Secluded with the Rogue

3. Three

Three

December 23

T HREE DAYS INTO the Trevors’ journey, the weather took a turn for the worse.

Not that the weather had been pleasant to begin with. Chrystabel felt like she hadn’t been warm in days, and the churned-up winter roads had made for a bumpy ride. She was convinced their carriage had managed to find every rut from Bath to Bristol.

But today’s cold was something else, something malicious, with biting winds and just enough damp to make the chill penetrate down to the bone. Her fingers and toes were achingly numb, though she wore two extra pairs of stockings and kept her gloved hands bundled in her pockets. Even through leather, the lion crest pendant felt like a chip of ice in her palm. Holding it brought her little comfort today.

In short, she was thoroughly miserable. And they weren’t even in Wales yet.

When she wasn’t too busy wallowing, she was worrying. She worried for her roses, which had been carefully wrapped and lovingly secured in the baggage wagon, and for her Christmas decorations, hastily flung atop the load. At the last minute she’d decided Christmas was coming with them, Cromwell’s laws be damned.

In two days’ time, she would have her Yuletide celebration. She didn’t care where. She would decorate the carriage if it came to that.

But now she worried her treasured roses and hand-trimmed boughs might not make it to Christmas Day. Could any living thing—or recently living, in the case of the boughs—survive such bitter cold and relentless jostling?

Most of all, she worried for the servants, who were bringing up the rear in two ancient carriages with no glass in the windows. Some of their retainers had chosen to stay behind in Wiltshire, but most feared being out of work in these turbulent times. Though Chrystabel and her sister had loaned them all the spare cloaks and blankets they could find, she feared the poor dears might be icicles by day’s end.

If only Matthew had the funds to buy some decent, modern vehicles…

But then, if her brother had a great heap of money at his disposal, they wouldn’t have lost Grosmont Grange.

“L-look,” Arabel said through chattering teeth. Hugging herself tighter, she leaned toward the window. “It’s s-snowing again.”

Chrystabel’s sigh made a little puff of fog. “We ought to stop somewhere.”

“On account of this bit of fluff?” Matthew’s jaw was clenched and his posture unnaturally stiff; he was far too manly to allow himself to shiver. “Regardless, there’s nothing nearby?—”

“Is that a c-castle?” Peering through the window, Arabel brightened. “Yes, just there off the road, p-peeking up through the woods. And there’s smoke rising from its chimneys. Someone m-must be home!”

Matthew leaned to see what she was talking about. “Probably just a skeleton staff who won’t want to take us in,” he muttered. “And the place isn’t ‘just off the road,’ either—it’s got to be nearly a mile away.”

“That’s certainly closer than Wales,” Chrystabel snapped, though in truth, she had no idea where they were in relation to Wales. She just knew they still had a long journey ahead of them. The ferry crossing at New Passage had been closed due to the weather, the River Severn too frozen for the ferryman to risk. Now they had to go all the way to Gloucester before they could loop around the river and head west to Grosmont Castle.

“In this weather, whoever’s at that c-castle will feel obligated to take us in, even if the owners aren’t p-p-present.” Arabel was shivering so hard that Chrystabel suspected it was half for show.

Chrystabel nodded. “Think of our staff, Matthew. We must find them shelter. If you’d rather freeze to death, you’re welcome to wait in the carriage.”

“Oh, very well,” he grumbled. “But I fear this will prove a waste of time.” He knocked on the carriage roof and told the bundled-up coachman to turn off the road, trusting the rest of the train would follow. “If we have to turn back, I’m going to say ‘I told you so,’” he warned afterward.

The castle turned out to be more than a mile off, and Chrystabel held her tongue the entire way. But her heart sank when they got close enough to see the structure was only half-built.

With its tall, decorative brickwork chimneys and other Tudor architectural touches, she’d thought the castle belonged to the previous century—but now she feared it was new and just built in that style. What if only construction workmen were there? Picturing her family’s carriages turning around to head back to the main road, she felt colder than ever.

But to her very great relief, a footman greeted their arrival. Chrystabel showed remarkable restraint as the man asked their names, scurried off to “consult with milord,” and reappeared to graciously welcome them all into the castle. Only then did she turn to her brother and crow, “I told you so!”

Matthew may or may not have looked daggers at her as she led the way inside. She didn’t see, because she was too busy noticing the gentleman who waited in the wood-paneled entry hall.

Or rather, not just noticing. To her astonishment, she found herself gaping . Tall and trim, the man was young, nearly as young as she. He had deep green eyes and long, wavy jet-black hair—Cavalier hair, which meant he was Royalist, like her family.

Just occupying the same space with this stranger was having peculiar effects on her body. She didn’t feel nervous, as she sometimes had around other good-looking men. Instead, she felt soft and warm both inside and out. She felt thawed in a way that had nothing to do with coming in out of the cold.

She couldn’t not look at him. She willed him to glance her way. His gaze met hers?—

—and her heart came to a stop.

It just paused, as if suspended in time for as long his eyes held hers.

A sudden truth occurred to her: I’m going to marry this man.

Which was ridiculous, when she thought about it. Maybe she was overtired.

Yes, she had to be overtired. The frozen, uncomfortable journey had been exhausting.

When he looked away to address her brother, the perplexing moment passed. “Welcome to Tremayne, Lord Grosmont.” His voice was deep and as beautiful as the planes of his face, making Chrystabel melt a little more. “I would ask what brings you to my home, except I fear I know the answer. I hope the weather will not delay your travels long.”

“My profound thanks, uh…” Matthew trailed off, apparently realizing too late that their host hadn’t named himself.

Chrystabel suddenly had to know his name. “Who are you?” she blurted.

Thoughtful eyes fixed on her again, and again her heart paused. “My name is Joseph Ashcroft, my lady. The Viscount Tremayne,” he added with a little formal bow she found amusing.

Or maybe it was be musing. She was certainly feeling bemused.

Matthew poked her in the ribs. “This is my rude sister, Lady Chrystabel Trevor. My courteous sister is Lady Arabel Trevor. And we are most grateful for your hospitality, Lord Tremayne.”

The viscount flashed straight white teeth in a smile that nearly reduced her to a puddle. “The hospitality is my father’s. He’s regrettably detained, but he hopes you and your lovely sisters will join our family supper tonight.”

Lovely! Could he have meant Chrystabel? Or was he just being polite?

“We’d be delighted,” Matthew answered for all three of them.

Lord Tremayne nodded. “The dining room is rather hidden, so shall we meet here again at seven? In the meantime, our housekeeper will settle your staff and belongings, and Watkins here will show you to our guest chambers. Please make yourselves at home.”

With another droll little bow, the viscount took his leave. Chrystabel stayed rooted in place until he was entirely out of sight. When she blinked herself awake, her siblings were gone.

She caught up to them on a wide flight of stone stairs, which had twisted wrought-iron balusters and a dark oak handrail. The staircase led to a long corridor that appeared to run the length of the building, torches lighting it at intervals.

Though she’d assumed a half-built castle would be unfinished inside, too, this portion was a beautiful and sumptuous home. Trailing Watkins, Chrystabel passed a costly gilt mirror and several impressive tapestries, skimming her hand along stone block walls polished to a subtle sheen.

Watkins hurried ahead to open a door on the left. “Would one of the ladies like this chamber?”

Chrystabel peeked into a spacious, splendid room. “I would love it,” she said, rushing inside before her sister could claim it.

The first detail that caught her eye was a set of magnificent oriel windows. Amazingly, the glass window panes were curved. Marveling, she drifted closer and counted four banks of curved windows projecting out from the back wall, each shaped like a rounded flower petal. She’d never seen anything like them. They afforded a stunning view of the walled Tudor landscape below.

The geometric garden was lightly dusted with snow. “The grounds were designed by the young viscount,” Watkins explained, “in the style of Tradescant the Elder.”

Chrystabel loved flowers and knew John Tradescant had brought seeds and bulbs to England from all over the world. She found herself as entranced by Lord Tremayne’s gardens as she was by the man himself. “Oh, these grounds must be enchanting in summer!” She longed to see them in full bloom.

Too bad she’d be in godforsaken Wales.

Excusing himself with a bow far more proper than his master’s, Watkins ushered Arabel and Matthew back out. “My lady, I hope you’ll find the next room over to your liking,” Chrystabel heard as he led them down the corridor. “Lord Grosmont, you’ll be installed across the way.”

When she finally tore herself from the view, Chrystabel closed the room’s door and then surveyed the rest of her surroundings with almost equal glee. Her bedchamber at Grosmont Grange had been nice, but not as nice as this one. It boasted a four-poster bed with red curtains and a red canopy, much like her tester bed at home, but newer and better quality. A carved stone fireplace blazed merrily on one wall, and a red Oriental carpet cushioned the floor beneath her feet. Besides the bed, she had a carved wardrobe cabinet and a lovely dressing table with another costly mirror. In the cozy rounded space created by the oriel windows sat an inlaid hexagonal table with two well-stuffed chairs.

She was already regaining the feeling in her fingers and toes, and with any luck, she’d get to stay warm and snug in this gorgeous room through Christmas. The impending misery of Wales felt like a distant bad dream. Tremayne seemed no place for such unpleasant thoughts.

Remembering she was overtired, she crawled into the big bed and burrowed beneath the plush counterpane. While waiting to doze off, she pictured Lord Tremayne designing an exquisite new garden. A rose garden. For her.

Goodness, but he looked darling when he was concentrating.

In the summertime, the rose garden he’d planted for her bloomed. The colors were spectacular, the fragrances breathtaking. And she was here to enjoy it all. She lived here, at splendid Tremayne. And she lived here because?—

A knock startled her awake.

Chrystabel scrambled out of bed to open her door. “Is it seven o’clock already?” she asked Arabel, patting her hair back into its austere knot.

“It will be in five minutes. Matthew went on ahead, and he said we’re to meet him on time .”

Matthew was very punctual and well-mannered and nauseatingly polite out in company. Quite different from the real Matthew that Chrystabel saw at home.

She looked Arabel up and down. “Shouldn’t we change for supper?”

Arabel shrugged. “What would we change into?”

“Something more elegant,” Chrystabel said, though something more tempting was what she meant. Her thoughts had returned to the handsome viscount.

Thanks to her nap, she was no longer overtired—and she still wanted to marry him.

Unfortunately, she feared her current attire might hamper her chances. Cromwell had forbidden bright or immodest clothing, so the gowns she wore in public were of plain fabrics in tedious browns and grays. Each one had a vast white collar that tied at the throat, concealing everything that made a female look feminine. She looked down at herself in dismay. “This will never do.”

“It will have to, at least for tonight.” Arabel took her arm. “They haven’t brought our trunks up yet.”

With a sigh of resignation, Chrystabel let her sister march her down to supper. Oh, how she longed for the fine pre-Cromwell gowns hidden in the bottom of her trunk. “Do you miss silk, Arabel? I miss silk. And damask. And embroidery and lace. I could go on all day…”

“Please don’t,” Arabel said good-naturedly. “You’d make us late for supper. Then Matthew would be cross, our hosts would be insulted, and we’d still be stuck wearing hideous brown sacks.”

Chrystabel giggled. “What about velvet? Mmm, wouldn’t fur-lined velvet be ever so snug on an evening like this?”

Arabel put a finger to her lips. “You forget we’re in a stranger’s home. Tremayne folk might frown on such talk.”

“They’d better not frown at me,” Chrystabel grumbled. “It’s Yuletide, and just as soon as my trunk arrives I’ll wear red and green whether they like it or not.”

“Suit yourself.” Arabel shook her head. “But we haven’t seen how the lady of the house dresses yet, and I, for one, would rather look dreadful inside a warm castle than ravishing tossed out into the snow.”

As usual, Arabel was right. Sometimes Chrystabel thought Arabel should be the older sister. Perhaps they’d been accidentally born in the wrong order.

Chrystabel cast about for a safe subject. “How is your chamber?”

“Marvelous. It's done up all in yellow with a very pretty four-poster bed. And best of all, it’s warm .” Arabel was easy to please. “I hope the storm doesn’t break tomorrow.”

“You’d like to stay longer?”

Arabel grinned. “I’d like to stay forever.”

“Me, too.” When they passed the fancy mirror Chrystabel had noticed earlier, she was careful to avoid her reflection. It would only upset her. “I think I shall marry the viscount.”

That startled a laugh out of her sister. “Don’t be a goose.”

“Who’s being a goose?” Chrystabel lifted her skirts to descend the staircase. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t know anything about him.” Arabel gave her a sidelong glance. “Except that he’s handsome and doesn’t live in Wales.”

For once, her younger sister was wrong. “I’m not wedding him to avoid Wales. I’m wedding him because I love him.”

Now Arabel rolled her eyes. “You cannot be in love with him. You haven’t even had a proper conversation with him yet.”

“‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’” Chrystabel quoted triumphantly. “It seems Shakespeare would beg to differ.”

Since Arabel was the academic of the family—she’d read nearly every book in the Grange’s library—Chrystabel could rarely best her with scholarship. She relished every opportunity.

“ As You Like It is fiction, not philosophy,” her sister pointed out. “And incidentally, Shakespeare didn’t even write that line. He was referencing a poem by Christopher Marlowe.”

Hmmph. So much for besting Arabel.

“And there’s no such thing as love at first sight, Chrys. That only happens in plays and poems.”

Yesterday, Chrystabel would have agreed with that sentiment. But today she knew differently.

“What a sad, unromantic soul you are, dear sister.” She patted Arabel on the shoulder. “Since it’s happened to me, I suppose I’ll have to prove you wrong.”