Marian's Christmas Wish (14 page)

“That does not mean I have put the matter to the test
yet, madam,” he protested. “After all, it is an event that a man wants to do
correctly. Wait for the right moment.”

Marian wished that he would not stand so close, and yet
she felt that if he moved away, she would follow him. How contradictory.

“You will put the matter to the test soon?” she asked,
and then looked down in confusion. “Of course, it is not my business. It’s just
that I, oh, I . . . “ Her words seemed to be dragging her down into a regular Devon quagmire.

“Pray continue, Marian,” he said.

“I shall not,” she declared with some asperity, and
then stepped away from him a little. “But I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I mean, it is the height of rudeness to dangle one’s
thoughts for all to see and then not complete them.”

“Most assuredly.”

She looked him directly in the eyes. “It is just that I
wish you well, my lord. That and no more. And I wish you would return to Bath,” she finished, her words tumbling out of her. “Only think of those who love you,
sir.”

His glance did not waver. “That is precisely what I am
doing, Marian. And I will not go to Bath this Christmas.”

“You’re dreadfully stubborn,” she raged. “I am glad I
do not have to face you across a treaty table.”

“Yes, I suppose I am stubborn,” he agreed. He took her
face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead. “And you are an abominable,
nosy brat.” He released her as quickly as he had kissed her. “Run along, now. I
have a matter to discuss with your brother, if he has quite recovered from the
parson.”

She looked at him, her cheeks red but her eyes filled
with interest.

“And I will not tell you what it is, save that it
touches on your wretched brother Alistair. Go away, now.”

With a laugh and an airy wave of her hand, Marian
danced down the hall to her room, pausing at the door and then looking back. He
had not moved. He still regarded her with that curious smile.

“Until tonight, Marian?”

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Dinner was a hasty affair, quickly gotten over. Percy,
Lady Wynswich on his arm, led them into the old hall, which twinkled with
lights from many branches of candles. “You see, my lord, this is the only
fireplace big enough for the log,” Percy explained to Ingraham, who trailed
behind with Marian.

“We have such a fireplace at Collinwood,” replied the
earl. “And, no, I should not be there,” he whispered to Marian, who had opened
her mouth to speak. She closed it and glared at him until he laughed.

The butler had arranged Lord Wynswich’s silver punch
cups around the large silver bowl, and was wiping off the last of the Lafite ‘Ol.
“I was sure that the occasion called for Lafite, my lord,” the butler explained
to Percy, who nodded.

“But all the bottles, Billings?” Percy asked him.

The butler shook his head. “I have held back a
half-dozen, in the event that Miss Marian someday finds her way to the altar
and you feel the necessity for another celebration.”

Percy released his mother and grabbed Marian around the
waist. “Now, that would be cause for rejoicing, but where will we ever find a
man to make such a sacrifice of his reason?”

Marian blushed. “Percy! For that rude crack you must
allow me to light the Yule log.”

He removed one candle from the branch on the table. “I
suppose I must, my dear. Here you are.”

“And does one make a wish on the log, too?” Lord
Ingraham asked.

“No, silly,” Marian replied. “That is only the
Christmas pudding.” She looked at Ariadne. “Did your wish come true today? You
may tell us if it did, you know.”

Ariadne cuddled in closer to the vicar and nodded. He
kissed her and everyone applauded. Marian reached for Percy’s hand. “Come,
brother.”

He took her hand, holding it tight as she knelt by the
fireplace and touched the candle to the tinder surrounding the enormous log.
The tinder crackled as the little flames jumped around the log and finally the
log began to burn. Marian blew out the candle and looked at Percy.

He cleared his throat. “I wish Papa were here to say
it.”

“I know,” she said, her voice tight and far away. She
clung tighter to his hand. “But it is your turn, Percy.”

Percy looked into the flames for a long minute.

Marian reached her hand up and placed it on his
shoulder, holding him close to her, resting her head for a moment on his back.
She held out her other hand. “Come, come, let us join hands.”

The earl took her by the hand and held his out for Lady
Wynswich, who struggled with tears. “Lady Wynswich, be so kind,” he murmured.

“It is never the same,” she said, her voice uncertain.
She grasped his hand.

“No, it is not,” he agreed. “But here we are.”

They all joined hands in front of the fireplace, when
the Yule log had caught in good earnest. The warmth was welcome, the smell of
the wood the nearest thing to heaven.

Marian looked at Ariadne, and she nodded.

“‘May the fire of this log warm the cold,’” Percy
began, his voice unsure. Then he looked at Marian. “‘And may the hungry be fed.
May the weary find rest,’” he continued, his eyes on the earl. “‘And may all
enjoy heaven’s peace.”

No one said anything. The Christmas spell and Lord
Wynswich’s spirit rested on them like a benediction for just a moment. Lady Wynswich
sneezed. “If there is a worse drawing fireplace in Devon, I declare I do not
know of it,” she exclaimed, and everyone laughed.

Percy signaled Billings to fill the cups from the punch
bowl. When everyone had a cup in hand, he held his high. “I propose to honor
Sam Beddoe,” he began, “who has so courageously decided to ally himself with
the Wynswich family” —he looked at Alistair— “and all its secrets. I’m
convinced there is not a braver man in this part of England. Hear, hear.”

A toast for Ariadne followed. Alistair sidled up to his
sister. “Percy could go on for hours like this. D’ye think the government
encourages diplomats to carry on like this?”

“I daresay,” Marian said. “Alistair, it is almost
perfect.”

Alistair took another sip of his punch. “Almost, Mare?
Almost?”

“Well, yes. I wish that Lord Ingraham could be
convinced to hurry off to Bath, where his relatives are.” Marian held out her
cup for another dipper of punch. “But he will have none of it. And he as much
as told me there is someone he is redding up his nerve to propose to. Oh, I do
not understand men.”

Alistair regarded her thoughtfully. “I could put my
mind to this, Mare. Really concentrate on a solution.”

She shook her head. “Even I must go down to defeat on
occasion. We were lucky to squeak through this morning’s bumble broth. Such
good fortune seldom comes twice in the same day.”

But what a pleasant thought, Marian considered as she
sipped her punch and watched Lord Ingraham. Her mother seemed to have forgiven
him his scar. She had pulled him a little to one side and was carrying on at
length. How patient he is, she thought as she leaned against the fireplace and
watched him.

How foolish she was to have thought him old. It was
only his salt-and-pepper hair that made him look old. There was nothing ancient
about the spring in his step, or the quick way his eyes darted about a room, or
the way his lips just naturally curled into a smile. I wonder if he likes
children.

The thought made her look down into her cup and swish
it around suspiciously. My thoughts are certainly traveling far afield, she
thought. It must be the punch. She set the cup down hastily and moved toward
the stairs, where she sat.

Marian rested her chin in her hands and watched them
all: Ariadne and the vicar talking and laughing with the others, but never
farther away from each other than a hand’s touch; Alistair with his beautiful
Wynswich hair, all cropped up the back; her mother and Percy close,
disagreements forgotten, at least for the moment.

Lord Ingraham looked back at her.

She sat up as he came closer and joined her on the next
step up. “My legs are too long for that bottom step,” he said. “Some of us are
less economical than others.”

She only smiled and returned her chin to her hands.

“At a loss for words, Marian?” he asked finally, his
voice low.

Marian shook her head. “I was merely thinking how much
I love them all, for all their faults and silly notions . . . and for all of
mine.” She spoke seriously. “For I have many faults, my lord.’’ She scooted up
a step until she sat next to him. “But they love me anyway. I do not pretend to
understand it.”

“Love is a powerful emotion,” her companion murmured.

She nodded and rose to her feet. She held out her hand
to him. “Good night, sir. If I stay here much longer, I will indulge in a bout
of tears, and everyone will be maudlin.”

He made no attempt to dissuade her. “Good night,
Marian,” he said, and kissed her fingers.

She withdrew her hand reluctantly. “Don’t . . . don’t
forget your salve.”

It was an easy matter, once in her room, to shuck off
her clothing and climb into bed. She knew she would sleep long and heartily. In
the morning, Percy, her mother, Ariadne, and the vicar were to attempt Lyme
Regis again, this time to permit their solicitor to draw up the marriage
arrangements.

And then you will be happy, Ariadne, Marian thought as
she brushed her hair until it crackled, and tied on her sleeping cap. But for
tomorrow, I will have the house practically to myself. If Mama refuses to sleep
until noon these days, I shall.

*

“Marian? I say, Mare, are you awake?”

Marian glanced and turned over in her bed, tucking her
arms about her pillow, folding it in a tight embrace.

“Mare. Mare? We really have a matter to discuss—and
quickly, too. Oh, do wake up.”

Alistair. His words finally penetrated her brain and
she opened her eyes.

Sunlight streamed in the window. Alistair must have
pulled back the draperies. Marian yanked her pillow over her head. “Go away,”
she muttered. “Surely it can wait.”

“Mare, listen to me. Mare, if you go back to sleep, I
shall be forced to do something drastic. Oh, God, what am I saying? I already
did that.” He sat down on the bed, shaking her. “Mare. You’d better wake up.”

“Go away.”

He would not.

With one last sigh, Marian rolled over and looked up
into her brother’s face. She peered closer and rubbed her eyes. This was not
the face of someone indulging in light fancy. As she stared at him long and
hard, Alistair began to gnaw his lower lip.

She sat up. “What are you up to, Alistair?” She took
off her sleeping cap and shook out her hair. “Alistair, answer me.”

He got up from her bed. “Maybe you had better just come
with me.”

“Where?” she asked suspiciously.

“To Lord Ingraham’s room.”

She stared at him and drew the blankets around her. “Are
you all about in your head, brother? What makes you think for one second that I
would go in this state to Lord Ingraham’s room?”

Alistair backed toward the door. “Do you recall what I
said last night about really concentrating on the problem of getting Lord
Ingraham home to Bath?”

She nodded, watching the expression in her brother’s
eyes as little prickles of warning began to gather together in her brain.

“Alistair, if you have done something to Lord Ingraham
...”
She held her breath.

He wouldn’t look at her. “We can bounce him onto the
next mail coach to Bath and he’ll never know what hit him.”

“Alistair . . .” she began, her voice low and
threatening. “I drugged him, Mare.”

In one quick motion, Marian threw back the covers and
leapt from her bed. She grabbed up the hem of her nightgown so she would not
trip over it, and raced to Lord Ingraham’s room, Alistair hot on her bare
heels.

Lord Ingraham lay on his bed, his shoes off, his pants
unbuttoned. His arms were flung wide across the bed, which looked unrumpled, as
though he had not moved all night.

“What did you do?” Marian asked in a quiet voice.
Alistair didn’t answer, so she asked louder. “Alistair, you had better tell me
right now.”

He hung his head. “After you left, and Ariadne and Mama
went off to plot the wedding some more. Percy broke out the Lafite. The vicar
wasn’t up to it, but the rest of us settled down for some serious drinking.” He
glanced sideways at Marian, as if to test the waters. “Lord Ingraham can really
pack away wine.”

Marian moved closer to the bed. She watched the earl,
looking for signs of life. “Is he breathing? Good God, Alistair.”

“I hope so,” her brother replied. “Whatever will we
tell his relatives? The Regent? Good God, Percy?”

“Good God Percy indeed! What, then?” she asked, her
voice deadly quiet.

“I was watching Lord Ingraham when I got a great idea,
a truly brilliant stroke. I went out to the workshop for that little brown
bottle. You know, the one you use to send little wounded animals off to a
better world. Oh, Mare, don’t look at me like that.”

“Alistair,” she shrieked. “You idiot!”

She ran to the bed and jumped on it, grabbing the front
of Lord Ingraham’s shirt and unbuttoning it.

“I figured it out pound for pound, Mare,” said
Alistair. “If three drops will cock up a rabbit’s toes, I thought that—”

“Oh, hush,” she ordered, and laid her ear upon the earl’s
heart. At least he’s still warm, she thought grimly as she closed her eyes and
rested her head against his chest.

It seemed an eternity to her, but his heart beat
steadily, slowly, as if in the embrace of a deep sleep. Marian sighed, her mind
blank with gratitude, enjoying for a moment more that pleasant odor that came
from Lord Ingraham’s skin. It wasn’t the smell of cologne, or cigar smoke, or
liquor. It was just he. He was a hairy-chested man, and he was quite
comfortable. She rested there a moment, covered with relief, while Alistair
hovered nearby.

With a sigh of his own, Lord Ingraham put his arms
around her. Marian squeaked in surprise as he rolled over with her in his arms
and snuggled his head between her breasts. As she struggled to free herself, he
sighed again, ran his hand under her nightgown, and rested it on her thigh.

“Alistair,” she hissed, “do something! Alistair?”

She pulled Lord Ingraham’s hand off her thigh and he
promptly replaced it, wrapping his other arm around her waist. She wormed her
way out from under his armpit, looking about desperately for Alistair, who had
dropped to the floor in wild laughter.

Shaking with mirth, he got to his knees and stared at
his sister. “Mare, you can’t imagine how funny you look!”

“Alistair, I’ll get you for this, see if I don’t,” she
whispered furiously as she tugged at her nightgown and wrestled with Lord
Ingraham’s hand.

The earl began to nuzzle her along the line of her jaw
with slow, deliberate kisses, murmuring something deep in his throat. She lay
still, feeling an urge, totally absurd, to return his kisses and murmur along
with him. But his face was scratchy from an overnight beard, and there was
Alistair, his eyes alive with humor.

“Alistair,” she began, her voice honey-soft, “if you
expect me for one moment to extricate you from the ridiculous scrape you are
in, you’d better shift Lord Ingraham, and be quick about it. And for heaven’s
sake, close the door.”

The menace in her voice was sufficient to propel him to
the door, which he locked. “Look at it this way, Mare,” he said as he returned
to the bed and sat upon it. “At least we are assured that Lord Ingraham is very
much alive.” The thought sent Alistair into another spasm of laughter.

“Brother,” Marian pleaded. Lord Ingraham abandoned her
thigh and began working on the buttons of her nightgown. “Lord Ingraham,” she
muttered through clenched teeth, “you are amazingly dexterous.”

He said something in reply, and she started. He said
something else, yawned, and lapsed into sleep again, his fingers still twined
in the buttonhole.

Alistair recovered himself and turned Lord Ingraham
onto his back again. Marian wiggled out from under him, her face bright red
with embarrassment and whisker burn. She yanked her nightgown down and grabbed
her brother by his shirt front. “You ought to be locked up. And now, what are
we going to do with this poor man?”

Alistair spread out his hands and shrugged. “I thought
we could take him in the gig as far as the Picton-Lyme Regis crossing and
trundle him onto the next mail coach. You know, put a tag on him reading, ‘Bath’
...”
His voice trailed off. “Well, it
seemed like such a scathing idea last night.” His tone became reminiscent, fond
even. “Papa used to say he had his best ideas over a Lafite.”

Marian turned away in disgust and plopped herself down
at the foot of the bed, careful to stay out of Lord Ingraham’s reach. “Gil will
be simply furious when he finally regains consciousness.”

Alistair sat beside her. “He will be furious no matter
where he comes to, Mare. Why not let it be on the mail coach to Bath?” She regarded her brother in silence and then looked at Lord Ingraham, who was sound
asleep again. She got to her feet and leaned across the bed, touching the scar
on his cheek. “We couldn’t just put him on the coach. That would be foolish,
perhaps dangerous.” She opened the jar of salve by the bed and applied a thin
layer to his cheek, hardly aware of what she was doing. She rested her
fingertips for another moment on his neck below the jawline and satisfied
herself that his pulse was regular.

“Alistair, we will have to see that he gets to Bath. We must accompany him.”

He stared at her. “Mare, even in my wildest plotting,
never did I ever consider such a thing.”

“We must,” she argued. “Suppose we did put a note on
him? Someone could do him harm. Suppose he did not waken in time to get off at Bath? I can’t imagine what you were thinking, but now that you have started this deed, we
may as well finish it right.”

“Mare, do you know, I believe we could escort Lord
Ingraham to Bath, take the next coach to Picton, and be back here Christmas
Eve.”

“We could,” she agreed, and sat down slowly. “Alistair,
this is all so wrong! Oh,
how
could you do such a thing! Percy will be furious with
us, and he should be!”

A variety of emotions crossed Alistair’s face.
Irritation was succeeded by stubbornness, which gave way to momentary
contrition, which was replaced by a look of determination that reminded Marian
forcefully of Bertram Wynswich in his wildest moments. She sighed and waited
for her brother to speak.

“Caesar and the Rubicon, my dear,” he said at last, and
looked at her expectantly.

Marian stared at him. “Alistair, you are making less
sense than usual!”

Alistair warmed to his subject. “Marian, I do remember
something of my Latin. I think even Julius Caesar would see this as a point of
no turning back.”

Marian uttered a sound of disgust, but Alistair waved
her away. “Now listen. I admit I made a shocking mull of this. If we do nothing
and remain here, Percy and Lord Ingraham will be furious. If we do something
and go to Bath, Percy and Lord Ingraham will still be furious.” He looked at
her shrewdly. “If we are doomed to censure, the rack, and exile, Mare, why not
at least get Lord Ingraham to Bath? It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

She nodded, in spite of her misgivings. “Oh, Alistair,
I just
know
he is
breaking his mother’s heart!” Marian squared her shoulders. “Papa would call
this a ‘bold stroke,’ would he not?”

Alistair nodded.

“I know it is not right,” she said, and touched Lord
Ingraham’s neck again, feeling for his pulse. “I truly think I want to have
done with pranks, Alistair.”

“Your New Year’s Resolution then, Mare,” he said.

“Perhaps . . . just this last time. We may regret this.”

“We may.”

“But Lord Ingraham might stay away from his mother and
sisters for another year.”

“He might.”

Her fingers still rested lightly on Lord Ingraham’s
neck. His slow but steady pulse reassured her, where Alistair’s words could
not. “Then let us get on with it, brother. With what are we to finance this
expedition, may I ask?”

He considered her question. “Mare, details don’t
generally rear their ugly heads when you are deep in Lafite.”

Marian sighed in exasperation.

Alistair pursed his lips, and then his eyes lit up. “Mare,
I could spout my watch.”

It was Marian’s turn to stare. Lord Ingraham stirred on
the bed, muttering something else, and she ran her hand along his leg to
silence him. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

“You know—spout, pawn, hock,” he whispered back. “I can
take my watch to Picton and come back with the ready in a flea’s leap. Oh, don’t
stare at me like that. I’ve spouted this watch at Eton more times than even I
remember.”

“Alistair, that will never be enough. But do you know,
I have that pearl necklace that belonged to Grandmama Wynswich.”

“Go fetch it, Mare,” Alistair said. “I can be back here
in thirty minutes, if you can get Lord Ingraham ready.”

She looked at the earl doubtfully. “Alistair, he is so
big.”

Her brother was on his feet. “Just tuck in his shirt
and button his pants. I’ll help you with his coat and hat, and we can get
Daniel from the stable to help us with the gig. Don’t just stand there. We’ve
got to act!”

“This is positively my last scheme, brother, I assure
you.”

They unlocked the door and tiptoed to Marian’s room.
She retrieved her pearl necklace from its case. “Hurry up,” she whispered. “We’ll
be ready when you return.”

With nerveless fingers, Marian pulled on her green
dress again. After a moment’s thought, she grabbed up two pairs of long woolen
stockings and put them both on, then pulled on her boots. She braided her hair
quickly and looped the long plaits around her head. Snatching up a bandbox, she
threw in a muslin dress, slippers, and nightgown.

She tiptoed back to Lord Ingraham’s room. He had not
moved. Locking the door behind her and wishing that her heart would not pound
so loud, she approached the bed again. His eyes were open a little. Marian
stood stock-still, certain that he was watching her.

“Gil?” she whispered.

He made no response, so she reached out and closed his
eyes all the way. To her relief, they stayed shut. Holding her breath, she
leaned over him and buttoned his shirt, but not before touching him and noting
how soft the hair on his chest was. “Who would have thought such a thing,” she
said out loud, and then looked around in embarrassment. Ariadne would swoon,
she thought as she finished buttoning his shirt.

Looking everywhere but at him. Marian tucked his shirt
into his pants and buttoned them, wondering all over again what Alistair had
plunged her into. She was at a loss over the earl’s neckcloth, and contented
herself with draping it around his neck and tying a loose knot. Perhaps
Alistair could do some justice to it later. She would wait until her brother
returned to attempt the boots.

“Mare? Open up.”

She unlocked the door and pulled Alistair inside. He
held out his wallet and showed her the results of his trip to Picton. “It’s
enough for our travels.”

They tugged Lord Ingraham’s boots on him as he sang a
tuneless little song and muttered under his breath again. “Marian.” he said
distinctly, and she jumped. He said nothing more, but slumbered on, a slight
smile on his face.

Sweating from the exertion of cramming boots onto a
deadweight. Alistair paused and looked down on the Earl of Collinwood. “This
must be what people call the sleep of the just. Look how peaceful he is.”

“You’re doomed never to know how that feels,” Marian
said with some feeling. “Brother, Percy will lapse into total unconsciousness
when he finds out what we have done.”