Page 243 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“ME-OW!

CARRIAGE CACOPHONY

C-R-A-S-H!

The sound of glass shattering pierced the air and blazed up Lucinda’s spine.

She shrieked. The high-pitched yelp rang in her ears even as her body shuddered. Had the monster broken the window-panes? Come after her despite—

“Not the horses!” The man hovering over her shoved home the bolt—finally!—and lunged toward the bow window several feet from where she hunkered behind the stout door. “The carriage too? Barnabas, you bloody ingrate!”

“RRRreoowwww!” A spry brown-striped tabby with a fuzzy white belly launched itself off the man’s back and into her lap.

“Barnabas! Damn back claws…” The grumbling continued a few feet away, but Luce ignored it. Too intent on the purring, warm bundle rubbing against her frozen hands. When had she lost her gloves?

Oh, somewhere between the two carriages smashing into each other; you and others flinging hither and yon; seeing the dead, broken bodies, the blaze of light; oh, and being chased within an inch of your life, mayhap?

Loud purrs rumbled forth, the comforting vibration better than a roaring fire would have sounded right that moment, helping her focus on something other than the terror that even now raced through her veins, made it difficult to inhale without gasping and grasping for air.

“Mew.”

“Don’t give me a dainty littlemew,” the man complained in a voice she could not but help respond to—no matter how inappropriate—the deeply husked tones warming her little corner, calming her storming heart as much as the friendly feline. “You rotten piece of good-for-nothing whiskers.”

Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“Oh you are a sweetheart, are you not?”

She wasn’t alone. She was safe—for the moment. And her benumbed fingers now had a purpose (other than fighting the man over the dratted door): she sank them into soft fur.

“My horses and carriage,” he groaned, his voice quieter than it had been. “Why the horses, Barns? Why? After ignoring them since they pranced into the store, why now? And you, not bestirring yourself to catch a single rodent in ages. Should just stop feeding you. Boiled chicken…shredded turkey…sliced roast... Spoiling your sorry arse, I am. This is what befalls us both…”

Beyond the confines of the shop, the storm raged.

The cat bumped into her chin and Lucinda moved her fingers from stroking its sides to attack its fuzzy little head, around the ears, between them, and then beneath its jaw—which brought forth the loudest rumbles yet.

As the man busied himself maligning the cat and picking up large pieces and smaller shards, Luce glanced about the shop, the light meager but sufficient to reveal a striking number of goods, arranged invitingly. Closed, waist-high cabinets marched around the perimeter, with rows of shelving above that reached to the ceiling. Various-sized round tables dotted the floor throughout. Everything she beheld affirming exactly what had been promised from outside: an array of hats, gloves, stockings and such, bolts of fabric and a myriad other personals and household items that any other time she would enjoy perusing.

But the man’s broad shoulders had snared her attention.

Now that he was no longer being an obstinate knave, intent on thwarting her efforts, she could not help but admire his appeal.

His warmth, she still remembered as they battled side by side before he relented. But the dark-as-night disheveled hair, she just now noticed, thick and barely brushed with grey above his ears.

His task nearly done, the larger pieces all gathered, he sat back on his haunches and stared at the large empty spot on the display level with his head. Which appeared to be a good portion, centered in the wide window. His firm jaw, temptingly touched by evening bristle, angled in such a way that thoughts of exploring him made her quickly thawing fingers prick with more than the return of feeling.

Wind rattled a couple panes of the window, but the more she studied his large form…the more her heart and body distanced from the distresses of the last hours, the more an odd sort of contentment settled over her like a comforting blanket. “Horses, you said,” Luce ventured, loath to bring his ire back to her, but curious nevertheless. “What did your cat break? Is there any chance of repair? For your display, if not for sale?”

“None whatsoever.” All fight had gone out of him, it seemed. Serene acceptance coated his tone. He breathed deep, then pushed off the floor to head toward the back of the shop. Moments later, he returned with broom and dustpan. After a glance at her, a derisive chuckle and shake of his head when he noticed the cat now curled in her lap, he set to work sweeping the large chunks and finer pieces into the bin.

“You, no doubt, will think I respond all out of proportion as a matter of course.” He sighed and she took feminine pleasure in watching the muscles of his shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt—no jacket nor properly tied cravat hiding his neck this eve, she noted, which lent credence to his claim of the store being closed.

“These horses were a new design, arrived last month, with one broken during shipment, so that delayed things while I waited for the replacement. Four matched whites, you see, with such a sheen it could mirror your countenance; they even came with wreaths about their necks, dried greenery woven with ribbon and tiny gold baubles. On a lark, while waiting for the replacement one lonely night, I added a small wooden pole across the lead pair’s chest, leather straps and traces from some scraps and connected the team to the sort of fabled carriage one would expect described in a fairy story…”

Did he realize he saidlonely?

“More fool me, as that piece was irreplaceable—the carriage I scrounged from a trunk—something my grandmother had as a child, and thanks to my twaddy idea”—he gestured to the broken pieces he’d gathered—“since everything was strapped together, it’s gone now too. Even jested with a couple customers earlier how Prinny himself would be jealous if he did but see it. Would want to commission something just as fantastical for his own use, certainly not above prancing through London himself.

“No help for it now.” He stood, dusting his hands off against his trousers. Then he speared her with one pointed finger. “Stay put. Your slippers are no match for a sharp shard and the last thing I need is you bleeding on my floor.”

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