The Christmas Spirit (13 page)

The shopkeeper's eyes bulged, and even Matthew appeared disconcerted. He quickly recovered, however, and picked two coins out of the lot to place in the shopkeeper's palm.        "That should be more than enough," he said. "We shall wait for the change and then be off."

"We needn't wait," Trudy said, feeling anxious to be gone. "Here." She put another five pieces of gold in the man's hand.

"But, miss--"

Trudy flashed him her most generous smile. "It's the Yule. You might use them to buy your employees a goose each for Christmas Day."

"Thank you, miss!"

Matthew carried the packaged articles out to his carriage and handed Trudy up.

"Do you always sling your gold about like the King of Wandara?" Matthew asked in a troubled voice, as soon as he had joined her on the seat.

"Oh, it's not mine," she assured him breezily. "I only found it."

He stared at her. "You found it?"

"Yes. You would be surprised, I daresay, to learn how much money people drop."

"Undoubtedly. And you . . . pick it up?"

She nodded, not certain why he was looking at her so strangely. "I am very good at finding gold."

Matthew took a deep, delaying breath. "A useful talent," was all he said, before some other thought took over and he laughed.

The coachman started up the horses.

"May I escort you home?" There was a challenge in his voice.

"No, thank you. I have decided to deliver the gloves right away. There is no reason to wait for Christmas Eve if the men have need of them now."

"A good point. Still, I could wait and take you home."

"I had rather you did not."

"Oh?" His amusement had fled. "Why?"

Trudy could tell that her answer was important to him. It was a matter of trust. Thus far, she had prevented him from calling on her, and he wanted to know why.

"Because my house is all at sixes and sevens," she answered truthfully. "As you might imagine, I am rather an indifferent housekeeper; and I would like to set things straight before you call."

"Then I
shall
call?"

His question, uttered in his deepest, quietest voice, made her shiver with anticipation. "Oh, yes." Her words came out in the softest whisper, which seemed to please him, for he gently took her hand.

"Would it offend you," he said, raising her fingers to his lips, "to hear that I find you the most enchanting creature I've ever known?" The warmth of his breath on her fingertips felt like a thermal spring in bitter winter. But, to her dismay, his touch seemed more distant than it had when she'd been trapped inside his gloves. It was as if her own magic blocked the deeper thrill of feeling.

She wanted that feeling back again, of being one with Matthew.

"No." She shook her head sadly, and she could see she had puzzled him again.
Of course
she was the most enchanting creature he'd ever known. She was probably the only elf maid he'd ever seen.

"Faye."

She liked the sound of that name on his lips.

"I don't know how else to say this, but I have an overwhelming desire to kiss you."

"You do?" His confession brought a rush to her cheeks. "But we have no mistletoe."

"Do we need it?"

"I should like you to kiss me under the mistletoe," she said wistfully.

Trudy could sense his urgency, like a tiger crouched beside her. Her own pulse was beating like a hummingbird's wings, but she wanted their first, perhaps their only kiss in this human world to be perfect. And the mistletoe would make it so.

"Very well." He dropped her hand and sat back, but his eyes still gleamed like a cat's in the jungle. "I shall have to wait, but will you promise me that when I ask you again, you will not keep me waiting?"

"Yes," she whispered. She might have made him promise that he would follow her then, as well, but she could not bring herself to do that to Matthew. He would see where she was trying to lead, and he would make up his own mind.

Chapter Eight

The time for luring Matthew into the mists--if Trudy was going to do it--was drawing near, for only a few days remained before Christmas. She hoped that, when the time came, she would not experience any qualms, for she'd been burdened with them of late. She knew she wanted Matthew for herself, and the only possible way to keep him was to bring him to live with her in her world.

But the thought of tricking him had lost its appeal. She had seen and felt the misery other people's treachery had brought him. The more she knew him, the more she feared the moment when he would discover what she really was.

If it weren't for this wretched need she felt to tell the truth every time she spoke to him, things would be better, she thought. But, the truth was, she almost felt as if she were a different creature when she was with him. As if she were Faye.

And she liked being Faye. She liked walking about the streets of Westminster, where the gentlemen tipped their hats to her. She liked going to the park where the nursemaids walked with their charges. She loved hanging on Matthew's arm when he escorted her into shops. She had even enjoyed surprising Mr. Waite with his pair of gloves, for she had never anticipated how endearingly his ears would turn red with pleasure upon receiving them.

But what astonished her most was how her restlessness had vanished. She no longer yearned to wander the globe in search of an elusive thrill. When she walked the world as Faye, she almost felt tied to the ground, and it was not a feeling she despised.

True, her elven spirit kept her from being rooted to it the way a human was, and she could not help feeling that something was missing, just as she had felt when her magic had dulled the thrill of Matthew's touch. But all in all, this adventure had meant more to her than any other she had ever had, and she did not want it to end.

How it would end, and when, were questions that loomed before her now. She felt the setting must be perfect. To make certain it was, she stole to the woods outside London one night to recruit a cast and crew for the event.

She found her Aunt Petunia and took her to the fringes of Hyde Park where she thought she might place a house for Matthew to see. It would look a bit strange, standing by itself with its back to the expanse of the park. But she thought she should put her residence off the Kensington Road in the theory that Matthew would never have searched for it there. She could always say it had recently been built. And to confirm that impression, she would make it in the Regency style.

Aunt Petunia, who was draped in a swirling cloak with silver trim, was all for furnishing the rooms in Louis Quatorze, the style she had most fancied as a child.

"Oh, no no no," Trudy said hastily. "That would be far too grandiose. I don't think Matthew would like it."

"My dear--" Petunia took on a cautioning note--"your young man is a gentleman, is he not? You mustn't forget who your family were on your mother's side."

"I have not forgotten, Auntie. And Matthew's lineage is quite good enough. His father was a Scottish baron."

"Ah, he will do then." Petunia's plump face relaxed in soft lines like a bowl of custard. Though at least one hundred and eighty-five, she was still a pretty elf, but she had begun to wrinkle. "Grace tells me he is
handsome
enough." She winked. "I've a mind to play your chaperone so I can flirt with him, myself."

Trudy sighed and said she might do as she pleased so long as she did nothing to alert Matthew to her plans.

It was in the middle of this conversation that Francis appeared, swimming out of the mists settling over the park.

"So, yer finally gettin’ down to business."  He glared at Trudy as if he did not know what to make of her behavior. "What's been taking ye so long?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. But where have you been? I thought you meant to keep an eye on me."

"Aye, but a few o' the fellows got up a game with some trolls over on Hounslow Heath, and I couldn't pass up the chance to beat them pesky creatures."

"You've been gone for the better part of six weeks."

"Is that a fact?" Francis scratched at his beard. "Well, I daresay we might've played more than one match."

"And as far away as Hounslow Heath? My, but haven't you become the traveler, now! I thought you were afraid of such heathenish places. Isn't that where highwaymen hang about?"

"That's very droll, Trudy. I can see that while ye've been flirtin' with humans, ye've been workin' on yer sense of humor. Very droll, indeed."

"Thank you, Francis. Now, if you will just excuse me, I have work to do."

"Work?" Francis scoffed. "Since when did it take any work to lure a feverish man into the mists? Do ye tell me that Sir Matthew's been too sharp for ye, lass?"

"No." With an effort, Trudy hid her misgivings. "But Matthew's fever is nearly cured, and I've been occupied with other matters."

"Like gettin' a bit o' polish?"

His wicked look made her start. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for starters, there's a difference in yer voice. Or haven't ye noticed? It's all hoity-toity like."

Trudy felt a flush stealing up from her toes. "No, can't say as I have. Do you really find me different?"

"Aye." Francis wrinkled his brow. "Can't say that I like it too much neither. It don't sound natural."

"No? Well, if I want yer opinion, I'll ask for it."

"There." He relaxed with a grin. "Now, that's more like our Trudy. What've ye planned for Sir Matthew then?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," Trudy replied, though she was not so sure she knew herself. She only had a feeling--no, a certainty--that Matthew would be calling for her this week. And if she could get him into her house of illusion, she could lead him from there into the park and off into the mists more easily than if they started anywhere else.        But, she didn't want Francis hovering over her to see how she would manage it, for he was sure to take exception to her methods.

She was relieved when Aunt Petunia said much the same thing, only with a different tack. "Just you run along now, Francis," she said in that motherly tone older women can get away with. "Trudy and I have our work cut out for us, and we don't need any male help." She giggled. "I haven't had this much fun in ages."

"Yer in good hands, sister." Francis nodded approvingly at their aunt. "If I don't have to worry about ye, I can get back to me game, I guess."

"It's still going then?" Trudy hid her relief.

"I don't mean that one, ye ninny." Francis frowned at her obtuseness. "We've set up a great lot o' games on the heath for the Yule. Ye haven't forgotten the date, now, have ye? Ye'll be there, won't ye?"

"Of course. I couldn't miss Christmas Eve with the family." Though Trudy wondered what Matthew would think of their wild celebration on the heath. Would he think it as savage as the rituals he'd seen in Africa?

She almost blushed for her kind. Then, she scolded herself for letting human influence make her ashamed of her own family.

"I'll be there," Trudy said stoutly. "And I'll have Matthew there with me. You'll see."

"If ye don't, I'll come see what's keepin’ ye," Francis promised with a searching look. It was as if he had seen inside her heart where her confusion resided.

The thought that he might have guessed her tumult of feelings scared Trudy, though she didn't know why. Perhaps because of the kiss she planned to share with Matthew and the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach at the thought. Or was it that she feared his kiss, with the potency of its thrill blocked by her magic, might disappoint her?

Francis took himself off, and Trudy purposely directed her full attention to Aunt Petunia's suggestions for her house.

* * * *

Matthew was more than just impatient to see Faye again. He feared the wait would make him feverish in spite of the fact that his illness seemed at last to have waned.

 He had heard of similar things occurring. A man brought back from the tropics might experience bouts of fever for a year or years. Then, if he survived the constant weakening and any other disease which might overtake him in the interim, he might begin to see a return to health. Not perfect health, but still, he might go on indefinitely without a recurrence of those wretched bouts of ague.

He sensed he had reached that point when he might never have those fevers again. He should be glad, but, as a consequence, he would never be visited by his elf friends either. Francis had long since abandoned Matthew's hallucinations as had most of his bad dreams. But Trudy . . .

Matthew thought about Trudy, and the almost certain feeling he'd had that the touch of her hands had cured him. Ridiculous, of course. She was nothing more than an illusion derived from his attraction to Faye. He wondered if Faye's hands would feel as magical upon him as Trudy's had, and he suspected they might feel much more. He could hardly wait to experiment and see, but he could do nothing until she allowed him.

And such activities meant marriage. In the past few days, Matthew had come to the realization that that was what he wanted. Faye, with her intelligence and spirit, her courage and her beauty, would be a better wife than he could possibly ask for. But would she want him? A man whom many considered fit for the grave? He wouldn't die now, he was certain. But neither could he claim to be the strong, young man he'd once been. Faye seemed so young, but his unnatural aging had not seemed to disturb her. More than once she'd scoffed at his attempts to draw that distinction between them. He'd hoped it was because she still found him attractive despite his weakness and his scars, but perhaps he had read far too much into her replies.

"Saab?" Ahmad entered his library. "A note has come for you."

Matthew resisted the temptation to grab it. He hoped it was from Faye and would give him permission to call.

But, as soon as he saw the engraved words, he felt a wave of disappointment.

"An invitation," he said to Ahmad in a contemplative tone, "and to a Christmas ball from one of the members of the Association committee. Well, it's clear that I must have been forgiven. It's been years since anyone's invited me to anything."