Knight of Christmas Read online

  Knight of Christmas

  By

  Karyn Gerrard

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Knight of Christmas

  Copyright © 2014, 2018 by Karyn Gerrard

  KG Publishing

  Vers. 2.0

  ISBN: 978-09940769-77

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Summary

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  More Books by Karyn Gerrard

  Author Biography

  Sneak Peek of The Baron and the Mistress

  Summary

  Christmas is the last thing on Brandon Knight’s mind as he travels to his hometown after ten years away. His plans of vengeance are thwarted when he discovers his foe, the Earl of Oakby, has recently died. Instead he focuses retribution on the lovely widow, Lady Angeline, which whom he shares a heartbreaking past.

  Angeline is damaged and feels nothing inside. After suffering a devastating loss and a horrible marriage, she and her son find that they destitute. Bran steps forward with an outrageous offer, and Angeline has no choice but to accept.

  Considering that the attraction still sizzles between them, Bran will have to surrender his plans for revenge to assist in bringing Angeline back to life. They once loved each other, but doubt they are able to move beyond the pain. However, it’s Christmas and anything is possible

  “Karyn Gerrard writes very enjoyable, richly textured historical romances.”

  —Kate Pearce, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

  Author Note

  Knight of Christmas was previously published in 2014 by a digital publisher that has since gone out of business. I am glad to be able to edit and revise this story the way that I wish.

  A standalone novella, hope you enjoy!

  Chapter 1

  Herne Bay, England

  December 1889

  Since Brandon Knight was attending the funeral of an English peer, he should not be in an aroused state. Yet here he was in just such a painful condition. The cause? Lady Angeline Oakby, widow of the late Lord Nigel Hawdon, Earl of Oakby. His heated gaze had not left her since he’d entered the church. Bran believed that he would remain unaffected by her presence. After a decade, surely such youthful urges had dissipated?

  Apparently not.

  Lady Oakby sat on a wooden chair next to the earl’s coffin, her back ramrod straight. A small, insignificant boy stood dutifully at her side. The child was a pale, sickly creature who resembled his debauched father. Bran could see the physical resemblance from his vantage point. His mouth curled with disgust.

  Tearing his gaze from the boy, he focused on the countess once again. A surge of hate tore through Bran, all but killing his erection. That he should have any reaction to this woman after all these years astounded him. He shifted his weight on the ancient wooden pew and it creaked in response. Perhaps concentrating on the service would distract him.

  The vicar droned on, lie after lie spilling from his lips exalting the Earl of Oakby and his varied good deeds. The sermon was enough to turn one’s bile. It took all of Bran’s self-control not to jump to his feet and call the vicar out on his prevarications. God, he was bored to tears.

  The old stone chapel was half empty. Lord Oakby had made more enemies than society, or the vicar, was willing to acknowledge. The snub gave Bran a slight tug of satisfaction. In truth, Oakby had not been well loved or admired. Most of the mourners appeared as bored as he, or did he observe relief hidden behind the blank expressions?

  Bran slapped his kid-leather gloves in his palm as his thoughts drifted to Angeline once again. The first time he’d seen her was ten years ago, as the earl’s young bride. The bride, now a widow, sat stoically at the front of the chapel. Bran eyed her through half-closed lids. The breathtaking beauty was still visible, but if one looked closely, her eyes were empty and devoid of feeling, her mouth drawn taut and her face pale. Part of him was glad she hadn’t an easy life with Oakby. The vengeful, hardhearted part.

  As he continued to smack his gloves impatiently, his fixed gaze on Angeline remained unshakable. Even encased in black silk bombazine, and the long weeping veil of black crepe, she looked glorious. The lace veil was lifted and worn back from her head, framing her face. Her hair was hidden under the severe fabric. Was still spun gold, or had it lost its gleaming luster during the past ten years?

  Seeing Angeline again was more intense than be thought it would be. Her lush figure was one he’d been well-acquainted with, and the curves were still evident beneath the confines of her mourning clothes. Angeline posing as the grieving widow enticed him more than ever. He desired her, and he would have her. A bold boast to be sure and altogether strange considering his rancorous feelings.

  The organ wheezed and groaned, creating a doleful sound to accompany the morbid proceedings. The small choir began to sing “Peace, Perfect Peace, in This Dark World of Sin.” Bran had to fight back a cynical laugh at the irony.

  As the draped-in-black coffin was carried outside, Angeline and the boy walked dutifully behind, staring straight ahead. Outside a funeral carriage with six black horses decorated with fine plumes of feathers awaited the grim procession. Professional mourners stood nearby, eager to be done and to collect their fee. Or so Bran surmised.

  The weather was bitterly cold. The horses nickered in annoyance as ice crystals formed around their nostrils. Clouds of frost from their breaths hung heavy in the air. Bran pulled on his leather gloves, then tugged the wool muffler tighter about his neck and chin. He buttoned his wool coat hoping to keep out the worst of the chill.

  No such bloody luck.

  Leave it to Oakby to have the bad manners to die two weeks before Christmas, and in one of the coldest Decembers in recent history. Hell’s teeth, the air had been warmer in Canada than it was here. No doubt 1889 would go down as a miserable year for weather, or so the innkeeper had informed him.

  The master of ceremonies assisted Angeline and her son into the carriage, the one which would follow directly behind the coffin. He would not be accompanying the procession to the family plot. Pulling his beaver hat low over his brow, Bran turned and walked in the opposite direction. He had urgent plans that required his immediate attention.

  * * *

  The master had laid a wool blanket across Angeline’s lap, and placed a warming brick at her feet. She laid part of the blanket over her son’s thin legs.

  “Mama, I don’t want to go to the graveyard,” Nigel whined weakly.

  Neither did she. P
erhaps she should have planned a counterfeit breakdown, complained of an excruciating megrim, or thrown herself down the stairs to ensure some injury, anything to avoid this morose ritual of hypocrisy. Better to get this funeral over with, see his wretched bones in the ground, and move on with what was left of her life. Angeline smoothed her son’s hair.

  “I know, my darling, but we must. It will be over soon.”

  Nigel sighed and stared out the carriage window.

  At least she’d managed to squirm her way out of holding a luncheon. Angeline used the excuse of her son’s fragile health. The unvarnished truth? There was no money. She did not even know how she would pay the undertaker or the mourners. Immediately after the burial, she had a meeting with the family solicitor, Sir Alastair Whitehall, who would no doubt fill her in on what she already suspected.

  The family was completely ruined.

  The carriage window sparkled with heavy frost from the extreme cold. Angeline rubbed the white ice with her gloved fingers and peered outside. Townspeople took off their hats in acknowledgement and respect as the funeral procession passed by. Oakby deserved none of it. She thought that when he’d gasped his last she would feel relief and unfettered joy. The fact remained that she felt nothing at all. All emotion had been ripped from her years ago.

  Lord Nigel Hawdon, Earl of Oakby, had been sixteen years her senior. Her father insisted the earl would be a good match, but it turned out to be merely a monetary transaction between her family and Oakby. She’d been bartered over like a mare at a stable, as Oakby had needed an heir and her father had needed the money. Yes, she’d been sold. How humiliating. She hardly knew the earl when she’d been escorted down the aisle to be married. Angeline was seventeen at the time, soon to be eighteen, and pure as new fallen snow. Oakby soon cured her of her naïveté.

  The memories that she tried so hard to dismiss from her mind flooded back in a rush.

  On their wedding night she had been led into Oakby’s rooms by one of his male servants.

  Four men were waiting for her. Her husband and his friend, Sir Anthony Crossley, were shirtless. Nearby stood another man she vaguely recognized as a footman. The young man was angry, his lips curled in revulsion. Standing near the footman was Oakby’s valet, Sampson, a loathsome man who Angeline had disliked at first sight.

  “My lord?” she managed to whisper. Her knees were shaking under her nightgown.

  “My dear wife, you are going to be bloodied by this stud bull of a footman. He will mount you multiple times over the next few weeks until he gets you with child. If the child is not a boy, we start the process all over again until you give birth to the requisite heir.”

  “I-I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  Oakby laughed. “No, you don’t, do you? Let me show you.”

  He grabbed Crossley and kissed him with a good deal of passion. She cried out, her hand flying to her mouth in astonishment.

  The footman growled in anger at the scene. It was then she saw the pistol being held at the young man’s head by Sampson.

  The nightmare was one that visited her often, whether it was day or night. As much as Angeline tried to suppress them, they manage to creep into her consciousness at the most inopportune occasions.

  Turned out, that scandalous incident had only been the beginning of the horrors to come.

  Chapter 2

  After seeing Oakby buried, Angeline and her son returned home. Upon arrival, Nigel was taken to the nursery as he’d contracted a slight chill standing at the grave. Angeline ordered Anna, the nursemaid, to serve him a bowl of hot chicken broth and see to it he took a nap.

  As she walked into the library, Sir Alastair Whitehall stood and bowed slightly. Angeline took the seat directly in front of him. Hot broth and a nap sounded like heaven, and she would indulge in the same as soon as this meeting concluded. Fatigue and weariness burned her eyes; she could easily sleep for a week.

  “Please do not spare my feelings, Sir Alastair. Tell me the wretched news. There is little money remaining, am I correct?”

  Sir Alastair sat and placed his spectacles low on his prominent nose. “I am afraid the situation is even more calamitous than what you surmise, my lady. There is no money at all. In fact, Lord Oakby left considerable debt. Considerable.”

  Blood rushed to her head making her dizzy. Angeline’s elevated heartbeat pounded in her ears.

  That miserable cur of an earl, may he rot.

  And Oakby would rot soon enough. The thought did not appease her increasing resentment.

  “How considerable?”

  “According to the law, the estate at Oakby has been entailed to your son, the new Earl of Oakby. No worries on that score. Unfortunately the place is in complete disrepair, the furnishings sold long ago for cash. A crumbling empty estate is your son’s legacy. It is not suitable for occupancy. There is no staff. There is no money for maintenance. None at all.”

  The solicitor gave her a piteous look over the rim of his glasses. “I traveled to the property two months past, my lady. Upon a cursory inspection, I took note that part of the roof had collapsed. There is water damage, rotting floors. I could go on. It would take a great deal of capital to see it right.”

  “No staff? What happened?” Angeline had not been to the estate in years, nor had she discussed it with Oakby. But then, they hadn’t shared much of anything these past years, let alone any sort of meaningful conversation.

  “They departed once Lord Oakby became ill and relocated here, my lady. There was no money to pay them.”

  “What about the servants here, at the town house?”

  “A quarter payment in arrears, and there are a number of outstanding household accounts.”

  “But I am quite sure you saw to it that you were paid, Sir Alastair.”

  The older man harrumphed. “Only the most minimum retainer, I assure you. I have served this family nigh on forty years. Never would I take advantage.”

  “No insult was meant. Truly.” Sir Alastair nodded in reply. “I am merely trying to ascertain who has been paid and who has not.” Angeline’s insides tumbled. “What is to become of my son and me?”

  Sir Alastair shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, my lady, I regret to report this town house is no longer in your possession. Lord Oakby signed the deed over in lieu of one of his many outstanding debts, as the notes in question were acquired by a gentleman recently returned to this area. He now owns this house and the possessions within it. The deed passed into his hands when Lord Oakby died. I am sorry, my lady.”

  This situation was worse than she thought. Far, far worse. Where to turn? Her family? After what her father had done, selling her to Oakby, she wanted no part of them, hadn’t for years. It would tear her in two to crawl back now.

  “Who is this gentleman? Perhaps you can make him see reason.”

  Someone stepped into the room from the adjoining hallway. His tall, broad-shouldered frame filled the doorway. Before she could get a clear look at him, he said, “I am not a reasonable man, Angeline, but perhaps we can come to some sort of mutual and beneficial agreement.”

  The stranger stepped forward farther into the light.

  God, it’s him. The footman: Brandon Knight.

  He was immaculately dressed and stunningly handsome, even more than her memory recalled. His black hair was longer than deemed proper, but styled in the current fashion. He was clean shaven, and every sculpted plane of his perfect face and exquisite cheekbones were on full display.

  Maturity had chiseled hard lines on both sides of his mouth. Closing her eyes, she recalled how his sensual lips had trailed across her naked skin. He cleared his throat, pulling her from her inappropriate thoughts.

  “I am not so completely heartless that I would throw a recent widow and her son to the cobbles. So here is my proposal: I am in need of a housekeeper. The position is open if you wish to take it. At least you would have a roof over your head. If not, Sir Alastair
will settle twenty pounds on you and your son, and you can make your own way. Decide now.”

  His voice was cold and devoid of feeling. One look at Bran brought bittersweet memories and long-forgotten feelings to the forefront of her mind. Try as she might, she could not look away from his rugged, handsome face. His blue eyes were as frosty as a winter morning. Brandon Knight appeared to be a prosperous gentleman in all ways. How he must hate her, or he would not have made such an insulting offer. Angeline struggled to remain composed.

  What could she say? Her son was not well, and she could not subject him to such uncertainty. Twenty pounds would not see her through the year, even if she tried to live a frugal life. Just to be spiteful she should accept.

  “At what rate of payment, sir?” she asked with quiet dignity.

  Brandon Knight smiled. It had a cruel slant. “Twenty pounds for the duration. I would require a minimum of three months. Once we pass that initial period, we can negotiate terms for the remainder of the twelve months. You may stay in your suite of rooms, and your son may stay in his room. I will pay for the nurse.” His mouth twisted. “Whether the servants will continue to wait on you is something you will have to address directly with them. Your son,—as an earl— will be awarded all respect his position requires.”

  In other words, her son will be seen to by the servants, but not her. Unless she demanded them to do it. That would not be prudent move if she were to be housekeeper. My God, she was actually considering this insulting and absurd offer?

  “The undertaker and mourners must be paid. If you will see to all the outstanding accounts including the servants’ salaries, I will take the position for three months.” It would give her time to plan her next move. What choice did she have? Her son must be protected at all costs.