The Christmas Cuckoo, Page 2

  The guard yelled again, "Last call!"

  Torn, Jem gazed at Jack and tried to decide what to do. Didn't look like the lad wanted to go anywhere, and Jem didn't want to learn what would happen to the next man who tried to wake him. Coming to a decision, Jem scrambled to his feet and dashed outside, where the coachman and guard were taking their seats.

  "The gent who got on at the Red Duck at the last minute don't want to go no farther," Jem said breathlessly. "Toss down his bag. I'll take it inside and be right back."

  The coachman growled, "Time we was leaving."

  Knowing the infallible way to ensure cooperation, Jem gave each of the men a half-crown. "For your trouble."

  The guard turned and rooted in the luggage, then handed the bag down to Jem. "Mind you hurry right back, or we'll leave without you."

  Jem raced inside and tucked the bag under Jack's bench, then gave another half-crown to the landlord, who was regarding the sleeping man disapprovingly. "Let the lad spend the night here."

  The landlord pocketed the coin. "Very well. I suppose there's no harm in it."

  Jem still held the second pork pie, so he took a bite. "Have a happy Christmas, Jack," he said, his voice muffled with flaky pastry. Secure in the knowledge of his good deed, he dashed outside and boarded the coach that would return him to his own comfortable hearth before the night was over.

  TIRED and splashed with mud, Meg tethered Clover inside the stable of the George. She guessed that the coach from London had already come and gone, and sure enough, inside the inn the landlord and his wife were clearing away plates left by hasty passengers. Meg removed her dripping bonnet and shook out her damp curls. "Good evening, Mr. Bragg."

  The landlord glanced up, surprised. "What brings you here on such a nasty night, Miss Lambert?"

  "A friend of Jeremy's was supposed to arrive on the London coach." Seeing only a handful of locals drinking ale by the fire, she asked, "Didn't any passengers get off here?"

  "Well, there's a gent in the other room," Mr. Bragg said dubiously, "but I doubt he's the one you're looking for."

  Hoping the landlord was wrong, Meg crossed the main taproom to the smaller chamber beyond. She halted in the doorway, wondering if the room's sole occupant could possibly be the right man, for her mental image of Jack Howard was quite different. Unconsciously she had assumed that Jeremy's friend would be in the same mold as her brother: slim and young and elegant.

  Instead, the man sprawled along the bench was very large, very shaggy, and not at all elegant. Wisps of steam rose gently from his worn coat, and his hat had fallen to the flagged floor. Jeremy had mentioned that his friend was a bit older, but Meg had assumed Jack Howard would still be somewhere in his midtwenties. The man in front of her appeared to be at least a decade her brother's senior.

  Systematically Meg compared the stranger against Jeremy's comments. Tall? Yes, definitely tall. Dark? She studied the long unruly hair. She would have called it brown rather than dark, but certainly it wasn't fair.

  How about handsome? She examined the sleeping face, where several days' worth of beard darkened the long jaw. Even worn by fatigue it was a pleasant countenance, but "handsome" did seem rather an overstatement. Still, one tended to think one's friends were attractive, and Jeremy and Jack were very good friends. Meg just hoped that Phoebe wouldn't be disappointed.

  Meg bent over the recumbent form. Then she stopped and wrinkled her nose. The gentleman smelled as if he had been held prisoner in a distillery. Not the most proper behavior for a man visiting friends, but fortunately Meg was not easily offended. Besides, on a night like this, spirits were a sensible way to counter the cold and damp. "Captain Howard?"

  When there was no reply, she tried again, raising her voice. This time his lids fluttered open, revealing intensely blue eyes. Meg caught her breath, understanding why someone would describe this man as handsome. However, those gorgeous blue eyes were blank with incomprehension. "Are you Captain Howard?"

  Hearing a military rank penetrated Jack's whiskey-aided exhaustion as nothing else would have, for a soldier who wanted to die in his bed learned to respond to emergencies no matter what his state. But what kind of emergency had a voice like spring flowers? "Not captain. Major."

  The voice said with apparent pleasure, "I didn't know you had received a promotion. Congratulations, Major." Then, uncertainly, "You are Jack Howard?"

  "I was last time I looked, but it's been rather a long day." Wanting to see the face that went with that delicious voice, Jack concentrated until her features came into focus one by one. A riot of bright brown curls. Thoughtful hazel eyes with green flecks. A scattering of freckles across cheeks rosy with good health. And an extremely kissable mouth. His gaze fixed on that last feature, he asked hopefully, "Do I know you?"

  "I am Miss Lambert," she explained, as if that would instantly clarify his confusion.

  Jack frowned, trying to recall the name. "Miss Lambert?"

  "Margaret Lambert, Jeremy's older sister, though if he ever mentioned me, he would have called me Meg. Everyone does."

  Margaret. Jeremy. Meg. Who were these people? He would never have forgotten this lady's face. For that matter, Jack thought as he raised a vague hand to his head, where the devil was he and how had he gotten here?

  "Where is Jeremy?" He knew several men by that name. If he recognized Miss Lambert's Jeremy, this conversation might make more sense.

  The mobile face above him showed regret. "Jeremy has been delayed for a few days and won't be home until after Christmas. He asked me to apologize for his absence."

  Jack sighed; no enlightenment there. Doggedly he tried to recall what had happened. Ah, yes, the irritating interview with Mr. Weezle that had driven Jack to board the coach to Bristol. What then? With a faint shudder he remembered the friendly farmer with the lethal flask of spirits.

  After a brief survey of his surroundings, Jack concluded that he was in a tavern. Either he had liked the place and decided to stay or he had been incapable of further travel. But none of that explained how this appealing lady knew him.

  As Jack racked his brain, the lady said helpfully, "Were you expecting to be met by Phoebe? No doubt Jeremy spoke more of her, for she's the family beauty. I don't look at all like her or Jeremy, for I'm only a half-sister."

  "You look quite whole to me." He surveyed her from muddy toes to curly hair, missing nothing in between. "Women like you are why men will fight and die to defend home and hearth."

  Miss Lambert blushed prettily. "I can see why Jeremy said you were charming, but don't waste your flattery on me. Phoebe is a much more suitable object."

  Jack started to shake his head, then stopped hastily when the world began spinning. "Not flattery. God's own truth." Belatedly recognizing his impropriety, he added, "Begging your pardon for the language, Miss Lambert."

  "Quite all right. One can't expect a man who is foxed to have perfect control over his tongue."

  "Not foxed." It occurred to Jack that a gentleman did not converse with a lady while lying on his back, so he sat up, exercising great care. "P'haps a trifle well-to-go." Being upright gave him a better view of the lady, and it was well worth it. She was of medium height and her cloaked figure was agreeably round in all the right places, not like one of those skinny fashionable wenches.

  "If you're feeling more the thing, it is time we set off," Miss Lambert said briskly. "The weather is dreadful and it will be nearly midnight before we get home."

  "Home?" Jack asked, startled. Was he dreaming? In normal life, well-bred, wholesome young ladies did not invite strange men home with them. Or perhaps she wasn't a lady? What a splendid thought.

  "Of course." For the first time she showed a hint of impatience. "I certainly don't want to spend the night here. Can you manage to walk to the stables?"

  Foxed he might be, but Jack knew a good offer when he heard one. "Be delighted to go home with you."

  He stood, swaying slightly, then pulled his bag out from under the bench. Though s
he might not be quite a lady, she wasn't a tavern wench either. Her home would be much better. There was a danger that he would be in no shape to perform when he got there, but he would certainly try. He gave her a sweeping bow. "For the honor of the regiment!"

  Meg laughed. "For the honor of the regiment." Though the major did not make much sense in his present condition, she couldn't help liking him.

  Taking her guest's arm, Meg guided him through the inn. To her surprise, he put his arm around her shoulders when they stepped outside, but she guessed that he needed a bit of steadying. She didn't mind if he used her for a cane. He was good protection from the wind and rain.

  However, even the most liberal of interpretations could not excuse what happened in the stables. Meg untethered the pony and sacrificed half of her remaining carrot to reward Clover for his earlier endeavors. After stroking his velvety nose and saying a few appreciative words, she turned to her guest, who had loaded his bag and was standing by the gig. "Will you open the doors so I can drive outside, Major?"

  He nodded but made no move toward the entrance. Thinking he intended to help her into the gig, Meg put her hand in his. But instead of assisting her up as a gentleman should, Jack Howard gave a slight tug that pulled Meg against his broad chest.

  Startled, she glanced up to find the major's face descending. When his warm mouth encompassed hers, Meg gasped, then began cooperating from sheer surprise. No one had stolen a kiss from practical Miss Lambert since her salad days. And none of the Chippenham lads had ever kissed like this.

  The major's hands did interesting things that made Meg's knees weaken so that she had to cling to his large frame for support. She had forgotten just how pleasant a kiss could be. . . .

  But how dare Jeremy invite such a dangerous man to stay under the same roof as his sisters! Immediately she realized that her brother would not knowingly have invited a rake home, so Jeremy must be ignorant of the major's disgraceful behavior. Well, if Jack Howard was a rake, Meg decided, he simply would not do for Phoebe.

  Having reached that wise conclusion, she realized that all the time she had been weighing the major's scandalous misconduct, she had continued kissing him. In fact, her arms were twined around him like ivy.

  Shocked more by herself than by him, she pulled her head back and exclaimed in freezing accents, "Major Howard!"

  As an elder sister, Meg had developed an exceedingly peremptory voice. The major instantly released her and jumped back as if she were made of red-hot iron. "B-beg your pardon, Miss Lambert," he stammered. "Don't know what came over me."

  He did not look at all rakish; in fact, his confused, guilty expression reminded Meg of a hound that had just been caught snatching food from the table.

  Disarmed, she almost laughed. In truth, she was more flattered than angry. Men never noticed Meg when Phoebe was in the room, so she felt a secret guilty pleasure in the knowledge that the major had found her worth kissing. Suppressing her amusement, she said frostily, "We shall both forget that happened." She climbed into the gig—without help—and lifted the reins. "Please open the stable doors, Major Howard."

  Hastily he complied. Meg drove outside, then waited while her guest closed and latched the doors behind her. Silently he climbed into the carriage and settled himself as far from her as possible, which wasn't very far in a gig.

  The storm soon quenched Meg's amusement, for driving demanded all her attention. As she concentrated on avoiding the worst of the ruts, the major slouched beside her, so quiet that she might have thought he was sleeping or passed out from drink.

  However, her passenger came alive whenever the gig bogged down in the mud, which happened about every ten minutes. No sooner would they shudder to a halt than the major jumped down, wordlessly freed the light vehicle from the rut, then climbed back in and returned to his torpor. Meg found it fascinating to watch him. Clearly a seasoned soldier could do whatever was necessary, even when half-seas-over.

  The drive home seemed much longer than the trip to town, and by the time they reached the ford, Meg was tense with strain. Pulling Clover to a halt, she studied the rushing water, which was wider and deeper than it had been earlier. Briefly she considered returning to Chippenham, but she hated to give up when they were so close to home. Besides, Phoebe would worry if they didn't return. The water was a little high, but the streambed was firm and they should be able to cross safely.

  Clover was less sure, and it took all Meg's powers of persuasion to convince him to move forward. As the gig entered the water, the current battered the wheels and the pony stopped, whickering nervously.

  "Steady, Clover," Meg murmured, her hands firm on the reins. Clover started forward again and in another minute he reached the far bank and began scrambling out of the water.

  Disaster struck with shocking suddenness. One moment Meg was holding the reins and in control of the gig. Then something smashed into the vehicle, knocking it over and pitching the passengers into the roiling stream.

  Meg opened her mouth to cry out and found herself choking on icy water as her heavy cloak dragged her below the surface. There was a deep pool to the left of the ford, and the current tumbled her into it. Helpless, drowning in the pitiless depths, Meg succumbed to blind panic, striking out hysterically as she fought for air.

  One of her flailing feet kicked a yielding object, and an instant later strong hands seized her and pulled her to the surface. The major was tall enough to stand on the bottom of the stream, and his powerful arms held her securely against his chest as dark water swirled around them.

  Unable to touch bottom, Meg clutched her rescuer desperately as she coughed convulsively. Finally air reached her anguished lungs, but even though the danger was past, panic drummed through her with every beat of her pounding heart.

  Then Major Howard murmured in her ear, his voice warm and amused, "That was quite fun. Shall we do it again?"

  Meg choked in momentary outrage. Then laughter dissolved her terror. "You absurd man," she gasped, incongruously aware of the scent of wet wool and warm male. "If that is your idea of fun, perhaps I should take you back to the George."

  "Don't do that. This is much more amusing." The major lifted Meg in his arms and carried her through the water to the bank. There he set her on her feet, keeping his arm around her waist until it was clear she could stand alone. "How much farther to your house?"

  "J-just up the hill." Meg wrapped her arms around herself in a futile attempt to find warmth as the icy wind bit through her saturated clothing. "Do you know what caused the accident?"

  "I think a tree trunk hit the gig and knocked it over. Your pony is over there, unhappy but unharmed."

  Following the direction of his gesture, Meg saw Clover stamping about nervously, confused and distinctly disapproving. A tangle of harness attached him to the damaged carriage, which was snarled in a bush.

  Major Howard guided Meg to the gig, then swiftly disconnected the harness and freed Clover. "Can you stay on the pony long enough to reach home?"

  "I th-think so."

  He put his hands around Meg's waist and lifted her to Clover's back, setting her sideways. Then he took off his greatcoat and draped it around her shoulders. "A pity this isn't dry, but at least it will block some of the wind."

  The coat did help, but Meg protested, "You'll freeze!"

  "Not as quickly as you will."

  When Meg opened her mouth to argue further, the major barked, "No arguments, soldier!"

  Stunned, Meg closed her mouth and obediently curled her numb fingers around the leather harness straps. Was her companion joking or so drunk that he wasn't quite sure where he was? No matter. He certainly knew what to do.

  They began to climb the hill, the major guiding the pony with one hand and using the other to steady Meg. Eager to return to his own stall, Clover moved briskly, and in less than five minutes they reached the old farmhouse.

  "This is it," Meg said, her voice a croak.

  "Here?" he asked, a note of surprise in his voi
ce.

  Apparently Jeremy had not explained the family circumstances to his friend, and the major had expected something grander. Too drained to explain, Meg merely said, "Around the house to the left. We'll go in the back."

  They circled the building and found light streaming through the kitchen windows. The major stopped at the door, then reached up and lifted Meg's shivering body from her perch. "You go inside and I'll stable the pony. I'll be along in a few minutes."

  "But you're a guest," Meg protested through chattering teeth. "I'll take care of Clover."

  He took her shoulders and turned her to the door. "Never disobey a superior officer. Now, march."

  Too cold to argue further, Meg fumbled with the latch. Almost immediately the door swung open and Phoebe was standing there, a lamp held high in one hand, her exquisite face warm with concern. With a small twinge, Meg knew that Jack Howard must be falling in love with her on the spot.

  Oblivious of the dramatic picture she presented, Phoebe exclaimed, "Thank heaven you're home! I was getting worried. Don't just stand there, Meg, come inside—you're soaking wet." Then she looked over her sister's shoulder, her eyes narrowed as she peered into the darkness. "Welcome to Brook Farm, Captain Howard. Please, come in right away. You look as wet as Meg."

  "He's a major now, Phoebe." Meg took off the greatcoat and handed it to her guest.

  "This is not the time for formal introductions." The major draped the coat over his shoulders. "There was an accident and Miss Lambert is freezing. Put her next to the fire and warm her up. I'll be along as soon as the pony has been bedded down for the night."

  Phoebe made a shocked sound and ushered her sister into the house. Once in the warm kitchen, Meg peeled off her cloak as she described the accident, then went to change into dry clothing while Phoebe set tea to brewing.

  Still shivering, Meg returned to the kitchen and gratefully accepted a mug of tea fortified with brandy. "Major Howard hasn't come in yet?" she asked, wondering if some combination of drink, fatigue, and cold might have overcome him in the barn.