Chapter 12
Twelve
AS 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 be doomed to a permanent state of anxiety.
For though it appeared she was recovering her old spirits, 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 thunk of the sleigh flying over a snowbank.
He could see Greystone Castle drawing near.
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.
If it were happening in reality, that was. Perhaps Jonathan was still asleep. Having Claire back in his arms felt more like a dream than real life. Especially when she awakened shortly after him, blinking up at him, their faces just inches apart.
And when her lips curved in a sleepy, contented smile.
And when he raised a hand to her silky cheek, grazing his thumb over her full lower lip. And watched the drowsy look fade from her amethyst eyes, driven out by the same flare he’d seen last night.
Then they were kissing, and though he didn’t know who had started it, that didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was the feel of her, the taste of her, the essence of her. The heat and the sweetness and softness and rightness…
More, was his only coherent thought as he crushed her to him.
The kiss turned frantic as his hands roved with purpose, frustrated by all the bulky layers that were keeping them from her.
She plunged her own hands into his hair, dislodging his hat, while he worked his way beneath her blanket, inside her cloak, ripping off his gloves to get at the buttons of her pelisse. More…
The clatter of hooves upon the drawbridge broke the spell.
They sprang apart, tidying themselves as the sleigh passed through the gateway to circle the carriage sweep. Finding he’d lost his hat and one glove, Jonathan stuffed the other in his pocket and seized the reins. After doing up her buttons, Claire raised her muffler to hide her telltale rosy lips.
Though a footman materialized to assist the lady, Jonathan insisted on handing her down himself. And if, once Claire had descended, their hands failed to separate, either nobody noticed or those who did refrained from remarking.
They stood shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip as another footman approached, proffering a tray of mugs. They were full of something that steamed and smelled like Christmas. Jonathan accepted a pair and raised his to Claire, who stifled laughter as they clinked in a silent toast.
He held her gaze, drinking deeply. With a good deal of spice and a delicious heat, the drink thawed him from the inside out. He drained the whole mug.
When he called the footman back for another, Claire grinned. “You like my mother’s wassail?”
“I demand the recipe.” He clinked his second cup with hers.
“I’m afraid it’s a family recipe.” Her smile curled at one end. “Not to be shared with outsiders, 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 intriguing thought. I suppose there might be one way. But you may have—horsefeathers!”
“Pardon?” Laughing, Jonathan paused in scratching his chin. “I may have horsefeathers?”
“Jonathan!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“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 add citrus to the wassail?”
“No!” she cried. “I mean, yes, there’s orange in the recipe, but—argh!” In her fluster, she’d splashed all the remaining wassail down her front.
Regarding her with disbelief, he offered a handkerchief. “I don’t understand how you could do something like this. The Claire I knew would never—”
“I didn’t! That is, I didn’t mean for—” 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 the red stain that was spreading on her dress.
“Even if you meant to call it off,” he told her tersely, “that seems small consolation. The fact you ever planned—or sanctioned Elizabeth’s plan—for so malicious a trick cannot but make me question—”
“We didn’t plan it! This wasn’t one of our tricks—I swear!
—but just 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 forgot to omit…” She trailed off into an anguished groan. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”
Though he found her explanation rather muddled, Jonathan gleaned enough to feel a flood of relief. “If you say it was a mistake, I believe you. I’m very happy to believe you. I was beginning to fear you’d raised my hopes only for the greater satisfaction of dashing them.”
She shook her head fervently. “Of course not. 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 his physical distress was magnified. He began to scratch wildly. “I’ll be all right id ad hour or two—here—if I may—”
Retrieving 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. “I take it you found Lord Milstead?”
“I did.” Noah’s lip curled as he offered a hand to help Miss Harris dismount. “His lordship wisely chose to await his baggage at the stables.”
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 just up the road,” Noah went on, his eyes straying to Jonathan, “we met with an unexpected traveler. Rathborne, I don’t suppose you were expecting—”
“My mother?” Jonathan turned a stony gaze on Claire. “I most certainly was not.”
Noah glanced between the two of them, looking bewildered. “Claire invited her?”
“No!” She scowled back at them both. “Why would I?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Jonathan said. “If it’s not your way of strong-arming me into some harebrained ‘confrontation’—”
“I’d never do that,” she protested.
He shrugged. “Then I suppose it must be your coup de grace.”
“Must it?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Could your dear maman not have come here of her own accord?”
“No, she couldn’t; I told no one at Twineham where I was going. Someone here must have invited her, and who besides you could have any reason to do so?”
“I don’t know! All I know is I had nothing to do with it.”
“Right,” Jonathan said flatly. “Just as you had nothing to do with poisoning me, starving me, or hiding my clothes.”
Noah bristled. “What’s all this, Claire?”
She stayed her brother with a raised hand. “Jonathan, I—”
“It’s all right, Claire. Truly.” He was sincere. If he still reeled to think of the ruthlessness with which she’d pursued her vengeance, he could scarcely blame her for seeking it—not after learning today just how much harm he’d caused her. “It was no more than I deserved. But I’ve had enough.”
He turned to go, wondering whether this was the end for him and Claire. Was there too much hurt between them to ever be properly healed?
“Wait!” she called after him, but (hastened by his determination to avoid his mother’s presence) Jonathan was already gaining the entrance hall. From the commotion behind him, he gathered Claire would not follow him inside—at least, not until she’d satisfied her brother.
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 far behind.
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.