was her brain?
His potent gaze returned to her. “Then I am glad for you that such is not the case this afternoon. I imagine it is less of a scandal to be caught showing off your stockings to one complete stranger than to a whole group of those familiar folks you must face every day. Imagine the gossip!”
She imagined her face was crimson by now. He was insufferable! But he only proved what her father had always taught her, that people of his class were arrogant and self-interested.
“It is unfortunate that the group could not finish our task this morning. I think you know very well that–that–would never have happened at all if there were anyone here to help me this afternoon. You are exceedingly rude to keep bringing it up!”
“But it was the high point of what has not been a very good day.” He drained the last of the drink in his mug, and looked in after it a bit ruefully. Then he set it down on the chair nearest him. “Allow me to make amends, since I have been ‘exceedingly rude’. I shall assist you, and you will have no more need to be hiking your skirts in this very ‘public place’.”
He made it sound as if she had been doing something far more scandalous than merely climbing up and down from a chair. Did everything he said have to sound so–suggestive? Could wickedness be contagious? She did not usually think or behave like this.
She did need help, but should she accept his? Most probably not. But he was tall—yes, most certainly, if belatedly, she had noticed that. He could probably reach the nails around the hall quite easily.
“Very well, I accept your offer. But you must promise me you will make no further mention of what you witnessed earlier.”
“I give you my word. It shall become our secret, and a pleasant memory.” That smile again. “If we are to work together, and share secrets, let us not continue to be strangers. Lacking someone to introduce us, permit me.” He bowed. “I am Adam Hardwick Randall, Lord Forthhurst. And you are Miss ____?”
So he was a lord. She knew of the Randall family. Wasn’t his father an earl, or a marquess? Her father wouldn’t be pleased that nobility was visiting the village.
After such behavior, she didn’t feel Lord Forthhurst deserved the respect of a curtsey from her, but she would not stoop to rudeness herself. She gave it, along with her name. “I run a small school for the village children at the vicarage here. My father is the Reverend Dr. Tamworth.”
He took her hand and bowed again. “It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tamworth.” The action would have been perfectly unexceptional if only he hadn’t given her hand a little squeeze at the last moment, and quirked an eyebrow in quite such an irreverent way. How could so little affect her so strongly? A flash of heat ran all the way through her.
Adam thought they worked quite well together. After Miss Tamworth had explained the point of the exercise and the method for achieving it, he had accepted the role of chair-climber, preserving her precious modesty and sacrificing any more delicious views he might have otherwise enjoyed. Astonishing behavior on his part. She stood by to hand him the greens as needed and to hold up the ends when he was climbing up or down.
He moved with great care, as his tailor had left little to spare in fitting his coat and inexpressibles, and a split seam under these circumstances would likely make little Miss-Tamworth-the-vicar’s-daughter faint. Despite her prim innocence, he found her unexpectedly charming. He stole glances at her when she was not looking his way, watching as she bent over the pile of garlands and noting how she breathed in their scent every time. A few strands of her hair had loosened from the knot at the back of her head--light, wavy strands burnished with too much copper to be considered blond.
She moved with modest grace, completely unaware of how beautifully formed she was. The arc of her neck was made for a man to explore–her pale skin so flawless. He had already seen the fine shape of her legs. Dressed fashionably, more revealingly, please God, and put among the reigning young beauties in London, she would equal–no, quite possibly outshine–any of them.
By Jove's beard, he’d never thought a country miss could appeal to him so strongly! When she stood with her arms raised holding up the garlands, he couldn’t help imagining how it might feel to have those arms around him. The devil of this was, he knew better than to get involved. Even a cad as selfish as he could be would not stoop so low as to seduce an innocent. A vicar’s daughter at that! He could not. He must simply be grateful that the mere presence of a pretty woman in the village would make his brief stay here more bearable.
“My lord?” She was holding out the end of the next garland to him.
“Yes, of course.” He took it from her, his fingers finding and brushing against hers amongst the prickly holly leaves. Quite by accident. Or at least, not by any design he consciously employed. Bleeding blazes, was he incapable of not seducing her? He knew very well what effect he could have on women. And what disasters could result from that. He tried to ignore the tingle that traveled up his hand. He usually had better control over what effect women had on him.
Miss Tamworth stood ready to receive the greens from him after he fastened the garland end and paid out the slack to create the next arc. Her lovely oval face was turned up to him. The vivid blue of her eyes suggested energy and passion. Her lips had all the lush rose color of a young child’s. Kissable.
He turned away, busying himself with finding the next nail. When he was not looking, did she watch him as intently as he studied her? He knew he should hope to God that she did not.
Yet now as they continued to work, each time their fingers accidentally touched he noticed how quickly she jerked hers away. It made him smile. She was wary of him, as she rightly should be. But it also showed she was aware, and felt something. He could hardly help being pleased by that. What man would not? However, for him this was a path that could only lead straight to perdition.
“I think I can manage the rest from here,” he said, looking along the row of chairs. He now could simply step from one chair to the next without the labor—and risk--of climbing up and down. He would not need to keep passing the greens to her and back again, except to replenish his garlands. No more touching. “You must supervise, and tell me if I go wrong with the spacing.”
Some weird magic was at work here. First he’d sent Christopher off with the only available horse, and now here he was, standing on a chair in the middle of nowhere, helping a village vicar’s daughter on Christmas Eve. Who was he? His London friends, or even his parents, would never believe it. He hardly believed it himself.
He and Miss Tamworth worked in silence for a few minutes. She had said very little since they’d exchanged introductions. He hated to think that his social position intimidated her. She had shown such spirit before then.
“Are you always this quiet, Miss Tamworth? I am used to women who consider continual conversation to be a practiced art.”
“I consider conversation that is empty of meaning to be a waste of breath, my lord.”
“I see. Well then by all means, let us try to find some conversation that is meaningful. Tell me something about the school you maintain for the children. That seems to me a very advanced idea.”
He could see that he had hit on a topic dear to her heart. Her eyes lit with enthusiasm before she calmed her features into a less revealing mask.
“My father believes strongly in the value of a populace that can read the Bible and write their names,” she replied. “He is a member of the National Society for Promoting the Education of the Poor. I am aware that not everyone agrees with their philosophy.” She paused and looked at him, as if trying to discern his feelings on the subject.
But he had never heard of that society, or ever given the issue much thought at all. He could see how there might be an interesting controversy, certainly. Many in his class believed educating the poor would lead to the kind of chaos that had enveloped France, and even led to the current war.
“You sound quite proud of your father.” He fastened the tail of a garland behind a nail, then climbed down to load up with another.
“Indeed, you are correct in that, sir.” She side-stepped neatly out of his way, probably quite unaware that he had aimed toward her intentionally. He couldn’t resist. Perhaps he truly was becoming the devil that he claimed and everyone believed him to be.
“It is thanks to him, and to his effort to convince Squire and Lady Anne of the merits, that we have the school,” she added. “Reading and writing are the main subjects I teach the children.”
She paused, as if weighing the merits of sharing more. Apparently her enthusiasm won out, for she took a breath and continued. “Some of them are so very bright, so curious and eager to learn! We use the Bible stories as our base for lessons, but you would be surprised at how many directions we can go from there, into nature lessons or history or…”
Nature lessons in her company sounded quite appealing to Adam. As she warmed to her topic, he admired the lively effect of her passion on, well, just about all of her person.
“Beg pardon, m’lord?” A voice came from the entrance of the passageway, destroying the moment. The thick-set innkeeper stood there uncertainly, rubbing his hands on his apron. “Ahem. Just wonderin’ if you’d like another toddy? And your room is ready, anytime you should wish to make use of it, m’lord. Yer trunks have been taken up.”
Making use of his room right now with Miss Tamworth was a very attractive idea. Adam immediately hammered it far into the back of his unruly mind. He waved in the general direction of his abandoned mug. “I’ll have an ale, thank you. You can bring it to me here.” He thought he might need to have quite a few more.
“I see you’ve met Miss Tamworth,” the innkeeper added, apparently seeing nothing amiss. “’Tis very kind of you to help, indeed, m’lord.”
Shaking his balding head, the fellow bowed and backed away, very nearly hitting the wall instead of the opening into the passageway. The moment he was gone, Adam laughed and Miss Tamworth joined in. The musical sound enchanted him like everything else about her.
“I think he believes you are related to royalty, Lord Forthhurst.”
“A royal? Good lord, my behavior must be even worse than I thought.”
She laughed again, which pleased him absurdly. “As you may gather, we seldom have guests of rank staying in our village.”
Did they ever have guests here of any sort? Who would ever find this place?
When he didn’t respond, she asked, “So, you are spending your Christmas Eve here?”
He tilted his head toward the nearest window, which showed the steady snowfall continuing outside. “Yes. Not by any plan. The weather. My carriage broke a wheel.”
“Good heavens. In this little bit of snow?”
He gave her a look. “This little bit disguised a rather deep rut in the road. One with a rock in it–a large rock. Then the wheel cap fell off when the carriage was brought into the village. And it seems the smithy who could repair the wheel has gone off to see his sister–some excuse about spending Christmas with family. The exact thing I now cannot do.”
“You make that sound like a crime.”
Adam tilted his head, studying her. “It comes close, since I sent my traveling companion off in the only means of travel for hire in this village.”
The weather and the road conditions, not to mention Christmas, would likely prevent his family from sending a carriage tomorrow to fetch him. Assuming anyone could find the place. There’d been no sign-post. He would have to wait for the post-boy to return from Christopher’s with the hired horse.
“I see,” Miss Tamworth said, sounding as if she saw something that he did not. “Stranded against your will. That is a very sad way to spend Christmas Eve.”
Coming from anyone else, the note of pity he detected in her tone would have made him angry. Whether it was the rum he’d already drunk or something else that softened him, he did not seem to mind so much when it came from her.
“Indeed yes, quite pathetic,” he answered, half hoping she’d offer to make it up to him. Personally. “I will be in the suds with my family now, for missing the start of their festivities.” At least he didn’t mention that this sin was merely another on his account.
“You must come along to church at 8 o’clock,” she offered brightly, instead. “Tis a beautiful service, and we sing carols. Most everyone in the village attends.”
He bit back a laugh. Undoubtedly he had spent too much time in London around women whose innocence was long forgotten. Miss Tamworth would have no idea of the sort of offer he’d had in mind. But her invitation also surprised him. The parish church near Blakehill, and most churches he knew of, did not hold a service on Christmas Eve.
Did people here really attend? And then come again the next morning? Perhaps going might be worthwhile, if he could sit with her.
He sighed. “You are not afraid the walls will collapse if I set foot in the place?”
“Are you indeed so terrible as that?”
“Indeed. A very devil. But I’m pleased if I have left you with any doubt. Perhaps I may still be redeemed.”
She ignored that and simply smiled. “After the service, everyone goes up to the Manor for mince pies and mulled wine. They have a Yule log. Tis quite lovely. You would be welcome.”
That, at least, sounded more promising, more like his own family’s traditions. Especially the mulled wine. He hoped there would be plenty of it. “Thank you. I shall make an effort to be there.”
They returned to hanging the garlands, silent again except for remarks about their task. He had a good eye, but every so often he would deliberately loop a section too low, just to keep her engaged in the process. The ploy worked well, making her laugh at him, her eyes sparkling. A surprising glow of pleasure warmed his heart.
“Beg pardon again, m’lord. Your pint?” The innkeeper stood again in the passage opening, this time with Adam’s requested mug of ale. He bowed when Adam looked over at him, nearly spilling the drink in the process.
“Yes, very good. Leave it there, on the chair, please. My thanks.”
The fellow cleared his throat. “Um, beggin’ your pardon, but will you be wantin’ an evening meal, my lord? We will of course see to any of your lordship’s needs, but I must tell you that we are very short of staff, this being Christmas Eve. My people are all villagers. And I gave them all tomorrow off, as we had no guests. But I can call some back in to work.”
“No, no, that isn’t necessary.” Adam felt a little ridiculous discussing dinner while standing on a chair. He caught Miss Tamworth’s eye and handed her the garland. Climbing down, he looked at her rather than the innkeeper.
“I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you, Miss Tamworth, and your father the good Reverend, to invite me to join in your evening meal? It is such a shame to put the inn staff into a dither.”
She looked down at the garland in her hands, then at the innkeeper, then finally at the nearest window as if she wished to fly out of it. Everywhere but at him. “I am so sorry! It must seem very ungracious of us, but I’m afraid that is impossible.”
It was a simple enough request, wasn’t it? Clergymen were expected, in most places, to offer hospitality to passing strangers. Yet the poor girl actually blanched. Bleeding blazes, he hadn’t thought his company was as bad as all that! Apparently he was mistaken in thinking she had softened toward him.
He found it sobering to consider that Miss Tamworth might find him unfit to sit at table with her father the vicar. Oh, there could be any of a dozen other reasons for her refusal, reasons not connected to him—not enough food to feed an unexpected guest, not enough time when her household would be preparing for the church service. But somehow it still felt personal.
What had he expected? Despite helping her, he had not been behaving at his best. He seldom did.
The pine fronds and holly in her hands were trembling. Truly, he had not meant to upset her.
“I apologize,” he said quickly, surprising himself. Apologizing was something else he rarely did. “It was ungracious of me to put you in such a position, Miss Tamworth.”
Once the words left his mouth, the wicked part of his brain went immediately to positions he would prefer to put her in. Apparently her rejection had not sobered him nearly enough. Or he truly was a beast, and her judgment of him was completely correct.
Fortunately the innkeeper leaped into the breach. “Tis no trouble, my lord. We can take care of it. If it pleases you, you would be welcome to share in the meal my wife is preparing. Please have no concerns. My family can make your stay here comfortable, for however long you are with us.”
How long might that be? Could he stay here without getting into trouble? Adam also glanced toward the windows. The snow showed no sign of slowing—if anything, it appeared to be coming down harder than before. Did he have any choice?
“Thank you, something simple will be adequate and very welcome.”
Miss Tamworth, still pale, brought her gaze back from the windows and darted a look—probably of gratitude—towards the innkeeper, who still stood rooted as if unsure he’d been dismissed. Finally, she turned to Adam. Her hands were still full of greens, still trembling. Her amazing blue eyes were at the moment filled with puzzling anguish.
“I’m sorry. I must leave. I am so grateful for your help, my lord, and so sorry to depart when we are not quite finished.” She glanced up at the walls, then back at him. “Thank you for helping. I could never have completed this much without your assistance.”
He looked back along the graceful loops of garland he had hung with her, all neatly spaced at regular intervals, and felt an unfamiliar stirring —a glimmer of pride, or some sense of accomplishment. The feeling struggled up from his memory as if crawling out of a deep well. When was the last time he had done anything to merit such an emotion?
“I can finish it for you,” he heard himself offer.
Where the devil had those words come from? Something was happening to him here. He was not sure what, or what he could or ought to do about it.
“That is very kind of you, indeed, Lord Forthhurst, but beyond necessary. Please do not trouble yourself.”
He shouldn’t trouble himself. Why should he, when she clearly wanted nothing more to do with him? Yet, with scarcely a moment’s hesitation, he moved to her and gently took the greens out of her hands.
“It is no trouble. I’ve nothing better to do with my time.” He tried to catch her eye again, but she would not look at him. Instead she moved to the chairs where she had spread her cloak.
“If you’re quite certain, then, I thank you all the more.” She shook out the cloak, draped it over her small shoulders and struggled to do up the fastenings with fingers that were probably frozen. He’d not noticed the coldness of the room while they worked.
He didn’t want her to leave, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to keep her there. And he shouldn’t.
As she pulled on her mittens, she added, “I hope you’ll come to the service. It’s at eight.” A holly leaf was stuck in her hair, looking for all like a fine ornament he yearned to touch.
“Yes, you mentioned that. Thank you.” He might attend, if he failed to achieve a sufficient stupor from consuming mugs of ale by then. He had a decent singing voice, and he rather liked some of the old carols.
“If it pleases your lordship, my family would be honored to provide you escort. We’ve plenty of lanterns,” the innkeeper said.
Escort? Adam had quite forgotten the man was still there, and also that by that hour it would be perfectly dark as well as snowy, and he had no light. “Well, I thank you. We’ll see, shall we?”
Miss Tamworth nodded and moved toward the passage.
He couldn’t stop himself from following her. “It has snowed quite a bit while we’ve been working, Miss Tamworth. I know we are barely acquainted, but may I offer you my escort to see you safely home? The footing may be quite slippery by now.”
He was gratified to see her turn back to him. One more glimpse of those lovely eyes. But his gratification turned to disappointment as she lifted her chin and shook her head. “Thank you, my lord, but no. It is not far, and there is no need.”
He recognized the tone in her voice. It was the same tone his sister Emma used when she thought he was being “a stupid man”–which meant he was offering out of courtesy something she felt was demeaning. His feelings might not be the slightest bit brotherly towards Miss Tamworth, but he could still translate. She meant she had come under her own auspices and was perfectly capable of getting herself home again the same way.
“Miss Tamworth, a moment!” He closed the remaining distance between them in quick strides. As she looked up at him in surprise he raised his hand towards her hair. They were standing very close.
“You are carrying a bit of our work home with you,” he said, gently removing the holly leaf lodged there. His action loosened curling wisps of golden-red hair he itched to smooth into place, but he held back. Instead, he just showed her the leaf and smiled.
Her eyes met his one more time, fleetingly, as her puzzlement cleared. “Oh! Heaven forbid that I should do that. Thank you.” And then she walked out, passing the innkeeper with her head held very high.
Her departure seemed to take all the light and air from the room. The remnant pile of garlands awaited, taunting him in the suddenly freezing space. He had promised to hang them for her, so he would.
He tucked the holly leaf into his pocket. Christmas Vespers began to seem like a very fine idea.