Page 38 of A Merry Christmas
“She would not have gone off of her own accord,” Mrs. Roxton said faintly. “Not without sending word.”
“Not in this weather,” Joshua said, more to himself than anyone else.
The great doors opened again, and cold air rushed in. A tall figure stepped inside, wrapped in a dark travelling cloak powdered with snow. The butler’s voice rang out: “Lord Bruton, my lord.”
Every head turned.
Bruton—the lines at his eyes deepened by worry—paused on the threshold and inclined his head. “Forgive this intrusion. I fear I may be the bearer of bad news—or at least of bad suspicions.”
Roxton strode forward. “You have seen your son?”
“Not since this morning.” Bruton’s expression was grim. “But I was told what happened at the tavern. My man was there and followed the moneylenders when they left, fearing Barnaby would do something rash. When the Dunnings left for London today, Barnaby was furious. He said he had spoken of a marriage, of securing himself before his debts were called. He reported that your daughter’s name had been on Barnaby’s lips.” He shook his head. “I should never have let it go this far.”
Mrs. Roxton swayed; Lennox caught her arm. “You believe he has taken her?” she whispered.
Bruton’s jaw clenched. “It appears I am too late to prevent it. How may I help?”
Roxton drew a slow breath, steadying himself. “We must divide our efforts. If he means to marry her by force, there are two possibilities—north for Gretna Green, or south for London.”
Bruton spoke, his voice firm. “I doubt he will risk Scotland. It is too far in this storm, and he lacks the funds.
Joshua spoke. “If he is riding for a special license, London is his best chance.”
Bruton nodded. “My thoughts exactly. My credit will carry him that far, and he has lodgings there.”
“Then we follow that trail,” Joshua said. “If we are wrong, the others will find him travelling north.”
“Agreed.” Roxton turned to the others. “Lennox, Caleb, Simon—take the road through Gloucester and northward. If he has fled that way, intercept him before the border.”
The men nodded, already striding for the door. The hall filled with the sharp scent of cold air, as unwelcoming as the task ahead. The hall erupted in motion. Servants hurried in every direction—boots clattering, doors slamming, the smell of wet leather and lamp oil filling the air. Joshua moved among them, giving quiet instructions, checking pistols and flints, ensuring each man carried coin and cloak enough. He could feel the house’s tension thrumming like a vessel about to burst.
Joshua turned to Bruton. “We shall need fast horses and no delay. If we ride through the night, we can reach London by tomorrow evening.”
Bruton’s face was pale, but his eyes were clear. “I have my horse. “Might I join you?”
Mrs. Roxton clutched her husband’s sleeve. “Bring her back to me. Bring my daughter home.”
He kissed her hand, his own voice roughened. “We will, my dear, come what may.”
Joshua followed Bruton out into the snow. The wind bit hard now, the flakes stinging his face as the horses were brought around. He swung into the saddle, glancing once toward the dark shape of the house—toward the windows that glowed faintly through the storm. Somewhere beyond those hills, Merry was in the hands of a man who was beyond reason.
Bruton mounted beside him, the lines of worry in his face deepening under the lantern light. “He is my son,” he said quietly, “but if he has harmed her?—”
Joshua looked straight ahead. “He will not. We will find him first.”
They spurred their horses and rode into the storm. The snow swallowed the sound of hooves, and the night closed behind them like a curtain.
The storm clawed at Joshua’s cloak as they rode, and the world shrank to the circle of lantern light between his horse’s ears. He had known cold before—barracks in Flanders, marches through sleet—but this was different. Then, he had thought only of survival. Now, every gust whispered Merry’s name, every shadow looked like danger.
He could not stop thinking of her—the last time he had seen her, smiling faintly over her glass as they had toasted the new year’s birth. He had meant to speak with her that evening, to say something half-formed but necessary. Now, those unsaid words burned like coals in his chest.
When they paused at the crossroads to fix a slipping girth, Bruton muttered a curse that vanished into the snow. Joshua barely heard him. His thoughts had gone elsewhere—into the black possibilities that lay between one mile and the next. What if she had fallen? What if she was hurt? The image of her cloak lying in the straw would not leave him. He had seen a thousand battlefields and yet none had turned his stomach quite like that single thought: Merry, frightened, frozen, and alone.
He tightened his reins and pressed Brutus onward. Beneath the snow, the horse’s breath steamed like smoke, strong and steady. Joshua bent low over the saddle, eyes narrowed against the flurries. He was not a man given to fear, but now fear had shape and name. It was not for his own life—it was for hers.
He remembered her courage—how she had faced the villagers’ gossip with composure, how she had tended the lambs with patience even in the cold. She was not the kind of woman to yield easily. That thought steadied him.
If she could see him now, he wondered, would she know what she meant to him? Would she understand that this inner fire was not born of duty or friendship, but of something far more dangerous and dear?
