A Warrior for Christmas (3 page)

His mother had taught him to read and write, though he hadn’t put pen to paper in years. Then he had a thought.

Donning the robe against the draft, he carried the lit candle in the brass holder from the bedside stand to the desk and sat down in the chair.

In a careful hand
he wrote
, My dear Madame
, uncertain how else to address Dimity.

By the light of a thousand sunrises and countless full moon circles I grew into the warrior called Black Hawk. I do not know how to become the man named Corwin Whitfield, nor if I wish to be…

Chapter Two

Restless from a troubled sleep, Dimity rose before the sun. Gowned in her nightdress, slippers and shawl, she paced across her darkened chamber.
What was she to do?
Corwin seemed bent on leaving, and yet in such a short while she’d fallen in love with him. Almost from the first glance.

Foolish. She should better guard her heart. She’d given up futile fancies of love and marriage after scarlet fever robbed her of a normal life.

Chilled, she stirred up the fire in the grate with a poker and tossed on a log, then turned away.
What’s this
?

By the light of the rekindled flames, she saw a letter slid beneath her door. How long had it been there? She bent to retrieve the missive that bore the Whitfield seal, a large W in red wax embellished with a circular filigree border. It was addressed to Miss Dimity Scott.

This couldn’t be from her guardian. Her name wasn’t penned in his hand. Besides, why would he write to her in the night? That’s when it must have been the delivered.

Was it possible—could it be—from Corwin? Taken captive at fourteen, he might remember how to read and write.

She dashed to her desk and opened the seal with a pen knife. At a glance she noted his signature at the bottom. Shaking so hard she could scarcely contain herself, she curled in the seat by the hearth to read his painstaking words. It must have been years since he’d written anything.

In a few lines, he told her a great deal about himself and in a manner that had eluded his uncle. Despite Corwin’s reluctance to remain at Whitfield, he hadn’t robbed her of all hope. He said she was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen, that he admired her and wished her all possible joy…but would he be part of bringing about that happiness? He gave her no such assurance. And yet, he’d signed his letter, Corwin Whitfield, not Blackhawk.

None of the gentlemen who’d called on her at Whitfield cared enough to propose marriage to an impaired young lady. She expected they could be prevailed upon if Mister Whitfield fixed a substantial sum on her, and that her kind guardian had already allotted far more than he ought. But she had no desire to wed a man only induced to accept her by fortune.

That someone worthy of her vaulted regard should esteem her in return was joy unbounded. True love seemed more than she dared to hope for from Corwin, but affection…

Dimity read it over and over then clutched the parchment to her chest. A rosy blush washed the eastern sky above the snowy fields and wooded hills that stretched beyond the house. The icy weather had lifted overnight and with it, her spirits. Like a songbird winging heavenward.

For a time, she sat gazing out the window. Perhaps she was placing her heart in even greater danger, but she intended to better acquaint herself with the two men Corwin embodied. Maybe one, or both of his personae, would desire her enough to stay here, or at least take her with him wherever he went.

She imagined the excitement of sharing frontier life with him, and a shiver ran through her. Facing the risks alongside this deeply stirring man was far preferable to enduring solitude the remainder of her days.

A more intimidating thought occurred. Would they dwell in a frontier cabin or an Indian lodge? She couldn’t fathom the latter.

Pray God helped her win Corwin from these people who had such a hold on his heart. That would likely take a miracle. But Christmas was a most sacred day for wondrous works.

Eager to begin, she stood and pulled the velvet cord to ring for her maid. The slight figure in an oversized apron appeared with a tea tray, the drowsiness of night still in her eyes.

“Betty, I shall want plenty of warm water for bathing, and shake out my mauve gown. There is much to be done.”

Betty gave a sleepy nod of her capped head. “Yes, Miss.” She laid the tray on the bedside table and departed on her errand.

Meanwhile, Dimity would compose the invitations for their Christmas festivities. Brimming with more energy than she’d had in ages, she poured herself a strong cup of tea laced with cream and sugar and sat at her desk.

****

After sluicing himself with water in his chamber, dressing his hair in the acceptable fashion, and changing into fresh linen, Corwin strode behind Uncle Randolph into the dining room. Dimity hadn’t appeared at breakfast this morning before he and his uncle went out to tour the stables and ride over the estate. Now he was famished for his mid-day meal and sight of her.

His heart doubled its beat. She was there before him, seated in one of the high-backed chairs along the right side of the well-laden table. Her eyes reflected the light of the chandelier overhead. His furtive letter must have done some good and she wasn’t crestfallen at his disclosure.

As before, her blond curls were arranged on her head beneath a circle of ribbons and lace, and framed her sweet face. The rose colored gown she wore brought out the bloom in her cheeks. How could he ever have thought her bland? She was like a spring blossom on this wintry day.

She smiled, and outshone the candles. “Good day, dear Mister Whitfield, and Corwin. Did you enjoy your ride?”

His uncle offered her a fond look, rare for anyone other than Dimity. “Invigorating.”

“Yes, thank you,” Corwin said, his eyes on Dimity as he took the seat his uncle indicated across from her.

Uncle Randolph stepped to the head of the table. “I dare say Corwin was properly impressed by his inheritance.”

The mammoth task of overseeing the day-to-day business of Whitfield’s blood horses, crops, and workers had also impressed itself on Corwin. At least Uncle Randolph employed a trustworthy man to help manage the estate. That task held scant appeal for Corwin though he did value the fine horses, and gave a nod.

The older man apprised him with a sage look. “Mark all that’s set before you, young sir, and gaze not lightly upon it. Your grandfather and I strove tirelessly to make Whitfield what it is. My fortuitous marriage swelled the coffers, but that’s not the only reason I wed Martha.”

“Of course not,” Dimity soothed the gruff man. “You were devoted to saintly Mrs. Whitfield, God rest her.”

Corwin never met the woman who had been his aunt.

Uncle Randolph shifted his eyes between them and then bowed his head. Dimity and Corwin followed suit. “Let us thank the Lord for his good providence.” His uncle prayed, “God bless us in what we are to receive…”

Corwin recalled saying grace from his early years; it gave him a peculiar twinge to hear those familiar words again.

Dimity lifted her head and met his gaze. He detected some mischief in her regard totally unrelated to his uncle’s sermonizing or the prayer. She knew something he did not, but said nothing more. He had no idea what she was scheming.

Feigning nonchalance—she was so transparent—she dipped her spoon into the blue and white porcelain bowl. He did the same and spilled a few drops of soup on the snowy tablecloth in his distraction. Aware of her amusement, he dabbed at it with his napkin.

Uncle Randolph ate steadily while scrutinizing them. He signaled Dimity to be certain of her attention. “What say you, my little Quaker? Are the invitations ready to post?”

Again, that mysterious smile of hers. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. I shall send a courier round with them after dinner so all the neighbors receive theirs promptly. I must say I’m glad to see you in such high spirits.”

She appeared on the verge of crowing. Placing her smooth white fingers together and balancing her chin on the tips, she announced, “Mister Johnson, the most excellent dance master, accepted my invitation to call this afternoon. He’s bringing his sister, Miss Johnson, with him to play for us. Corwin, you shall learn to dance.”

He nearly dropped his jaw.

A somewhat alarming grin split Uncle Randolph’s grizzled face. “Splendid. High time my nephew learnt to comport himself properly.”

Dimity was all graciousness apart from that spark of roguery. “And I shall be his partner.”

Uncle Randolph regarded her with the deepest affection. “I dare say he can have no better.”

“And I dare say I shall trample her poor toes,” Corwin argued.

Glowing like a star come to life, she waved aside his protest. “‘Tis a risk I shall take. You move with the grace of a stag.”

“Even so, I knew little merry making in my former life. My mother was of a serious bent and Papa often away. My attendance at dances was rare.”

His uncle squinted at him with his good and bad eye. “A gentleman must know how to dance. You can have no standing in society if you cannot step lively.” Seemingly struck by his wit, Uncle Randolph threw back his head and guffawed.

A giggle actually escaped Dimity.

Corwin savored the sweet sound, and wondered how he’d come to be seated in this elegant room between this shining angel and that old devil. Not so many weeks ago he’d stalked the wilds with his adopted brother in pursuit of the very stag she’d mentioned. He very much doubted his knowledge of tribal dances, including the war dance, was of any use in this circumstance. Life, at least his, was indeed strange.

Then he surveyed the radiance in Dimity’s face and prepared to be made a fool of. He owed her all possible happiness before he went on his way. As for Uncle Randolph, Corwin’s conscience gave him another twinge at the thought of disappointing the old gentleman.

At least his uncle would still have Dimity’s company at Whitfield. Where else could she go, Corwin concluded, endeavoring not to consider how he’d manage without her.

If only everything could be as it was before that contemptible treaty and Uncle Randolph’s reappearance in his life. And his meeting Dimity. Corwin had never known anyone like her existed in this world. Trouble was, Whitfield Place wasn’t his world. It wouldn’t, couldn’t be…could it?

****

With the furniture pushed back, the drawing room was fit for a ball and Dimity felt like a duchess. The dance master and his sister had come; Mistress Stokes, Mister Whitfield, and most importantly Corwin were all assembled.

Radiating good will, Mister Johnson beamed at the small gathering from beneath his powdered wig. Spectacles that made his eyes appear oddly large were propped atop a protruding nose with a reddish tip. His scarlet waistcoat strained to cover an ample paunch. A rotund little man, he was an unlikely dance expert, but one of the very best with a talent for playing the fiddle that made his presence coveted in all the grand homes. Though raised as a gentleman, difficult circumstances compelled him to increase his income. Loving nothing better than music, he did not suffer in the venture.

“Now then, Miss Scott,” Mister Johnson said, “which dance shall we commence with? Do you fancy the minuet, or an English country dance?”

“Not the minuet.” Such formal steps were unlikely to gain Corwin’s attention. Raw energy emanated from him, though he looked quite the gentleman in a green brocade coat that enhanced his eyes. His dark hair was drawn back in a queue and tied with a black ribbon. The matching breeches fit him well. His uncle had outfitted him in the latest fashion down to his black boots, as he’d foregone shoes.

“A country dance, I believe,” she said.

Her guardian inclined his head. The far more animated Mister Johnson clapped his hands together. “Quite right.” It was difficult to believe those stubby fingers could work such magic with the fiddle.

Mistress Stokes, pressed into partnering Mister Whitfield, remained expressionless. It seemingly made no difference to her whether they danced a sprightly jig or an intricate minuet from the court of King George.

As for Corwin, his eyes rarely left Dimity’s face, and gave her such a flutter she could scarcely attend to Mister Johnson. But she had to swivel her head at the dance master to read his lips.

Strutting like a puffed up bantam, Mister Johnson waved everyone into place. “Ladies and gentlemen, please form two lines facing your partner. Young Mister Whitfield, bear in mind that we shall have far more couples present on the night of the dance. Still, the essential movements are the same.”

Dimity stood across from Corwin and her guardian faced Mistress Stokes. Mister Johnson wore on, “The senior Mister Whitfield and his esteemed housekeeper are the lead couple and will repeat the figures of the dance with the next one or two couples. In this event, only one, unless you anticipate entertaining more guests this afternoon?” he asked, clearly in want of merrier company.

Mister Whitfield said, “Not that I am aware of.”

“If I might be permitted, my nephew, Mister Geoffrey Owen, attorney at law, and his most excellent sister, Miss Hortense Owen, are expected at my home at any hour and will remain with us over Christmas. I left instructions that they be directed on to Whitfield Place. Admirable dancers, both.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed her guardian’s good eye. He wasn’t an overly social man, and perhaps he’d met these particular relations before. She didn’t know, but he glanced at her and she gave him a pointed look. Corwin needed all the aid they could muster before the Christmas party.

Mister Whitfield acquiesced to the eager dance master. “I’m sure we should be glad of their company.”

“And delighted to entertain them again at our Christmas gathering,” Dimity added.

Mister Johnson couldn’t have appeared more pleased. “Most kind. Now, let us proceed. Young Mister Whitfield, please attend to my instructions,” he added, apparently noting Corwin’s distraction.