A Warrior for Christmas (2 page)

He moved his lips and she read, “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Scott.” He waved his other hand at the armchair. “Pray do not stand on my account.”

He was all decorum for one so newly arrived from the frontier. His uncle must have rehearsed him well. Sliding her fingers from his, she sank down into the chair. Her focus on Corwin’s face, she said, “Please join me.”

A smile touched his eyes with a near dizzying effect on her. “Gladly.”

If her guardian spoke, she failed to follow the movement of his lips, but was aware of the older man nudging Corwin into his usual seat before the hearth and pulling up another chair for himself.

She looked into Corwin’s unrelenting gaze. “How do you like Whitfield Place?”

“Very well, thank you.”

She detected the reserve in his expression. He’d left something unsaid. She wished this dark house had more life, more cheer. “‘Tis rather glum now, I fear. You will join in our Christmas celebration, will you not, Mister Whitfield?”

He seemed puzzled.

“We have a lovely dinner.” She lifted her face to her guardian’s. “We must have quite the feast this Yuletide in honor of your nephew’s coming.”

“Of course. He will enjoy the festivity.”

“We are a merry company at Christmas, Mister Whitfield. ’Tis only seven days hence,” she reminded her guardian.

“I suppose you’ll want invitations sent out at once,” he grumbled, but his eyes belied his pretended annoyance.

“I shall pen them on the morrow, sir, with your leave. I was afraid lest you not return in time.”

“As you see, we are here in ample time. Invite all the neighbors to our dinner.”

“And dance,” she prompted.

“We shall have musicians aplenty. Whatever you like,” Mister Whitfield promised.

“Oh, good.” She envisioned the merriment and wonder of having such a guest as Corwin. Inexplicably drawn to him, she said, “I’m certain we shall be splendid friends.”

“I look forward to deepening our acquaintance. Yet I remember little of English dancing.”

“I shall teach you, Mister Whitfield.”

His lips twitched. “What shall I teach you, Miss Scott?”

Her heart fluttered at the thought of all he could likely instruct her in. “Please, call me Dimity.”

Corwin replied, “Call me Black Hawk.”

Startled beyond words, she widened her eyes at him. Fortunately, her guardian had taken no notice of his nephew’s outrageous response and she suspected he’d only mouthed it.

His smile broadened. “You must call me Corwin. We can’t have two Mister Whitfields.”

“Indeed,” she said, studying him all the while.

There was much mystery in Corwin’s expression. He gestured little as he spoke and seemed quite self-contained.

He was full of secrets, and Dimity determined to ferret out the truth. After she lost her hearing, she’d found her other senses heightened and often detected that in people which others missed.

She bent toward him, the thrill of discovery pulsing in her veins. “Tell me of the red men. What was it like to live among the Indians?”

Before Corwin replied, her guardian cupped his fingers to her chin and tilted her face to meet his frown. “Do not invite my nephew to speak of those savages.”

“But the tediousness of my hours with you so often away and him newly come would be enlivened by his tales.”

A milder look came into Mister Whitfield’s expression, but he shook his head. “Speak all you like to Corwin and him to you, my dear, but not of the life I wish him to forget.”

She doubted Corwin had in any way forgotten.

“His place is here now,” Mister Whitfield continued. “You must encourage him in his new life, my little Quaker.”

In the greenish depths of Corwin’s eyes, she saw a blend of anticipation and reluctance. Then Dimity knew he would leave them and return to these people unless she prevailed upon him to stay. How could she compete with the primal call of the frontier?

****

Corwin couldn’t take his eyes from Dimity. Not only was she the most exquisite creature he’d ever seen, but communication between them wasn’t possible if he looked away. Conversing with her was a far more intimate affair than with any other woman. Normally he didn’t speak face to face. With rare exceptions, he’d remained aloof from women. But now, in the flash of her smile, all that had changed.

He’d detected no fear in Dimity when he mouthed his Indian name, only shock and then fascination. Most women would have been horrified. She was unique in many respects. But his uncle would have to interfere. At the same time the old bear pushed them together, he did his utmost to pry Corwin from the past. He wanted Corwin strictly on his terms, the price a steep one. Surrender his freedom, and all that Corwin beheld was his.

Dimity’s eyes were so bright it made him ache with a need he hadn’t even known he possessed. Plainly, she wanted to ask him something. “What do you remember of your parents?”

Her question took him unawares, as did the accompanying stab in his heart, but he managed to say, “Everything. I was fourteen when they died—”

Uncle Randolph broke in. “A good man was my younger brother, John, and Corwin’s mother, Eugenia. More’s the pity John took them off into that Godforsaken wilderness. Got himself and Eugenia killed and young Corwin captured. How he has any fondness for those murdering savages is beyond me.”

“I wasn’t adopted into the family of the warrior who killed them,” Corwin attempted.

His uncle glowered into the fire.

Dimity was white-faced and shaken. “Forgive me for intruding upon such painful memories.”

The tension in Uncle Randolph’s demeanor lessened and he patted her hand. “No need for an apology, my dear. Time my wayward nephew realizes the error of his ways.”

Never mind
, Corwin mouthed at her in an effort to ease her discomfort, and his. Why hadn’t Uncle Randolph told her how his parents died and spared them both? He could imagine the terse man saying, “They died,” and letting it go at that, and her thinking they passed away of fever.

Before Corwin could say anything more, two footmen entered the room bearing silver trays with a steaming soup tureen, bowls and spoons, a blue and white china plate piled with fruit tarts, mugs of ale, crystal glasses and a bottle of fine wine. His stomach growled at the sight and scent of this plentiful repast.

The food was spread on a circular tea table and the men served where they sat. Dimity accepted a glass of Madeira. Hearty eating and strengthening swallows ensued before Corwin paused again to look at her. She seemed to appreciate simply watching him down his supper. The poor girl needed more to occupy her than idling about this vast house. Though indulged, she was kept under Uncle Randolph’s substantial thumb. Was she really as delicate as he’d said, or was the old gentleman overly fearful for her?

The blue gown beneath Dimity’s shawl draped a sweet figure. Not too thin, like that of an invalid’s. Her chest curved nicely from what Corwin could tell. He dared not explore more fully for fear of detection, but she appeared healthy, enticingly so. As if he needed any more enticement to admire every line of her feminine form, follow her every gesture.

One of the footmen added cords of wood to the blaze. A shower of sparks flew up and Dimity’s focus drifted to the hearth. Corwin thought of all the nights he’d spent seated around the circle of light in the
wican
or out in the open, sharing stories and a sense of camaraderie. He’d reveled in that world, despite its moments of cruelty and deprivation. What did Dimity ponder as she gazed into the orange glow?

Corwin set his empty mug and bowl on the table and reached his hand to her shoulder. She returned her eyes to his scrutiny. “What are you thinking?”

Sadness tinged her gaze, but she shrugged off his question and looked away.

He lifted his hand to her cheek. How soft her skin felt beneath his fingers as he turned her face back to his. “Please, tell me.”

“Only that Mama used to sit by the fire with me and sew. Papa read to us. Happy times, so companionable…”

He understood the bittersweet sentiment, and found himself saying, “You will be happy again.”

She smiled past the misty remembrance in her expression. “I’m sure I shall, now that you and my guardian are come.”

A newly filled mug at his lips, the older man swallowed. “Corwin shall assure your happiness, will you not?”

Stunned by his uncle’s less than subtle coercion, he simply nodded. He wasn’t prepared for that commitment anymore than he’d been to meet Dimity in the first place.

A shadow fell over her face and further dulled the brightness that had been there at his coming. “You care too well for me, dearest Mister Whitfield. Do not press your nephew for more than he can allow us.”

How had she read that response in Corwin’s eyes? Hadn’t he been taught to school his emotions?

She smiled faintly at him. “I request only the pleasure of your company this week, sir, and during our Christmas gathering.” Formality edged her tone.

Uncle Randolph narrowed his eyes at Corwin. “He shall be staying a great deal longer than that. Here sits the future master of Whitfield Place.”

Dimity didn’t appear so certain.

Neither was Corwin.

Uncle Randolph drained his ale and got to his feet. “You two sit before the hearth and enjoy this excellent fire awhile longer.” He smothered a yawn. “These old bones have endured enough for one day. I’m off to my bed. Mistress Stokes or Dimity will show you to your chamber, nephew.”

He was leaving them alone? What was the old fox up to now, trying to extract a marriage proposal from Corwin before the night was out? He grew more eccentric by the hour.

A blush stained Dimity’s cheeks, no doubt mortified at her guardian’s contrivance to throw them together. Even Corwin knew this wasn’t proper, and Uncle Randolph had been the very one to impress propriety upon him. Not that Corwin preferred to have a chaperone, but it seemed Dimity did.

Rising immediately after Mister Whitfield’s departure, she said to Corwin, “Pray excuse me, sir. I also must retire to my chamber.”

He admired her restraint when she was clearly distressed. Getting to his feet, he offered her a bow. His eyes met hers as he looked up. In them he read embarrassment and something else, a desire to linger with him, but he could say nothing other than, “Of course. I should also retire.”

“Certainly. I will show you the way if you like, or you can ring for Mistress Stokes.”

Corwin extended his arm to her. “I should be honored if you would guide me.”

She glanced at him, fair brows arching in surprise, and then slid her arm through his. Lifting her long skirts with her free hand, she walked by his side across the room and out into the hall. Her grace impressed him.

Here and there, candles burning in sconces guided them along the shadowed hallway. Framed portraits of folk he assumed were long dead ancestors hung on the walls and they passed doors on either side of the passage.

She paused before one closed door. “This is your chamber. Mine is above the stairs on the right. I trust you will find all you require. If not, ring for a servant.”

The light was too dim here for him to speak to her in return. She couldn’t see his face. He wanted to thank her and bid her goodnight, to tell her he cared for her a far cry more than he’d ever meant to, but where would that lead? If he intended to leave Whitfield, it was better not to mislead her. What did he mean
if
?
When
he left…

She slipped her arm from his. “Sleep well, Corwin.”

With that soft whisper, she turned away. But where there had been vibrancy in her before, now there was sadness. This was his doing. Cursing his independent nature and love of the frontier, he closed his hand around the doorknob.

****

Little Quaker
?
Of course
. Dimity was purity itself and dwelt in silence. His uncle’s fond name for her made sense now. Corwin drove a fist into his palm. Why had he let her go without a word? He should have found some way to offer her comfort.

Berating himself, he paced back and forth in his chamber. The fire in the hearth made shadows on the walls.

“Callous lout,” he muttered, and sat on the edge of the four-poster bed to pull off his boots. They thumped onto the floral carpet covering the better part of his room.

It was wicked how he’d distressed that remarkable girl—woman—young lady. Likely she was weeping in her chamber even now. Not that she’d thank him for his pity, but it wasn’t only pity he felt for her, not by half.

He’d never known anyone who was truly good before…well, maybe his mother. Certainly not his father; he’d been too self-centered. As was Uncle Randolph, though at least he’d recognized Dimity’s worth and done his best for her.

Corwin rose and stripped off his coat, waistcoat and breeches, depositing them over a carved chair with a scarlet seat. He paced to the linen washstand in his shirt and stockings and splashed his face with cold water from the basin. Clean towels hung over the rod above the stand. Lying on it was a tiny brush and small porcelain box with powder for cleaning his teeth, though he preferred to chew twigs of birch or sweet gum trees.

While he readied for bed, he pondered his dilemma. How could he remain indefinitely at Whitfield Place? And yet, how could he leave and be at peace in his mind and heart? Somehow, he had to make sure Dimity was all right before he made his furtive departure soon after Christmas.

So distracted was Corwin, he’d had only a vague awareness of the expense lavished on this chamber, and seemingly on him.

Now, standing in his nightshirt, he surveyed the room. An ornate chest of drawers stood along one blue wall. On a second dresser were scent bottles, a silver-handled hairbrush and comb. A glance inside the drawers revealed shirts, stockings, handkerchiefs…someone had taken pains to prepare for his arrival. A wine-red robe lay across the embroidered coverlet on his bed.

He even had a desk, complete with a small pewter ink pot, quill pens, a knife for sharpening them and sheets of paper should he care to write any of his friends. However, few of them were educated.