A Warrior for Christmas (6 page)

Actually, he’d been exactly himself, and therein lay the problem. But he added, “There is much for me to reconcile myself to in my new circumstances, for which I am eternally grateful to my gracious uncle.”

The older man gave a sniff but seemed somewhat mollified. The ladies relaxed their nervous stance. Mister Johnson resumed his benign countenance. “To be sure. Quite understandable, young Mister Whitfield, after those many years spent apart from proper society.”

Not so easily assuaged, Mister Owen surveyed Corwin through eyes that knew he was being placated. But to his credit, he gave a bow. “I am delighted you have seen the error of your ways, guided no doubt by this divine creature.”

Corwin was fully aware of Dimity’s angelic qualities and did not require Mister Owen’s praise in his ears.

The sly attorney stepped up to them and offered her his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting you to your seat?”

The man was pressing his luck.

She curtsied and cast an anxious glance at Corwin.

Corwin gritted his teeth but smiled and said, “Certainly.”

He would refrain from attacking Geoffrey Owen and win Dimity’s approval. There must be some way to get around having to be so damn civil. What exactly was he permitted to call the man out for?

Chapter Four

With his cocked hat on, a scarf at his neck and collar turned up, Corwin drove the sled in the woods up beyond the house. The bells that hung around the gray mare’s neck made a merry sound; best of all, Dimity rode on the seat beside him. Wrapped in her scarlet mantle, she reminded him of a red bird. A sharp breeze snatched lengths of blond hair from beneath her hood, but she’d insisted on this outing.

The fresh scent of evergreen rose from the pile in the sled behind them. The small axe he’d used to cut the boughs reminded him of the tomahawk he wished he still had; the gloves he wore were most welcome on this bitter day.

Dimity’s gloved hands kept warm in a beaver fur muff and she’d assured her guardian she wore extra flannel petticoats and boots. Corwin had tucked a blanket over her lap at the start and he wasn’t averse to sharing the cover with her. Frosty breath escaped both the horse and its passengers. Few birds called; likely they were sensibly holed up.

Stopping in among the trees, Corwin nudged Dimity and said, “Be dark soon. We must head back.”

Her cheeks were rosy where they peeped out from between her wrapping. “Have we enough greenery yet?”

He eyed her in amusement. “I think there’s plenty.”

“We’ll need holly too.”

Not that Corwin minded, but, “Why are you bent on bringing the woodland indoors?”

“To gladden the house. How can we celebrate Christmas without plenty of greenery and berries?”

“I haven’t observed Christmas in years.” He gestured at the sled brimming with evergreen. “And never like this.”

A somber look shadowed her eyes. “You shall this Yuletide. Whitfield will be alight with candles, the hearths ablaze, and such feasting and dancing.”

Every afternoon this week had found Corwin in earnest practice, rather like acquiring skills he’d need for a most peculiar battle. Dancing the minuet with Mister Johnson by his side like a devoted dog was devoid of the passion Corwin had anticipated after he’d seen Geoffrey Owen and Dimity together. Even with her presence at his lessons, having every move directed by the dance master wasn’t romantic.

Corwin’s gaze wandered through gaps in the trees to the distant hills. Further west were the Alleghenies and beyond these endless ridges lay the Ohio Country where he’d dwelled with—no, he mustn’t think of that.

He looked back at Dimity. “Do you suppose the Owens will be present for tea?”

“They may call.”

“Pray they do not else I may have to smother Miss Hortense with one of your embroidered pillows.”

Dimity’s eyes reflected her mirth, but she said, “The poor lady cannot help her nature.”

“You are too forbearing.”

“And you too quick to find fault.”

“In this instance you’re fortunate you cannot hear her.”

Dimity failed to suppress a low laugh.

“I suppose you will also protest that Mister Owen cannot help his fascination with my intended?” he asked.

“Geoffrey doesn’t realize we are secretly betrothed.”

There
! She’d called him Geoffrey. Corwin was on the verge of tossing that cunning wolf out on his ear. “I’m most willing to acquaint
Mister
Owen
with the glad tidings, or you may tell him yourself. He hangs on your every word and glance.”

Still that hesitation Corwin had seen in Dimity ever since his pledge to her. And she’d maintained a cordial distance to him, not encouraging further intimacy such as they’d shared in the stable.

She considered. “Once an engagement is announced, ’tis very awkward to undo.”

“Why should either of us wish to undo it?”

The wind rustled in the trees for a long moment before she said, “If you were in the frontier now, what would you be doing?”

“You know my uncle has forbidden this discussion.”

“He isn’t here.” She was silent as if waiting for Corwin to speak.

“Very well. I’d likely be returning from the hunt with my adopted brother and other warriors I was friendly with. My adopted mother and sisters would have kept the fire going in the
wican
and prepared a hearty stew. If the hunt were successful, we’d have fresh venison, elk, or bear meat and storytelling in the evening.”

“We can tell stories too,” she offered.

He smiled past the ever-present ache.

“Corwin, can you be content here?”

“Yes, if I’m not continually beset upon by annoying guests and allowed five minutes alone with you.”

“We’re alone now.”

“But so chilled our lips can’t meet without risk of freezing together. When will you allow me another sweet kiss?”

She smiled. “Beneath the mistletoe.”

“That merry tradition had better not extend to Mister Owen. Stay clear of the mistletoe with him about.”

She drew one gloved hand from the muff and lifted it to Corwin’s chilled face. “If Mister Owen’s attentions to me were at an end, and I resided quietly with your uncle as before, would you desire me as you do now?”

“You think my appetite is whetted solely by the threat he poses?”

“No, but—”

“Dimity, I desired you nearly from the moment I set eyes on you. Only my heart was at odds with my longing.”

“Your heart is still in turmoil.”

“Why speak this? What must I do to convince you of my intention to remain here happily with you?”

“First convince yourself.”

Her words struck home.

The wind blew more cruelly and Corwin covered his face with the scarf. She could no longer read his lips.

She crossed both arms over her heart and then pointed at him.

Moved beyond words, he returned her gesture for
I love you
. But was it enough for her, for him?

****

Christmas Eve, at last, and Dimity thought Whitfield Place had never seemed more welcoming. Every candle holder and sconce glowed; the blazing hearths radiated orange-gold light. Fresh boughs, pine cones and red berries lined the mantels. Sprigs of holly decorated the windows. Garlands hung above the doorways and wound down the banister of the stairs. Vases of magnolia and laurel stood on every available surface. The very air was fragrant with greenery.

“You’ll have us carting in whole trees next thing we know,” Mister Whitfield had teased her.

Dimity would’ve done, if she could, anything to further draw Corwin to the old house. Perhaps if he experienced Whitfield at its best he might truly want to stay on. Christmas was a glad, charitable time. Who could say what wondrous occurrences might unfold on this hallowed eve?

Even better than the sights were the savory scents wafting through Whitfield. Her mouth watered as she stood in the drawing room between Corwin and her guardian to greet their guests. She slid her eyes at the young man who looked particularly handsome in a new burgundy coat, lace-edged cravat, and breeches made of the finest wool. She admired the fit, and the boots he’d insisted on wearing.

Dimity’s cerulean blue gown, cut away in front to reveal a flowered petticoat and beribboned stomacher, complimented his attire nicely. She hoped she did as well.

A footman served hot toddies to the guests to warm them after their chilly coach ride. Smiling figures lifted silver cups with white gloved fingers to enjoy the spiced butter rum. The elegant room swelled with the merry assembly, fast growing merrier. Servants had laid the ladies’ cloaks across the bed in the guest chamber. Men’s hats and heavy outer coats were stored in another chamber and the guests refreshed themselves before appearing in the drawing room.

Geoffrey Owen arrived with his sister and Mister Johnson. A forest green coat and breeches had replaced the attorney’s somber wardrobe. Hortense was even more embellished with lace than usual and her hair powdered. Her berry-red lips never ceased to move as they approached.

Geoffrey swept a bow to his hosts. “Mister Whitfield, Miss Scott, Mister Corwin Whitfield.”

Corwin tensed beside Dimity. “Sir,” he said, and bowed.

Her guardian did the same. Dimity curtsied to each one, murmuring their name in words she could not hear.

Mister Johnson beamed upon them. “Whitfield has never been more magnificent, nor you, my dear Miss Scott.”

“Indeed,” Geoffrey added, appraising her with a gleam in his brown eyes.

“I’m enraptured, Miss Scott!” Hortense’s mouth opened as wide as the Schuylkill River with each over-enunciated word. “Everyone’s come!”

Every household among their neighbors was represented from the elderly to young adults only recently introduced to formal society. Children did not attend social functions, though Dimity wished they did; she loved their exuberance.

Mistress Stokes appeared in the doorway and signaled to her guardian. He gave a nod and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we proceed to the dining room?”

The crowd of people paused with a sense of anticipation. Whitfield Place was renowned for its banquets and her guardian the wealthiest landowner among them.

Geoffrey Owen extended his arm to Dimity. “Please allow me to escort the fairest lady present.”

Corwin bristled like an affronted dog. How could she politely extricate herself from Geoffrey?

Mister Whitfield took her arm. “I believe that privilege belongs to the host.”

She gave her guardian a grateful smile, but he couldn’t rescue her from this awkward situation indefinitely. She should disclose her secret engagement to Geoffrey, but the wistfulness remaining in Corwin stilled her intent. Would she wake up tomorrow or several weeks from now and discover him gone? How could she bear that?

Geoffrey would make a good husband and father to any children they might have. Only, she badly wanted to be Corwin’s wife, bear his children…though not with him forever gazing into the west. One thing was certain, no matter what happened she would never cease to love him. That knowledge brought joy and the most piercing pain.

****

As the host, Uncle Randolph occupied the exalted position at the head of the lavish table. Corwin was seated on his right and Dimity on his left. Next to her sat the odious Mister Owen. It was all Corwin could do not to snarl at him, but the meal was distracting.

Never had he imagined, let alone experienced, such a feast. With the soup finished, the tureen was removed and two footmen set out steaming platters of roast beef, goose, ham, turkey and fish on the spotless cloth covering the lengthy table. Dimity did the honors and served those seated near her. Other guests served themselves and the people nearest them. Heaped plates were passed to more distant diners.

Bottles of spirits, pitchers of ale and spiced cider covered the sideboard. Footmen kept busy refilling glasses, all under the watchful eye of Mistress Stokes. His uncle preferred her expertise above any butler’s.

Corwin could feed the entire village with this much food. Better than any banquet, though, was feasting his eyes on Dimity. The gown draping her graceful figure made her eyes appear even bluer and she had a special glow about her this evening. He also detected a hint of distress when her gaze met his, no doubt the fault of Mister Owen. Her deafness was some excuse for such close attention by the overbearing attorney, but he practically breathed down her fair neck.

The more Owen engaged Dimity with his wit, the more Corwin lapsed into brooding silence. The contrast between them was acute. Fortunately the elderly lady seated beside Corwin conversed avidly with Mister Johnson and Miss Johnson, so they didn’t seem to feel neglected. Corwin was grateful Hortense had been removed to the far end of the table where she prattled to other entrapped souls. The colorful ladies’ silk gowns and men’s brocade coats reminded him of butterflies, and he likened their incessant chatter to a feeding flock of birds. Nor was Corwin oblivious of the curious glances darted at him.

Would these people ever accept him; did he truly want to belong? Some of the young women fluttered their lashes at him in coy invitation, not one he cared to accept. The only woman he wanted sat across from him with that leering lawyer.

Like a hawk, Corwin’s focus swooped back to Mister Owen. He’d had the gall to rest his hand alongside Dimity’s and graze her fingers in passing. If he dared clasp her hand, he’d soon find a fork stuck in the back of his.

Corwin nudged his uncle with a pointed glance in Mister Owen’s direction. The older man paused in his hearty dining and leaned in nearer to Corwin. “Not an uncivil word from you, sir,” he muttered in his ear.

Corwin hissed, “Words are not what I was contemplating.”

Uncle Randolph lifted a frothy mug to his lips and scolded under his breath, “Behave yourself. I’ll not have a bloodbath at my table.”

That was easier said than done.

Mister Owen raised his wine glass in salutation to Dimity. “To the loveliest young lady in the colonies!”

“To the loveliest young lady,” echoed the animated guests, and lifted their glasses in tribute.