“Excuse me,” Pietr said, bending over the prostrate man. “This fellow needs help. Mr. Wentworth, if you’d assist me to get him to his feet.” Many a Yorkshire wayfarer had frozen to death while sleeping off the effects of drink in the cozy embrace of a fluffy snowdrift.
Pietr took one of the fellow’s arms, Wentworth got the other, and they eased the man to his feet. He was flushed and bore the scent of spirits.
“What do you think you’re doing with my brother?” The traveling companion’s voice cracked like river ice giving way under a winter sun. What she lacked in stature she made up for in ire.
Jolly delightful. The situation needed only jugglers, a dancing bear, and a learned pig. Alas, Pietr would have to manage as best he could without those reinforcements.
As usual.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I started writing as an antidote to empty nest and soon found it an antidote to life in general. I am the sixth out of seven children, and was raised in the rural surrounds of central Pennsylvania. Early in life I spent a lot of time reading romance novels and practicing the piano. My first career was as a technical writer and editor in the Washington, DC, area, a busy profession that nonetheless left enough time to read a lot of romance novels.
It also left enough time to grab a law degree through an evening program, produce Beloved Offspring (only one, but she is a lion), and eventually move to the lovely Maryland countryside.
While reading yet still more romance novels (there is a trend here) I opened a law practice, acquired a master's degree in Conflict Transformation (I had a teenage daughter by then) and started thinking about writing.... romance novels. This aim was realized when Beloved Offspring struck out into the Big World. ("Mom, why doesn't anybody tell you being a grown-up is hard?")
I eventually got up the courage to start pitching manuscripts to agents and editors. The query letter that resulted in "the call" started out: "I am the buffoon in the bar at the writer's retreat who could not keep her heroines straight, could not look you in the eye, and could not stop blushing--and if that doesn't narrow down the possibilities, your job is even harder than I thought." (The dear lady bought the book anyway.)
You can contact me though email at [email protected] or through my website at graceburrowes.com
MAKING MERRY
KERRIGAN BYRNE
CHAPTER 1
CALVINE VILLAGE, HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND – 1891, WINTER SOLSTICE
Fate had been Vanessa Latimer’s foe since she could remember.
She was the most unlucky, ungainly person of her acquaintance, and had resigned herself to an early death. However, she always imagined said death would be glorious, as well.
Or at least memorable.
Something like tripping and accidentally sacrificing herself to a volcano in the Pacific Islands. Or perhaps becoming the unfortunate snack of a Nile crocodile or a tiger in Calcutta.
Meeting her end as a human icicle in the Scottish Highlands had never made it on the list.
Not until the angry blizzard turned the road to Inverness treacherous, and something had spooked the horse, sending the carriage careening into a boulder the size of a small cottage.
The driver informed her that the wheel was irreparably damaged, and that she must stay in the carriage while he went for help.
That had been hours ago.
When the dark of the storm became the dark of the late afternoon on this, the shortest day of the year, the temperatures plummeted alarmingly. Even though Vanessa had been left with furs and blankets, she worried she wouldn’t survive the night, and set off along the road with a lantern and the most important of her luggage.
Now, huddled on the landing beneath the creaking shingle of Balthazar’s Inn, she clutched her increasingly heavy case to her chest, shielding the precious contents with her body.
The surly innkeeper’s impossibly thick eyebrows came together in a scowl as he wedged his bulk into the crack of the open door to effectively block any attempt at entry. Even the gale forces didn’t save her nostrils from being singed by his flammable scotch-soaked breath. “As ye can see, lass, ye’re not the only traveler stranded in this bollocks storm, and I let our last remaining room to the other rank idiot not clever enough to seek shelter before the storm fell upon us. So, nay. Ye’ll have to try elsewhere.”
“Was that rank idiot a shifty-eyed man in his fifties named McMurray?” she asked, forcing the words out of her lungs like a stubborn bellows to be heard over the din. The wind buffeted her skirts this way and that, plastering them to her trembling legs.
“Aye,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk as he also managed to leer. “But doona think to be offering to share his bed; we’re a reputable establishment.”
“Never! I wouldn’t—that isn’t—what—” Vanessa gaped and shuddered for a reason that had nothing to do with the cold. Her driver had left her out there to freeze to death while he’d purchased a room with her fare? She should have listened when her instincts had warned her off hiring him.
Her case, growing heavier by the moment, threatened to slide out of the circle of her arms and down her body, so she bucked it higher with her hips and redoubled her efforts to hold it aloft with fingers she could no longer feel. “Is there somewhere nearby that might take me in?” she called, coughing as a particularly icy gust stole her breath.
“Aye.” He jerked his chin in a vaguely northern direction. “The Cairngorm Tavern is not but a half hour’s march up the road.” He said this as if the angry wind did not threaten to snatch her up and toss her into the nearest snowdrift.
Swallowing a spurt of temper and no small amount of desperation, Vanessa squared her shoulders before offering, “What if this rank idiot can pay you double your room rate to sleep in the stables?” She pointed to the rickety livery next to the sturdy stone building. ’Twas the season and all that. If it was good enough for the baby Jesus, who was she to turn her nose up?
At this he paused, eyeing her with speculation. “Ye’ll pay in advance?”
A knot of anxiety eased in her belly as she nodded dramatically, her neck stiff with the cold. “And triple for a warm bath.”
He immediately shook his head, his jowls wobbling like a winter pudding. “Doona think I’ll be spending me night hauling water for ye and yers.”
“J-just me,” Vanessa said, doing her best to clench her teeth against their chattering. “N-no m-mine.”
“No husband? No chaperone?” For the first time, he looked past her as the storm finished swallowing the last of the early evening into a relentless chaos of white snow and dark skies.
“I’m—I’m alone.” Vanessa told herself the gather of moisture at the corner of her eyes was the sole fault of the untenable weather. Not her untenable circumstances.
A banshee-pitched shriek sliced through the wail of the storm. “Rory Seamus Galbreath Balthazar Pitagowan, ye useless tub of guts and grog!” The door was wrenched out of the innkeeper’s hand and thrown open to reveal a woman half his height but twice his width.