Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages) (6 page)

“My suitcase!” Her face lit with excitement, but she paused to move out from under the child and beckoned him away from the sleeping bairn. “It had to have been that man.”

“The coachman?”

“Yes. Who else would have it? Who else would know where I was?”

“I thought the same.” He thought some other things as well, but was not yet ready to share them.

She performed some strange ritual around the edges of the box and the top lifted away. She then showed him how she’d used the flap to keep her feet dry while she donned all her clothing. Heathcliff could not help but laugh.

How could this sharp-witted woman also be so daft?

“You stopped smiling. What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “Ye puzzle me, is all. Ye seem so clever, and yet ye know not the current year. But I wonder, do ye measure the years differently in America?”

“What? I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question.” She collapsed onto one Queen Anne chair and he sank onto the other.

“I only know that today is the twenty third of December in the year eighteen hundred six, and ye claim the year is twenty-twelve.”

She laughed. “Very funny. Eighteen oh six. Is that supposed to explain why you don’t have a phone and you don’t know what a suitcase is? That I’ve somehow traveled through time to teach you and the girl how to use sign language?” She laughed again, but looked a mite worried.

His stomach lurched, but he ignored it and said lightly, “When one is rumored to have witches in the family, ‘tis fair foolish to speculate in such a way. To do so is to invite...mischief.”

“What? Wait. Witches? You have witches in your family?” She sat up a bit straighter and looked a bit too excited by the prospect for his liking.

“My grandmother was rumored to be such. She merely had odd...talents.” And he missed her dearly.

“What kind of odd talents? Please tell me she didn’t have a talent for time travel.”

Truth be told, he might suspect as much, as his grandmother had claimed many a strange thing would happen in the future. He knew not how she acquired her knowledge, or if she merely suffered from wild imaginings.

He suddenly remembered the missive and retrieved it from the entryway. The envelope was quite soggy. He hoped the message was still legible.

“This was left with yer luggage.”

“Probably an apology for taking off with my bag in the first place. And he still has my purse, with my airline ticket, my credit cards, and my passport. But why give me back the suitcase and not my handbag? If he’s going to take off with my passport and airline ticket, why risk bringing me an empty suitcase? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“These are valuables he has taken?”

She sighed. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t get back home without them. I can’t fly. I can’t buy food. I can’t prove who I am.” She stood and began to pace, but stopped. “I can at least cancel my credit cards if you have the internet.”

He walked quietly to the other side of the room and sat the envelope on the little table before the fire for the time being, afraid it might fall apart in his hands if he tried to open it before it dried. Not wishing her to read too much on his face, he spoke to her while looking into the fire.

“I am truly sorry I do not have these things ye need. We shall just have to wait for the storm to end before we can do aught to solve yer dilemmas.”

Her gasp forced him to turn.

“It’s the twenty-first century, for hellsakes. They’re giving iPads to children in Africa, and you don’t even have the
internet?
This guy can take every penny I have if he knows what he’s doing. Holy crap! I’ll have to move back in with my mother!”

None of what she said made sense to him, but she was American and most of it likely had naught to do with him and could be dismissed out of hand. But her insistence upon the year was beginning to annoy him. He was well educated. She need not speak to him as if he knew not how to read or write—or tell the date.

He stomped out of the room and down the hall to his study and tried not to be so terribly pleased when she followed him like a curious puppy.  He sat upon his chair behind the desk only to have her come ‘round behind him and peer over his shoulder. His hands shuffled through papers with little purpose while he was so very distracted by her proximity. It had been a long time since he’d had such close contact with a female. Other than the women at court slithering their hands around his arms, he’d had little chance to put his hands on a woman, let alone lift her into his embrace and feel her weight. And now, there she was, leaning against his chair, brushing his shoulder.

He wondered where her other hand was in relation to the back of his neck, then shivered. He was fair to certain she was touching a strand of his hair. It took a deep breath to remember what he was about. Grasping a stack of posts from the corner of the desk, he lifted them within her reach. There would be plenty there to prove the year.

She took them and walked around the desk, taking a seat opposite him. The fact she was not blushing, meant he’d likely imagined her fingers on his hair. He ignored his disappointment. She untied the first missive and read quickly. Then read the next. Her expression told him nothing.

“These are very nice,” she said. “They look a little too new to be genuine antiques, but the lettering is beautiful.”

“
Antiques?
Of course they’re nay antiques. Ye hold me correspondence from the past month.”

She looked again and grinned. “Mm hmn. Sure. Maybe you’re one of those eccentrics who got a little too into character during a local re-enactment or something. I bet the tourists even tip you. But I’m not buying it.” She tied the letters back into a bundle and replaced it on the desk.

“I assure ye, I doona intend to sell ye anything. Perhaps we should let the date on the wet missive decide which of us is the true...
eccentric
.”

“Fine. But there should be a punishment for the loser.”

“Fine.” A shiver of excitement slipped up his spine. He had never sparred verbally with a woman since his grandmother had passed on. “Choose yer punishment.”

“I’d rather choose yours, thanks.” She considered only moment. “I think I’ll have a foot rub.  And no kicking me out until I have somewhere to go and a way to get there.”

“Ye wish me to rub yer...” He couldn’t say it.

“My feet. Yes. It might help me appreciate that I just about lost my toes tonight.”

He swallowed. “Ye intend this to be a punishment?” When had his mouth gone so dry?

“Yes.  Now choose mine.”

Oh, but the lass had much to learn about punishment and rewards. If she were daft, it was not his place to teach her anything at all. But if she proved to be of sound mind...Well, then, he’d like to teach her just a thing or two. At the very least, he should teach her not to go about inviting men to touch her feet.

“Well, Mr. McKinnon? What will my punishment be if it’s really 1806? Although, if it’s really 1806, I think that would be punishment enough.”

He ignored the jibe. “If I win, it will mean ye are completely mad. I canna punish a mad woman.”

“Oh yeah? If I win, that means
you
belong in a loony bin, but I’m not too proud to take advantage of you before the guys show up with their little white truck. I’ll have my foot rub before they drag you away.”

The image of Brianna Colby being dragged away to an asylum made him quite uncomfortable. Of course he’d never be the one to expose her, but one of them was in error, and it was she.

“Fine. I’ll collect a reward when the letter is read.”

“Great. What is it? Not that you’ll be getting it, but we should at least pretend you have a chance.”

“A kiss then.” He would swear to The Almighty Himself that he’d intended to say no such thing. But he had to admit, whatever else he might have intended to say, he could not recall.

For a moment, they sat in silence. He wondered whether or not she’d heard his declaration or if perhaps he’d merely heard the words in his head. Perhaps she was waiting—

“A kiss? From me?” Her face was utterly pink.

His breath quickened against his control, but he would not take it back. In truth, it was the only thing he truly desired at the moment.

He nodded once.

“Okay,” she said, her voice a bit smaller than before. “When do we open the letter?”

Was she anxious to be kissed, or to be touched? Either way, he was flattered in a way much different than the empty flattery of those women in Edinburg. And he had so little to anticipate, he thought dragging it out a bit might prove entertaining.

“First thing on the morrow,” he said, and he’d be damned if she didn’t look a mite disappointed. He pretended not to notice. “Let us return to the parlor. We all sleep there tonight. I’d not planned to keep more than one room warm, and I dare not leave the cherub alone. When I found her skin cold to the touch...” He shook his head, unable to finish.

“I know. Popsicle. That was so weird. I can’t believe she isn’t sick.”

He could not help but ask, “Ye said that word before. What does it mean,
popsicle
?”

“You know. Frozen on a stick?” Then she laughed and stood. “Ah, you’re still playing the game. I get it. But come morning, you’re going to be rubbing my feet.”

“Come morning, I’ll be collecting that kiss, Brianna Colby.” He let her move ahead of him. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “And ye’ll be begging for another.”

Considering the manner in which her spine straightened, he was sure she’d heard it. The fact she did not protest gave him hope—when of course there was nothing to hope for.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Heathcliff slept like the dead—for nearly four hours—and when he woke, he felt as if it was Christmas morn and not Christmas Eve. He was about to collect a kiss. What else might make a man rise so happily with the sun, even if that sun was obstructed from view by a belligerent storm?

With his feet still on the floor, he reclined on the chaise with a small lass to one side and a woman to the other. Neither of them had stirred as yet, so he took just a moment to relish the illusion of a wee family comfortably mashed together.

The cherub turned her head and opened her amazing blue eyes. Blue like a July sky, happy as only a child could be. As if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if there was no one she missed. As if she’d been his all her life. And in that moment, his heart broke for wishing it had been true.

Miss Colby stirred from his side and leaned away from him, slipping back to sleep, or possibly never having awakened at all.

Heathcliff looked at the damaged envelope. Had the wee lass overheard their conversation? Was she also anxious to see what the missive contained?

He already knew what date he’d find within, but he was curious to know what other clarity the message might bestow. The illusion of a proper family would not lift from his mind, but he could not begin to reach for such a dream—with a different woman, of course—until all his questions were answered.

Who was this coachman? Why had he delivered Brianna Colby to his door? How had he disappeared so quickly? Was there a spy within his household, helping the man to hide so completely from view? And how would the woman react when she could no longer insist the year was over 200 years in the future? Would she cease her teasing? Had she somehow convinced herself that it was true? For of a certainty, she would never be able to convince him.

The wee lass sat up, freeing him to reach for the envelope. He turned it over and reached for the opening, but his hand stilled. Perhaps there were answers within that he would not wish to know.

Nonsense.

He wanted only truth. He could rest only when he knew the whole of it. Perhaps the coachman had written to him, explaining from whence the woman hailed, to whence she must be returned. Perhaps she had escaped?

He shook the thought from his head. No wisdom in borrowing trouble. He would deal with whatever truths he could find. What other choice had he?

He opened the envelope and slid out the letter.

First of all, the letter had no date. Odd, that, since it was customary to note the date on messages of any sort. Secondly, it proved his first suspicions had been correct after all. He should have closed his door and allowed Miss Brianna Colby to become a popsicle, whatever that proved to be.

He could no longer stand to sit so near her, so he jumped to his feet and began pacing. One glance at the cherub’s smile proved his abrupt change of mood had no effect on her. Would that he could keep it that way.

“There’s a good lass. Do you remember the room in which ye played yesterday? The nursery? With the toys?”

She nodded, her eyes lighting with interest.

“Do ye suppose ye could find that room?”

She nodded and jumped to her feet.

“And will ye return to me if the room is cold? It has the morning sun, but promise me ye’ll return straight away if you find it cold.”

She nodded again, then put her fingers to her mouth and moved them away quickly, as if she’d blown him a kiss, but missed her lips.

“That means thank you.” The woman’s voice intruded over his shoulder.

He waited for the child to leave, then turned to face his enemy—for he must see her as the enemy now. Nothing more. Nothing softer, for pity’s sake.

“This,” she made the same motion the wee lass had made, “means thank you. It also means you’re welcome.”

Of course he’d stow the knowledge away and try it with the wee one later, but not until after Brianna Colby was hell and gone from his doorstep.

She noticed the letter in his hand, then looked at the envelope still sitting on the table before the fire.

“You opened it without me? It says 2012, doesn’t it? You don’t look too happy about it, so you must have lost. But since my feet are feeling just fine this morning, I’d like to change your punishment.”

“I’m not surprised in the least. Disappointed, of course, but nay surprised.” He was surprised, however, that she was not more nervous about what the letter might contain.

Her brow raised. “Are you okay? It wasn’t that big of a deal, you know. Just a joke. You didn’t really think it was 1806 did you?”