The Christmas Visit: Comfort and JoyLove at First StepA Christmas Secret Read online

  Acclaim for the authors of

  THE CHRISTMAS VISIT

  MARGARET MOORE

  “Ms. Moore is a master

  of the medieval time period.”

  —Romantic Times

  TERRI BRISBIN

  “A welcome new voice…you won’t want to miss.”

  —USA TODAY bestselling author Susan Wiggs

  GAIL RANSTROM

  “Gail Ranstrom certainly has

  both writing talent and original ideas.”

  —The Romance Reader

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  MARGARET MOORE

  Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, award-winning author Margaret Moore graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a bachelor of arts degree. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department-store chain in Canada. Margaret sold her first historical romance, A Warrior’s Heart, to Harlequin Historicals in 1991. She has recently completed her eighteenth novel for Harlequin. Margaret lives in Toronto with her husband, two children and two cats. Readers may contact her through her Web site, www.margaretmoore.com.

  TERRI BRISBIN

  is a wife to one, mom of three and dental hygienist to hundreds when not living the life of a glamorous romance author. Born, raised and still living in the southern New Jersey suburbs, Terri is active in several romance writers organizations, including the RWA and NJRW. Terri’s love of history, especially Great Britain’s, led her to write time-travel romances and historicals set in Scotland and England. Readers are invited to contact Terri by e-mail at [email protected] or by mail at P.O. Box 41, Berlin, NJ 08009-0041. You can visit her Web site at www.terribrisbin.com.

  GAIL RANSTROM

  was born and raised in Missoula, Montana, and grew up spending the long winters lost in the pages of books that took her to exotic locales and interesting times. That love of the “inner voyage” eventually led to her writing. She has three children, Natalie, Jay and Katie, who are her proudest accomplishments. Part of a truly bicoastal family, she resides in Florida with her two terriers, Piper and Ally, and has family spread from Alaska to Florida.

  THE CHRISTMAS VISIT

  MARGARET MOORE

  TERRI BRISBIN

  GAIL RANSTROM

  Contents

  COMFORT AND JOY

  Margaret Moore

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  LOVE AT FIRST STEP

  Terri Brisbin

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  A CHRISTMAS SECRET

  Gail Ranstrom

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  COMFORT AND JOY

  Margaret Moore

  Dear Reader,

  One thing that always makes Christmas merry for me is the music. Nothing gets me more in the Christmas spirit than my favorite carols, “Deck the Halls” and “Joy to the World.”

  During my research for this novella, I learned that “Deck the Halls” is based on an old Welsh folk melody, possibly dating from medieval days, and was likely what was known as a “dance carol,” or canu penillion. The dancers would sing a line, and the “answer” would be played on a harp. That explains why the alternate lines of “Deck the Halls” have no lyrics.

  I also discovered that the standard Welsh version wasn’t published until 1873. I simply couldn’t resist revealing that the music to this popular carol is of Welsh origin, so I confess I had the song appear somewhat earlier than is historically accurate.

  Why didn’t I just set the story after 1873? Because I also wanted to write about a character who’s been in my head for a long time. Griffin Branwynne first appeared in The Dark Duke, published in 1997. When I was asked to do a Christmas novella, he immediately came to mind. He had already banished himself from his friends, so it was easy to imagine how he would feel when a young lady determined to provide a Christmas for “her children” came barging into his house seeking his help.

  I hope you, too, enjoy the music of this festive season, and the company of friends and family. Merry Christmas!

  With many thanks to Amy, for her critiquing, and Steven, for the wonderful Sunday dinners.

  Chapter One

  December 20, 1860

  Llanwyllan, Wales

  The young maidservant clasped her work-worn hands to her black worsted bodice as she watched her mistress prepare to depart. “Oh, Miss Davies, I think you’re taking an awful chance! I’d be scared to death to go up there alone!”

  “Nonsense,” Gwen said briskly as she adjusted her untrimmed dark brown bonnet. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m sure the Earl of Cwm Rhyss can’t be as bad as they say.”

  “But he is! Mean and wicked and terrible!” Molly cried. “Why, he never sees nobody, nor comes out of his castle, not since the accident. And he’s scarred something horrible, they say.”

  Gwen turned to the anxious young woman and gave her a reassuring smile. “He comes out. He goes riding, or so I’ve heard. And he has a housekeeper who comes to the village every Saturday, as well as a man-of-all-work. I hardly call that living like a hermit.”

  “But nobody ’cept them ever sees him!”

  “It doesn’t seem so strange to me that a man horribly scarred would hide himself away from those who might stare or ask questions.”

  “Don’t you remember what he did the last time anybody went up there to ask him to contribute to a charity? He threatened to shoot them on the spot!”

  Gwen had been trying not to remember the tales that had spread through the valley about that incident three years ago. “I’m sure that was an exaggeration.”

  Molly rapidly shook her head. “I was working at the inn then. They said he got his shotgun and told them he’d use it if they didn’t clear off.”

  “If I see any sign that he’s about to start shooting, I’ll run,” Gwen assured her, only half joking, for in truth, the stories told about the reclusive Earl of Cwm Rhyss weren’t encouraging, especially considering her purpose for visiting him.

  Molly pointed to the window. “It looks like snow, Miss Davies. You don’t want to get caught out in a storm, do you?”

  Gwen followed the younger woman’s gaze over the small yard between the gray stone orphanage and the wall surrounding it, a remnant from when it had been a House of Correction. Beyond lay the rough, rocky Welsh mountains. The slate-gray clouds above did not look promising, but she wouldn’t let the threat of a little snow dissuade her.

  “It’s only four days until Christmas, and if I don’t
go to Rhyss Hall today, I might not get another chance before the holiday arrives,” she said, voicing aloud the reason she simply couldn’t defer her visit.

  She gave Molly a smile. “I don’t think it’s going to snow for a while yet and, given that I don’t expect to be asked to stay for tea, I should be safely back before the first flakes start to fall.”

  “Won’t you at least let me call for Williams-the-Trap? He can take you there in his pony cart.”

  Gwendolyn shook her head as she pulled on her woolen gloves, mended at the thumb. “We’ve no money for that, and it’s not far. I’ve walked plenty of miles up the mountains in my day. If I find myself in difficulty, I’ll take refuge at Denhallows’ farm. It’s on the way.”

  “Look you, there’s another thing,” Molly declared. “It’s no easy walk up to the hall. He’s never had work done on the road since the river flooded in the spring.”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage,” Gwen said firmly.

  “The earl’s always had a fierce temper, they say, and since he was hurt—” Molly persisted.

  “I was in the Crimea,” Gwen interrupted, determined to get on her way with no more lamentations and dire warnings from Molly. “If I can withstand the horror of Balaclava, I think I can manage a reclusive nobleman. And if he’s rude…well, it won’t be the first time a man’s been rude to me. Nor, I suspect, will it be the last. And if it should start to snow, I’ll be safe and sound in the Denhallows’ kitchen.”

  With that, Gwen took one final look at herself in her small, cracked mirror to make sure she was neat and presentable, ignored Molly’s dismayed countenance and hurried on her way.

  Picking her way carefully along the rough, muddy track that would have been a decent road except for the earl’s neglect, Gwen raised her eyes to look at the massive stone wall looming in the distance. It was like something out of a fairy story, and it was easy to believe an evil sorcerer or ogre lived behind it. The wrought-iron gates, adorned with the earl’s coat of arms—a Welsh dragon and a lion rampant—creaked as the wind began to increase. The few sparse trees along the way bent and moaned, and the sky was even darker than before.

  Hardly a good day to go visiting, even if it was necessary.

  She looked back the way she had come. The Denhallows’ farm was two miles back down the valley. She could probably get there quickly enough if the weather worsened. And how long would she be at the earl’s? She didn’t think he’d really draw a gun on her, but she was also sure her visit would be a brief one.

  Therefore, she decided, as her toes felt progressively more numb and she wrapped her thin gray cloak about herself, she would carry on to the hall, make her request and leave as quickly as possible. By the time she reached the Denhallows’, the weather would either be improving or getting worse, and she could decide what to do then.

  Her choice made, she walked as fast as she could to the gate, trying not to stumble over the ruts. She would hardly help her cause if she fell and arrived at the hall disheveled and covered in mud.

  The way soon leveled out, for the manor house of the earls of Cwm Rhyss had been built on a plateau that overlooked the valley below. She’d heard that in the days of the Normans, there had been a castle there, although nothing of it remained. Beyond the plateau was a small valley, then the land rose again, more stark and rugged. A few farmers lived higher up on the mountain, but most of the local inhabitants lived below the isolated estate.

  When Gwen reached the iron gates, she looked through the bars at the drive leading up to the huge house that dated from the days of Elizabeth and the Welsh-descended Tudors. Its front was grim gray stone, with tall windows that were all dark, making it look as if the house were abandoned. A massive portico sheltered the front door.

  Not the most welcoming aspect, but she hadn’t come this far to turn away now.

  And she was desperate. She had only two pounds to spend for Christmas. That wouldn’t buy many presents, or much in the way of a celebratory feast, and her children, who had so little, surely deserved a few Christmas treats. She wouldn’t be able to excuse herself if she let the disquieting aspect of a building or rumors of a harsh temper dissuade her.

  She looked about for some sort of gatehouse or a way to alert those in the house that they had a visitor. Seeing none, she tried the gate. To her surprise, it opened easily.

  That was more auspicious, although the gust of wind that caught her cloak seemed colder than before. Perhaps that was only because she was standing still.

  Walking briskly up the drive, she was soon warmer, if not feeling much more confident of a pleasant reception. A light flared in one of the lower windows. Another hopeful sign.

  Then a man appeared, silhouetted in the window—a tall man, with broad shoulders. She lifted her hand to wave a greeting, and the man abruptly drew the curtains closed.

  “Well, merry Christmas to you, too,” she muttered under her breath. If that was the earl, this was not a good sign, and she hoped he hadn’t gone to fetch his gun.

  On the other hand, as she’d told Molly, she’d survived the Crimea, and other things before that, without succumbing to fear. If she had, she would never have become a nurse, and she would have turned back at the first sight of the blood-soaked wharf at Balaclava. The wounded had needed her then, and her orphans needed her now.

  She marched up to the enormous oaken front door, which bore a large cast-iron knocker in the shape of a horse’s head, lifted it and knocked.

  She cringed as the sound echoed through the house like the barrage of a cannon. She hadn’t meant to make quite so much noise.

  The door swung open to reveal not an irate nobleman with a shotgun—to her relief—but an elderly woman with a face much wrinkled, and dark, snapping eyes. She wore a cap and apron so clean they rivaled new-fallen snow for whiteness.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” Gwen began with a smile. “I’m Miss Gwendolyn Davies, from Saint Bridget’s Orphanage in Llanwyllan, and I’ve come to see the earl, if you please.”

  The woman smiled, then frowned and looked anxiously over her shoulder. “The earl says he isn’t receiving visitors today.”

  “Oh?” Gwen replied, her tone poised between concern and sympathy as she angled her way through the front door. “I do hope the earl’s not ill. Perhaps I can be of assistance. I’ve trained as a nurse.”

  “It’s, um, not that,” the woman said with another glance over her shoulder. “He doesn’t like visitors.”

  “I’m not here to visit,” Gwen replied, still moving inexorably into the foyer. It had a spotlessly clean marble floor and was paneled in age-darkened oak. Several medieval pikes, swords and shields hung on the walls, and there was a complete suit of armor by the wide stairs that led to the second floor. Two corridors led off from the foyer, one to the right, the other to the left.

  “It’s a charitable matter,” she continued, “and since it’s nearly Christmas, I’m sure he won’t mind—”

  “Mrs. Jones!” a deep, powerful voice rumbled from down the corridor on her right, where the momentarily illuminated window had been. “Get that damned creature out of my house! She’s not getting a ha’penny out of me!”

  Any niggling doubt Gwen felt about intruding on the earl’s privacy completely disappeared.

  The old woman flushed and looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Miss, but I think you really ought to go. He’s in a right foul mood today. It’s the time of year, you see. He used to love Christmas, and then…well, it reminds him of all the things he used to like so much. A one for the parties and games and singing, he was. And he’s busy, you see, trying to finish the history he’s writing.”

  The fact that the earl had literary pretensions was news to Gwen, and she was sorry he’d been hurt, but even so, that didn’t give him the right to be rude.

  “Perhaps if you could tell him that I’ve come from Saint Bridget’s?”

  A door opened down the corridor to her right, sending a shaft of light into the dim hall. A tall, broad-shouldere
d figure with shaggy hair to his shoulders loomed into view, hands on his hips. “Miss-sus Jones! Will you please get rid of that woman, or must I?”

  Gwen noted he didn’t have a gun of any kind, so she marched toward her objective like a soldier going over the top, ignoring the housekeeper, who trotted after her, bleating like an agitated sheep. “Oh, dear. I don’t think…miss…you’d better not…he’s…”

  “My lord, if you please, just a moment of your time,” Gwen said, determined that he at least hear her proposal. “I don’t wish to disturb you, but it’s nearly Christmas and I’ve come—”

  “I bloody well know why you’ve come, and the answer is no!” the man roared before disappearing into the room to his right and slamming the door behind him.

  For a moment, Gwen hesitated—but only for a moment. He might be an earl, but she was at least deserving of basic courtesy and, in her mind’s eye, she kept picturing the disappointed looks on several small faces come Christmas morning.

  She reached the door with light showing beneath it, shoved it open—and entered the messiest room she’d ever seen in her life. Books and papers were scattered about as if someone had left the windows open on a windy day. A single lamp stood lit on a desk that was covered with handwritten pages that had lines crossed out and notations in the margins. Helmets of various metals and descriptions rested on top of the bookshelves that lined the room, and an enormous broadsword leaned against the desk that had sizable chips out of one edge, as if the someone had taken a few swings at it with the weapon.