Page 36 of A Merry Christmas
He tipped his cap and went off down the lane, whistling.
Merry turned toward the lambing sheds. The familiar smell of straw and barn rose about her like a balm. She could hear the soft rustle of animals settling, the rhythmic thud of a ewe pawing the bedding. The smallest of the lambs—the one she had fed with the bottle—tottered toward her and butted its head against her knee. She bent to stroke its woolly back and smiled.
“Ah, little one,” she murmured. “You have more sense than most people I know.”
The familiar calmed her at once. She moved through the pens, righting a tipped pail here, smoothing a fleece there, speaking softly toeach creature as she passed. The wind moaned faintly through the eaves, carrying the smell of snow.
She was bending to check a lamb when a shadow moved across the doorway.
“Merry.”
She straightened, her hand gripping the top rail. Barnaby Tremaine stood there, the low light behind him, his coat askew and his cravat undone. He looked as if he had not slept in a day—or a week. The pallor of his face was startling against the red of his eyes.
“Mr. Tremaine?” Her heart gave a quick, frightened leap. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” His smile was uneven. “You have been avoiding me.”
“I wrote to you,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “There was nothing left to say.”
He stepped inside, and the smell of spirits came with him, pungent and unmistakable. “Ah, yes, the letter. A trifle dramatic, do you not think?”
“It was simply the truth.”
His eyes flickered, and for a moment she thought she saw shame—but it passed too quickly. “How did you know I would be here?” she asked.
“As it happens,” he said, “I saw your carriage from the village. I followed.”
Her pulse quickened. “You followed me?”
“Do not look so alarmed. You left me no choice.” He took another step forward. The slush on his boots darkened the straw. “You will not listen to reason otherwise. We belong together, Merry. You know it as well as I.”
She moved a pace back, her heel brushing the side of a trough. “You are mistaken. You must leave now.”
He reached for her arm, but she jerked away. His fingers caught the edge of her sleeve. “Please, Barnaby. You have had too much to drink. You are not yourself.”
“I am more myself than ever!” he burst out. “Your family haspoisoned you against me, that sanctimonious Fielding especially. Do you think he cares for you? He only wants to ruin me.”
“I want nothing to do with any of this,” she said, her voice shaking. “Let me go.”
He drew a breath, his expression changing from pleading to determination. “You are making me do this, Merry. It should not have been this way.”
“What do you mean?”
Before she could move, he seized her wrist. She struggled, but his grip tightened painfully. “Barnaby, stop this!”
“Listen to me!” he hissed, dragging her closer. “If you come with me now—tonight—we can be married within days. Once you are my wife, they can do nothing to part us.”
“Let me go!” she cried, wrenching against him. The lambs bleated nervously, one knocking over a pail that clattered on the earthen floor.
He pressed her back against the wall. The wild look in his eyes chilled her more than the cold. “I need you, Merry,” he said hoarsely. “Do not make me force what should be given willingly.”
Her heart thudded in terror. “You cannot mean to?—?”
But he was already drawing a length of rope from his coat and before she could twist away, he caught both her wrists. The rough hemp scraped her skin as he bound her hands before her.
“Barnaby! Please—this is madness!”
“It must be done.”
