Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(13)

Suddenly, he was very close. “Merry Christmas, Violet.”

He kissed her. Brushed his lips over hers, in a caress every bit as sweet and intoxicating as the first kiss he’d given her, almost a year ago. And just like the first time, she couldn’t muster any will to resist.

“Oy. What’s going on?” Fosbury smacked the table with his drained wine goblet. He pushed back from the table and stood. “Get away from her.”

“I don’t think so.” Christian jumped to his feet. He slid one arm about Violet’s waist. With his right hand, he drew a large knife. “Hold right there.”

Violet gasped and stared at his fingers, curled around the knife’s glittering handle. “B-but you were tied.”

“I cut myself loose.”

“Where did you get a knife?”

“This is a kitchen. Knives abound.” Christian never turned his gaze from Fosbury, just kept waving the knife slowly back and forth. “Don’t worry, I don’t mean any harm. We’re all just going to stand here for another minute or two, whilst your friend becomes very, very sleepy. Won’t be long now.”

Violet saw what he meant.

As she watched, Fosbury raised his hand. Slowly, drunkenly.

“You.” He pointed a shaky finger at Christian. “You don’ speak no…English.” His slurred speech gave “English” an extra syllable and an abundance of shh.

Christian smiled. “I speak it better than you, at the moment.”

“Yer hand!” Fosbury blurted out. Still standing in the same place, he flailed his arm back and forth. “Off. Hands! Hands off Miss Win…” He lumbered forward, one step. “Miss Winterbrother.”

Fosbury stopped speaking. He blinked at Violet a few times.

He said, “Miss Window-bother?”

Then he crumpled to the tile floor.

“Oh!” Violet lunged for him.

“He’s well.” Christian crouched next to her at Fosbury’s side. “He’ll be fine. He’ll wake up in the morning with a bit of a headache but no unpleasant memories.”

“Have you poisoned him?”

From his pocket, he withdrew an empty brown-glass vial. “Just laudanum. Nicked it from your friend’s kit, thinking it might come in useful. Dumped it in the wine when you weren’t looking.”

“Good heavens, Christian.” She looked from the vial to him. “Christian.”

“Yes, darling. It’s me.” He touched her cheek. “Didn’t you know me at once?”

“I… I thought I did. But then I wondered. And just when I thought I could be certain, you had me doubting again. You were so insistent about that farmhand nonsense, and it has been almost a year. You’ve changed.”

And the changes weren’t only physical. The alterations went deeper than a broken nose and a scar beneath his jaw. This new Christian was darker, stronger. Far more dangerous. The man she’d once adored was devilish, yes—but he would never have threatened a member of the British militia at knifepoint, much less drugged the man.

She’d never feared the old Christian. But this man had the little hairs on the back of her neck standing tall. Even with his identity confirmed, she still couldn’t fathom how he’d arrived here, much less why.

And she still had no idea whether he deserved her trust.

“You must tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll explain soon enough.” He moved behind Fosbury and lifted him by the arms, dragging his unconscious form. “Help me with this first?”

“I…I don’t think I should.”

He acted without her assistance, lugging the insensible militiaman to the larder and depositing him behind the carrot and turnip bins.

“Is someone chasing you?” Resigned to it now, she followed and tried to make the sleeping Fosbury comfortable with a flour-sack pillow. “Have you done something you shouldn’t have done? Seen something you shouldn’t have seen? Did a tropical fever addle your brain?”

He tugged her to her feet. “I’ll tell you everything I can, I swear it. But we haven’t much time. I was never supposed to be seen, and now I must disappear entirely. But not before I have my chance at this.”

He slid his arms around her, drawing her close. As their bodies met, a low moan of pleasure escaped him. He pressed little kisses to her brow, her cheek. “God, it’s so good to hold you. You couldn’t know how often I’ve dreamed of this. Dreamed of you.”

Violet couldn’t believe it. He’d dreamed of her? And all those same nights she’d lain awake, shedding bitter tears over him. Wondering why he’d left so suddenly and whether she could have made him stay.

He’d dreamed of her, he said. And yet he hadn’t sent word in nearly a year. Instead he showed up drenched and bleeding in the middle of a Christmas ball, muttering in a foreign tongue.

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

He kissed her. So deeply, the spicy taste of the wine quite mulled her wits. And for a moment, it was lovely. His tongue coaxed hers, drawing her into a rhythm. He took; she gave. He taunted; she teased in turn. As if this kiss were the waltz they’d never danced. The courtship they’d never embarked upon. The open discussion they’d never shared.