Page 14 of A Merry Christmas
“You have been in the neighbourhood for weeks,” she pressed. “If you intended me to be a part of your future, would you not wish me to know those who will also be mine?”
He shifted uneasily. “There will be time for that. Why press them now? Families are often cautious, and it is best to wait until all is secure. You must trust me.”
The words poured smoothly, yet none of them satisfied. She felt the weight of the bracelet as if it were a shackle. She had asked for clarity and been given evasions. She had hoped for tenderness and been met with talk of caution.
“So this bracelet is nothing more than a trifle?” she asked.
He laughed, careless once more. “Of course. Why weigh it with meaning? It is a gift, nothing more. Wear it and think no further.”
He leaned toward her, his eyes glinting. “Come, Merry. Give me a kiss under the mistletoe, and let us end the day pleasantly.”
Before she could protest, his lips brushed hers. She had imagined such a moment more times than she would ever admit, had thought it must feel like magic when it came at last. Instead there was nothing—no spark, no sweetness—only the pressure of lips that seemed to demand rather than cherish. He tried to deepen the kiss, drawing closer, his hand tightening at her waist as if determined to claim more than she wished to give.
Merry stiffened. Disappointment swelled into alarm. She pushed against his chest, breaking free, her breath quick and sharp. “No, Mr. Tremaine. Not unless you are prepared to speak plainly.”
He laughed, though the sound rang hollow. “You are spirited, Merry. That is part of your charm.”
But she did not laugh. The kiss had left her cold. It had been nothing like the joy she had hoped, and everything like the hollow gift glittering on her wrist.
His smile faltered, then slid back into place. “Another time, then. My father waits, and I must be gone. Think kindly of me while I am absent.”
He bowed and left her beneath the mistletoe, his boots sharp against the stone.
When the door closed, the sprig swayed gently in the draught. Merry stood motionless. She unclasped the bracelet and turned it over in her hands. It glittered in the light, but it felt cold, false, a promise that meant nothing. She slipped it back into its case.
Her mind leaped between excuses and doubts. Perhaps he was shy of declaring before his parents. Perhaps he feared his father’s disapproval. Perhaps he wished to be certain of her answer before involving his family. She tried to believe it. Yet the memory of his smooth evasions, his eagerness for a kiss when he had given her no true claim upon him, refused to be silenced.
She thought of Captain Fielding. Never would he have pressed her with laughter and half-answers. Never would he have called such a gift a trifle. His bluntness might wound her pride, but at least she always knew where she stood with him. There was a steadiness in him, a weight of truth that asked no adornment. He might not thinkto bring a bracelet sparkling with stones, but if ever he placed anything in her hands, she believed it would be something she could trust.
The fire in the hall crackled, the voices of her family rose from the parlour, but Merry felt apart from it all. The glittering bracelet lay in its case in her pocket, and she thought how easily glitter might dazzle the eye while leaving the heart unsatisfied.
She closed the case and carried it upstairs. She could not yet say what her heart had decided, but she knew one thing with certainty. This gift did not feel like joy.
CHAPTER 6
The snow fell thickly that Christmas night, yet the village was lively all the same. Joshua had thought to pass the evening quietly at Wychwood, but his brothers insisted upon a walk down to the Green. They claimed it was to see the lanterns and join the carols that would be sung outside the tavern, though Joshua suspected more curiosity than devotion drew them forth. He had not walked abroad with them in years and found the prospect oddly warming, so he joined the party, pulling his greatcoat tightly to him against the cold.
The village glowed with merriment. Candles shone in windows, evergreen boughs hung over doors, and laughter rose from within the Shaven Crown where most of the village’s men had gathered, the large wooden beams angled to a high point and a roaring fire at the end welcoming them. Joshua’s brothers soon melted into the throng, greeting neighbours with loud good cheer, while Joshua lingered at the edge, content to observe.
It was then he noticed Tremaine. The man had not joined them at church earlier, nor remained long at Wychwood after his ill-timed gift to Merry. Yet here he was now, at a table in the corner of the tavern, the light of several candles casting a golden haze about his handsomefeatures. Cards lay in his hands, a pile of coin and notes already scattered before him. A painted wench perched upon his lap, laughing too freely, her bodice cut lower than was decent. Tremaine seemed in high spirits, wagering with reckless abandon, his voice carrying above the din.
Joshua moved nearer, unnoticed in the crush of bodies. He had spent too many years learning how to watch without being watched to forget the habit. What he heard troubled him. Tremaine cursed his luck one moment and boasted of his winnings the next.
Joshua lingered near the doorway, the cold air rushing in each time a new patron entered, and watched the game unfold. Tremaine’s table grew louder as the night lengthened. The painted woman in his lap leaned across him, her laughter shrill and grating, while the men at his side grew increasingly unruly with every round of cards.
Joshua recognized one of them now—a stocky fellow with a scar over his brow, known as Jem Kettle, a man once hauled before the courts for cheating dice but acquitted for lack of proof. The other was a lean squire with the kind of pallor that comes from too many nights spent in smoke-filled rooms. Neither man bore the respectability of good company, yet Tremaine greeted them as familiars.
At first, Tremaine played with easy confidence. He tossed coins onto the table with a flourish, laughing when he won, laughing louder when he lost. The wench kissed his cheek when his hand triumphed and pouted prettily when it did not. However, as the pile before the man dwindled, Joshua saw his smile grow tighter. He drank more quickly, called for another bottle, and leaned forward with a glare that did not match the careless flick of his cards.
“Another fifty,” Tremaine said, his voice raised above the din.
Jem Kettle grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth. “Done, my lord. But mind you can pay when the reckoning comes.”
The squire chuckled. “He has ways. Do not fear for Barnaby Tremaine.”
Tremaine’s colour rose. “I have never failed to pay a debt in my life.”
The scarred man winked. “Then your pa must have deep pockets.”
