Thirteen

A s Jonathan drove back to Greystone, the sun began to dip, casting long shadows over the countryside. A sharp drop in temperature made Claire shiver in her sleep. Jonathan removed his blanket and threw it over hers, and the shivering ceased. Her head lolling onto his shoulder, she slept on.

Jonathan watched her face, glad she looked peaceful, and also glad that (at least for now) she was in his safe hands.

While she’d done an admirable job of banishing Milstead, there were plenty more men like him—and if in the end she banished Jonathan too, he feared he might end up in a state of constant anxiety. For though she’d grown strong enough to take care of herself again, he couldn’t bear to think of her being mistreated.

Somewhere in the course of these bleak musings, he fell asleep himself, and woke to the clatter of the sleigh upon the drawbridge. As the stablemaster had predicted, Serenity had done well for them, carrying them home in spite of the unconscious state of her driver—for which Jonathan could only feel immensely grateful and vastly foolish.

There were two other circumstances for which he was grateful: the first being their sleigh’s position at the rear of the convoy, and the second, the absence of Miss Harris’s watchful eye. For when Jonathan came to, he found his arm around Claire’s shoulders and her head tucked under his chin—an arrangement which, had she observed it, Miss Harris would have found tremendously interesting.

But it appeared that in her absence, no one had bothered to look. And when Claire awakened within seconds of Jonathan and blinked up at him sleepily, their faces scarcely inches apart, she graced him with a smile of the deepest contentment before their arrival in the carriage sweep forced them to spring apart.

Though a footman materialized to assist the lady, Jonathan insisted on handing her down himself. If, after Claire descended, their fingers remained linked rather longer than was necessary—and if, as another footman approached with a tray, the two of them remained rather closer than was seemly—nobody seemed to notice or mind.

They each accepted a mug full of something that steamed and smelled of Christmas. Jonathan raised his cup to her, and they clinked in a silent toast full of unspoken significance. He held her gaze as he drank deeply. With a good deal of spice and a delicious heat, the drink thawed him from the inside out. Quickly he drained the whole mug.

Claire grinned to see him reaching for another. “You like the wassail?”

“I demand the recipe.” He clinked his second cup with hers.

She laughed and sipped. “I’m afraid it’s a family recipe, from my mother’s side.” Her smile went lopsided. “Only to be shared among ourselves, you know.”

“Ah. That does present a difficulty.” Feigning contemplation, he rubbed his cheek, then his chin. “If only one could join this very exclusive, secretive family…”

“An interesting thought. I suppose there might be one way. But you may have to—horsefeathers!”

“Pardon?” Laughing, Jonathan paused in scratching his chin. “‘I may have to horsefeathers?’ What on earth?—”

“Jonathan!”

“What? Is something amiss?”

“Your face! It’s all red and—” She broke off, her own face turning white.

“Is it? Probably chapped from the wind.” Absently he searched for a place to set his cup—until she snatched it from his hand. “Oh—er—thank you. I just must reach this spot on my elbow…” And slipping one hand up the opposite coat sleeve, he began to scratch furiously.

“I think you should sit down,” she said in a tremulous voice.

Though now distracted by an itch inside his waistcoat, he observed her in some alarm. “Perhaps you should sit down; you look distraught! May I ask—oh—confound it?—”

In fumbling with a waistcoat button, he caught sight of his hands—the backs of which were covered with angry red splotches. Though new itches continued erupting all over his body, he suddenly couldn’t attend to a single one.

Slowly, his gaze moved from his hands up to her guilt-ridden face. “Claire,” he said with deadly control, “did you have citrus added to this wassail?”

“No!” she cried. “I mean, yes, there’s orange in the recipe, but—argh!” In her frenzy, she’d splashed all the remaining wassail down her front.

Tetchily he offered a handkerchief. “I don’t understand how you could do something like this.”

“I didn’t! That is, I didn’t mean—” Appearing near tears as she frantically searched for a place to deposit the cups, she finally dumped them in the snow and, snatching the handkerchief, began to mop her dress.

“If you’re saying you meant to call it off,” he continued with mounting severity, “the fact that you planned such a cruel trick in the first place makes me?—”

“It was never one of our tricks, I swear! It’s a mistake! Monsieur Laurent was to make you a special batch without any orange. I don’t know how he failed to—oh!” She crumpled the handkerchief in her fist. “Oh, no. Oh, piffle, it was my fault! I cancelled your special menu, but I forgot to specify…” She trailed off into an anguished groan. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”

“I see,” he said, though he didn’t, since he couldn’t comprehend her muddled account. But he thought he’d caught the gist. “If you say it was a mistake, I believe you. I very happily believe you, for I was beginning to fear you’d raised my hopes solely to enhance the thrashing…”

She shook her head fervently. “I’ll explain later, but first we must fetch a physician.”

“Dot decessary.” Ah, here was the congestion setting in. And now that his mental distress had eased, his awareness of the physical distress was magnified. He began to scratch wildly. “I’ll be all right id ad hour or two—here—give me dat?—”

Snatching back the wine-stained handkerchief, he blew his nose fiercely.

A sudden thundering of hooves drew their attention to the barbican. Jonathan was puzzled to see naught but a one-horse sleigh pass beneath it—until a chaise-and-four followed behind. A chaise-and-four that Jonathan, with a sinking heart, instantly recognized.

When the sleigh came to a halt, Noah leapt out. “Good Lord, Rathborne, what happened to your face?”

“Chapped by the wind,” Claire answered promptly. “Where is Lord Milstead?”

Noah’s lip curled. “His lordship wisely chose to await his baggage at the stables.” He offered a hand to help Miss Harris dismount.

Jonathan briefly wondered what Noah had done to the villain. It must have been quite the spectacle, for Miss Harris looked fit to burst.

“And then we met with an unexpected traveler,” Noah went on, “just up the road.” His eyes strayed to Jonathan. “Rathborne, have you invited?—”

“My mother?” Jonathan turned a stony gaze on Claire. “I most certainly have not.”

In bewilderment Noah looked to his sister. “Claire?”

She scowled back at them both. “It wasn’t me!”

“Sure it wasn’t,” Jonathan said evenly. “Just as it wasn’t you who poisoned me, starved me, or stole my clothes.”

Noah bristled. “What’s all this, Claire?”

She stayed him with a raised hand. “Jonathan, I?—”

“It’s all right, Claire. Truly. It was no more than I deserved.” Jonathan turned on his heel and stalked into the castle.

“Wait!” she called after him, but he was already gaining the entrance hall. From the commotion behind him, he gathered Claire would not be following—not until she’d satisfied her brother, in any event.

By then Jonathan hoped to be safe behind the locked door of his chamber. He would pack up (what remained of) his belongings, order his carriage, and leave this madhouse for good.

Great hurry that he was in, it was no surprise when he tripped and fell on the upstairs landing. Rubbing a banged (and itchy) elbow, he looked to see what had obstructed his path. It appeared someone had dropped a book in the middle of the corridor.

A rather battered and ink-stained book.