Acclaim for the authors of A REGENCY CHRISTMAS

LYN STONE

“Lyn Stone masterfully blends excitement, humour and emotion.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Stone has done herself proud with this story…a cast of endearing characters and a fresh, innovative plot.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Knight’s Bride

CARLA KELLY

“A powerful and wonderfully perceptive author.”

—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney

“A wonderfully fresh and original voice…”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Kelly has the rare ability to create realistic yet sympathetic characters that linger in the mind. One of the most respected…Regency writers.”

—Library Journal

GAIL RANSTROM

“(This) dark tale…neatly juxtaposes the seamier side of the Regency period with the glittering superficiality of ‘polite society’.”

—Library Journal on Lord Libertine

“Ranstrom crafts an intriguing mystery, brimming with a fine cast of strong and likeable characters and a few surprises.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Rake’s Revenge

Regency Christmas Gifts
Lyn Stone
Carta Kelly
Gail Ranstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

LYN STONE, a painter and writer, finds many similarities in the two creative efforts. She admits, “There’s nothing like losing yourself in a story, whether you’re putting it on canvas or computer. And completing either work is a wonderful natural high nothing can replicate. It is a real joy to do what you love.”

Whether writing of times gone by or adventures in the present, intrigue and suspense play a role in her stories. She believes that experiencing conflict or danger brings out the best and worst in people.

After living for four years in Europe, Lyn settled in north Alabama, enjoyed an enduring romance of her own and is currently dreaming up more happy endings.

CARLA KELLY has been writing award-winning novels for years, stories set in the British Isles, Spain and army garrisons during the Indian Wars. Her speciality in the Regency genre is writing about ordinary people, not just lords and ladies. Carla has worked as a university professor, a ranger in the National Park Service and recently as a staff writer and columnist for a small daily newspaper in Valley City, North Dakota. Her husband is director of theatre at Valley City State University. She has five interesting children, a fondness for cowboy songs and too many box elder beetles in the fall.

Born and raised in the wild west of Montana, Gail Ranstrom has always enjoyed a good tale of danger, adventure, action and romance of long ago times and distant lands. When the youngest of her three children began school, she finally had a moment to herself. She put pen to paper and wrote her first novel, which is thankfully still under her bed. Her next efforts were more successful and she has been writing ever since as the award-winning author of eight novels and two novellas.

After surviving earthquakes, mudslides and wild fires in southern California and dodging hurricanes and alligators in Florida, Gail has returned to Montana where the long winters give her more than enough time to tell many more stories. She loves to hear from readers and you can reach her at gail@gailranstrom. com.

MILLS & BOON

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Scarlet Ribbons

Dear Reader

Sometimes we don’t believe what we can do until circumstances force us to do it. And there are other times when we overestimate our ability because we want to do something so desperately. This story is about realising potential and also accepting limitations with grace. Someone who loves you can help in either case.

Love can unfold gradually or it can spring forth at first meeting. If the chemistry between two people is there, it will happen, whether by chance or design. In this instance, it’s the result of misunderstanding gone right!

I do hope you enjoy meeting Amalie, Alex and their families, celebrating with them and sharing their story.

Here’s wishing you a wonderful holiday season filled with love!

Lyn

This story is for Charlotte Ballard, who believed I could write a book even before I began. Thanks for being such a good friend!

Chapter One

British Hospital at Salamanca, Spain—

September 1, 1812

“I’ll not be going, Harlowe, and that’s the end of it,” Alexander Napier declared. He ignored the English lieutenant and concentrated on the exercises he performed almost hourly. “Ouch! Damn!” Again, he stretched, teeth gritted, eyes clenched.

“Will you cease that self-torture for a moment and listen to me?” Michael Harlowe demanded.

Alex stopped what he was doing, glanced up at the lad and frowned a warning. “You’re a trifle loud at the mouth for such a banty-rooster. I’d advise you to grow another foot before you take on someone my size.”

Michael shifted on his narrow cot as if giving up. Alex knew better. Nothing intimidated the lieutenant, even a captain almost twice his size and weight and with six years more experience. Now would come reason since barking demands hadn’t worked. The wee fellow was nothing if not predictable. They had been round and round on this topic for days now as time drew near for them to ship home from the primitive hospital at Salamanca. He never let up. He’d find a new argument.

“If you refuse to go to Balmsley with me to recuperate, then what will you do? No point in returning to Kilamahew, is there?”

Alex stretched out and pressed back against the pillowless bed, willing the pain in his leg to subside. “I hadn’t planned to go there.” He had thought to secure a place in London and see if he could manage on his own.

His friend smirked. “Edinburgh then? And live with your uncle? You’re coming up on thirty, y’know. At least I can offer you employment.” Suddenly he turned earnest. “Please let me do this for you, Alex. You saved my life!”

Alex snorted. “If I had lain here and let you bleed out lying right next to me, how would I face myself in a mirror to shave?”

Michael waved that off with a flick of one hand. “You are coming with me, see if you don’t. If I have to pour laudanum down that tree-trunk neck of yours and have you hauled there unconscious!”

Alex wondered if the lad actually would go that far to have his way in this. What could it hurt to relent? It obviously troubled Michael to owe such a debt, though Alex had never considered it such. Michael had prevented the amputation of Alex’s leg. As far as he was concerned, they were square. Saving a life or a leg or anything else here in this misbegotten place where there were dead and dying all around them seemed a damned miracle.

There was another consideration in Alex’s decision to acquiesce. Maidstone would not be that distant, closer actually than London, and he did have fences to mend there if he could. “If you’ll leave off badgering me, I’ll come for a short visit. Until I’m back on my feet again.”

He hated the way Michael’s gaze slid away from his, the way his lips tightened.

“I know what they say, but I will be walking, make no mistake,” Alex insisted. He said it often and worked like the devil to make it so. It had been almost six weeks and he could feel his progress.

“You’ll see the best doctor in England when we get there,” Michael promised. “What do these leeches here know? You’ll be dancing by year’s end, I warrant.”

Alex grunted in assent. The new year was almost four months away. Surely by then…

Michael sat up, the flimsy cot creaking beneath him. “Until then, I could really use your talent with a pen. I’ll be doing my memoirs, y’see.”

Alex laughed out loud. “All twenty-two years of ‘em or just the important parts?”

Michael chuckled sheepishly at himself. It was one of the main things Alex liked about Harlowe. A man who could laugh at his own folly had learned the secret of survival. Sometimes laughter was the only defense a man had left.

It was late October when they finally arrived in London. Michael promptly and without a qualm sold his commission. Alex grudgingly followed suit. Though convinced he eventually would walk again, he also realized his army days were a thing of the past. He’d had enough of it and then some.

He admitted to himself that this visit was a delaying tactic. It was high time he faced what he must and set the past to rights, but he needed a few more weeks to prepare, to ease back into civilization and become human again.

Alex had not asked, but he wondered what Michael’s family, especially his father, the second Baron Harlowe, would think of the eldest son bringing home a Scot for a house pet. Not much, he reckoned, but it was to be a short visit anyway.

The day was wicked cold and sent a chill right through his bones as their carriage rocked over the twenty miles to Balmsley, the Harlowe family seat.

Alex thought of the fancy wheeled Bath chair Michael had insisted he purchase from a London maker. They had stayed nearly a week while it was modified so that Alex could wheel it himself. Odd they were not made that way to begin with, but Michael’s idea to set the seat back a bit and give access to the big wheels was brilliant. It tended to tip over backward if he wasn’t careful, but it did give him a small measure of independence. Of course it was merely a short-term necessity. It could be sold when he no longer needed it.

No crutches could be found to accommodate his height of well over six feet, but that could be remedied as soon as they got where they were going. He’d whittle them himself if need be.

Michael had grown unusually quiet as they rode. Alex knew he must be planning his strategy for explaining the unusual guest he had in tow.

If the family resented Scots enough to order him gone, at least he could afford to travel. His back pay amounted to more than he had figured and the fee he received from his captaincy was substantial. He could live on that for a while.

If all else failed, he could apply to his uncle for some sort of clerical work with the city commission in Edinburgh, he supposed. Whether it would be forthcoming was another matter altogether. They’d never got on well in the best of circumstances. Uncle William had resented Alex donning the Blackwatch and serving under the English flag. Called it running away and Alex guessed it was, but he knew naught else to do. The only thing he had trained for, he could no longer do.

“There!” Michael cried, pointing out the window. “See Balmsley’s towers above those trees?”

Alex sighed. “A castle, is it?”

“No! No, only a manor house. But it is big, isn’t it! I love the place. Who would have thought I’d miss it so much?” He shook his fair head in disbelief. “I was so bloody eager to get away. But Father will be damned glad to see me now, see if he ain’t! Glad to have you there, too, I’ll wager, since you saved my sorry hide. I’m all he’s got to carry on, y’see. Amalie’s just a girl.”

“How old is your sister?”

“Twenty-four,” Michael answered absently, his gaze still glued to the manor house looming closer every minute as the coach rolled down the long tree-lined drive.

“Two years older than you? Is that a fact? All this time I thought she was a child the way you spoke of her.”

“She is. Women never grow up.”

Alex shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Ah, Harlowe, but you do have a great lot to learn.”

His words went unheeded as the coach drew up in front of the enormous red sandstone edifice that boasted double-arched doors of stout dark oak. Even as he watched, one portal flew open and a short, white-haired gent dashed out to meet them. Hatless, his brocade waist-coat unbuttoned and his neckcloth loose and flapping in the stiff breeze, he shouted, “Michael!”

With a crow of delight, Michael threw open the coach door, hopped down and embraced the older fellow. They danced around like fools, slapping each other on the back. A rider had been sent ahead from Hartlepool to announce their arrival, but surely this could not be the baron himself.

Alex sat waiting like a piece of the baggage, watching through the open coach door until the excited Michael finally recalled he was there.

“Oh, Father, I’ve brought Captain Napier. Alex saved my life. Sorely wounded himself, he rolled right off his cot and stanched my bleeding until they could sew me back up.” Michael carefully patted his shoulder where the bullet had struck him and passed through. “He’s welcome, is he not, sir?”

The older man nodded, tears in the light blue eyes so like his son’s. He hurried forward and stretched out a trembling hand. Though his Adam’s apple worked up and down, he seemed speechless.

Alex gripped the much smaller hand and shook it firmly. “At your service, milord.”

Michael shouted for two footmen who came to take down the bags and Bath chair lashed to the coach’s roof. They brought the wheeled contraption around to the door of the coach. Alex had already levered himself off the seat and gripped either side of the coach’s door frame while he balanced on his good leg. The other hung there, useless and aching like mad.

The two brutes assisted him down and set him in the chair. “Devilish awkward,” he said in an aside to the baron, who stood wide-eyed and openmouthed, obviously not expecting a cripple. “Temporary condition,” Alex assured him, forcing a smile.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Baron Harlowe answered rather absently, then perked up. “Well, let’s get you two inside and thaw you out, eh?” He shivered to make his point.

“Matil…da!” the man shouted the instant they entered the double doors. “Our Michael’s home! Hurry down!” He turned to his son. “She’s primping. You know your mother!” He winked at Alex and confided in a stage whisper. “Ladies have to look their best, eh?”

One of the footmen wheeled him from the chilly entrance hall into a good-size library. Books covered the walls on three sides, all the way from the waist-high wainscoting to the carved molding that graced the ceiling. Large, high-backed, overstuffed chairs sat in a grouping facing a huge fireplace with an elegant oak mantelpiece. A roaring fire burned in the grate, shedding its warmth like a blessing on all who entered.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of burning wood, lemon oil and leather. When he opened them again, his chair had been rolled near the hearth. The footman had parked it there before departing.

In the chair closest to the blaze and right next to his own sat the most beautiful woman Alex had ever seen in his life. He felt as though something—the unexpected heat from the fire or perhaps the very sight of her—had sucked the breath right out of his lungs.

Michael was speaking, but his words might as well have been Greek. The winter sun shone through the window behind the lass, gilding the fine golden curls wound up with bright red ribbons. He could swear angels played harps to augment the vision.

Her sky-blue eyes met his gaze directly. However, belatedly, Alex noted something less than angelic in their depths. Scorn, was it?

Oh, well, that was to be expected. He wouldn’t be garnering any expressions of interest as long as he sat in the blasted Bath chair. It bothered him more than he wished to admit. Women usually displayed some wee spark of curiosity, at the very least, if only due to his great size. A prurient interest, to be certain, but he was not averse to it all the same. He had grown spoiled to being noticed in such a way, he reckoned. Of course, this one was a lady and such thoughts were usually bred right out of her kind.

He watched Michael lean down to kiss the beauty on her rose-tinted cheek and take her hand. She looked up from beneath her long lashes, offered a smile and a soft, “Welcome home at last.”

“Thank you, Amalie.” He turned to Alex. “This is Captain Napier who saved my life. He’s consented to a visit with us. Could I impose on you to entertain him for a few moments? I would like to speak with Father alone and regain his good graces.”

“As you should,” she said, sounding less than enthusiastic about it.

Together he and the lady watched the door close, sealing them inside the library alone. Alex braced his elbows on the chair arms and clasped his fingers together. “Your brother is a fine young man,” he offered in an attempt at conversation.

“He’s a fine young idiot and nearly broke my father’s heart,” she replied succinctly, thumbing rapidly through the book in her lap. “If he had died, I would never have forgiven him. I suppose I must thank you for preventing that.”

Alex cleared his throat, uncertain what to say next. She had a sharp tongue, this one. “Then I suppose I must say that you’re welcome.”

She flicked one hand toward the wheels of his chair. “How long are you condemned to that?”

He concealed his surprise. The minx was straightforward if nothing else. “Until I find crutches to fit me.”

“And how long on the crutches?” she asked brusquely.

Damn the woman. People rarely asked such a thing of a person in his fix. But he answered her rudeness honestly. “Until I can walk without them.”

She blew out an impatient breath. “You know very well what I mean. What do the doctors say?”

“That I’ll never walk,” he admitted. “But they’re wrong.”

Her sudden smile was wry and humorless. “They say I will. And they’re also wrong.”

His gaze flew to her legs which were well concealed, of course, by the soft red wool of her skirts. The toes of her small matching leather slippers peeked out from beneath the hem. Side by side, her feet perched motionless on a green velvet pillow with gold tassels.

“Riding accident,” she explained with a sigh.

His heart sank inside his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he said sincerely.

She nodded and gave a small shrug. “Well, what happened to you?”

“Bullet caught me just above the knee at Salamanca back in July. They set the bone, but the muscles were damaged. Infection set in. Almost lost the whole thing ten days after they set it, but your brother persuaded the surgeon to take time to treat it instead of lopping it off. Bribed him, too, I believe, though he won’t admit to that.”

She inclined her pretty head and pursed her lips as if studying him for a while. “Do you know why he brought you here?”

Alex shrugged. “He has some strange notion he owes me. I think it bothers him, so I thought I would humor him for a few weeks.”

She closed her eyes, sighed and shook her head. “No, no, no, that’s not it.”

“What other reason could he have?”

“He brought you for me,” she said wearily, then quickly added, “but he won’t admit to that, either, so you needn’t bother to protest to him.”

Alex smiled at her outrageous assumption. “And why would any man in his right mind even think to protest?”

She didn’t seem at all offended by his sarcasm. “I can see that you don’t believe me,” she said, a hint of dry humor in her voice. “But I know my meddling little brother better than he knows himself. I recognized that look in his eyes when he left us in here alone.”

“You have a delightfully warped imagination,” he told her politely.

She wriggled uncomfortably, then settled herself. “Well, I suppose you would doubt he’s capable of such a thing. However, I must confide to you that Michael spent the better part of his school years dragging home friends and attempting to match me up.”

Alex frowned down at her legs. “How long ago did this happen to you? He never mentioned it to me.”

She brushed her hands over her skirts, then clamped her fingers around her book as if to still them. “A scant two months before Michael left us. That would make it eight months, two weeks and four days ago, but who’s counting?”

“You are, obviously. So this matchmaking of his is not a result of…” Meaningfully, he glanced at her legs again.

She scoffed. “No. You have the dubious distinction of being the first nonambulatory candidate he has presented. I will concede he has always attempted to choose carefully.”

“So, should we tie the knot and roll through life together in our Bath chairs?”

Her eyes flew wide.

“A jest,” he assured her with a grin. “Don’t you ever laugh? How else have you borne that brother of yours?”

She did laugh then, and Alex joined her. That was how her father and brother found them.

Alex was ready to kill Michael the next time he got within reach. But for now he hid his frown and winked at Amalie. The sight of her dimples provided his reward for enduring this farce.

“Well!” Michael crowed. “You two certainly are getting on famously! Somehow I knew you would.” He looked to his father, probably for his approval.

The baron frowned from Alex to his daughter and back again, distinctly uncomfortable and at an obvious loss for words. Worried, was he?

Alex wondered how the man would tactfully explain to Michael in their presence that this would be a match from hell? His only daughter and a crippled ex-soldier who was a Scot to boot? It should prove interesting.

Alex wondered if the hired coach was still outside resting the team and whether he could get to the damned thing without a push. There was no place on earth he’d rather not be right now, save a battlefield or the presence of his mother-in-law.

Chapter Two

Amalie had recovered from her mirth enough to notice the muscle ticking in the Scottish captain’s jaw. He played well at hiding his anger and kept his wits about him. Knowing firsthand how difficult that was, she admired it enormously.

He was a handsome fellow. More than that, really. He seemed imbued with strength of character, if she was not mistaken, and was certainly blessed with a ready sense of humor. He had remained congenial even though she had purposely offended him with her questions to see how he would react. She had seen compassion and understanding, rather than pity, in those deep green eyes of his. Of course, he would know what pity was like and must hate it, too.

If she could enlist his aid, she meant to teach that misguided brother of hers a lesson or two. Didn’t she have enough to endure without putting up with Michael’s machinations?

Feigning a short fit of coughing, she motioned across the room to where decanters were set out with brandy and sherry. As she knew he would, Michael dashed over to pour her a glass. Her father followed to get one of his own, another predictable occurrence.

While they were occupied, Amalie leaned closer to the captain, her hand hiding a whisper. “Play this out with me. Father will have Michael’s head on a plate.”

He gave her a doubtful look, then an infinitesimal nod.

Michael brought her brandy by mistake and she gulped it down, hissing delicately at the bite. She cleared her throat. “You will never guess what has happened!”

Her brother smiled in question, looking from her to the captain and back again.

Amalie reached over and held out her hand to their guest. There was nothing for him to do but take it in his. “Captain Napier has agreed to take me off the shelf.”

Her father choked on his brandy. Michael looked non-plussed with the precipitous success of his scheme. The Scot held his smile. But she could hear his teeth grind. She bared her own teeth at him. “Isn’t it wonderful? Love at first sight.”

“Here now! What’s this?” Her father had regained his voice. “He only got here a few moments ago. You don’t even know the fellow!”

Amalie turned her lips down in a pout and made the lower one tremble. “But Michael brought him for me all the way from the peninsula. I like him and I want to keep him.”

Her father blanched perfectly white and even Michael looked appalled at the swiftness of her decision.

She pressed on. “I’ve already promised him my whole inheritance from Grandmama, half the estate when we inherit, and—best of all—he’s bringing me his three natural children to raise for my own. Their mothers won’t mind, he says, for we can install them somewhere in the village.”

Her father gaped.

She went on, fabricating to her heart’s content. “Since we can live right here with you, there should be plenty of help with little ones. Please, please, Father, don’t say no. Mother will be delighted with grandchildren!”

In fact, Mother was so disinterested in children, she had paid only scant attention to her own. She was not even down here now, welcoming the one who had just survived a war.

The Scot squeezed her hand until she felt the knuckles grind together. Her father sputtered helplessly. Michael’s eyes were wide, panicked, darting from her to their father. This was too entertaining.

Michael rushed to suggest, “Amie, perhaps you should consider—”

“What, brother? What’s to mull over that you haven’t thought out?” she demanded, trying to retain a cheerful tone. “Surely you considered every detail when choosing him? How much more suitable could he be, I ask you?” She flung out her free hand as if to present the man as the greatest prize imaginable. “Just look at him!”

“Just look at us,” the Scot echoed, surprising her. “Matching bookends.”

The underlying tone of his voice warned her to cease before he lost his temper completely. But Michael’s face was a study in scarlet perplexity and their father was now eyeing her brother with an urge to throttle. She added one more little plea. “Please, Papa?”

At length, her father dragged his attention from the errant Michael and fastened it on her. Suddenly his face softened and his tight lips relaxed into a sad smile of sympathy. No, pure pity.

Oh, dear! Amalie’s heart stuttered. Don’t say it, Father! Do not! Her silent plea went unheard. She had overplayed her hand.

“Of course, my darling girl. You may have anything your heart desires. You deserve it.”

The Scot leveled her with a glare that promised retribution for this attack of insanity. She bit her lip and wrinkled her nose at him, but she had a feeling a look of apology would not be sufficient in this case.

Michael dusted his hands together. “Well, glad that’s settled! I shall go and fetch Mother.”

Oh, no!

“Wait!” Amalie cried, throwing out her hand as if she could grasp his coat. He stopped and turned, eyebrows raised in innocent query.

She bit her lip, her glance skipping from him, to her father and finally to their guest. “Please.” Her voice almost a whisper, she lowered her eyes and sighed. “This was only a jest meant to lesson you in meddling, Michael.”

But that wasn’t the worst of the matter. “Captain Napier, I do apologize for abusing your good nature in such an abominable way.”

Her father’s color returned. He rocked heel to toe for a few seconds, then hesitantly asked the captain, “Did she make up that part about the children and your…The mothers?”

The Scot lowered his face to his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He shook his head slowly as if at a loss in dealing with Bedlamites. “A fabrication, to be sure,” he said. “I do have one son, but he’s quite legitimate.”

“Legitimate?” Michael croaked, clutching his chest. “Never say it! You’re married?”

Captain Napier glanced up swiftly, still shaking his head. “No. My wife…passed away.”

Widowed. Amalie felt terrible. “Do say you forgive me, sir. This was a horribly thoughtless thing for me to do. I had no idea…”

“I know,” the captain said, not looking at her, but at the floor. “I’ll have a brandy now if it’s convenient.”

They’d forgotten to offer him a drink! Michael and her father almost collided in their haste to reach the decanter.

Napier graced her with a dangerous look of warning as he spoke in a dark whisper, “If I were not confined to this chair, I would take you over my knee.”

She bobbed her head up and down, noting how his deep green eyes glinted and his expressive lips turned up just a bit at the corners. It was in no way a smile. More like exasperation.

“I’ve confessed, sir,” she told him earnestly. “What more could you ask of me?”

His lips firmed. His nostrils flared ever so slightly with an indrawn breath. Then he spoke. “I’d ask if you’re lying about everything. I happened to notice you just moved your feet.”

Alex had felt an overpowering need to lash out, to hurt someone, just because he’d been humiliated. Now, brandy in hand, his temper cooled somewhat, he hated whatever had possessed him.

She hadn’t answered his cruel question, but he had not expected she would. If she was pretending, it was certainly no business of his. And if she wasn’t, he had gained her enmity for life.

Just because she had moved her feet did not mean she was capable of walking. What had he been thinking? He could move his, too, but still could not depend on that left leg to support him.

Michael had taken a chair across from him and now appeared to be searching his mind for a way to explain his sister’s strange behavior.

The baron had left the room—glad to get away, Alex imagined—and had gone to fetch the baroness. He wondered if she were as daft as the rest of the family.

“Has Dr. Raine been down from London recently, Amie? Is there any improvement in your condition?” Michael asked his sister.

“No change,” she said, her tone defensive. “He should be here the day after tomorrow for his monthly visit.”

Michael gave a resigned nod, then addressed Alex. “I should like him to see you, too, when he comes. See what he thinks. Raine is the best available. Father saw to that when Amie was injured.”

That was all Alex needed, another opinion, when he was clinging so desperately to the only positive one thus far. His own. “Thank you, but—”

“Don’t bother refusing,” Michael warned. “You know I shall only wear you down.”

Alex gave it up. He would talk to the doctor to placate Michael. Nothing more than a conversation. No examinations. No arguments.

“If you insist, I’ll see him.”

Michael jumped up and headed for the door. “Wonderful! I’ll bring his letters of recommendation from Father’s study.”

“What’s the worst Raine could tell you, hmm?” Amalie asked.

Alex turned on her, his anger flaring anew. “You’ve the devil of a tongue on you, you know that? If you’ve any feeling in that backside of yours, it ought to be made use of!”

“That’s the second time you’ve suggested such,” she retorted with a moue of feigned fright. “You’d cane a poor cripple?”

“Leave off,” he growled. “This sniping serves no purpose.”

She tossed him an insincere smile. “Oh, but it does, Captain. It serves to distract us.”

He leveled her with a glare. “You are a spoiled, self-indulgent excuse for a lady if I ever met one. Is that all you do all day? Sit around throwing verbal darts at anyone who wanders by?”

She inclined her head as if considering the question in new light. “I suppose I do. It passes the time. That’s bad of me, I know.”

“Have you even tried to stand?” he asked, surprising himself with his own directness.

Her humor, black as it was, fled on the instant. “Yes, of course I have.” Her voice sounded so small.

“You make me want to kick myself,” he muttered.

“Now there’s a picture!”

Alex smiled in spite of himself. He just didn’t know what to make of this person. He began to suspect she harbored exactly the same frustrations he did, only she had endured them longer. And she seemed to have lost her hope, something he was terribly afraid of doing himself. He suddenly realized a deep-seated need to help this girl despite the fact that she nettled him so mercilessly.

“So, tell me of this doctor of yours,” he said by way of turning the subject.

“Oh, Raine’s pleasant enough when you say what he wants to hear, I suppose. He’s not overly fond of me, as you might imagine.”

“He expects too much of you, eh?” Alex guessed.

She slipped into a thoughtful mood, laying her brittleness aside for the nonce. “Yes, he does. He brought this Amazon with him not long after he began treating me. Magda, she’s called. Frightful woman. She pummels and stretches my limbs unmercifully each day. Twice! It’s quite painful.”

“I see. Then you do have feeling in your…limbs.” He smiled again. Legs were not mentioned in polite company. He should have remembered that earlier. Neither were backsides.

“Tremendous feeling,” she admitted with a grimace. “Though no action at all.” Her curiosity got the better of her. “You?”

“I work the muscles as often as I can now that the bone’s healed. Hurts less now than it did.”

“Truly?” Her interest aroused, she queried further. “How can you do that alone?”

“Have to,” he explained patiently. “You see, if the muscles atrophy—and I suspect that’s why your Amazon is so avid in her task—there’s no chance you’ll ever regain the strength to use them.”

“Mine must have atrophied then,” she said in a quiet voice, as though speaking to herself. “They’re of no use whatsoever. Perhaps Dr. Raine and Magda began too late with me.”

“Let me see,” he demanded, his former training over-ruling any thought to impropriety.

Her eyes rounded with shock. “Sir! How dare you suggest such a thing?”

Alex scoffed. “Spare me the hysterics. I’m a trained physician. It’s not as if I’ve never seen a woman’s legs before. Lift your skirts.” Meanwhile, he busied himself with the wheels of his chair, arcing them so that he faced her, knee to knee.

“You’re a doctor?” she asked, frowning. “Seriously?”

Alex finished lifting her skirts halfway up her thighs, employing the swiftness and businesslike manner imperative in examining a female patient. “Not so seriously these days, but I trust I can still recognize a withered limb when I see one.” His gaze traveled over the smooth ivory skin of her legs while his hands judged the amount of slackness of tendon and muscle beneath it.

“Quadriceps femoris seems firm,” he muttered, reaching beneath her leg. She jumped and made a little sound. “That hurt?”

“No,” she said breathlessly, then bit her lip.

“Good. Facia lata seems a bit lax to me. Flex it.”

She gasped. “Flex what?”

“Your leg!” he ordered impatiently. “Try to lift it.”

Suddenly she yelped and punched at his shoulder frantically with her fists.

“What’s this?” Michael shouted. “What are you doing?”

Alex groaned, snatched his hands away and jerked down her skirts.

“He’s a doctor!” Amalie cried. “He was only—”

“I know what he was doing!” Michael thundered. “Captain, if you were not…incapacitated, I should call you out on the instant!”

Alex grabbed the wheels of his chair and rolled himself backward, no small task given the thickness of the carpet. “Settle your feathers, Harlowe. You know I’m no threat to—” He broke off when he looked over at Michael and saw the baron standing beside him, sagging under the inert weight of a woman Alex supposed was the baroness. She had fainted dead away.

“He is a doctor!” Amalie wailed. Alex didn’t blame her at all. He felt like wailing himself.

“They’ll have to marry now,” her father declared in a woebegone tone.

“Milord…” Alex let his words trail away, knowing it was no use. No matter that he couldn’t manage a seduction right now if his life depended upon it or that the idea had not even occurred to him. He had thoroughly compromised Miss Amalie Harlowe beyond all redemption in the eyes of her parents and her brother. He’d been squarely caught with his hands up her skirts. And, since he had never confessed his former profession to Michael, any claim of purely medical interest under those ruffles would never be believed.

Even if he sent for his license to prove it, he still had no excuse. The lady had a physician already and no reason at all to be soliciting the opinion of one who had given up the practice.

He bit the bullet he knew he was expected to bite, and looked Amalie straight in the eye. “Miss Harlowe, I was just on the point of asking you. Would you kindly do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She stared at him as if he’d grown horns. “You are mad, sir!”

Alex had to agree. “Assuredly, but I shouldn’t think that would be an impediment you would notice much around here. So, will you, then?”

She dropped her gaze to her lap, then stared pointedly at his, her thoughts so apparent and well focused on any future attempt at consummation, she might as well have spoken them aloud.

Then she raised her head, looked him straight in the eye and shrugged one dispirited shoulder. “Why not?”

Chapter Three

Amalie had cursed her foolhardiness all through dinner and well into the night. Now, this morning, she suffered from lack of sleep that could very well make today even worse.

What in the world had come over her yesterday? Usually she maintained very tight control, both of her temper and the people around her. At the moment, she felt even more helpless than she had then.

“It has surely been half an hour! Stop!” She lay on her stomach on her bed while Magda tortured her, deliberately ignoring any demand to cease. This was nothing new, however. Amalie had grown used to it and accepted it as her ongoing punishment for past sins. But she didn’t accept it silently or with good grace. Magda was used to that, too, and only dug harder into Amalie’s calf with those beefy fingers.

Yesterday, Magda had plunked her in the library after she had finished and dressed her. There was nothing to do there but spend hours on end reading books already read a dozen times each. The limit of endurance had been fully reached when Michael arrived with the Scot.

“Now I’m doomed to his company for the rest of my natural life,” she said aloud.

Magda grunted as she rolled Amalie over and began massaging the right foot. “Well, at least he will be someone different to look at, eh?”

“Um. I suppose.” And that would be a welcome change for a while, Amalie thought. “He saved Michael’s life, so they’d said, so I do owe him for that.”

“Ja. Young sir is home safe.” Magda rotated the ankle.

“There’s nothing I can do to repay him but try to be pleasant,” Amalie said, deciding she might as well try. How long that would last was anyone’s guess, but she would make the effort.

“He does not want this marriage, but he’s stuck with it now.”

“Marriage is good,” Magda commented.

“What a sad state of affairs that I welcome any change at all, good or ill, just to relieve the sameness of the days.”

“Change is good.”

Amalie ignored Magda as best she could, since she wasn’t really talking to her.

“He mentioned a son. Perhaps it would be entertaining to have a child about the place. Someone to run and fetch and to watch play, if nothing else. I’ve never really known any children other than Michael when he was small. What a little demon he was, but funny all the same.”

“You will be the mama.” She lifted the right leg, eliciting a groan.

Amalie forced the pain from her mind though her words still emerged in small puffs. “It not as if…I shall become a real mother…to the child. Or a real wife to…the father.”

“Hmph. We shall see. I like to get these hands on him!” Magda declared.

Amalie imagined she would. “No chance of that, Mags.”

The memory of his hands upon her bared legs surfaced and gave Amalie a lilting little feeling in the pit of her stomach. His touch had been meant as impersonal, she knew, as efficient and medically inquisitive as Dr. Raine’s or Magda’s. Yet it had affected her in an entirely different way.

Captain Napier was no stodgy old Londoner with more than fifty years to his credit, nor was he a great strapping woman with hands like giant claws. He was somewhere near thirty, terrifically attractive, and had wonderfully agile hands.

Also, he could make her laugh. How long had it been since her laughter had not reeked with sarcasm or self-deprecation? Lord, she’d become a regular martinet, a thoroughly unpleasant companion to one and all.

Perhaps that was the reason everyone left her alone in the library so much of the time. She must somehow work harder to get past her anger at what had happened to her. Acceptance was the key, she knew. She had to accept her fate and be gracious.

Alex dressed himself. Not the easy task he had always taken for granted before he had been wounded. Except for removing his boots, he had refused the assistance of the footman early last evening after being rolled into the bedchamber prepared for him. Thankfully the room was located on the ground floor, a vacant room meant to house a servant, of course, as all downstairs sleeping accommodations were.

Hopping on one foot, he nearly toppled before he managed to make it to the Bath chair. Maneuvering around the small front wheel and guidance lever took some doing, but he finally got into the damned thing.

He was just wondering what he would do about his boots when Michael entered. “Good morning, Alex,” he said, sounding a bit stiff.

“You’re here to talk things out.”

Michael sniffed, looking out the window, anywhere but at him. “I cannot believe you would abuse my hospitality in such a manner. I was so angry last evening, I could not bring myself to speak with you at supper.” He flopped down on the unmade bed and clasped his hands between his knees. “Is it really true you’re a doctor?”

“I was,” Alex admitted. “And I swear to you, Michael, I had no intention of giving insult to you or your sister. We had been discussing our injuries and I thought perhaps—”

Michael’s head jerked up and his eyes were bright. “Well, what? What do you think? Could she walk if she wanted?”

“I can’t say. You should speak with her physician about it. He’s coming today?”

“Yes. You still have to marry her, you know,” Michael warned him. Idly he reached down, picked up one of Alex’s Hessians and looked around for the other. “Father is adamant about it.”

“As are you, I see.”

Michael nodded emphatically and brought the pair of boots to him. “And you cannot take her off to Scotland. She must stay here.” He crouched in front of Alex and acted the valet, as he had done many times on the journey from Spain.

Alex smiled. “Michael, your outrage isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly willing to marry her.” He sat forward in the Bath chair, leaning toward his friend. “And you needn’t worry she’ll be saddled with me permanently. If she does recover and wishes to make a better match, an annulment can be quite easily obtained. I want you or your father to call your solicitor and have papers drawn up to the effect that I require nothing in the way of a dowry. Everything hers, remains hers.”

“But that’s not how things are done.”

“This time it is. However,” he said, hoping to divert Michael to another topic, “I would ask a favor. Can you arrange transportation for me to Maidstone in a week or so?”

“To see a friend there?” Michael asked, frowning. “Is this friend a woman?”

How like Michael. He was jealous on behalf of his sister. “My mother-in-law. She is English. When her husband passed on last year, she went to live with her sister in Kent. She has the care of my son and I should like to see him.”

Michael shook his head. “I swear I thought I knew you well, Alex, but you never said a word about a wife or child in all the time I’ve known you. I believed your only relative was the old uncle in Edinburgh. And you only mentioned him the once.”

“My past is no pleasant subject.”

Michael shrugged, then scurried around behind Alex and pushed him toward the open door. “Let’s have breakfast. Father’s waiting.”

Alex wondered whether he would see Amalie this morning and what her frame of mind might be after mulling over their conundrum. She’d likely feel better once he assured her she would have a way out of the marriage whenever she wanted.

He felt a bit better about things himself, actually, after reassessing his finances. If he planned carefully, he could pay his way here at Balmsley so he wouldn’t be a burden on Amalie’s family. And he would be near enough Maidstone to visit his son now and again. It would also give him time to overcome his own injury while he decided what to do with the rest of his life.

If this Dr. Raine was of the firm opinion Amalie could walk again unassisted, then Alex meant to make it happen. She needed a firm hand and a bit of prodding to get her up and going. Leaving her to the tender mercies of a family that loved her too much would be doing her no favor. She’d remain just as she was.

Well over an hour passed as he and Michael and Lord Harlowe ate a hearty meal and retreated to the library. They discussed the newspaper reports of Wellington’s retreat from Burgos, the progress of the campaign in general, and carefully avoided any further exchanges about the coming nuptials. If banns were to be cried the following Sunday, no one mentioned it.

The doctor arrived around eleven o’clock and was immediately shown upstairs. Alex had not yet met the man, but was anxious to speak with him about Amalie. He folded the newspaper and laid it aside when he heard voices on the stairs.

Michael made the introductions when Lady Harlowe herself brought Dr. Raine into the library where they were waiting. As might be expected, Amalie’s mother cut up stiff, just as she had done the night before, after she’d recovered from her swoon. She left without even making an excuse.

“So you are the betrothed,” Raine said with a merry grin. Short, rotund and energetic described him. Laugh lines creased his entire face and a smooth bald pate reflected the light from the window. Alex put him near fifty. “I must say Miss Amalie is all atwitter about the engagement.”

“Yes, well,” Alex growled. “We are all atwitter, sir.”

Michael grabbed the back of Alex’s chair and shoved him toward the door. “This way, Doc,” he said. “We’ve a new patient for you today. Alex is also a medical man, y’know. Says those army surgeons are crack-brained know-nothings. Takes one to know one, I expect.” He laughed, chattering on incessantly, making light of the diagnosis Alex had received.

Raine followed and they were soon ensconced in the modest little chamber just off the hallway to the kitchens. “Off with you, my boy,” he ordered Michael, who left reluctantly.

“Now then,” Raine said, turning serious. “Let’s get those pantaloons off you and see what damage was done.”

“Not necessary,” Alex protested. “But I would like to speak with you about Miss Amalie since she is to be my wife.”

“No secret there anyway. She’s got the idea embedded in her mind that she can’t walk since the bones healed. Or it may be fear of pain. Does hurt, I know, getting back up on her pins. Nothing wrong with ‘em now.” He tapped his head. “Mind over body but not in the good sense if you see what I mean. Now about you…”

“I’ll be fine,” Alex said. “That nurse you assigned Miss Amalie. She’s to prevent atrophying?”

“Therapeutic manipulation of the musculature often does wonders. Let’s see the leg, Captain.”

“No.”

The doctor stood there with his pudgy hands grasping his hips. “I’m waiting. Don’t think you’ll foist me off now. Curiosity and all that.”

“I will walk,” Alex said emphatically.

“We’ll see.” He helped Alex to stand and shed his pantaloons, then assisted him to the bed.

“Hmm,” Raine said as he examined the scar, then moved the leg about as he expertly palpated tendons and ligaments. He wasn’t quite so loquacious now, limiting his remarks to that same wordless sound all doctors make. Alex recalled making it himself more times than he could count. Usually when he didn’t want to say what he was thinking.

After a few pertinent questions regarding the treatment, both by the doctors and what Alex had attempted since, Raine stood away. “Well, that’s that.”

“That’s what?” He made himself ask, knowing the answer.

The doctor ran a hand over his balding pate and shook his head. “You have read all the ancient texts, I’ll wager. And while some insist positive thoughts can affect the outcome of infirmities, no amount of wishful thinking will let you flex that knee at will. It’ll buckle on you every time you put weight on it. I don’t need to tell you that.”

“I will walk,” Alex said mulishly as he grabbed his pants to dress.

“Never said you wouldn’t do that,” Raine argued. “Only that the knee won’t work. It is fair wrecked and nothing can fix it.”

Alex managed to push himself to a standing position and held on to the metal footboard. “Thank you for the opinion,” he said with no sincerity and held out his hand.

Raine shook it firmly. “Good luck to you, son.” He hesitated a second, then asked, “Where were you trained?”

“Royal College of Physicians at Edinburgh.”

“Excellent training then. War is hell, eh? May I ask why you went and why, when there is so much to be learned from battle wounds, you did not practice your art there?”

“Personal reasons.”

“You Scots are a dour lot and that’s a fact. You be good to that girl,” he said, and waited for Alex to nod. Then he was gone.

Alex glared down at his leg. He supposed he had accepted the truth somewhere inside him long before now.

He spent the better part of half an hour struggling to get his boots back on. One success at a time, he decided. He sat there on the bed in sartorial splendor until Michael came to fetch him.

Alex refused to get in the chair. “Find me two forked tree limbs, anything to serve, will you? I have got to be on my feet.” The compulsion was so great it wouldn’t be denied.

Michael rushed out, so eager to please it made Alex dizzy. He was gone for quite a while and was running when he returned. “Look!” he exclaimed, holding out a pair of crutches. “Amalie’s idea! I went to get her unused ones to make a pattern, but I think we can use these. See what she suggested? Won’t they work for now?”

Alex considered the odd-looking things. They obviously were made for a woman. The fittings for the armpits were quite small and very heavily padded with soft pink fabric. On the bottom tip of each, Michael had extended the length at least a foot by forcing on two long metal pipes.

“I dismantled the waterflow from the roof cistern,” Michael proudly informed him with a thump to one of the cylinders.

“I’m sure your father will thank you for that,” Alex said with a wry frown.

“C’mon, try ‘em out!”

Tentatively, Alex took them and placed them just so. After a few awkward attempts at balancing, he got the hang of it. The pads were too small, the handholds too narrow and his left leg swung uselessly, slightly bent at the knee. But as he took his first real steps around that small chamber without hopping and grabbing on to the furniture, Alex felt freer than he had for months. “I must see that sister of yours and thank her,” he said with a huge grin.

“Aye, Cap’n!” Michael crowed. “Follow me!”

She was waiting in the hall beside the large curved staircase and was seated in a chair almost identical, save for size, to the one he had just abandoned, hopefully forever.

“You look patently ridiculous lunging about on those pipe-rigged contraptions, Napier,” she said before he could even greet her.

“And you look entirely too comfortable riding around in that thing,” he replied, frowning at her chair. “But not for long.”

He swung the crutches forward and heaved himself closer. Then again, and once more until he reached her side.

“From my heart, I thank you.” Bracing himself carefully, Alex leaned down, reached for her hand to kiss it. But she raised her face as he did it and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Such a sweet mouth it was, too. Eager and soft, tasting of berries and cream and…

Her chair rolled backward under his weight. Alex tumbled back and landed flat on the floor, spread-eagled and helpless as an upturned tortoise. The clang of metal pipe bouncing on marble echoed through the cavernous hall.

“Napier! Sir, are you hurt?” she cried, leaning sideways in an attempt to touch him.

He turned his head and groaned. “Ow, run fetch me a compress, quick!”

To his great surprise, she very nearly did. Elbows up and hands gripping the arms of her chair, she rose several inches from the seat before she remembered and dropped back with a groan.

Arms outstretched and flat on the floor, Alex laughed with delight. “You nearly did it!”

“Wretch!” she shouted down at him. And rolled right over his fingers.

“Ow!” he cried, this time for real, clutching his hand and curling up to a sitting position.

Michael and the doctor rushed to him and helped him up. But Amalie did nothing save sit there frozen, both hands covering her mouth, her bright eyes wide.

“Fat lot of good those sticks will do me one-handed!” he snapped.

She had the grace to look sorry even if she wouldn’t speak. He let Michael and Dr. Raine help him back to the small room off the hall and sit him down again on the bed. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were already swelling.

Raine examined them carefully, bending them anyway. “Not broken, just bruised. Good thing the girl’s not hefty!”

She was a small mite, thank goodness. He could only imagine the damage if she were of any greater size.

“Amie didn’t mean to do it,” Michael assured him.

“Mmm-hmm, the gentlest of souls, I know,” Alex cracked. “Go and tell her I’ll survive. Can’t have her grieving over a minor injury.”

Raine chuckled. “That chit will lead you a merry chase, on wheels or no, I’ll wager. Better put your good foot down at the outset, m’boy.”

“On her neck,” Alex muttered, nodding.

Now he was back to the chair again, the makeshift crutches broken and useless, the fingers of one hand nearly so. “Go on. See about her,” he told Raine. “I’ll be fine.”

Two hours later, he and Amalie found themselves alone again, trapped in their chairs within the library, staring at the fire.

“I hate this place,” Amalie said finally. “Read every volume in here at least three times.”

“Anything I despise, it’s an overeducated woman,” Alex said.

She glared at him. “You don’t say!”

He smiled. “I did say, but I didn’t really mean it. You should be happy your family’s wealthy enough to afford books. What if this had happened to you and you were mired in some drafty cottage, knitting for pennies, wondering whether your next meal would be more than porridge?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I am an ingrate, I know. And I had vowed to be more pleasant today. Now here I have damaged your fingers, given poor old Raine the back of my head and bemoaned my fate.” Her sigh was forlorn. “Not a good beginning.”

“Start again,” Alex suggested.

She offered him a sweet smile that appeared sincere. “All right. Tell me about your life. No, about your son. Is he very bright?”

“I don’t know,” Alex admitted. “I only saw him as a babe. He won’t know me, of course.”

“He’ll probably adore you right away,” she told him. “Boys admire soldiers. He won’t understand anything other than the romance of war, not the reality.”

“And I suppose you think you do?”

She cocked her head and studied him. “Somewhat. War hardens men. It sorely troubles boys like Michael. Then there is the useless loss of life on both sides of the conflict. None of that is good.”

Alex thought she had a pretty good grasp on it. “Ideals aside, war is hell on everybody, even the side that wins.”

“That’s as may be, but he will admire you all the same. We should bring your son here,” she suggested. “There is much to entertain him. I would like to know him and I expect you would, as well.”

“I doubt that would be possible. His grandmother blames me for his mother’s death so he’s most likely set against me, too. It’s true. I couldn’t save my wife.”

Sympathy shone from her remarkable eyes. “I’m certain you did all you could for her.”

Alex nodded slowly. “But it was not enough, and at the time, my guilt and grief were so great, I could think of nothing else.”

“So you went to war. Tell me, did you have a thought of dying to punish yourself?”

“Something of that sort, in the beginning, I suppose. Olivia was so dear to me. We grew up neighbors, shared so much, our parents were the best of friends. When mine passed during the influenza outbreak, I was only seventeen. The MacTavishes were a great consolation to me. It was always assumed that Olivia and I would marry, so as soon as I finished my studies, we did.”

“You loved her,” Amalie said softly.

“Of course. She died in childbirth. Her mother took the babe. Said I owed her the child because I let hers die. Her demand seemed justified to my muddled mind, but in the six years since, I’ve realized how wrongheaded we both were.”

He cleared his throat and stared out the window. “Now it would be cruel to him, as well as her, to take him back and perhaps not a wise thing in any event. I want my son, but ask myself if I would ever be able to do him justice as a father.”

He looked up at her then. “Raine agrees with the other doctors. I will have no use of the leg.”

“So you believe it now?” she asked. “Then I’m sorry you saw him. The death of hope hurts as much as the injury, doesn’t it?”

“Not quite. At least not in my case. Maybe in the back of my mind I had already accepted it to some degree. But crutches gave me a feeling of more control. In time, a cane should do. I can live with that.”

“You believe me a slacker,” she accused. “I have tried, Napier. Truly tried. I wish to walk.”

“But for some reason you have convinced yourself you cannot. You almost did it, though,” he reminded her. “You almost came out of that chair.”

She didn’t show anger as he expected. Instead, she offered him a steady look of warning. “Take me as I am or I won’t have you. So there’s your way out of this.”

So she thought. Alex knew nothing short of his immediate death would cancel his obligation. It was highly probable that no one other than her brother and parents would ever hear of their inadvertent indiscretion, but servants gossiped. Word, especially scandal, spread like a case of plague. She could be ruined for life if the tale got out.

Like it or not, they would have to marry.

Chapter Four

Michael left the next day for London and had stayed away for a week. Alex tried to be patient, but all day, every day, he kept an ear tuned for the sound of the coach returning. After carefully measuring Alex’s height and hands, the lad had set off, determined to acquire the best pair of crutches he could have made. Perhaps Michael felt that Alex’s saving his life outweighed the fact that his sister had been compromised. In any event, Michael still seemed to feel obliged to help and Alex was grateful for that.

The weather had proved foul, cold and damp, keeping Alex and the rest of the family near the fire. The old manse looked grand indeed, but boasted numerous drafts round the windows and doors. Heat immediately sought the high ceilings and left the occupants hovering near the fire.

Amalie’s parents sat with them in the front parlor this afternoon. Her mother sighed and put down her knitting. “Why not play for us, dear?” she asked Amalie.

“Reading,” Amalie replied, lifting her novel a few inches off her lap for emphasis.

“Come now,” the baron insisted. “Put that book away and show your intended how accomplished you are.”

She gave an inelegant little snort and turned a page.

“Can you not play well?” Alex asked with mock sympathy, daring her to take up the challenge. “Tuneless, are you? Well, I suppose that makes no difference.”

She rolled her eyes, sighed and tossed the book on a side table, not even bothering to mark her place. “Oh, very well. Give me a push,” she said to her da.

The baron laughed as he hopped up and wheeled her to the pianoforte. She shot Alex a haughty look and put her fingers to the keys. After an ostentatious prelude and an operatic trill, she changed tempo, holding his gaze as she dropped her voice to a sultry contralto and sang.

“Young Cock Robin rode to Town,

His one intent to marry.

When he got there, his friend did swear

The ladies turned up wary.

He then commenced to jump a fence

And seek out one less scary,

Who gave him drink and with a winnnnkk…

Invited him to tarry!”

Alex tried to stifle his laughter as the baron leaped to yank her away from the pianoforte and her mother collapsed in her chair, fanning herself with a handkerchief.

Amidst their apologies to him and fervent remonstrances to their wayward offspring, Alex heard loudest of all Amalie’s deep frustration and anger.

He believed her. She had tried. It was not stubbornness that prevented her recovery. It was not her parents’ over-indulgence. Her only weapons against her helpless situation were contrariness and dark humor. He knew, because he used those very weapons himself.

He wanted to…what? Commiserate with her? But how, so that she wouldn’t see it as sympathy? That was worse than taunting her, wasn’t it? It would be to him. He started to applaud, but the sound of a carriage outside in the dooryard interrupted him.

The baron ran to the window. “Michael’s back. Everyone stay where it’s warm. I’ll go out to meet him.”

The wait seemed interminable. Alex kept exchanging looks with Amalie, both ignoring her mother who rattled on endlessly about her daughter’s inappropriate behavior.

The door to the parlor opened, commanding immediate attention. Michael stood there holding out the new crutches, smiling like a cream-fed cat. And then he stepped aside.

“Father?” squeaked a small voice.

Alex’s heart leaped to his throat, choking off any words that might have erupted. The lad who stood there could have been himself at six. Sturdy, auburn haired and round faced with a stubborn chin and large green eyes that widened as they took in the wheeled chair and the one who sat in it.

Alex cleared his throat and nodded. “Davie?”

“David, sir,” the boy replied. “Now I’m not a baby, I’m David.”

“Of course you are.” Alex found himself grinning ear to ear. “Come here then, David. Let me see you better.” He held out a hand, eager as anything to touch the child he hadn’t seen since infancy.

“Go on, David. Greet your father properly,” a stern voice commanded.

Alex looked up to see his mother-in-law. “Hello, Mother MacTavish.” He had never called her else since his marriage to Olivia and didn’t think to change it before the words were out.

“Alexander,” she replied, her lips tightening after the greeting.

He looked back to the boy who had drawn near and was executing a formal bow. “You’ve become a man since last we met,” Alex said proudly. “Look at you! Your mother would be so—”

“My mother’s dead,” the lad stated baldly, without inflection.

“I know.” Alex felt tears welling, but blinked them back, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Are you truly a soldier?”

He managed a smile and reached out a hand, feeling the lad’s reluctance when he took it. “I was. No more, though.”

“Did you race into battle, kilt flying and swinging your sword at the enemy?”

Michael piped in. “He did that, David. Bravest soldier on the field, I swear. Saw him myself!”

He had done no such thing, Alex thought. They had not even met until both were in hospital trying to survive their wounds. But he didn’t call the lie. David’s first smile was worth saving at any cost.

Michael was making introductions then and Alex reluctantly took his eyes off the boy to see how they were going. Hilda MacTavish and the baroness were exchanging greetings. He noted for the first time how much older his mother-in-law seemed. She had lost at least a stone in weight and her face was pinched and pale.

She smiled at Amalie’s mother as they met and Alex felt a pang in his chest. She had her daughter’s smile, not as sweet or sincere, but it brought Olivia to mind. And the guilt.

He turned back to David. “Has Mr. Michael told you that I am to wed Miss Amalie?”

The boy nodded and cocked his head. “Is she to be my mother then?”

Alex hardly knew what to say. David’s grandmother answered for him. “She is to be your stepmother.”

David’s eyes widened. “Not like the wicked ones in the stories!”

“Certainly not!” Amalie exclaimed. “I shall only be wicked when we play draughts or war with your little soldiers! Then you must watch out, for I will trounce you soundly! Depend on it!” She grinned at David and winked.

The boy chewed his lip. “I haven’t any little soldiers.”

“Oh, but you shall,” she promised. “Michael, you must take David up to the nursery and acquaint him with the troops.” She leaned forward in her chair. “But not before he has his tea and biscuits. Cook Nan makes the best you have ever tasted. Word on it.”

David had drifted closer to her, assessing her carefully. “Were you a soldier and shot, too? Can ladies be soldiers?”

“Lands, no! Except in play,” she said. “A clumsy old horse unseated me and I fell right in the dirt! Can you feature that?” Before he could answer, she gestured to her mother. “We should feed our guests, Mother, don’t you think?”

The baroness was already standing. “Come, Mrs. MacTavish. I’m certain you’d prefer to freshen up whilst I arrange for tea.” Belatedly, she remembered the child. “Uh, David. Would you come, too?”

“I shall stay here, thank you.”

Alex marveled at the conviction in his son’s voice, the maturity and swiftness with which he made the decision. Here was no overcoddled lad, but a strongminded young man.

His chest swelled with pride, no matter that he’d had nothing to do with making the boy so. He guessed he must credit Mother MacTavish.

Suddenly as that, Alex realized that he, David and Amalie were in the room alone. Michael had propped the new crutches beside the door as he left.

“Could you bring me those, David?” he asked. “I feel remiss not greeting you on my feet.”

“Aye, sir.” The boy retrieved the crutches, one by one, handing them to Alex.

“Now then, grab my knees and give me a shove against that wall to brace the chair.”

David hesitated only a moment before complying. “I can hold those upright for you, sir, if you like.”

“Excellent idea. There’s a good man.” He pushed himself up and settled the crutches beneath his arms. “Ah, just right.” He looked down at his son and held out his hand. “How do you do, Master David Napier? It is indeed a pleasure to meet you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” the boy replied, grinning up at him and showing the blank space where his front teeth had been. “I have heard so much about you.”

“All good I would hope.”

The boy’s smile dwindled. “Some.”

Amalie drew their attention to her, shaking a finger at Alex. “I’ll warrant David’s head is filled with your boyhood antics! You shan’t have a leg to stand on when he misbehaves.”

David cocked his head and regarded her with a matching grin. “He has one leg to stand on, miss.”

“Amie. My good friends call me Amie and so shall you.”

“I’m not to address elderly persons so familiar, miss.”

Alex laughed at her expression and chose to let them work it out together.

“Miss Amie, then,” she said finally, and regained her smile. “I quite like you, David. Forthrightness is to be admired.”

He nodded. “Grandmother advises it. She says if I don’t come off strong, the older classmates will beat me when I go off to school.”

“When?”

“Next year, I believe.”

Amalie darted Alex a frightened look. “He’s not to go so young, surely!”

Alex had the very same thought, but reconsidered before he spoke. He was in no way to raise a child and neither was Amalie. Mother MacTavish had obviously realized her limits did not extend past David’s reaching seven. Small wonder, for he recalled what a raucous handful he had been at that age. And the poor woman had done more than enough already. Still, Alex remembered, too, what boarding school had been like.

“We shall see,” he answered quietly, already dreading the next separation from his son, however it must come. “Shall we go in to tea?” he asked.

David moved behind Amalie’s chair and offered to push without anyone suggesting it. Neither of them had thought to ask it, but she thanked the boy and nodded. Alex followed, maneuvering better than he expected to on his new apparatus.

So many surprises today, he could hardly register them all.

“The house seems much warmer, don’t you think?” Amalie asked over her shoulder.

“Infinitely,” Alex agreed, answering her smile. Yet in his heart, he was already preparing himself for giving up again the person he loved most in the world.

It must have shown on his face, for she added, “Enjoy the now, Napier.”

But he wasn’t trained to do that, had no experience in it ever. All his happy moments existed only in retrospect. Even when Olivia was alive, he could never recall himself stopping in the midst of anything to think, much less say, “I am happy at this very instant.” He had been happy then, many times, but realized it only in retrospect. Amalie had opened his eyes to celebrating the moment.

“I smell cimmanum!” David exclaimed. “Yum!”

At least his son had an appreciation of the moment.

Chapter Five

A full week passed and Amalie figured they had all endured enough of Hilda MacTavish’s ill humor. When she was not hovering over young David like a wolf bitch with only one cub, she busied herself flinging ill-disguised accusations at Napier and making snide reference to Amalie’s uselessness.

Napier needed a flogging for allowing the woman to carry on so. Where was the spirit he’d shown when he first came? Where was that humor with which he turned insults aside and made their speaker feel foolish? It was still within him, that was for certain, and neatly employed when the barbs came from her own mouth.

She supposed it fell to her to set the woman to rights. Finally, she found Mrs. MacTavish alone in the parlor embroidering whilst Michael had David outdoors, visiting the stables.

Amalie wheeled herself into the parlor, stopping when the edge of the plush Turkey carpet prevented her getting any nearer. Hilda wore unrelieved black as she always did, a color that in no way flattered her seamless complexion or the honeyed tint of her whitening hair. She was not so old as she tried to seem, probably only forty-five or thereabout. Amalie decided on flattery and distraction as the best approach.

“A word with you, Mrs. MacTavish?” she asked sweetly.

The woman put down her embroidery hoop and glared at Amalie with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

Amalie shrugged. “I thought we should become better acquainted.” She paused. “Tell me, madame, since you have been widowed for nearly two years now, have you given any thought to returning to society?”

That met a short gust of disbelief.

“I mean to say, you are young yet and quite lovely. It seems a shame to deprive so many others of your company. And since you are living not far from London—”

Hilda sat forward, furious, as she interrupted. “How dare you presume so! And I resent your condescension regarding my appearance. I am not lovely and society can well do without yet another unattached female in its gaudy midst!”

Amalie smiled. “Forgive me for the suggestion. I but thought you must be dreadfully unhappy with matters as they stand. You certainly do seem so.”

That took Hilda aback. She let go a heavy sigh and sat back again, roughly fiddling with her embroidery hoop and tangling the threads. “I am quite content and I shall thank you to leave me be.”

“I must speak my mind on this,” Amalie said gently. “Can you not see how your bitter vitriol could eventually affect your grandson? Not to mention how unfair it is to Alexander.”

Hilda immediately rose and left the room without another word. Amalie watched her go, congratulating herself on holding her temper in check and not launching a pithy verbal attack. She might have done so if she had not sensed the fear in Hilda. Perhaps Napier should be told of that.

Or perhaps he already knew, Amalie thought suddenly. Why else would he meet Hilda’s harsh words with such forbearance? If so, it did speak well of the man. That, added to the obvious love he had for his son, warmed Amalie to the core. Napier had a goodness in him she admired. And envied, she admitted.

Goodness, determination and a quick wit. And the ability to love deeply. How many of those qualities could she boast? Amalie wondered whether she even deserved the man a little! Fine one was she to cast stones at Hilda MacTavish for living a bitter-lipped existence that made people miserable.

She rested her chin on her palm and began to examine her own past behavior in earnest.

A good half hour passed before her brother burst in, followed by Napier and the boy. David had one hand firmly clamped on to Napier’s right crutch.

“You should see our lad ride!” Michael exclaimed, turning to urge David forward. All three were grinning proudly, wind tossed, cheeks and noses reddened from the cold.

Amalie’s heart lurched. How she wished she’d been with them out there in the late November sun. Her right leg ached for its position around the curved horn of her sidesaddle, her hands itched for the feel of reins in them. Never to ride again seemed the most awful thing and one she had not allowed herself to dwell upon since her accident.

She forced a smile. “So, he has a good seat, does he? Then he must have a pony!” She shot Michael a worried look. “Surely you haven’t set him up by himself on a fullsize horse!”

“Yes, but on a lead. He managed very well.” Napier’s large hand cupped the boy’s shoulder for an affectionate squeeze. Then he maneuvered himself to the settee and offered the crutches to David. “Settle these for me, would you? Good man,” he said, when the boy had stacked them neatly against the arm and within reach.

David beamed at the praise. He was such a sturdy little fellow and the absolute spit of his father. Amalie felt a surge of something strongly maternal whenever she looked at David. She shared a meaningful look with Napier that defied mere words.

“Well, I’m off for a quick wash before tea. Want to come, David?”

“Yes, sir. Riding’s turrible dusty. Da?”

Napier waved him off. “I’ll bide awhile. You’re the one who reeks of horse.” He added in a stage whisper. “Remember to bow.”

David did so. “Excuse us, please, Miss Amie.”

Amalie nodded and when they had gone, she turned to Napier. “His manners exceed yours.”

“And yours,” he retorted.

“And those of his grandmother! Frightful beast of a woman!”

He frowned at that. “Never speak ill of Mrs. MacTavish.”

“Why? Her one goal in life seems to be making you out a villain of the worst order. And she’s none too fond of me, that’s for certain!”

“She believes I let her daughter die and now will take away the child who replaced her loss.” He expelled a sigh. “And how am I to do that to her?”

“How can you not? She’s sending him away to school next year! At seven!”

“Not away. I spoke to her about it. He’s going to a school there in Maidstone.”

Amalie regretted broaching the subject and decided to turn it since there was no point to the confrontation. “My back is breaking in this confounded chair.” She tried to move it, but the wheels were stuck on the edge of the rug.

He grasped one of his crutches and hooked the handle over her front wheel, tugging her onto the carpet. Then he pulled her chair closer and beckoned for her to lean forward. When she did, he grasped her body and lifted her onto the cushion beside him. “There. Better?”

The strength of his arms amazed her. The sudden closeness of him overwhelmed her senses. He smelled of fresh air, leather and sandalwood soap. Perhaps a hint of evergreen. She breathed deeply and leaned closer, her shoulder and arm resting against his.

When she raised her eyes, he was looking down at her and the tempo of his breathing changed. His lips opened as if he would speak, but he said nothing. Instead he lowered his head and kissed her softly.

She felt his hand at her waist, the other cup her neck as his thumb caressed her chin. The kiss grew deeper, stealing her breath and her reason. Desire flowed through her veins like warm honey, sweet as the taste. Amalie shuddered, lost in the feelings she had only dreamed about.

He released her and peered into her eyes as if looking for something he desperately sought.

“What is it you want?” she gasped without thinking. “Tell me…show me.”

Her question might have been a dash of cold water. He sat back immediately, releasing her and moving away as if she’d suddenly screamed for help.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice curt. “For a moment, I lost my head. I haven’t kissed a woman in a very long time and here you were.”

“Where you put me!” she snapped. “So any woman would have done, I suppose.”

He cleared his throat and avoided looking at her.

“We kissed by the stairs. Have you forgotten that so soon?” She hadn’t, that was for certain. The feel of his lips on hers had disturbed her sleep and a great portion of her waking moments.

He did look at her then. “I didn’t forget it, but it was you who kissed me if you recall. This was my doing.” His voice was soft with a touch of regret. “You’re not entirely safe with me, you know. Everything about me works but one knee. It would be wise of us to have a care or we could find ourselves wed for good and all.”

“What? How else could we be wed? Surely you are not suggesting a silly handfast marriage such as you have in Scotland! That’s absurd! Not even legal here.”

At that, he smiled. “The custom is a bit frowned upon these days, even north of the border. Nay, I’d thought that once you recover the use of your legs, we could arrange an annulment. Unless we…you know.”

“Consummate the marriage?” Amalie asked bluntly.

He blushed. He actually blushed. Fancy that.

Oh, Lord. Amalie realized she was staring at him, shaking her head, giving him the impression she might want to…you know. Well, perhaps she did, but she would never admit as much to him.

It was only curiosity on her part, surely. She had only kissed two men before. Boys, really. She had never even entertained the thought of physical relations with them. But Napier had stirred something inside her that felt rather dangerous and very enticing. Damn him for it!

She tore her gaze from his. “Fine. If that is what you wish, so be it.” How much plainer could he make the fact that he could never want her as a wife? “Would you leave?”

“Of course. I can be on my way directly after the wedding.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant immediately. Leave the room.” If he did not, she feared she would grab the nearest heavy object, like the marble lamp on the side table, and brain him with it.

Alex snatched up his crutch and hopped over to retrieve the other one. If he had learned anything in his twenty-eight years, it was that a woman in a snit was best left alone. He couldn’t figure what he had done to make her so angry. He was the one suffering for the restraint, not her.

Michael obviously hadn’t discussed the idea of an annulment with her. Once she’d had time to digest it, she would see it was for the best.

He swung the crutches forward a step, loving the feel of being upright whenever and however long he wanted and not having to balance on one foot to do so. If only he could devise a brace of some kind to make his knee stable, he could probably manage a cane. “I’ll find a way,” he muttered under his breath.

Alex had just cleared the doorway of the parlor when he saw her.

“I daresay you will manage,” Mother MacTavish said, her tone bitter. “But for her sake, you should not.”

Alex was so shocked he couldn’t speak.

“Yes, I saw you kiss her. And I just heard you declare you’d find a way,” she declared. “If the girl is fool enough to wed you, she should know what to expect! You have no thought for anyone but yourself and your pleasure! She is a cripple, Alexander. Will you thoughtlessly get her with child?”

He saw the tears in her eyes and knew she spoke mostly out of grief for Olivia. She obviously had not overheard their conversation, only his last utterance and had misinterpreted that. But even so…“This is none of your affair, madame.”

“No? You plan to marry this girl and take David from me to live with you. Of course it’s my affair! I live for that child since you destroyed the only one I had!”

“I loved Olivia, too, you know.”

“Yes, all too well, unfortunately!” she exclaimed. “And yet far too little.” She turned on her heel and marched off down the hallway, leaving him alone to stew in his remorse.

He glanced back into the parlor. Amalie had turned, facing him with a look of compassion. “That was so unfair,” she said. “So undeserved.”

Alex couldn’t answer. In his mind he knew he had done everything within his power to save his wife, but it had not been enough. The fact remained, he had been the cause of Olivia’s travail. Without the stress of childbirth, she would still be alive. He had always loved and wanted Olivia, had adored her first as a friend, then as a husband and lover. Theirs had been a comfortable and expected union, a match both had welcomed and treasured. But his feelings for Amalie were keener, more intense. Somehow deeper despite their brevity.

And here was another young woman, one he desired even more than he had Olivia and deserved even less. Amalie was not ambulatory, her strength depleted by so many months of lassitude. She should not be put at risk of a pregnancy in her condition and he would see she was not.

He needed to think. Obviously, Amalie wanted to wed and expected a real marriage to ensue. Maybe she thought his was the only offer she would ever receive, given her belief that she’d never walk again. If he simply refused to marry her and left things as they were, who would change that belief? She would remain a cripple all her life and that would be his fault.

They must marry. And he must somehow convince her to keep their union platonic.

Amalie puffed out a breath of frustration. What was she to do about Napier and his dratted guilt? Mrs. MacTavish seemed determined to keep it at the forefront of his mind. For some reason, the woman had not yet poisoned his little son’s opinion of the father, though. One would think she would have done so at every opportunity.

Her mother chose that moment to enter the parlor. She carried several swatches of fabric with her and sat down beside Amalie, plopping the samples in her lap. “Which do you think for your gown, my dear? Should it be the pale blue—a color that will surely enhance your eyes—or the yellow to highlight your hair?”

The dress didn’t signify, Amalie thought impatiently. What did it matter whether she made a beautiful bride or not? Napier would probably not notice in any event. “It doesn’t matter, Mama. Whatever you think.”

“I like the blue.” She glanced up from the swatches. “Are you afraid of him?”

The question jerked Amalie from her musing about Napier’s regard. “Afraid? Why ever should I be afraid of him? He’s a perfectly nice man!”

Her mother shrugged as she nervously fiddled with the fabrics. “For a Scot, I suppose. They are notorious for quick tempers. And Mrs. MacTavish has said he was overly…passionate. Before, you know, with her daughter. Your father and I shouldn’t like you to be exposed to such.”

Amalie coughed a short laugh of disbelief that her mother would even broach such a subject. “You and Father discussed this?”

“Of course we did! And he is not so set on the marriage as you suppose. Michael is adamant we go forth, however. I think he fair worships Captain Napier.”

Amalie figured it was time she asserted herself. For months now, she had decided on nothing for herself, letting the winds of life blow her whatever way they would. She had become the very kind of woman she had always pitied before. No more of that. If her life was to be her own, she must direct it.

“I will marry him, Mother, and you are not to worry.” She plucked one of the samples. “I choose the blue, a simple empire style, no embellishment, save a white lace frill at the neckline.”

Her mother frowned. “You are certain? About Napier, I mean.”

“I am certain. He is the one.”

That drew a small gasp. “I should have a talk with you before you’re wed. Your father says I should.”

Amalie patted her mother’s hand. “Unnecessary, I assure you.” Tempted as she was to see just how her mother would address the matters of the marriage bed, Amalie would spare her sensibilities. “I am well-read and observant, too.” She leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek. “And I will muddle through as all women do, I expect.”

She noted her mother’s frowning glance at her immobile legs and the slight shake of her head. Mama said nothing, but she was very obviously wondering how…

“Either we will manage or we won’t. As it stands now, Napier wishes our marriage to be in name only.”

And when that changes, Mama, Amalie thought to herself, you need never know it.

“In name only. My, what a relieving notion.” Satisfied, her mother kissed her cheek and left, humming a little tune. Amalie belatedly recognized it as the off-color song she had played as a poor jest to discombobulate them soon after her betrothal.

Perhaps Mama knew her better than she thought.

Well, Amalie realized if she meant to take charge of her life, there was no time like the present to begin. She envied Napier his mobility. She envied his determination. And she dearly wanted to prove him right about her own ability to walk.

Could she have given up too soon? The truth was, she had never felt she deserved a normal life after the tragedy that was her fault. If only she had not been so set on riding Morgana, the mare Father had warned her not to attempt.

She had made friends with the roan, had her taking sugar lumps and apples out of hand without biting. Amalie had even sat astride Morgana’s back without incident. It was only when she took her out of the enclosure that the poor thing had gone wild.

Then Jem, the stable lad she had known since their infancy, was trampled to death trying to keep the mare from attacking Amalie after she’d been thrown. And Father had ordered the beautiful Morgana put down.

Two needless deaths, Amalie thought with a sigh. Her fault entirely. Did she have the right to recover?

On the other hand, did she have the right not to make the most of her life in recompense for the loss of Jem’s?

She made her decision.

Carefully, Amalie did a half turn, braced her hands firmly on the arm of the settee and pushed herself up. She balanced, stiff, tense, afraid to breathe. But she had barely straightened fully when the muscles in her legs trembled and then, as if her bones turned to liquid, gave way. She fell back to the cushions with a solid thunk.

“So much for will and effort,” she grumbled under her breath. But in that all too brief second or two, she had felt almost whole again and she craved more.

Chapter Six

Plans marched forward for a wedding that would take place just after the holidays. The new year would mark the beginning of Amalie’s new life as a married lady. Mrs. MacTavish would stay on for the ceremony. Little David had been the deciding factor there. She would not leave without him and knew that Napier would not let him go.

Whatever the reason, Amalie was delighted the boy would be there. She grew fonder of the child every day. He was noisy, overactive and into constant scrapes just as her younger brother had been at that age.

It would be such a joy to have a little one about for the holidays. And afterward, too. Perhaps for good if she could convince Napier that they could manage him better than the grandmother.

If only her secret attempts to stand on her own, to eventually walk again, were more successful. Then they could have some semblance of a normal family life to offer David. She knew she would keep trying.

Each time she tried, she managed to balance upright for a few seconds longer. Almost a full minute now, though she couldn’t take a step to save her life. But one day she meant to go skipping about the meadows the way she used to, hopefully with a child or two in tow. The burgeoning hope certainly put her in a holiday mood.

Amalie always considered herself fortunate to live in the country where they celebrated the holidays. City folk hardly ever did, so she heard.

Thankfully, this house always spent the entire month of December festooned with greenery and berries. The mouthwatering smells of baking cakes and puddings filled each day as preparations got well under way.

No one reveled more in the expectations of good things to come than the younger Napier. This evening they would exchange gifts to mark the season. David crouched eagerly beside the fire as Michael helped him roast chestnuts.

“Do you think Grandmama will like these?” he asked her brother.

Michael raked a few from the coals and set them into the pile that was cooling on the hearth. “When you sack them up in that silky pouch you helped Amie to stitch, your grandmama will love it. Marvelous idea you had there, mate!”

David looked so serious as he gripped the bag they had made out of scraps and ribbon. His sooty little fingerprints only added to its charm as far as Amalie was concerned. Mrs. MacTavish had better think so, too.

Amalie thought of the jaunty cap she had made for the boy from a length of wool Napier had snipped from his Blackwatch plaid. A braw bonnet, Napier had called it as he voiced his approval. She had of necessity asked his opinion as to whether it resembled enough the tams that Scotsmen wore. She had added a pom of red yarn to the top and banded the cap with black grosgrain.

Napier had whittled a small wooden sword and carved intricate designs upon it. Michael had driven Mrs. MacTavish to Maidstone earlier in the week on some errand. Amalie suspected the woman had gone to buy something for David. In any event, the boy should have a holiday to remember.

“Will those cool in time?” David was asking Michael.

“Oh, in plenty of time for the gifting. Here, these few are ready now, you see?”

David gingerly picked up the chestnuts and dropped them one by one into the pouch. His smile warmed Amalie’s heart as it always did.

Napier swung into the room on his crutches, a bit more practiced and agile after frequent outings in the garden these past few days. “Good evening,” he said, taking a seat beside her on the settee. “Quite warm out for the time of year.”

She smiled. “It is freezing and you know it, but I doubt a blizzard would keep you inside.” She leaned sideways and surprised him with a kiss on his cheek.

He smiled in response, but the kiss did seem to discomfit him. So much so that he didn’t comment on it.

Her parents entered just then, her father bearing a basket of gaily wrapped gifts. Moments later, Mrs. MacTavish made her entrance with one large gift. When all were greeted and seated, Michael took charge.

“We haven’t a huge yule log, but Father, David and I have provided one that should keep us warm through the festivities.” The two proceeded to dump the oversize section of a tree trunk onto the smoldering ashes in which they’d roasted the chestnuts. He stoked it to a flame, then turned to the boy. “Now, my man, it is time for you to present our gifties whilst I provide music!”

David’s little chest puffed out with pride as he waited for Michael to reach the pianoforte and begin playing softly. “Grandmama, you first, for you are the oldest!”

Mrs. MacTavish quickly erased her frown.

“This is for you from me,” David said, presenting the rather grubby pouch of warm chestnuts. She accepted them with sincerest thanks, commenting on how good they smelled.

Then he reached into a box beside the hearth and turned to her parents. “Milord and Lady Harlowe, new nib pens from Mr. Michael and me. I found the feathers and he trimmed ‘em.” Her mother and father applauded and smiled, accepting their gift.

“Miss Amie, for you,” David said, handing Amalie a small packet of sachets, purchased no doubt from one of the local ladies in the village. She sniffed them appreciatively. “Lavender! My very favorite!”

“And Father,” David said at last. “I made you a picture with watercolors.” He tore off the wrapping himself before Napier could take hold of it. “See, Da? It’s Scotland!”

“Indeed it is. Old Ben Muir,” Napier said, eyeing the bare, purplish mountain with gorse and heather stippled over it in a childish hand. “Well done, David,” he added, his voice thick with pride. “Very well done.”

Amalie saw the tears gathered in his eyes, though he never let them fall. She offered him a smile and he returned it with a sheepish quirk of his lips. She thought she had never loved him more and the very idea shocked her.

She loved Napier. Alexander. The Scot. When had that happened? From the first meeting? No. Later, perhaps, when he met her every insult with humor and equanimity? Did it even matter when? She loved him now with a mixture of such longing, exasperation and need to give that she could barely stand it.

She had only meant to make him like her and to learn to like him. Love was not what she’d always thought it was. Not an easy thing at all. He almost surely had no such feelings for her, and why should he? She had not given him a single reason to feel so. He probably didn’t even like her very much. But he did want her and that was a fact. And it was a start.

He gave her a silver trinket box lined with silk that held a delicate brooch set with amethyst stones. Amalie thanked him rather more formally than she would have liked, then produced her gift to him, handkerchiefs embroidered with his initials. He smiled and complimented her needlework. How proper they were with each other after such an improper beginning.

“Your turn, I believe,” Napier was saying to his son. He presented the beautifully carved wooden sword and Amalie added the tam she had made. Michael and her parents gave David a mechanical bank, a metal monkey that snatched a penny as he raised his hat.

The boy delighted in everything. His manners were impeccable when he remembered them. When he forgot was when he was most adorable, Amalie thought with a grin. Away from his grandmother’s watchful eye, he was a rambunctious little rascal. This evening he was an angel.

She pictured Alexander as being very like him at that age. That made her wonder what his daughters would be like when he had some. She dearly wanted them looking somewhat like her. Little hellions, most likely. At the fantasy, her grin grew wider still.

And then Mrs. MacTavish produced the skates.

David’s mouth dropped open in absolute wonder as he ran his small fingers reverently over the highly polished blades attached to shiny leather boots. He threw himself into his grandmother’s arms. “Oh, Granny! Skates! Thank you, thank you! You knew what I most wished for in the whole world. You always do!”

Mrs. MacTavish tossed Napier a gloating look of superiority over her grandson’s shoulder. Amalie wanted to smack her for it. The woman never let an opportunity pass to remind them that David was better off in her care than he ever would be in theirs. But one had to admit, the skates were a brilliant move to secure David’s undivided affection.

Amalie leaned closer to Napier and said behind her hand, “I knew we should have gotten the pony.”

“His birthday’s next month,” Napier replied in a whisper. “And I’ve a saddle on order.”

Amalie placed her hand over his and gave it a squeeze. “Well, then, let her top that if she thinks she can!” She smiled back at Mrs. MacTavish, granting the woman today’s small victory.

Amalie realized that at some time during David’s visit, she had begun to lay a motherly claim upon him. And while she did not approve of spoiling children in general, she wanted to make this boy happy, to show him how much a real family with two loving parents could do for him as he grew to manhood. She felt responsible for making that happen and she would, no matter what.

When all the gifts were given, they went into a late dinner of roast beef and plum pudding. Amalie hardly tasted the food, so busy was she in planning her future. Nothing could go wrong, she kept telling herself. The wedding was set, only a week away. David would stay. She would have all the time in the world to regain her ability to walk. Then, in realizing she was not a slackard, Napier would like her, perhaps even come to love her in time. She would work to that end with all the energy and determination she could muster.

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