Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(18)

“No, not like that! Ye have to stab it with the stick, Miss Sheridan, or it’ll never come loose.”

“If ye know so much, why don’t ye climb up the tree and do it yerself, Henry?”

Climb up the tree?

Thea wouldn’t be so foolish as to climb a tree in the dark, would she?

Of course she bloody would.

Ethan quickened his steps until he was running toward the voices. The children had begun to squabble, so it was easy enough to hear them now.

“I would a’ climbed it, George, but Miss Sheridan wouldn’t let me!”

“’Cause she knew ye’d fall, like you did last time,” a high-pitched voice taunted.

Ethan heard the sound of a slap, then a sharp cry, and then Thea’s voice, clear and calm. “What did I tell you about hitting your sister, Henry?”

“Ye said not to. But she said—”

“Never mind what she said. It’s never right to use your fists—”

“Oh, what bollocks.” Every head swung toward Ethan as he strode over to them. “Every boy should know how to use his fists. What bloody nonsense are you teaching these children, Miss Sheridan?”

There was a stunned silence, then George hissed, “It’s that lord! What d’ye suppose ’e’s doing ’ere?”

Henry shook his head, his gaze fixed on Ethan. “I don’t know, but that’s two curses already, and ’e just got ’ere!”

The three children were standing at the foot of the tree, and Thea . . .

Good Lord, was she mad? She was standing on a branch at least ten feet up in the air, one hand wrapped around the trunk, and the other batting with a long stick at something above her.

A strange sensation, part-anger and part panic made Ethan’s voice harsh. “What the devil are you doing up in that tree, Miss Sheridan? You’ll break your neck!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lord Devon. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been climbing trees since I was a girl, remember?”

“I don’t give a bloody damn if you’ve climbed every tree in Cornwall. Come down here at once!”

“I will, just as soon as I’ve got this bunch of mistletoe. It’s a lovely big one, and—”

“Thea!” Ethan’s voice thundered through the dark, and all three children jumped. “If you don’t come down here right now, I’m coming up to get you, and I warn you, you won’t enjoy what happens next.”

“Oh hush, will you? You’re scaring the children. Anyway, I’ve almost got it. Just a bit more to the left . . .”

She’d hushed him? Oh, no. No one hushed an earl. It wasn’t done.

Ethan braced one foot against a low, sturdy branch and began to climb. His long legs made quick work of it, and within minutes he came even with Thea. He held out his hand. “Give me the bloody stick.”

She ignored him. “I’ve almost got it.”

Ethan gritted his teeth. “No, you don’t. Give it to me. My reach is much longer than yours.”

She made an irritated noise in her throat, but she handed over the stick. He prodded at the mistletoe, still cursing under his breath. Within minutes he’d dislodged it, and it fell to the ground below.

The children let out a loud cheer, and George called out, “See, Henry? All lordships aren’t useless like ye said. Look what that one done!”

Thea was beaming at him, and for one wild moment a surge of unexpected joy swelled Ethan’s chest. “There. Now will you come down?”

He’d made his voice as gruff as he could, but Thea’s smile only widened. “I will, indeed.”

Ethan was to her right, balanced on another branch, and as she climbed down he kept pace with her, ready to grab her in case she slipped. “Be careful. The branches are slippery, and—”

But his warning came too late. Thea let out a little cry as her foot skidded off a branch, and in the next moment she was falling.

“Thea!” Ethan made a grab for her and managed to catch her around the waist, but her momentum threw them both outward, away from the tree. They tumbled to the ground, and Ethan landed with a hard thump right on top of her.

The boys gasped, and Martha began to cry.

Oh, no. No. Dread rolled through Ethan as he struggled to his elbows and peered down into Thea’s face. Her eyes were closed. “Thea!” He patted her cheek to try and rouse her, but her long, dark lashes remained flush against her pale cheeks.

Martha threw herself into George’s arms with an ear-piercing wail. “That lordship! He’s killed Miss Sheridan!”



I’m not dead.

Thea opened her mouth, but she couldn’t seem to make her lips work well enough to say the words aloud.

“Thea?” Gentle fingers patted her cheek. She’d been so cold up in the tree she’d gone numb, but something heavy was on top of her, and it was ever so warm. Hard too, but in the best kind of way, and it smelled lovely—just the faintest hint of fine whiskey, and clean, fresh snow.

“Open your eyes, Thea.” The voice was low, pleading. Familiar.

Ethan. Not Lord Devon, but Ethan, the golden-haired boy with the bright blue eyes she’d loved for as long as she could remember. He’d come back, but there was no telling how long he’d stay. Perhaps if she could hold on tightly enough . . .