Christmas Spirits Page 3

  He opened the basket and handed her bread and cold, roasted chicken. Her mouth watered and stomach grumbled. “Thank ye.”

  “How far to the next town?” Lord Kenley asked after pouring ale into a cup and handing it to her.

  “Ten miles, I believe.” The towns were few and far between along this road. Mary had chosen it intentionally because it was less heavily traveled. She was rather surprised Lord Kenley’s driver had taken this road, but she wasn’t going to question her good fortune.

  “By the time my driver reaches the town and gathers the men necessary, they might not return until tomorrow.”

  Mary nodded. Determined, once again, not to speak more than necessary. If she’d remained at the estate, the two of them would have met under different circumstances. However, as they were quite alone in the middle of nowhere and she was a woman, it was best to just let him continue to believe she was a man until they parted ways.

  She was too busy eating to speak anyway. The bread was fresh and the chicken practically dissolved in her mouth. She washed the remains down with a drink of the ale then wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her arm.

  “Thank ye,” she said again.

  “My pleasure.” Lord Kenley smiled. “How long have you been making deliveries for your brother?”

  Mary stretched her legs out, feeling relaxed and almost warm. “This is the first.”

  Shock registered on his face, which Mary wasn’t certain she understood.

  “Why didn’t Brachton do it, or someone older?”

  She stiffened. “I’m old enough.”

  For a moment the corner of his mouth quirked. “Why didn’t Brachton?”

  “He’s in Grosmont.”

  Lord Kenley nodded. “And, there was no one else?”

  Mary wasn’t sure if she was more irritated or insulted. “Not with His Grace insistin’ he wants his order now.”

  Chapter 4

  So, he had his great-uncle to blame for this predicament and the reason a near child was forced into smuggling. His Grace needed to learn a little patience and realize that sometimes his demands might put other people in danger. Such as this circumstance. Maryn was too young to be out here on his own. Anything could have happened to the pup.

  Ben stared at the lad. His blue eyes were full of indignation. Perhaps he wasn’t all that young. His facial features spoke of youth, such as the lack of stubble on his cheeks for having been out here for so long. But there was also a maturity and tiredness in those eyes, as if he’d lived much longer than his fourteen years, which Ben assumed was his actual age.

  Maryn had suffered at one time given the scar he sported. The white line trained from his cheek, over the jaw, across his throat, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Ben hadn’t even noticed it until Maryn turned his head and it was illuminated by the fire. Whatever had happened to him must have been painful, though Benjamin couldn’t imagine what could have caused such an injury. If it had gone deep enough, it might just have affected Maryn’s voice. Maybe that was why it kept changing. Ben had no way of knowing for certain. He’d never studied anatomy.

  The young man did hold himself to be older. Maybe he had reached his eighteenth year, which could still explain the lack of beard growth.

  Ben forced his eyes away and stood. Taking the basket, he carried it back to the wagon and set it inside. “Would you like another blanket?” If anything, the young man was prepared for the cold. They might need all of the blankets if the temperature dropped once the sun completely set.

  “Nay.”

  The food and ale was gone and most likely they’d be here until morning. Ben leaned into the wagon and lifted the corner of the lid of the coffin. Inside were bottles wrapped in wool. He took one out and returned to the fire. “This might help keep us warm.”

  Maryn eyed it. “That belongs to the Duke of Danby.”

  Ben chuckled. “If my great-uncle complains of one missing bottle, I’ll explain the circumstances.” He took the cork from the bottle. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “If ye’ll excuse me.”

  Ben nodded and took a swig of the whisky. He only wished to have it for warmth, nothing more, and suspected Maryn might night need some as well. Besides not being exactly tall, the young man was rather thin. Ben was surprised Maryn hadn’t frozen to death the night before.

  He set the bottle aside and added more wood to the fire. Maryn disappeared into the woods a short time ago, but he couldn’t hear anything. How far had he gone? If he had to relieve himself, it wasn’t really necessary that he go so deep into the woods for privacy. It was only the two of them there.

  Ben leaned back against the log and pulled the blanket over his lap. A moment later, Maryn returned, settled beside him and wrapped a blanket around his narrow shoulders.

  Whether fourteen or eighteen, he was too young, and slight, to be out there alone. Ben handed him the bottle of whisky and the lad took a swig. When a small bit dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. Maryn wiped it away before it reached his scar.

  “I’ll gather more wood,” he announced.

  Ben should help, but he studied his companion instead. Something was off about Maryn, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Not just his age, but there was something delicate about the boy.

  Maryn bent, gathering logs, exposing his trouser-clad bum. Odd, he expected it to be bony given his slight frame.

  He shook away the inconsistency. He could be a boy that hadn’t grown into manhood yet and was still losing some of the softness of youth. One thing was for certain, Maryn was not three and twenty.

  Ben snorted and took another drink.

  * * *

  The fire burned low and Mary looked up at him from beneath the rim of her hat. He was staring at her scar again. Instinctively, she raised a hand to cover it.

  “I apologize.” He looked away.

  Mary was used to people staring, but Lord Kenley was the first to ever apologize for doing so.

  “Battle wound,” she finally said with a shrug.

  Kenley chuckled. “You don’t have to tell me. It was rude of me to stare or even notice.”

  “I’d rather have honesty than speculation.” Only her family knew the truth. Everyone else discussed it behind hands or fans and in whispers. Most agreed she deserved whatever had happened because of her own foolishness. Those comments hurt the most. They knew nothing about her life while she was away from Falkirk. That was the main reason she hardly stepped off of her family’s land.

  “What kind of battle?” he asked, as if trying to humor her. “You’re barely old enough to be out of school.”

  Mary tilted her head and looked at him. “How old do ye thin’ I am.”

  This time Kenley really looked at her. “I wouldn’t put you above eighteen or nineteen.”

  Mary snorted and poked the fire with a stick. “I am twenty-three.”

  “Very well.” Kenley shook his head.

  She didn’t really look that young, did she?

  “You are twenty-three with a battle scar.” He chuckled.

  He was simply pacifying her. How dare he!

  “From Toulouse, if you must know.”

  He stilled and studied her. The teasing smirk slowly slipped from his lips and amusement dimmed in his eyes. “You’re serious.”

  “Would I lie about something like this?” She gestured to the scar. Not that anyone ever saw beyond her face and neck because she kept herself covered as much as possible. And she hadn’t looked in a mirror since the last of the bandages were removed. She couldn’t stand to see it herself. “Sabre,” she finally said.

  “How?”

  Mary simply blinked at him, a bit surprised actually. Nobody had ever come right out and asked her before. When her mother first saw her, after she returned from Waterloo, all she did was cry. Mary had wanted to talk about it, but nobody wanted to listen. Well, except her brother, Lachlan, but she rarely saw him anymore and when he did visit, they had little time for conversat
ion between just the two of them.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” Kenley said, growing a little uncomfortable.

  “Nay,” she hastened to say. “My family, they doona wish me ta speak of it. I was simply surprised.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I’m practically a stranger.”

  Mary turned away and stared into the fire, wondering if she could speak of it. She had wanted to so many times, but her mother wished her to forget, which was far easier said than done.

  But, she did want to tell someone besides Lachlan. There was just something about the Earl of Kenley that made her want to tell him everything. Well, almost. There were certain things that must remain a secret, like the fact that she was with her husband. Lord Kenley would find that extremely odd since he believed her to be man.

  “I was helpin’ the surgeons,” she began. “We were tryin’ to get the men and carry them off the field before they were injured further or died.” The day came back vividly, the bodies, screams of pain, cannons booming, gunfire, yells for help. Blood everywhere and the stench of musket fire and death. The ground was soaked and men lay dying from their wounds. They had tried to get to as many as possible, offer comfort, bring them to the surgeon’s tent, but there were so many. “I’d been so intent on keepin’ my head down and tryin’ to help that I never saw the French soldier. As I turned to get up, his sabre slashed out of nowhere.” She frowned recalling that moment. “I remember bein’ stunned because it didn’t really hurt. At least, not at that moment.”

  Mary looked over at Kenley who was watching her with sympathy.

  “When I woke, it was three days later and I had been stitched from here,” she pointed to the beginning of her scar, beneath her left temple, “to here.” She pointed to the center of her right breast. Not that Kenley knew there was a breast under the tight bindings beneath her shirt.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Doona be,” she insisted. “So many men lost their limbs or lives. This is nothin’, and I am very lucky because I’m fairly certain he was tryin’ to take off my head.”

  Chapter 5

  Ben’s heart went out to the young man for his loss. Yes, many men returned from the war maimed, but Maryn had a scar to remind him of the horror as well. As he had been at Toulouse, Maryn might be near the age he claimed. Ben did a quick calculation in his mind. That battle took place in April 1814, over two and a half years ago. Maryn could have joined young, perhaps as a bugler or drummer. Ben didn’t know much about how the army worked or ages of those who enlisted, but young men, younger than they should be, did find their way onto battlefields.

  “Did you come home right after?” How long had the young man served?

  “Nay. Not till after Waterloo.”

  His blue eyes grew dark with sadness. Why had Brachton even allowed his young brother to join?

  Odd that Maryn was Brachton’s younger brother. They shared similar facial features, but their builds were in complete contrast. Brachton was a tall, muscular man whereas Maryn was slight, barely coming to Ben’s chin. Maybe the lad had gone off to war because he felt the need to prove something. As a younger son, he might not have had another choice.

  Maryn wasn’t saying anything. Just staring into the fire, though he’d glance at Ben from the corner of his eye occasionally. They held such deep sadness. A protective instinct rose up from somewhere Ben. He wanted to shelter the lad for some reason. Erase the horror of the past.

  The lad had the bluest eyes and the darkest, perfectly arched eyebrows. A pert nose with cheeks the color of fresh, pink rosebuds. And the lips. Full, red, slightly parted. Benjamin had never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. Beautiful enough to be a woman, and, if he were honest, feminine. He’d never been drawn to anyone this strongly before. They’d just met, but there was a pull from inside of his chest to know Maryn much better, in almost every way possible.

  Benjamin jumped away before he leaned in.

  What was wrong with him?

  Turning, he stomped away, thrusting his fingers through his hair. His hands shook and his heart raced. A cold sweat broke out on his brow and he leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees, trying to get a hold of his emotions.

  Had he just almost kissed Maryn?

  No. He felt sorry for him. That was all.

  But Ben had been looking at those lips. And he felt such an irresistible draw to the lad.

  This was wrong. So very wrong. Since when was he attracted to a young man?

  This was his fault for lying to his great-uncle. He’d never stepped foot in Madame Delight’s. As much as he may have wished for a woman, he could not bring himself to go in there even though his friends often ended their nights behind closed doors in that very establishment.

  He wasn’t a prude, not by any stretch of the imagination, he had just wanted it to be with the right woman, at the right time. He’d never found the right woman, or the right time.

  But what if it had all been a lie and it wasn’t women he wanted at all?

  Ben’s chest tightened. It was becoming difficult to breath.

  He could not accept this. Not an attraction to Maryn. Never. They were in a strange circumstance, that was all. He felt sorry for Maryn.

  It was nothing more.

  Ben took a deep breath, stood and glanced over his shoulder. He had nothing to worry about.

  Maryn was looking at him. Those black eyebrows drawn together in concern, lush lips pursed.

  He needed to get back to Danby Castle as soon as possible and demand his uncle find him a bride instantly. He’d do his duty and beget heir, after heir, after heir, and prove to himself that he wanted women.

  The wind picked up and Maryn drew further into himself, wrapping the blankets tightly around his slight body. The wind blew harder and Maryn reached to grab his hat but it was too late and it went flying across the road. Benjamin moved to catch it but stopped as what he was seeing registered in his mind. Maryn’s black as midnight hair was knotted at the back of her head, and several long curls had come loose from the confines and blew on the wind.

  Her eyes grew wide and she slowly came to her feet, backing away.

  Benjamin’s heart stopped just for a moment and then he strode toward her.

  She stared up at him like a caged animal.

  “You’re a woman?”

  She said nothing, just blinked those beautiful eyes at him. Perhaps she was stunned, but he could not be happier.

  “What is your real name?”

  “Ma…ma…Mary.”

  Benjamin laughed. Relief flowed through him and he grabbed Mary about the waist and lifted her in the air, whirling her around before setting her feet back on the ground.

  “Lord Kenley?”

  He brought his hands up to her face, cradling those soft cheeks in the palm of his hands. “You have no idea how happy I am that you are Mary.”

  “I doona understand.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Suffice it to say that I am very pleased to know that the person I thought to possess the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen does, indeed, belong to a woman.”

  “Beautiful?” Her eyes widened and she took a step back. “Ye’re mad.”

  Benjamin laughed again. “No. I thought I might be but I’m so relieved to know that I’m not.”

  “Ye’re very strange, Lord Kenley.”

  “Perhaps, lass. Perhaps.”

  * * *

  Lord Kenley was grinning at her as if someone had just delivered the best news anyone could ever hear.

  Mary took a step back. Should she be concerned for his sanity?

  One moment they were talking and she was glad to have told someone about her injury, even if it had brought up painful memories. There had been sympathy in his eyes, but it was different than what she’d seen in others. Of course, a man with a scar such as hers was rarely remarked upon. On a lady, it was an entirely different matter.

  Then he had leaned in close, almo
st too close—the way her husband had when they were first married—before he jumped away.

  She thought he was about to panic, or lose his mind.

  Now, he was laughing and grinning.

  Mary stepped away again and glanced at the bottle of whisky. Neither one of them had drunk much, but perhaps he didn’t have a tolerance for it. “I doona understand,” she said slowly.

  “It’s not important.” He was shaking his head. “Come. Sit back by the fire.”

  Mary slowly walked to where she’d left her blankets and grabbed them before moving further away. “I’ll stay here, and you stay there.”

  Lord Kenley said nothing, just continued to chuckle as he settled back into the place he was originally seated. With a shake of his head, he picked up the bottle of whisky.

  “I think ye’ve had enough.”

  His eyes met hers from across the fire. “Perhaps.” He set it back down then stood. “I’ll gather more wood so we have enough to see us through the night.

  Mary watched him go and pulled the blanket tight. The sun was gone now and she hoped he wouldn’t get lost, but she was glad to be alone, to gather her thoughts.

  He’d called her beautiful. Nobody had done that. At least not since before she’d followed the drum and certainly not after Toulouse.

  Until he began acting oddly, Mary had like him. Really liked him. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She’d met other peers, the one time she’d gone to London with Lachlan. For the most part they were a pretentious and condescending lot. They thought her accent sweet and believed her ignorant. After a month, Mary had wanted to go home.

  She’d had such hopes of enjoying a season, meeting new and interesting people outside of Falkirk, and it was all a disappointment until she met Major Philip Soares. So handsome in his regimental red uniform, he nearly took her breath away. Almost instantly she’d fallen in love. She was only seventeen and he eight-and-twenty and new to his rank. That’s when she decided she’d rather have an honorable soldier over a peer of the realm. They married after two months, but only because he was being sent to the Continent, and thus began Mary’s life of following the drum.