Page 38 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
“I suppose the next round of festivities will begin soon,” she said.
“Three hours and people will start arriving.”
By people, they spoke of Mr. and Mrs. Digby’s three married daughters, their daughters' husbands, and eleven grandchildren. There was also a Mr. Ian Fanning, son of a farmer, attending with his sister to the delight of Polly. The maid’s joyful humming had rung all day. And Digby, the butler, who’d never married, had taken him self to his quarters (really the walled part on the other side of the cellar). He had two newspapers tucked under his arm.
“Polly’s in her room, hemming a gown I gave her,” Sabrina said. “The rosy color brightens her eyes and does nice things for her cheeks.”
“Kind of you.” He reached for her hand. “Come. There’s something I want you to see.”
They wandered up to the ground floor, Rory leading her as if she were a stranger in her own home. Since Rory’s arrival, it wasn’t lost on him how much her life had been upended. She could use joy and light. A magical surprise.
When they arrived at the salon, both doors were shut. Though it was twilight, light from her salon glowed under the doors. Rory set both hands on the door latches.
“Get ready.” And he opened the doors with a flourish.
Sabrina’s lips parted on a tender gasp. She stepped forward, hesitant as though she dared not disturb the wonder.
“What have you done?”
Not it was his turn to hesitate. “You don’t like it.”
“Like it?” She was wide-eyed, her head shaking in disbelief. “I love it.”
“Then I’ve done my duty as your Master of Frivolity.”
“This is not frivolity…” She entered the salon, touching here and there. “This is a—a wonderland.”
Evergreen boughs slanted, draped, or otherwise covered every flat surface, except for the chairs and two settees. Holly berries and pine cones, tall white candles in glass column lamps flickered and danced. At the end of the salon was the grand surprise.
She went to it. “What’s this?
“A puppet stage. Entertainment for the wee ones and, I suspect, the rest of us.” He was pleased with himself. “I found it, half constructed, in the storage room in the barn.”
"Clearly, you finished it."
Sabrina was touching the wood frame and trailing a hand over red wool curtains hastily constructed by Polly. Mr. Digby had cleaned up the puppets. To Rory, they were dolls with paper machier heads mounted on sticks. But once Polly mended their miniature clothes, he saw they were, in fact, proper puppets.
Preparations for the festivities didn’t end there. Mrs. Digby created her own magic in the kitchen. Two cakes were on the side board and three puddings were cooling in the buttery. Sweet breads, spiced cider, and a brandy punch were ready as well.
“Turns out Mr. Standish was a talented puppeteer. He and Digby took this stage to summer fairs.”
“Is Digby giving us a puppet show?” she asked, stunned.
“Not one puppet show,” he said, grinning. “But three. I saw him practicing. I think you’ll find your butler has many talents.”
She covered her mouth, delighted. “It’s a gift, this is. A bright spot. And a fair reminder to be kind to others.” She angled her head to his. “I have a gift for you.”
He straightened, awareness prickling his skin with goosebumps. “I have a gift for you too.”
Rory reached behind the settee and retrieved it. A flat narrow box tied with a white bow. He hoped this would put the spark back in her eyes. He offered it to her and Sabrina took it. Eyes downcast, she caressed the box.
She met his gaze with a down-soft “My gift for you is in my bed chamber.”
Flaming arrows landed with messages. The pop and sizzle in his ears were his will to resist burning to the ground. The widow had launched her assault. He was under siege and there was nothing he could do, or would do to stop it.
Her fingers grazed his. His breath rasped audibly. Surrender was imminent.
“Come with me," she said.
