A Secret Scottish Christmas (Agents of the Crown Book 4) Page 11

Nash waved Ailie on and turned to Robbie. “What is it?”

  “We’ve work to do in Arbroath, or have you forgotten why we are here?” If Robbie were being honest, his irritation with his brother stemmed more from his monopolizing the beautiful girl than from shirking his responsibility.

  “I have not forgotten.”

  Robbie took account of his brother’s guilty expression. “Our enjoyment of the Stephens’ hospitality cannot come before our obligation to the Crown. I sense Kinloch is here and I’d rather catch him before he boards the Panmure.”

  “If I get back early, I can still go to town today. Otherwise, tomorrow. If the ship isn’t sailing until the end of the month, we have time.”

  “Not so much that you can be constantly seeking out Miss Stephen.”

  Nash raised his brows. “Jealous?”

  Robbie huffed. Nothing irritated him more than being called out on a weakness.

  Nash stared at him for a moment, seeing more than Robbie cared for him to. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll go tomorrow at the latest.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Robbie considered his brother’s choices. He had never before pursued a woman to the detriment of their duty. Was it the assignment that was so distasteful? Or, perhaps Nash’s feelings for the girl were more serious than Robbie had believed. Was this desire he was witnessing, or could it be more?

  Chapter 9

  “Mind the holly thorns!” Ailie shouted to the others riding behind her as they ventured deeper into the woods. She had given them cloth sacks in which to put the greenery they found and, just as they left, Will had given Hugh and Nash each a new tool.

  Captain Anderson had brought the pruning shears he called “sécateurs” back from France for Emily, telling her they would make short work of cutting woody stems.

  Now all they needed was the greenery they hunted: holly, red hawthorn berries and branches of Scots pine. Planning for the house to be well decorated for the English Christmastide, Emily had been growing rosemary, ivy and the hellebore she called Christmas rose in the orangery.

  Ailie had left Goodness and Mercy back at the house knowing the snow would be deep in the woods.

  She led the others along the road, now covered with snow up to the horses’ fetlocks. No ice had formed and the horses, unshod for the winter, soon found their footing. The horses showed great enthusiasm for the venture, snorting and shaking their heads when snow from high branches fell upon them.

  Being outdoors in the cold air enlivened Ailie’s spirit. That she rode with Nash only raised her enthusiasm for their outing.

  “I see some holly bushes over there,” cried Mary excitedly. Ailie turned in the saddle to see Hugh’s wife riding off to the left. Hugh reined his horse to follow.

  Ailie urged her mare on. She remembered a hawthorn tree in this part of the woods and was determined to find it. The birds often ate the berries, but if she could find some they had left, the red berries would make an attractive decoration along with the Scots pine branches she hoped to gather.

  Nash pulled up next to her. “What are you searching for?”

  “A hawthorn tree.”

  “Not just any greenery, then.”

  “No, a tree I remembered being in this part of the woods.” She took the path to the right. The horses plodded more slowly, the snow now to their knees. “The deeper snow will make the going slower,” she told Nash, “but I’m hoping we’ll be rewarded with some berries.”

  “Very well, lead on.”

  Farther ahead, Ailie heard the sound of running water. The sound grew louder as they neared the small burn where water rushed over rocks. She spotted the hawthorn tree just beyond the water. “We’re in luck! The branches are laden with berries.”

  “Those small red dots beneath the snow on the branches?” Nash asked.

  “Aye.”

  Nash dismounted and waded through the snow to where she sat her horse, watching him. He took hold of her waist and lowered her to the ground.

  Her hands on his shoulders, Ailie slid down the front of his greatcoat until her feet touched ground beneath the snow. He didn’t let go but fixed her with his green and gold eyes.

  She could not tear her eyes from his handsome face and the longing she saw in his eyes. Her heart sped as he said her name and bent his head, drawing closer.

  He closed his eyes and, when his lips touched hers, she closed her eyes, shutting out all but him and his kiss.

  His lips were surprisingly soft and his touch tender, causing her to welcome the kiss. Around them stood the cold snow-covered woods but, in his arms, she was warm, his lips moving over hers igniting a flame within her.

  He raised his head. “I’ve been wanting to do that since that first evening in your parlor.”

  It was the only time in her life Ailie had been rendered dizzy by a man’s kiss. With her hands still on his shoulders, she looked into his beautiful eyes, hoping he would kiss her again.

  He smiled and so did she, like two children sharing a secret.

  Acceding to her unspoken wish, he kissed her again. This time, when their lips touched, she wrapped her hands around his neck and held him close.

  The kiss, less gentle than the first, stirred a response deep within her. He put his hands on her hips and drew her against his body. Their coats between them did not prevent her from feeling the heat of him. She delighted in his masculine smell tinged with the scent of sandalwood.

  Tentatively at first, she returned his kiss. Despite the intimate nature of his tongue entwining with hers, it was not at all unpleasant. She had heard her brothers speak of such kisses but this was her first experience. With Nash, what had been described as something she never thought to enjoy became an exchange of passionate ardor such as she had never known.

  He pulled away first, leaving her breathless. “Forgive me, Ailie. I shouldn’t—”

  She put her gloved finger to his mouth. “Don’t say it. I’m glad you did. I liked your kissing me or couldn’t you tell?”

  He gave her another of his winning smiles. “I could tell.” Then taking one of her hands, he led her toward the hawthorn tree. “We had best gather those berries before we forget why we came.”

  “Aye.” She laughed. “I had nearly forgotten myself.”

  His smile was subtle as he shook his head. “You are always surprising me, Ailie. Innocent you may be but with enough passion to require all my self-control.”

  Bending his head toward the smaller branches, he began to cut. Since he had the shears, she directed him to those branches that were heavy with berries.

  They worked side by side, Nash cutting and Ailie putting the branches in the bag. In her mind she relived his kisses. What could they mean? He was an Englishman, she a Scot. Most likely, he was an Anglican; she was a Presbyterian. She had only known him for a matter of days. In a matter of weeks, he would return to London and she would never see him again. Perhaps, to him, the kiss meant little.

  They filled the sack. “What next?” he asked.

  She looked around them, fighting the urge to return to his arms. A stand of small Scots pine trees stood nearby. “Some pine branches would go well with the berries and they will make the house smell like the woods. Let’s cut some of those.”

  “I live to serve,” he teased. Working his way around the hawthorn tree to the young Scots pines, he asked, “How many?”

  “Enough to fill another sack.” She took one from her saddlebag and brought it to where he stood. “Don’t you gather greenery in England for your Christmastide?”

  “We do, but not Scots pines. I don’t suppose you have mistletoe in Arbroath?”

  “Mistletoe… the Druid’s herb? Not much of it in Scotland, none that I know of in Arbroath unless a ship brings it, but even if one did, the Kirk would not approve.”

  “’Tis what the English use in their kissing boughs.” His smile made her think of a small boy who had a frog secreted away in his pocket. “My mother always hangs the balls of holly, ivy and
mistletoe from the entry hall chandelier. ’Tis allowed for a gentleman to kiss a lady caught beneath the bough.”

  “Ah,” she said, “I see. But in Scotland, the Parish Kirk frowns on celebrations of what it considers to be the Yule, which is why we don’t celebrate Christmas, at least not openly, even though we do recognize the birth of the Christ Child. But with Emily a part of the family, I expect that will change. When word gets around that the Stephens have brought the English Christmastide into their home, our parish minister will think the whole lot of us have become Anglicans.”

  He laughed. “Would that be so bad?”

  From his expression, Ailie sensed the question might be important. “Perhaps not, but most everyone in Scotland is Presbyterian. In truth, ’tis the same God whose praises we sing, whether Anglican or Presbyterian, no?”

  His smile told her he liked her answer. “I would certainly look forward to having a kissing bough to catch you under this Christmas.”

  Her cheeks grew warm. Silently, she cursed her sensitive skin. “Now you remind me of Robbie,” she said in a teasing manner. “I will ask Emily about a kissing bough since I can see it means much to the English.” Ailie wouldn’t mind him catching her under such a bough.

  “Ho there!” came the cry from the woods.

  Ailie looked up to see Hugh and Mary making their way toward them. “Seems we’ve been found.”

  Hugh arrived first and leaned down to pat the large sack tied to his saddle. “We have two great bags of holly and some other evergreen branches that Mary found to decorate your many rooms. Are you two almost finished?”

  Ailie met Nash’s eyes. It had grown colder since they had arrived in the woods and now she no longer had his arms around her. “Aye,” she replied. “We’re done here as well and I, for one, would not turn away a cup of hot wassail.”

  Robbie looked up from his cards to see Muriel pondering her next move. Not far away, the fire burned steadily, occasionally giving out with a loud pop. He liked the library and its rich smell of leather, wood burning and a faint remnant of pipe smoke. It reminded him of White’s, his favorite club in London where doubtless he would be this very moment were it not for Lord Sidmouth.

  Through the windows, he glimpsed the pale sun casting its rays onto a white world. His thoughts drifted to Nash, who was somewhere out there enjoying the morning with the Mistress of the Setters. He envied his brother the time alone with the spirited girl. Nash had always been one to seize an opportunity. But since he did not have Robbie’s luck at cards, if one of them was to remain behind and play, it had best be him. Let Nash gather the Christmas foliage.

  Muriel raised her head. “Emily, dear, might I have a glass of Madeira?”

  “Of course,” said their hostess. The footman having left the library a short while ago, Emily rose to fetch the wine Robbie had learned the countess favored.

  Very soon into their play, it had become apparent loo was a game the five of them knew well. They were now into Double Pool rounds and Muriel, who had yet to declare if she would play the hand Emily had dealt her, was stalling.

  The Grand Countess was a clever woman and an adroit card player, thus Robbie was certain she was making use of the delay to consider her next move. His suspicious nature wondered if she’d even wanted the wine. After all, it was early in the day and breakfast not long finished.

  Martin narrowed his eyes on Muriel. “An underhanded move, calculated, I suspect to gain time.”

  “When one has much on one’s mind,” said the countess, “additional time is required and a glass of Madeira helps me think.”

  Robbie couldn’t imagine what might occupy the thoughts of The Grand Countess if not her cards. Her next ball?

  Emily set the glass of the dark honey-colored wine before her friend. “After luncheon, wassail will be served in the parlor.”

  “Thank you, dear,” said Muriel. “A cup of wassail always brings back pleasant memories.” She gazed toward the window, a wistful expression on her face.

  Martin fiddled with his cards. “Ah yes… memories. I recall once playing loo when the stakes were very high.”

  Muriel gave Martin an assessing look. “Are you thinking of your past pursuits, Sir Martin?”

  “Possibly,” he drawled, avoiding Muriel’s piercing gray eyes.

  Did Muriel know that Martin, like Hugh, had spied for the Crown in France? Perhaps in addressing him as Sir Martin, she was letting him know she was aware Martin’s knighthood had been conferred upon him for just that work.

  “That’s all behind him now,” Kit put in. She glanced around the table. “Perhaps I shall do a sketch of our card game. It will make a nice addition to my collection.”

  “I have decided to trade my cards for the miss,” Muriel announced, reaching for the extra hand to exchange for the one she had.

  The play continued, becoming spirited at times. Robbie took most of the tricks, which surprised Emily and Muriel, but not his brother, Martin, or Kit, who were aware of his reputation.

  They were just finishing their game when the four who had ventured into the snow returned. At the door to the library, Ailie announced, “We’re back with the greenery. Luncheon will be served shortly in the dining room,” then disappeared as quickly as she had come.

  Was he imagining things or did she appear overly happy, her face lit with some unexplained joy? Faith! What had transpired in the woods?

  George Kinloch set his tankard on the marred table and peered through the smoke hanging in the air of St Thomas Tavern to glimpse the hideous picture hanging above the bar. The face of the old saint was twisted into a grimace but whether it was in distaste or horror George could not say.

  Would he meet his end like Thomas à Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury, martyred for his defiance of the English Crown? The charge of sedition hanging over his head suggested as much. Still, he did not regret accepting the invitation to speak in Dundee when it had come. The Crown’s actions in Manchester and the wrongs against the poor workers had to be redressed.

  A well-organized, self-disciplined man, the father of seven grown children, George had always tried to live a calm, orderly life. When he received the shocking news he had been charged with sedition, he had hurried to Edinburgh to meet with his solicitor. There, they worked up a list of relevant details for the advocates who would conduct the defense.

  All to no avail.

  From his friends, he had learned that no defense would be successful, that the government in London had decided he would be convicted and sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay. It was then George had written his dear wife Helen telling her he must flee. And France was the natural choice of destinations.

  The men sitting around George grumbled about the weavers’ discontent and talked of the uprising that would surely come to Glasgow. George wanted no part of it. God knew the weavers had cause, but he feared any grand display would merely provide an excuse for another massacre by the Crown’s soldiers.

  He wanted more for the people of Scotland. He sought reform, not revolution. He was, after all, the Justice of the Peace for the County of Perth. Still, he could not forget his time in France that had made him aware of the plight of the poor who had no voice and often no bread.

  With conditions as bad as they were in Britain, why continue a tax that supported the war against Napoleon? It was not unlike the American colonists’ complaints that had led to their rebellion: taxation without representation.

  George was confident someday the needed reform would come to his own country, but he would have to leave now if he were to live to see that day.

  He reflected again on the archbishop who had defied a king. Fearing for his life, Becket, too, had sought refuge in France. His mistake had been returning to England to be murdered at the king’s pleasure. Hopefully, George could avoid such a fate. That he had to place himself in the hands of brutal men he considered ruffians to assure his escape could not be avoided. The men who guarded him got things done and protected his life.


  “Did you procure passage for me and my cousin?” he asked the gruff man whom he had to thank for helping him escape to Arbroath.

  “Aye, ye’re sailin’ on the Panmure on the twenty-sixth.”

  George nodded. The twenty-sixth, after the trial in Edinburgh. By then, he would have forfeited bail and been declared an outlaw.

  Until he sailed, he would have to bide his time with St Thomas’ good ale and be thankful for the rough men who guarded his person. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

  Called to luncheon, everyone found a seat at the dining table. Nash pulled out a chair for Ailie and she gracefully subsided into it. To his chagrin, Robbie claimed the chair on her other side. Nash comforted himself in the knowledge she had earlier returned his kiss and had stopped him when he would have begged her forgiveness for the liberties he’d taken.

  He was, he trusted, on the way to winning her heart.

  The footman ladled soup into his bowl. Nash stared down at the thick white broth. The steam rising from the surface had a decidedly fishy smell but the appearance of the soup was not unappetizing. Pieces of what looked like fish, small chunks of potato and bits of dark green floated in the broth. Tentatively, he dipped in his spoon, then thought to inquire, “Is there a name for this soup?”

  Ailie turned from her own bowl. “’Tis another of our dishes. Cullen Skink.”

  He paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  Ailie shook her head. “Really, Nash, ’tis just haddie stew.”

  “Is that the smoked fish you eat at breakfast?” he asked, appalled.

  Muriel, sitting beside Emily, narrowed her eyes on her bowl. “Are those pieces of green I detect by any chance kale?”

  William laughed. “No kale. Shallot tops.”

  Muriel dipped her spoon into the fish stew. “I am greatly relieved.”

  Robbie, obviously proud of his just finished bowl, urged Nash on. “Try it. It’s very good. We might have to take some of the smoked haddock back to London. You know how Mother loves to dabble in Father’s galley and it would keep well at sea.”