Christmas Spirits Read online

  “I hope you have a change of clothing inside,” Kenley said in a serious tone even though there was a quirk to his lips and his light brown eyes danced with humor.

  “Luckily, I do.” If she weren’t so embarrassed, she might laugh as well.

  “Where would you like the case, Miss?”

  Mary looked around. The coach was the most private place to change, but with the shades drawn it would be too dark to see anything. The woods would have to do. “Over there, please.”

  She watched as he carried it behind some bushes and then reemerged.

  “Please turn your back.” She didn’t want any of them to see her exposed backside. Though she wasn’t sure how bad the tear was, the air was cold enough on her upper legs that she was afraid the trousers were truly ruined for good.

  Kenley and his servants turned around and she darted behind the bushes and opened her case. Inside was another set of male clothing, but she wished to save those for when she had to return the wagon. In addition were three dresses, in the event she needed them, and her other costume. Not that when it was originally worn it had been a costume, and given they were traveling with a coffin it was perfect for her purpose. She he lifted the dress and shook it out.

  “I’ll be out shortly,” she called as she pulled her shirt over her head and loosened the bindings across her breast. Mary took a deep breath and blew it out. It felt good to fully breathe again.

  Chapter 8

  Had the same happened to him, Benjamin would be horrified at his trousers splitting down the back. Yet, he found it quite humorous when it happened to Mary. Or, perhaps it was the stunned expression on her lovely face that produced the laughter he tried desperately to suppress.

  All thoughts left him when she emerged from behind the bushes. He had hoped she’d change into a dress, but feared it would be another set of men’s clothing. What he had not expected was for her to be wearing widow’s weeds. She was clad from her chin to her booted feet in black. Even her gloves were black, as were the hat and veil that she carried along with a small case.

  Mary grinned at him. “As we are accompanying a coffin, I thought this appropriate.”

  Benjamin barked out laughter, he couldn’t help it. Mary Grant was the most unusual woman he had ever met. He couldn’t wait to share his traveling coach with her and for the first time he hoped the roads were not in their favor so that he could spend as much time with her as possible. He no longer cared if Danby got his whisky in time.

  Gaylord rushed past him to retrieve her portmanteau and loaded it onto the coach. Ben opened the door when she reached him. “After you.”

  Mary settled onto the seat and he took the one across from her for the single purpose that he’d be able to look at her.

  “Ah. This is nice.” She sighed, relaxing against the squabs. She set her case on the seat beside her and opened it before she started pulling pins from her hair and dropping them inside. Bit by bit, black curls tumbled down, and he was in awe.

  Her blue eyes blinked up at him. “Have ye never seen a woman brush her hair before?”

  His mouth had grown dry and Ben had to clear his throat. “Um, no.” Not even his sisters. They prepared for the day in the privacy of their chambers. He hadn’t even seen them in night clothing since they were children.

  Mary’s face colored. “I hope ye doona mind, but I need to brush the tangles out.”

  He quickly shook his head. “Of course not.” Her head was a halo of black curls, framing her delicate features, and slowly, with each stroke of the brush she tamed them. It was sad, actually. He rather liked the dishevelment of her hair. It fit the Mary he’d come to know. Not that she was wild, but self-sufficient. And while she might be delicate, she could take care of herself. At least for the most part, from what he’d observed, except when it came to a broken wagon wheel.

  “You have beautiful hair,” he said to cover the silence in the carriage.

  Her smile softened. “Thank ye.”

  She had pulled it over one shoulder and was brushing the ends, having worked her way from the crown of her head. Was that how all women brushed their hair?

  When she finished, Mary set the brush aside and started twisting her hair, then pulled it behind her head, holding it there with one hand while she reached inside her case with the other.

  “Must you put it up?” He had seen women with their hair down, of course, but it was usually just in the back and arranged in perfect curls. He much preferred Mary’s hair to be loose and flowing.

  “It is proper for a widow to have her hair up.”

  Ah, so she was going to claim to be a widow if anyone asked. “Why not a younger sister? It is a shame to hide your hair.”

  “Because I am a widow,” she proclaimed. “It’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible whenever smuggling.”

  Widow? Not possible. She went by the last name of Grant and claimed Brachton was her older brother.

  “Doona looked too shocked, Lord Kenley.” She chuckled. “I’ve been a widow since Waterloo, and have become used to the title.”

  “Waterloo?” His brain could not catch up to the words she was saying.

  “Aye,” she answered sadly. “Me husband was a major.”

  A widow who lost her husband at Waterloo. Ben could hardly come to terms with what she was saying. First she was a lad, then a young man, then a young woman, and now a widow. She was too young to be alone and perhaps that was why she was so self-sufficient. If her husband had been gone most of the time, she probably did have to make do on her own. Maybe she only returned to her family home when she was widowed. Of course, he wouldn’t ask, but it explained the maturity he found lacking in the ladies he’d met in society.

  It took her no time at all before her hair was pinned neatly behind her head, much to his disappointment. If anything, she was efficient.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he finally said, for lack of better words.

  “Thank you.” She closed her case and relaxed back against the squabs again. “Many women lost husbands, brothers and sons that day.”

  “I should not be calling you Miss Grant, but…”

  “Mary,” she answered.

  “No, Mrs...?”

  “Soares. Mrs. Philip Soares. But I’d be pleased if ye called me Mary.”

  “You live with your own family and not the major’s?”

  “He has no family that I’m aware of. At least I never met them and Phil made no mention of anyone.” She smoothed her black skirt over her legs and shrugged. “So, when my husband was killed, some Gordon Highlanders saw that I was returned to my family before they continued onto their homes.”

  He heard what she was saying, understood the words, but it was not making much sense. “Why would Gordon Highlanders accompany you home?” At the question a sick suspicion settled into the pit of this stomach. He remembered Gordon Highlanders from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. They had danced a reel, and were quite loud and boisterous. “Were you at Waterloo?”

  “Aye.” She frowned at him. “I followed the drum, Lord Kinley. I assumed you understood after I told ye of Toulouse.”

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. He had barely believed the story when he thought her a young man. It was even harder to believe it now. “I assumed, I suppose, that you told me the story so I’d believe your age, and gender.”

  She smiled at him. “Distillin’ and harvestin’ whisky aren’t so dangerous I’d be scarred like this.” Mary gestured to the line that ran down the side of her face.

  “You could have been killed,” he finally said as it settled around him that this beautiful, delicate woman had been in the middle of a battlefield in France while he’d been comfortably settled in his home.

  Mary arched a brow at him. “I nearly was.” Then she smiled softly. “It was a long time ago.”

  Not so long that he didn’t remember reading reports of the battle. He read about all of them because that was where his brother, Nathaniel, was.
“You really were on the field?” he asked, unable to grasp the idea. “Why not safely back at camp?”

  She folded her hands on her lap and stared at him. Her blue eyes bore into his and she no longer smiled. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. He’d heard how some soldiers didn’t wish to speak of their experiences when they returned. His brother being one of them. Why would he think it was different for Mary? “I’m sorry. Forget I said anything, Mrs. Soares.”

  This time she frowned at him. “Mary. I wish for ye to call me Mary. It is my name.”

  “Ben or Benjamin, if you prefer,” he returned.

  “I canna. Ye’re an earl.”

  “And your brother is a marquess,” he reminded her. “We will be in this coach a few more days—we might as well address each other less formally.”

  “Very well, Benjamin.”

  She smiled at his name and his heart heated in his chest.

  “And I doona mind speakin’ of the battle, or the time I was on the Continent. I am grateful ye asked, actually.”

  “Grateful? Why?” It might take the entire trip to understand Mary, let alone come to know her better. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met, which was why he was probably so drawn to her. She fascinated him. Ben couldn’t remember the last time he was fascinated by anyone.

  “Because my family wishes I’d forget, as if it never happened. I doona wish to. I hate havin’ to pretend I dinna follow the drum for four years.”

  “Four years.”

  * * *

  “Aye.” Mary wasn’t certain if he really wished to hear or was simply being polite. But she did wish to talk about those years. To tell someone of her experiences. Not pretend like it never happened. “It was as I said. We tried to move the men from harm’s way, when it was possible. Many times women rushed to the fields, looking for their husband.” She sighed and removed her gloves, setting them aside. She hadn’t been one of those women. If she came upon Phil, she would have nursed him best she could, but she wasn’t one who could rush past a young man, injured and possibly dying, to look for a husband who may be uninjured. “Sometimes that was the worst part. The not knowin’, but as soon as the injured arrived, or I saw a man fall, I reached him as quickly as I could, as soon as I thought danger had passed.”

  “I understand why women would seek their husbands, but weren’t there others to carry the wounded from the fields?”

  “Aye, but when a battle rages, there are few who can because they are too busy fightin’. It wasna unusual to help carry and deliver men to the surgeon.” She turned to stare out the window. “Or sit with a young man who ye kent wouldna make it.”

  “In the middle of the field?” he asked quietly.

  “Aye,” she answered. “That was the hardest, I suppose. Holdin’ their hand, makin’ promises to tell a wife or betrothed that his last thoughts were of them.” Tears filled her eyes. Yes, she wished to talk of her life. However, she didn’t wish to cry over it. “I’d committed their names to memory, and the names they’d said, and penned notes as soon as I could so that I dinna forget. It’s the reason I carried a small book and pencil in my pocket. I did the same for the men waitin’ for the doctor, even though I kent the doctors couldna take time from those they could save for ones they couldna.” She looked back at Ben. “When the night settled, I’d write the letters. It was important to me. I made the promise to tell them and I had to.”

  “Of course.”

  Ben’s brown eyes were filled with compassion, which was nearly her undoing. “It was their dying wish. I would have done the same,” he added.

  “Most were under my husband, so it was easy to see that my note was included in any dispatch home. For those who were with another regiment, I had to find someone to have it delivered. I dinna ken anyone’s direction.” She chuckled to herself thinking how odd it would have been to inquire where she should have the letter sent as they took their dying breath. It wasn’t funny. Not at all. But sometimes the absurdity of a thought was what got you through the more difficult times and memories.

  Mary looked down at her hands and realized she was clenching them. She slowly stretched and flexed her fingers trying to relax them. “The only time I didn’t send any letters was when we were in Toulouse.”

  “You were injured. You couldn’t.”

  Of course she knew that, but she had made the promise. But by the time she woke, she couldn’t remember their names or those of their loved ones. The book had been taken from her pocket and nobody knew where it was. Her heart had ached over not seeing the letters sent.

  “It took weeks until the doctor would let me up and about again. I hated takin’ up a sick bed when it was needed for others. Not to mention they had to set up a special tent just for me, as I was the only female who was injured.”

  “Well, they couldn’t put you with the men.”

  “I could have recovered in the tent I shared with my husband, but the doctor dinna want me so far away in case of infection.” She had hated those endless days of not being able to leave her bed, alone in the tent, except for when a doctor or one of the other women visited.

  “Were you at least able to return home after Napoleon was sent to Elba?”

  Many of the regiments had returned to England, but not all. “Nay. My husband’s regiment was to remain, and I stayed with him.”

  “At least there was some peace for some time.”

  “Aye.” She smiled. “While the men drilled, women did laundry and cooked. It was all very peaceful until Napoleon returned to France.”

  Chapter 9

  Simply put, Mary Grant Soares was an amazing woman. Every other female he’d met when searching for a wife paled in comparison. He’d known her a day, but one thing was for certain, he did not want to go another day without her. She was warm, kind, gentle, yet strong, capable, independent. Beautiful, desirable and wonderful. How could any gentleman, after meeting her, wish for someone else? Impossible!

  Ah, if only he’d met her before she married the major. He could have shielded her from so much pain, heartache and loss. A lady didn’t belong anywhere near a battlefield. Yet, would she be the same person today had she not been there?

  What was she like before she married, when all she’d known was a home in Falkirk with a family who illegally distilled whisky and smuggled it to England? He would have loved to have known her then, but he felt incredibly fortunate that he had met her now.

  The carriage slowed and Ben glanced out the window. They’d arrived at a coaching inn. One he recognized. How could they have traveled so far already? Had the coach sprouted wings and carried them on the wind?

  Of course, when they’d begun their travel to Falkirk, Danby gave him the route to use because he would be more likely to encounter Brachton there than on the main roads if the whisky was in route. Since they now had whisky in hand, his driver must have decided to take the well-traveled, and safer roads, and the far quicker route back to Danby Castle.

  In less than a day they’d be at his estate and he’d no longer have Mary to himself.

  As much as he loved his family, this was not an intrusion he wished for. All too soon they’d arrive at Danby Castle and he’d have to share her with everyone else. Until that time, Ben intended to keep Mary all to himself.

  She slid the black gloves over her hands and then placed the hat upon her head, dropping the veil to cover her lovely features. He wished to rip it from the rim, but did not. After they’d eaten and returned to the coach, she’d remove it again so that he could gaze upon her.

  They stepped into the taproom, overflowing with people. Travelers like themselves. Several people glanced in their direction, sympathy flooded the eyes of those who spotted Mary. Her gloved hand slipped behind the veil and she ran her fingers along the scar.

  “Does it pain you?” He’d be surprised if it did, though who knew how deeply the sabre had gone. But now, it was a very thin, white line that was barely noticeable. He might not have noticed it last night had her head not been
turned just right and her face illuminated by the fire.

  She shook her head.

  The proprietor came forward and Ben asked for a private dining room as he placed a hand at the small of Mary’s back. She shrank against him and lowered her head. Perhaps she was simply assuming the role of a mourning spouse, but his gut told him it was more.

  “Right this way.” The man turned and led them down a short corridor and opened the door to a small dining room.

  Mary sighed and settled into a chair before removing her hat. Ben relaxed. No longer were her face and those intense blue eyes hidden from him. A moment later the maid came in, carrying a pitcher and two mugs. Mary turned her head away and looked across the room.

  Did she not like other people?

  Why was she acting so strange? She’d been quite comfortable with him last night. Well, except when she pulled her pistol on him, but that was an entirely different matter. After traveling with the regiment, had she not had her husband by her side, she probably would have pulled it on men daily. Who could remain away from her?

  “I’ll bring the stew and bread as soon as the plates are prepared,” the maid said before quitting the room.

  Mary did not turn and look at him until the door clicked shut.

  Very odd.

  He poured her a mug of ale and then one for himself.

  There was a quiet scratch at the door and Ben called for them to enter.

  “We should reach Kenley Manor by nightfall,” his coachman said from the threshold.

  Mary’s brows drew together. “Your home?”

  “Yes. I am to take my mother, younger brother and sisters to Danby Castle upon my return.”

  “There is no’ enough room,” she said. “I’ll change and drive the wagon.”

  “You will do no such thing.”

  “But yer family.”

  “Can take another carriage.” He turned back to his driver. “Please bring me paper and a quill.”

  The man ducked out of the room.