Chapter 2

2

H is return to England had unquestionably been a mistake.

Nathaniel Pembrook tugged the ropes encircling the hefty ash log, and still, the recalcitrant thing wouldn’t budge. He should have brought the sled. Should have brought a footman or sought out a few boys from the village. Better yet, he should have stayed in France .

But he hadn’t done that, he inwardly grumbled as he took a step back and planted his feet against the frosty ground, wrapping the ropes a little more tightly around his one functional hand. No , he’d arrived back at Rosemead right on time for the festive season. Which was a bloody— tug —stupid— tug —mistake.

He’d managed well enough to locate a small tree trunk that could act as a yule log, fell it, and even secure it with a few adequate knots. However , somewhere along the way, the log had shifted into a mud puddle that hadn’t yet frozen, and he’d be damned if he could get it back out.

The sensible action, of course, would be to neglect it as a lost cause and return to the house to seek help. Yet his decisions of late were proving decidedly senseless, and he desired few things less than disturbing the few overworked staff members who remained at Rosemead . Plus , the sky had taken on an ominous gray tinge, the few flakes of falling snow seeming to hint at weather far more severe.

He was going to do this now. Alone . If he just pulled the ropes a little … harder …

His body lurched forward, and his arms shot out in a desperate attempt to regain balance, helping him narrowly avoid a collision between the snow-dusted dirt and his face.

“ Goddamn it!” The curse flew from his lips as he regained his footing, the echo of it floating up through the trees and mingling with the bucolic sound of birdsong. Yes , he’d remained upright. Hadn’t tumbled over his own feet or broken a bone. But likewise, the intended yule log remained wedged in the mud. As if it knew he planned to light it on fire and had decided to retaliate.

At what point did his determination become stupidity? At what point did he forsake the venture and admit defeat?

Were he to do so now, no one would know what an ass he’d made of himself aside from the wrens and waxwings above. He could still bring home the pile of holly branches he’d collected, which was something, at any rate—even if the deserted ash trunk would grate at his nerves for the rest of the day. The rest of the yuletide season, more like.

He turned to the holly with another muttered oath, a peculiar twinge shooting across his nape. It was as if the birds had taken to staring at his folly, for he had the distinct sense of being watched.

Which was absurd. Nonetheless , the feeling continued to prick his skin, and when a gentle wind rustled through the woods, making branches quiver, he whirled around abruptly?—

Only to be met with two wide, startled eyes. A woman’s eyes, rich and warm like the color of brandy. A woman whose billowing cloak and snowflake-speckled dark hair put him in mind of a winter queen from a fairy story.

A woman whose features were unquestionably familiar.

“ Emily .” He uttered the name that had long been known to him, although it suddenly felt strange on his tongue. Perhaps because when he’d last uttered it, the name had belonged to a girl. Lady Emily Prescott , daughter of the Marquess of Rockliffe , who inhabited the neighboring estate.

Well , that girl had since grown up, her face a striking combination of sharp cheekbones and lush lips. But whereas the girl had used to skip about with her younger sister and offer up shy smiles, the woman stood motionless, as if she were made of stone.

Had she been lingering there, alongside a holly shrub next to the stream, long enough to witness his incompetency and have her ears defiled by his expletive? Or perhaps, as a lady grown, she took offense to his neglecting her title. Regretfully — very regretfully—he could do nothing to erase the former. As for the latter, though …

He straightened his spine, dipping his chin in as dignified a nod as he could muster. “ That is, good day, Lady Emily . How nice to see you again.”

The expression of horrified shock faded from her eyes, although the look that followed could never be mistaken for pleasure. “ Mr . Pembrook . I didn’t realize you were returning to England for Christmas .” She said it coolly, as if the revelation weren’t a welcome one.

“ Nor did I .” The rejoinder slipped out before he could stop it. Stupid . The last thing he needed was to enter a discussion about his poorly executed plan and the weak moment of excessive sentimentality that had prompted it. He brushed a few snowflakes off the sleeve of his greatcoat, trying to appear nonchalant. “ It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

She paused, her brows giving the faintest twitch as she considered his vague explanation. Ultimately , though, only a simple question followed. “ Has your father returned as well?”

His father . The man who’d hosted a prolific St . Stephen’s Day party for every year of Nate’s existence and made it appear easy. “ No . He remains in France .”

“ I see.” Her words were so toneless that it was difficult to derive any meaning from them. He nearly imagined a slight dip of her shoulders from beneath her cloak, as if she’d breathed a sigh of relief. However , her face remained flinty; his presence seemed to have that effect on her. “ Well , I’ll not keep you any longer, Mr . Pembrook . I wish you a happy Christmas .”

And then, she spun away with astounding swiftness, her skirts fluttering behind her as she departed the border between their two estates and traipsed deeper onto Rockliffe land.

It occurred to him, after an indeterminate number of seconds passed, that he was both staring and gaping, his eyes following her determined steps and the ebony tendrils that had come loose to trail down her back.

He snapped his jaw closed, executing his own abrupt turn. There was no time to stop and ponder just what he’d done to earn the displeasure of a girl—a woman—he hadn’t seen in seven years. There was even less time to think of how her hair looked like strands of silk he very much wanted to stroke, how the frosty air had given her cheeks an alluring flush, how the annoyed little scrunch of her lips as she’d uttered her final words had stirred something in the vicinity of his?—

He hastily bent over to sweep the accumulated holly into his arms and make a rapid retreat of his own. Yet as he reached out, a painful spasm shot through his hand, and he staggered, the air flying from his lungs. Which at least made his subsequent curse reside in his head only.

He cradled the injured hand as he waited for the ache to diminish. This blasted English weather was doing him not a bit of good. The cold seemed to leach to his bones, digging in its icy claws to exacerbate his wound.

Yet England was what he’d chosen. England , with its dreary skies, and its mud puddles, and his father’s vacant estate in Kent , and?—

And his longtime neighbor, Lady Emily , no longer fleeing but back at his side, her aloofness replaced by wide-eyed concern. “ Your hand!” The way she regarded the withered limb—the unsightly yellowish bruising on his skin, the index finger that wouldn’t straighten—suggested she hadn’t taken notice of his ailment before.

Fortunately , he’d already dispensed with the notion that his dignity remained intact; otherwise, her presence beside him may have come as a blow. He hunched his shoulder, allowing the hand in question to slip a little farther up his sleeve to conceal it. If only his fingers hadn’t grown too stiff and painful to cram them inside his glove. “ It’s nothing,” he said. “ A souvenir from my travels.” A souvenir that had rendered him infuriatingly useless.

“ A fracture?”

“ Precisely . But I’ll live.”

Her gaze lingered another moment before she snapped her head upright, quirking a dark brow. “ I hope you don’t think me too forward by suggesting you should rest your hand and leave the tasks of lifting and carrying to your household staff.”

Yes , indeed. He’d do just that, except for the slight problem that his household staff was close to nonexistent. “ I’m afraid that’s impossible today.”

“ I see.” Again , those words, uttered with such detachment. Yet in the next instant, she shifted, a trace of brightness—or something approaching it, anyway—settling over her features. She took hold of her cloak, her feet getting ready to carry her away. “ I’ll return to Beaumont Manor , then, and send over a few footmen to assist?—”

“ No .” He spit out the refusal before she’d even finished the last syllable, causing her to halt in her tracks. The birds and Lady Emily had grown privy to his ineptness and humiliation; he had no wish to bring another household’s footmen in on it besides. Not to mention, he’d been home less than forty-eight hours and had already imposed on the charity of those at Beaumont . “ Thank you,” he said with a shred more composure, “but no.” The tattered remains of my pride will not allow it .

Her eyes narrowed, and while a gust of wind chose that moment to swirl the thickening snowflakes, he also detected the irritated puff of her breath. “ Suit yourself. But if your staff cannot assist you today, I hope that means you’ll postpone your venture until tomorrow, lest you do yourself further injury upon the boundary of Rockliffe land. Besides , it’s bad luck to bring in your greenery prior to Christmas Eve .”

He made a sound. A laugh of a sort, although it had a brisk, humorless ring. “ Unfortunately , I don’t have the time to let luck dictate my actions.”

Her brow rose higher, the arch in it suggesting she had questions about his intelligence. “ Might I inquire why such urgency?”

“ Because , Lady Emily .” His voice came out a touch too sharp. Too loud. But suddenly, he couldn’t contain it. The snow in his hair was beginning to melt and drip down his neck. His hand hurt like the devil. Everything he’d tried to accomplish since returning to Rosemead was met with yet another damnable obstacle. And she wished to know why the urgency?

“ It’s a longstanding tradition that the Viscount Pembrook of Rosemead hosts a St . Stephen’s Day party as a show of appreciation for his servants and tenants. In my father’s absence, I assumed that I , as the future viscount, would be equal to the task.” He did laugh at that part, at how idiotically delusional he’d been. “ My urgency comes from the fact that I’ve already sent out word the party will go ahead as usual. Even though I have less than three days left to prepare. Even though Rosemead House was supposed to be shut up for the winter, and therefore, most of the servants have already left to spend Christmas with their families. Even though I don’t know a damn thing about planning a party, and my right hand is useless, and now, it won’t stop bloody snowing!”

He became aware that his breathing had quickened. That his chest had grown tight. That , with the incensed echo of his outburst fading into nothingness, the air surrounding him had become perfectly still. Perhaps he’d frightened off the birds, for not even a single chirp emerged from the trees. As for Emily , her brandy-colored eyes bore into him, although the emotion brewing behind them remained aggravatingly unreadable. Had he stirred a mote of her sympathy? Evoked her ire? Caused her to consider him even more of a numbskull?

He hadn’t the faintest idea. Something about those eyes rendered him incapable of thinking straight. All he could do was stare in return, trying to catch his breath, letting the silence linger.

Until suddenly, she was marching away—not abandoning her incompetent neighbor in favor of Beaumont but stepping onto Pembrook land. Her determined footfalls continued until she came to a stop beside his failed attempt at a yule log, her boot shuffling in the layer of newly fallen snow until she uncovered one of the ropes he’d used to secure it.

“ What are you doing?” He watched as she leaned down to retrieve it, a subtle sense of unease beginning to pull between his ribs.

“ What does it look like?” She straightened, wrapping a little of the rope around her dainty gloved hand. “ If you insist this task needs doing immediately, and you’ll accept no offers of help from Beaumont Manor , I see no one here to assist you but me.”

“ You cannot.” He rushed over to her, his mind flashing backward a decade to the thin, pale-faced girl who’d visited Rosemead with her family that Christmastide . Lady Emily had contracted a fever while traveling abroad, one that had nearly cost her her life. One that, even after more Christmases passed, left her quicker to tire and not quite so rosy-cheeked as before.

Well , she certainly didn’t appear ill now, although she did remain slender and small of stature. What if she overexerted herself, and it was all on his account? The last thing he needed was to add that to his list of the day’s calamities.

He no longer had to guess at her sentiments, for the glower she shot him was downright murderous. She didn’t drop the rope; on the contrary, her other hand clamped around a length of it farther down. And then, she pulled, her small body straining forward.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the yule log didn’t move. That didn’t stop her from trying again. Her forehead puckered and her face reddened as she tugged, and she was oblivious to—or maybe unconcerned about—the fact that he was standing in front of her, holding up a hand in objection.

He took a rapid step to the side before a collision ensued. “ Lady Em? —”

“ We would succeed much faster if you used your uninjured hand to help instead of standing in the way.”

He opened his mouth but then closed it before another protest emerged. Yes , she was small of stature, but he was also beginning to think her capable of doing him bodily harm if he dared tell her again that she couldn’t .

There was nothing else for it. He grabbed the other rope out of the snow, wrapping it back around his left hand.

“ We will count to three and then pull. Yes ?” She included the question at the end, although her tone didn’t leave any room for refusal. “ One , two, three .”

He scarcely got his bearings in time to comply, although he did manage it, giving a heave just as she finished the count.

The yule log remained stuck in the mud. Of course it did. The thing was going to remain there to taunt him until the end of time, and all he stood to gain by continuing his fruitless attempts was giving Emily a more in-depth view of his struggle.

But she was undeterred. “ Again .” She readjusted the ropes, allowing him an extra moment this time to follow suit. “ One … two … three !”

Everything happened so fast that he couldn’t say what transpired first: the loud squelch behind them, or Emily’s sharp gasp as her feet stumbled and her body careened forward.

His own body acted on reflex, dropping the rope like it had scorched him and seizing her before she could fall. Fortunately , she landed in his arms instead of on the ground, and he leaned in to peer at her face, scanning each angle and contour for signs of distress. “ Are you hurt?”

For a moment, the world stood still once again. Nothing existed but the vague outline of her curves beneath his fingertips, and rosy lips, and dark lashes adorned by tiny droplets of melted snow.

A moment was all it lasted, though, before she jerked herself free of his grasp and gave her head a little shake, as if she’d never heard anything so foolish. “ Of course not. And look, we’ve done what you set out to achieve. Let’s continue.”

He’d been so enraptured by her face—her snow-speckled, flinty-eyed, exertion-flushed, unnervingly striking face—that he hadn’t thought to look behind him.

I’ll be damned . The sight that greeted him when he turned was none other than the mud-encrusted yule log lying free in the snow.

He cocked his head, peering at the improbable scene. However , his interest in it rapidly waned, his attention turning back to where it truly belonged: upon her. The stubborn slip of a woman who seemed to disdain him but had simultaneously chosen to help solve his dilemma.

Her expression showed no hint of satisfaction or triumph. Rather , her compressed lips and furrowed brow begged a single question of him: Why are you taking so long ?

He broke the gaze, hurrying over to the pile of holly he’d gathered and using his good hand to tuck it beneath his arm. With that accomplished, he returned to take up the ropes and begin his plodding trek home. Only to find she’d already resumed her position, a rope in hand, ready to keep going.

He bit back another inquiry as to what she was doing—he’d learned his lesson in that regard. Instead , he bowed his head to her, ignoring how the muscles in his neck felt strained. “ Thank you, but I won’t impose on you further.”

She didn’t try to conceal her sigh. “ If time is of the essence, then this is the fastest way. Not to worry, for I’ll go with you only until we come into view of Rosemead House , and your household need never know that you didn’t haul it in yourself. I trust you have a footman or groom who can spare the few minutes it will take to bring it as far as your hearth.”

“ It’s not …” God , she must think him a blunderbuss and an ingrate. He did appreciate her help. Merely hated the fact he’d needed it in the first place. That he’d gotten so many things wrong. “ It’s not that,” he finished quietly. Dejectedly .

And then, because there was really no other option, he secured the additional length of rope, and in an unspoken agreement, they began tugging in unison.

Fortunately , the muddy ash log glided over the snow with relative ease, and they traipsed through the woods, the strengthening wind doing them the favor of gusting at their backs.

He chanced to dart a look at her—the flushed cheeks, the increasingly tumbling black locks, the small, cloak-enshrouded body that marched along at a relentless rhythm. Perhaps he should attempt to make conversation. Ask after her family, or if she planned to go to London after the yuletide season. However , her eyes focused straight ahead, as if nothing existed but the woods beyond, and he couldn’t imagine she’d welcome his overtures.

He briskly turned his head back, concentrating his attention in kind. Silence it was, then.

Silence , until he detected a barely audible click. Followed by another. And another.

The chattering of teeth .

He peered at her again, letting his eyes linger as unease snaked its way through his gut. But her lips were pinched closed, the noise noticeably absent.

Perhaps it had been a trick of his imagination. A reaction to how the wind had grown so bitter that his body would begin shaking from it if he didn’t soon go indoors.

Luckily , they’d nearly made it out of the woods, and the welcome sight of Rosemead would come into view any moment now. The numerous difficulties awaiting him within its walls would almost be worth it for the blazing fire he’d get to enjoy.

Except then, the noise returned. The unmistakable sound of teeth clattering together, and this time, he saw it. She didn’t clamp her mouth closed quickly enough to hide how it trembled. To conceal how her lips had turned blue.

He halted abruptly, his gaze traveling up and down her body without remorse. Not unexpectedly, her eyes shot daggers at him, but all of a sudden, that didn’t matter in the least. Nothing mattered beyond the sight next to the ground that made him gape.

One of Emily’s boots had a hole in the leather. A tear by the side of her foot that must be letting in snow with every step she took.

“ What in hell?” He flung down the rope, the branches beneath his arm scattering as he grabbed hold of her, scooping her off the frosty ground and into his arms.

After a split second of shock, her eyes became large and indignant. “ What in h-h-hell are you doing?” Even though her voice shook from cold, her limbs began flailing against him, trying to break free.

“ Oof .” A sharp breath escaped him as her elbow connected with his ribs, yet it would take far more than that to dissuade him. He adjusted his arms to obtain a tighter hold on her, feeling his brow knit into a severe vee. “ Just how long have you been walking through the snow with a hole in your boot?”

“ I s-s-snagged it on a branch. Never mind. You’ll do further injury to your hand if you don’t put. Me . D -down!”

“ You’ll do further injury to my hand,” he bit back, “if you don’t cease wriggling. You think I’m going to set you loose and watch as you stagger back into the woods, in this weather, while you could very well be suffering from frostbite? Your chances of that happening are less than those of a snowflake on the sun.”

She let out an incensed cry, and he was nearly certain that she released a trace of an obscenity with her next breath. Yet her shivering body no longer fought him. Instead , she rested in his arms as stiff as a board, staring into the distance with the same steely-eyed resolve she’d displayed while dragging in the yule log.

The asinine task he should have insisted harder that she not perform. He’d dismissed her postulations about bad luck, although if not luck (or a lack thereof), what else could he label his string of misfortunes? Misfortunes that had now spread to her by association. Be that as it may, he’d be damned if he let her come to harm under his watch.

His hand was useless, but his legs moved faster than ever, breaking through the woods and onto the back edge of Rosemead’s manicured gardens, the house appearing like a sanctum in the snow.

Just a little farther and he’d get her indoors, warm. Get her out of his cursed presence so he could sit alone and lament the fact that his afternoon of labor had put him farther behind instead of ahead.

He trudged along, silently damning his idiocy for perhaps the thousandth time that day.

And even so, his brain—or perhaps a lower part of his anatomy—found the capacity to alert him that having her in his arms wasn’t an unpleasant sensation in the least.