Page 2 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“What the devil?” Spencer rattled the handle, but the door was now locked. “I call this a poor welcome.”

To his surprise, Barnett chuckled. “Lady Jane’s family keeps Scots traditions. A visitor arriving after midnight on New Year’s—no, we must call it Hogmanay to follow their quaint customs. A visitor arriving after midnight on Hogmanay needs to beg admission, and must bring gifts. I have them here.” He held up a canvas sack. “Salt, coal, whisky, shortbread, and black bun.”

“Black what?”

“Black bun. A cake of fruit soaked in whisky. It is not bad fare. I obtained the cake from a Scotswoman—the landlord’s wife at our accommodations when we first landed.”

Spencer had wondered why Barnett insisted on traveling to that inn, well out of the way, the venture taking precious time.

Barnett grinned. “The whole rigmarole is to prove we aren’t Norsemen come to pillage the family. ’Tis greatly entertaining, is it not?”

Spencer had other ideas of entertainment. “We stand shivering outside while they decide whether to admit us? There is a good bonfire yonder.” He gestured to the fire leaping high in the fields, shadows of revelers around it.

“They’ll be waiting just inside. You will see.”

Barnett stepped up to the door the footmen had all but slammed in their faces and hammered on it.

“Open, good neighbors. Give us succor.” Barnett shot Spencer a merry look. “We must enter into the spirit of the thing.”

Spencer heard the bolts rattling, and then the door opened a sliver. “Who is there?” a creaky, elderly man’s voice intoned.

“Admit us, good sir.” Barnett held the sack aloft. “We bear gifts.”

The door opened wider to show a wizened, bent man wrapped in what looked like a long shawl. Spencer sensed several people hovering behind him.

“Then come in, come in. Out of the cold.” The man added something in the Scots language Spencer didn’t understand and swung the door open.

Barnett started forward, then stopped himself. “No, indeed. You must lead, Spence. A tall, dark-haired man brings the best luck.”

He stepped out of the way and more or less shoved Spencer toward the door. Spencer removed his hat and stepped deferentially into the foyer.

Warmth surrounded him, and light. In the silence, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

Beyond the old Scotsman in his plaid shawl, in the doorway to a room beyond, stood a young woman. She was rather tall, but curved, not willowy. Her hair was so dark it was almost black, her eyes, in contrast, a startling blue, like lapis lazuli. They matched the eyes of the old man, but Spencer could no longer see him.

The vision of beauty, in a silk and net gown of shimmering silver, regarded him in alarm but also in wonder.

“Well met, all ’round,” Barnett was saying. “Spence, let me introduce you to Lord and Lady Merrickson—the house you are standing in is theirs. Mr. MacDonald, Lady Merrickson’s father, and of course, this angel of perfection is Lady Jane Randolph, Lord Merrickson’s only daughter and the correspondent that keeps me at ease during the chaos of army life. Lady Jane, may I present Captain Spencer Ingram, the dearest friend a chap could imagine. He saved my life once, you know.”

Lady Jane came forward, gliding like a ghost on the wind. Spencer took her hand. Her eyes never left his as he bowed to her, and her lips remained parted with her initial gasp.

Spencer looked at her, and was lost.

CHAPTER2

Captain Ingram fixedJane with eyes as gray as winter and as cool, and she couldn’t catch her breath. A spark lay deep within those eyes, gleaming like a sunbeam on a flow of ice.

He was not a cold man, though, she knew at once. He was containing his warmth, his animation, being polite. Of course he was—he’d been dragged here by John, likely expecting an ordinary English family at Christmas, only to be thrust into the midst of eccentric Randolphs and MacDonalds.

Jane forced her limbs into a curtsey. “Good evening, Captain Ingram,” she said woodenly.

Captain Ingram jerked his gaze to her hand, which he still held, Jane’s fingers swallowed by his large gloved ones. Ingram abruptly released her, a bit rudely, she thought, but Jane was too agitated to be annoyed.

“Greet him properly, Jane,” Grandfather said. He pushed his way forward, leaning on his stout ash stick, and gave Captain Ingram a nod. “You know how.”

Jane swallowed, her jaw tight, and repeated the words Grandfather had taught her years ago. “Welcome, First-Footer. Please partake of our hospitality.”

Why was she so unnerved? Grandfather couldn’t possibly have predicted that John would step back and let his friend enter the house first, in spite of their conversation earlier today. Grandfather didn’t truly have second sight—he only pretended.

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