Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages) Page 2

  Suddenly, she remembered the scissors in the inner pocket. At conferences, she was always running into people who were eager to start signing with their child, so she always kept some print outs of common signs in her bag, and a pair of scissors to cut up the flash cards. It was her idea of a tool kit.

  And now it was going to save her life! She could cut off the icy ends of her pant legs and not need to take off her jeans at all.

  She found the scissors right where they were supposed to be. Then she began hacking away at the best fitting jeans she’d ever owned, hoping the activity would help to warm her hands, hoping her joints wouldn’t freeze up and stop working. She had so little feeling left she wasn’t sure if the cloth was cutting or not.

  She ignored the urge to lie down and rest.

  Finally, one pant leg fell away. There was a little more sensation while she cut into the next one, a little more welcomed pain. Then the other side dropped away. The backs of her jeans were damp, but the warmth from her body would keep the rest from icing up.

  A few tortured minutes later, she was wearing everything she’d packed, including two pair of socks for her feet, followed by the red rain boots she should have been wearing in the first place. Around her ears, she tied the pantyhose she’d tossed in, even though there was a hole in one toe. Five pairs of panties protected the top of her head from the ever-falling snow.

  In the end, Bree stood inside an empty suitcase—her new safe place—wearing her short coat over a little black sparkly dress, over a plaid flannel nightie, over sweatpants, over her cutoff jeans. Making it impossible to zip up her coat were three shirts and two sweaters. The last two pair of socks went over her hands. After the blood started pumping the way it should, through all her extremities, she found a new reason to want to survive.

  She was going to punch that little Scotsman in the nose for handing her the keys to a rental car with no snow tires! She’d never punched anyone in the nose before, but she was pretty sure she could pull it off.

  The idea made her warm. In fact, she was getting good and toasty, standing there in the dark, in a suitcase filling up with snow, when she thought she saw a light. Then another. But they didn’t act like headlights.

  Did Scotland have lightning bugs? Did they have them in winter?

  Even as they moved closer—and thank heavens they were moving closer—they stayed an equal distance apart. She blinked hard, tried to figure out if it was a panic-induced mirage. She closed her eyes for as long as she could stand, then looked again.

  Yes! Lights! Moving her way! She was saved! But she’d huddled there in her suitcase, in the middle of the road, thinking for so long that it was the only safe place to be, that she was reluctant to step out of it.

  Blackness still surrounded her. The lights were so small and far away, they only served to show her how complete the darkness was, how vulnerable she’d been to creatures that could probably see well in the darkness if they weren’t huddled and asleep in their dens.

  With her ears straining for animal noises, it seemed like an hour passed before the lights came closer. But she wasn’t stepping out of her zippered life raft until the Coast Guard arrived.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bree heard the horses before she realized the lights swaying back and forth were a pair of lanterns hanging on each side of an old-fashioned carriage, shining on the backs of four huge white horses.

  She was standing in the very center of the road, so there was no way they could pass without driving over her. She only hoped the driver wasn’t asleep at the wheel because she wasn’t sure how fast she could move if it came down to it. She waved her arms and gave her best football stadium whistle while she bounced on her legs. With each little jump, pain shot up from her heels to the back of her neck, but at least she was alive to feel it.

  “Ho, there!” A man sat high on the front of the vehicle. He was wearing a top hat, of all things, but who was she to complain?

  The horses stopped more than ten feet from her and she sighed in relief, not knowing if she could have gotten out of the way fast enough. She still felt glued to the spot as if her life depended on it.

  And as that thought bounced around in her head, she got the strangest impression she should keep on standing there and wait for the next car to come along. Like someone was whispering in her ear that she might end up regretting something. A chill ran up her spine, but it only served to remind her how close she’d come to freezing to death, and that was all it took to get her moving.

  “Be ye Miss Colby, then?”

  She’d just stepped out of the suitcase when the man called out and she seriously considered climbing back in again. How could he know who she was? If he came from the rental place, how did he know she’d spun off the road and not gone on to her destination?

  “You know m...m...my name?”

  The man jumped down into the slushy road and hurried forward. His hair was gray, nearly white, even. But he didn’t look more than fifty or so.

  “The name’s Ferguson. Sawyer Ferguson. I’m from the HSTC, the Heart of Scotland Tour Company. I’m sorry I failed to meet you at the pub, lass. Uh...” He frowned and looked her over. “Uh. That is... Ye are a lassie, underneath all that. Are ye no’?”

  Bree looked down at her substantial girth, then back at him and nodded.

  “Oh, fine, then. That’s fine. You’re not quite to order, but that’s fine. It’ll all work out fine.”

  He bent down to get her suitcase. But since she was pretty sure she’d just been insulted, she put a boot on the corner to stop him.

  He straightened and raised his brows but said nothing.

  “What? I’m not quite to order?” She’d be damned if she was going to be unclear about anything else during her week-long vacation. The last thing she’d been unclear about was wanting a car with snow tires.

  “Oh, tut-tut,” the driver said. “Meant nothing by it a’tall. Just that all the planning in the universe can’t guarantee how things will go, is all. I was up on the castle road and saw the car lights take a wee spin. I worried it might be you. No one but a yank would brave this storm in the wee hours, eh? So I came a runnin’. But would ye mind telling me yer full name, so I know I’ve the right lassie?”

  Bree pulled her foot back from the suitcase. “Brianna Catherine Colby. I go by Bree. The rental car is in the water. I need to let someone know.”

  His smile stretched all the way across his face. It was a little creepy.

  “No worries, lass. I’ll be happy to make the call, tell them where to find ol’ Bess.”

  “Ol’ Bess?”

  “Aye. It’s the terrible excuse for a car that Ronald Dugan finagled you into this eve. He’ll return your money. I’ll see to it.”

  As usual, the return of some of her hard-earned money made her feel better and released a little of the steam she’d been building up on behalf of the car rental man. Unfortunately, that was all that was keeping her warm. A shiver rolled through her body and one of her panties slipped past the pantyhose and down over one eye. Mr. Ferguson started laughing.

  “‘Tis very creative, the way you kept yerself warm, lass. But I promise you’ll be nice and cozy inside the carriage.” A horse moved a bit and the light of the lantern shined on her handbag. “Oh, I’ll collect that, Miss Colby. Not to worry.”

  She headed for the carriage, but she wasn’t about to stop worrying. She’d already been the victim of one old Scotsman that night, and she wasn’t about to trust the next one in line. But survival came first. Tomorrow was soon enough to make heads roll.

  The carriage wheels had been changed out for rails. “It’s a sleigh,” she said. “I’ve been saved by Santa Claus.”

  The old man choked and gave her a frown. “’Tis a coach, make no mistake, lass. Nice and warm inside.” He opened the door. “Up ye go then.”

  There was even a lantern inside, and whether or not it was a fire hazard, it was probably what was keeping the interior warm. Ferguson gave her a hand up.
She found the bench under a thick blanket that felt like lamb’s wool. And she wasn’t sure if it was because of the many layers of clothes she wore, or the stuffing, but the seat felt like a cloud. She was tempted to lie down on it.

  The man reached across her to tuck in the blanket and she reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “I’d have died if you hadn’t come along, Mr. Ferguson. I mean, actually died. So, thank you.” She yawned. “Maybe I can do a better job of thanking you when my shock wears off.”

  “Rest yerself, lass. In the time it takes to pull this carriage back up to the castle, you can have yourself a nice wee nap. Forget your troubles. We’ll just leave them in the drink, along with Ol’ Bess. What say ye?”

  “Sure.” That was all the sense she was capable of since her mind kept catching on the word castle. “Um, did you say castle?”

  “Aye. We’ll head there straight away. It’s a little surprise, y’ see. When I meet our travelers at the pub, I give them the news that they won’t be stayin’ in a Bed and Breakfast after all, but a castle the first night. Most folks are tickled, o’ course. I think it a grand place to begin your tour of the Heart of Scotland. And the beds are comfortable to boot. Lovely goose down. I can honestly say they don’t make them like that anymore, more’s the pity.” He closed the carriage door and a few seconds later, the carriage lurched forward.

  She leaned back but doubted she’d be able to sleep. Her adrenal glands were running overtime and she wasn’t quite ready to appreciate the fact that her tour of Scotland was back on track. She needed a big fire and a warm bed, maybe in the morning she’d be able to digest everything that had happened in the last few hours.

  She had been driving for hours. But if so, even at a snail’s pace, how could the guy be stumbling onto her so far away from Burnshire? Unless she’d been going in circles...

  The jingle of chains sounded like sleigh bells, and she wondered why the man had been so offended she’d called his vehicle a sleigh. Maybe he just resented being called Santa Claus.

  After a bump and a slip sideways, she gathered her blanket close and wondered if she could make it into a dress if she suddenly found herself soaked again. Of course, she’d need scissors. The silly image made her smile, and she started to relax to a slow and steady rhythm.

  Clop. Clop. Whoosh. Jingle.

  Clop. Clop. Whoosh. Jingle.

  Adding to that rhythm was the sound of the coachman’s voice warming up a tune. It was as if he was singing just above her head. Not a Christmas song. More like a dirge—slow and low and melancholy—a lonely kind of song that ma2kes you wonder at the depth of the singer’s sadness, but it enchants you just the same.

  He hummed an entire melody, then started again with words.

  Let not yer cries...call down the moon.

  Let not yer prayers...be led astray.

  I’ the coachman’s guise, he’ll grant yer boon,

  And ye shall rue...the price ye pay.

  Take back the breath... Take back the sigh.

  Give not yer name... Yer boon deny.

  The Foolish Fire...comes not in twain.

  ‘Tis the coachman’s lanterns

  Come for ye.

  With hands of white...and horses matched.

  He’ll guide thy love...to broken heart.

  Of measured dreams...he’ll grant behalf.

  And take from thee...e’en the beggar’s part.

  Then he hummed the chorus once more. Bree was intrigued by the obviously old-fashioned tune, but she couldn’t stay awake. The warmth was seeping into her bones and her blinks were stretching longer and longer. Finally, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the words, wishing she’d be able to remember even a line or two.

  He’ll calm the hounds... The wind he’ll wield

  When the Moon he walks...’mong beasts and man.

  So be still yer hopes... Trust not the yield

  ‘Til the hounds behowl...the night again.

  Again, the coachman hummed and Bree struggled to hold on, to see if there might be another verse, if maybe there could be a happy ending, somehow.

  Then her thoughts slid into a comfortable, inky blackness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Heathcliff barred the window against the wind and quit the tower room. He’d find no answers there. As he passed the child’s room, he could not help but peek inside, to assure himself she fared well. His heart stopped when he spied the covers pushed aside, but it started again when he found her at the window, no doubt looking for the self-same moon to which he’d addressed his pleas but a wee while ago.

  Her golden hair glowed in the candlelight, as if the moon now hid behind the strands.

  Blond hair. So different from his own black mane. But he’d heard of children’s hair turning darker as they grew. It meant nothing.

  Whatever she saw in the storm clouds seemed to make her happy, and she turned her smile on him. Awkwardly, he reached out, placed his hand on her head, and gave her a careful pat.

  “I’m sorry, lassie. Your nurse had to leave us for a wee while. ‘Twill be but the pair of us to fend for ourselves for a few days.”

  Her little hand snaked its way into his and she squeezed, as if sensing he needed comfort more than she.

  “We’ll be fine, cherub. Just fine.”

  Once he’d banked her fire and tucked the wee lass beneath her heavy covers, he had to pull the drapes to coax her eyes to close and prevent her from watching out the window. He was afraid that whatever it was she wished for, she was not going to get.

  There was no need to start yet another fire, so instead of retiring to his study, he returned to the parlor where glowing coals awaited another bit of wood. Once there, however, he doubted the chill in his bones had aught to do with the storm and forbore tossing on another log. He poured himself a whiskey, hoping the burn of it might reach that deep chill, but his hand stopped before the glass reached his lips.

  Should a father drink spirits with a child in his sole care?

  He set the glass aside and scrubbed his face with both hands. Neither should he sleep, he thought, just in case he was needed. After all, the delicate cherub might not be able to rouse him from a deep slumber. Perhaps he should have given her a large bell. Perhaps he should have arranged a pallet for her there, in the parlor, so she would not need to look far to find him. But that was nonsense. She wasn’t a puppy, she was a lass. She needed a bed, did she not?

  Dear lord, he was going to go mad trying to learn this fathering business on his own.

  He forced himself to calm, to sit and watch the flames that popped up in defiance of the dying embers. He imagined slumber overtaking the wee lassie and lulling her troubles away with a silent flute. Sleep was no doubt a precious boon for one who’d just been abandoned to a man supposed to be her father. Surely the girl would have nightmares this eve, with her nurse having fled. The rumors from the village likely scared the woman off, for who would wish to be pent up with the grandson of a Muir Witch, laird or no? Christmas was a holy holiday, not one to be spent near one rumored to dance with the devil.

  He had to own the wee lass had done well thus far. She was quick with a smile, no matter the news he gave her. A lovely sweet charge no right-minded nurse would abandoned into a strange man’s hands.

  Again, he remembered bending down to greet the child, and when he’d stood once more, the woman was gone. He might have chased her to ground and bribed her to confess all—heaven knew he had coin to spare—but there had been none to watch after the child. And how could he have left the wee lassie alone?

  Silence settled in his mind. A coal shattered under the weight of another and sparks escaped and fled up the chimney. A flame roused, then worried itself to death over a stick too green yet to burn.

  Could she be mine?

  For the hundredth time that day, he thought back six, seven, eight years, trying to remember a woman he’d loved, a face he recalled with fondness, but there was no one. Eight years ago, he’d been as lone
ly as he was now. But oh, how he wished she was his. How he wished there might be something of himself to carry on once he was laid low in the kirkyard. How he wished he’d found someone to woo and wed before the reputation of his grandmother and her twin sister ruined his own. Someone who cared not for the color of his coin.

  Could he buy a wife? Certainly. But he’d never want a wife that could be bought. Better to have no children at all, than give them such a mother.

  He determined to make sense of this new predicament. If it meant proving the child was sired by another, no matter. After the New Year, he would hunt down the nurse and have the truth. By then, the wee lassie might well choose to stay with him in any case. Perhaps he could find a way to make her the daughter of his heart.

  A ruckus stirred at the front of the house and he rushed to the entryway to make certain the noise would cease before it could wake his would-be daughter.

  He flung the door wide, just as an older man reached for the knocker.

  “Are you mad?” Heathcliff whispered harshly. “There is a wee lass above stairs trying to sleep. I’ll not have ye wake her!”

  The man bowed and turned his top hat in his hands. “Beg yer pardon, yer lairdship. I’ve got a lass here as well. Miss Brianna Colby. You’ve been expecting her I think.” The man winked and moved back.

  Heathcliff was about to insist that he was expecting no one when he caught sight of the sturdy lass who stumbled forward with a shove from behind. His denial died on his tongue, leaving him temporarily unable to speak.

  She was stout, to be sure. And given that she was a woman, she might have proven helpful considering his current dilemma. After all, he’d sent his staff away to spend the holidays with their families, not knowing he’d have a wee lassie to care for. But this woman would not do. No matter the pleasant look of her face, the woman was daft and clearly so, what with the hats she wore on her head. And not just one; he saw at least three brightly colored things perched there, possibly four. And not only were they inappropriate for the current weather, they were defective as well, sporting large holes, every last one of them. It was a fact the hats failed so completely, her fair hair was near to dark with the wet of the snow.