Page 69 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
“Sir.Sir!Forgive me. It’s Christmas. Please ... come inside where it’s warm.”
Bitter wind roared from out of the darkness, twisting her skirts around her legs and setting her teeth to chattering. She shook the man’s shoulder until he groaned and stirred, finally showing signs of life.
“Come inside!” she repeated, growing desperate.
He groaned again, managed to get a hand beneath himself, and pushed himself to his knees. He remained there for a long moment, his head hanging, and then looked up to meet her gaze.
Katharine almost stepped back. There was such a depth of feeling in those dark eyes, such pain and gratitude and quiet suffering, that even in the darkness it penetrated her very soul.
He drew a leg beneath him and reached up, imploring her help. “’Tis weak as a kitten I am,” he murmured, stretching raw, cold-reddened fingers toward her. “A hand, if you will.”
Swallowing her distaste at touching this creature who was not only covered in mud and thoroughly disreputable—but Irish—Katharine reached down to take his hand.
His fingers fastened around hers. They were wet, frozen, and rough. Strong. She did not have the strength to pull him up, only to anchor him, and she shivered uncontrollably as he drew himself to his feet, growing taller and taller until his body all but towered over hers. He leaned heavily against her, cold and wet and smelling like leather, horse and wet wool, and wondering just what it was she’d done, just what it was she was doing, Katharine moved back to the steps.
“I ought to leave you out here, you sorry wretch,” she muttered as his muddy coat pressed against her shawl, ruining it. “You are most fortunate that it’s Christmas and I’m feeling charitable.”
“Do all of you nobs hereabouts,” he murmured, sagging against her as she struggled to get him up the last step and through the door, “need the excuse of Christmas in order to practice charity? What about the rest of the year?”
“What other ...nobscould you possibly be talking about?” she snapped, her tongue hesitating over the unflattering word as she kicked the door shut behind them with a foot that was wet and frozen in the ruined slipper.
“The one who put me in this position ... spooked m’ horse who reared up and fell over backwards on me ... think I’ve broken a rib. Said he’s coming back for me, he did, with the magistrate. Figured I’d take my chances with the light in the darkness rather than the noose, y’see?”
“Light in the darkness?”
“Aye, madam, the light in the darkness ... your house.”
“And ... what were you doing out on a night like this that made thisnobgo off to find the magistrate?”
“’Tis obvious, isn’t it?”
Her eyes widened. “No. You’re not a highwayman. Tell me you’re not....”
“I am, tonight. And not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
“And now you’re in my house!”
“Have no fear, I’ve no intention of robbing you, madam. You have my word ... as a gentleman.”
She laughed; oh, this was absurd. Insane. Complete and uttermadness. A highwayman in her house, giving her his word as a gentleman that he wouldn’t rob her? Fear and loathing and regret fought for space in her heart but it was too late now, wasn’t it? She could hardly throw him out on his ear.
Wild-eyed, she looked about the hall, but it was empty. She was alone with this rogue, this criminal.Perry.She should run and get her brother....
And what would he be able to do, soused like a pickle in vinegar?
You’re on your own.
Damnation! She guided him to a chair and bade him to sit while she tried to decide what to do. Grimacing in pain, he eased himself down, his drenched and muddy cloak, his wet breeches, surely ruining the velvet in which the chair was upholstered. It was an expensive piece that one of her ancestors had been given as a gift from a visiting prince, but the form it now held belonged in it no more than a cur off the streets. And yet there he sat, rain and melted snow dripping from his cloak onto the polished floor, his boots caked with mud, his head cradled in his hands as though he was trying not to pass out. She eyed the thick black hair that curled, wet and dripping from beneath his tricorn and noted it was in need of a cutting. In that moment he raised his head and again, she was struck by the sheer depth of humanity in eyes that were as deep and dark and bottomless as a quiet autumn pond.
He took off his hat and held it in reddened fingers. “’Tis grateful to you, I am,” he said, and she was transfixed by the sheer perfection of his strong, manly face—the slightly crooked smile, the crinkling at the corners of those dark, soulful eyes, the strong white teeth and the shape of his eyebrows, not bushy and rough like a commoner’s but slightly winged, bold, and expressive. “Nollaig O’ Flaherty, your most humble servant ... but you can call me Noel—”
“Nollaig? What kind of a name is that?”
“It means Christmas, in Gaelic.” He swayed in the chair. “Nobody calls me that, though. ’Tis Noel. Pleased to make your acquaintance and all that. Even more pleased to be out of the cold. God and the devil, but I’m dizzy. And you are?”
“Lady Katharine Farnsley,” she said, eyeing him uncertainly. “And no, you cannot call me Katharine. I wish I could say that I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, but that would make me a liar. I wish I’d never let you in!”
“Aye, well, I’m not exactly presentable now, am I?”
