Page 240 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

RESCUED BY A CHRISTMAS KISS - LARISSA LYONS **

But she…was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness as she had been before by her fears.

–Jane Austen,Sense and Sensibility

CRASH

December 23, 1812

London

A fast-moving blur caught his attention.

Barnabas left off his task and gazed out the window, past the frost and steam from his gentlehuff. The stranger scuttled across the rain-slicked street, heading his way.

More disarrayed than most of the staid, polished females who typically sought entrance where he worked and lived—despite a cranky landlord.

Wouldsheknow just how he needed to be touched after a long, arduous day in the fields? Catching prey and earning his keep? Wouldsheknow which muscles needed attention? Where to stroke lightly, where to scratch with more pressure?

Would she serve his dinner in a timely fashion? And not make him wait—while she dithered about doing who knew what?

He stood and stretched, watching her unsteady approach as her slippered feet skated over the icy cobbles.

He’d never seen the newcomer before, but given the slush coating the road, the dark drizzle lining the outside of the windowpane and the very air beyond, she should have been “coated” herself. But nay, no cloak lined her shoulders. No bonnet her head.

No mittens her fingers, no scarf her neck.

What was this?

What manner of female would be traveling toward his begrudged lodgings in weather such as this without a shred shielding her against the fierce elements?

He gave a great yawn, his nose reaching toward the ceiling, his every limb and muscle lengthening with the move, as he circled and curled, settling back against the red velvet Mr. Chapman (his cranky landlord) had placed beneath the latest display—toppling one of the horse figurines that dared encroach on his slumber space.

“Barnabas! Have a care!” Chapman cranked from behind the counter. “Or I shall tan your furry hide.”

Ho-hum.

“No-good rotten mouser, spending your days inside instead of at the warehouse or near the storeroom where you belong.”

Humedy-hum-hum.

Tucking his tail beneath his chin, Barnabas slitted his eyes as a low rumble purred forth when the female skidded right into his front door, knocking it open and causing the noisome chime overhead to peal.

My, oh my.Eager, was she not—to feed and stroke his worthy self?

* * *

Heart pounding like a runaway team strapped to a rackety coach (which wasn’t far from the truth), Lucinda Thomalin, sliding over the slick stones, barreled her freezing carcass toward the first—and only—shop still showing signs of habitation late this wretched eve. Pray GodChapman & SonspromisingHats and Hosiery, Gloves and Goodsalso provided safety to scared, single travelers.

The light whispering from the lanterns along the street feeble at best, motion in the large display window, visible even through the ice-crusted panes, nevertheless let her know help resided within—ifshe could get the door barred behind her swift enough. Keep out the terrors that had chased her thus far.

The cold, humid air suffocated like a grim haunting her lungs. Straining breaths panted from her as she raced, fast as she dared, over the dangerous cobbles intent on snagging a numb toe.

With every other establishment dark and locked tighter than a miser’s trunk, the promised beacon of shelter on this bone-chilling, confidence-killing night drew her frozen self through the gloom. Slippers slithering over the dangerous surface, she slipped across the abandoned street with ungainly desperation as though she had wings on her back instead of the muck and mud from the last miserable hours.

Why, oh why, had she chosen to travel so close to Christmas, and in such questionable weather?

Your pockets are empty, lest you forget.

---