Knight of Christmas Read online

  Bran and Angeline were led to a room and locked in. Inside there was no furniture but a bed. A dim light came from a soot-encrusted single-wick oil lamp hanging from the ceiling of the windowless room. Angeline burst into tears. He did what any decent young man would do, he consoled her. They were in a wretched situation.

  The hulking valet, Sampson, stood outside the door, pistol in hand, making escape impossible. Bran had heard the aristocracy was often debauched, but forcing a stranger, a servant no less, to tup a virgin bride on her wedding night was the height of corruption.

  As soon as he wrapped his arms around her to console her, he was lost. She rested her head on his shoulder. Dare he kiss her? Bran brushed his lips across hers

  He waited for her to push him away. To his great relief she did not. His tongue swept the inside of her mouth. In the darkened prison cell of a room it was easy to forget their situation. Besides, he was nineteen and easily aroused. His hand clumsily clasped her breast and she stiffened. How mortifying, he acted as coarse and clumsy as a field hand.

  “I am sorry—for all of this,” he rasped

  “As am I. I never thought, never dreamed—I hardly know him. The earl, I mean. The marriage was arranged. He is evil to the core.”

  Bran had heard the whispers about men who prefer other men. It was a clandestine world. It had to be. The men could go to prison. Bran was always of the mind if two people enjoyed each other, regardless of gender, who the bloody hell cared?

  But for Oakby to expose his innocent bride to such doings was beyond the pale. Sex was a private act between consenting adults, not for public display or to be forced at gunpoint. What did he know about aristocrats and their perversions? Absolutely nothing.

  He cupped her heart-shaped face, his thumbs stroking her pale cheeks. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

  “I will not force you to do anything. Do not be afraid.”

  She looked up at him with those moist brown-green eyes, and he was smitten instantly. Another man’s bride. All this was completely inappropriate. Beyond all decency.

  “They will kill you if you don’t—perform,” she whispered. “I believe it best we do what they want. Then we will be safe. I hope. And move on with our lives.”

  “I will not be staying here in this man’s employment. First chance I have to escape, I will.”

  “I don’t blame you.” She hesitated. “I’m not sure what happens. Have you done it before?”

  Her guileless innocence tightened his heart. Deep feelings he had never felt before flooded his soul. He could lie and brag of his vast experience. He had none to draw on.

  “No, not really. I understand the concept.” He took her hand and laid it over his aching erection. “This goes inside you.”

  Her curiosity nearly brought him to his knees, for her small hand ran up and down the length of him. He groaned.

  Angeline dropped her hand. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. Do it again. Please.”

  She did. “Is it terrible—that I liked this in my mouth?” she whispered. Her candid words nearly had him coming in her hand.

  He had to be dreaming. This couldn’t be real. “Let’s lie on the bed.”

  He took off his clothes and her eyes widened. The nameless maid he had a roll in the hay with had stated how much she admired his physique. Bran assumed this was something all women said to men in the throes of lust, but Angeline’s heated gaze proved the maid had spoken the truth. His young ego expanded beyond measure. The horrendous and impossible situation they found themselves in was soon dismissed. There was only the two of them. No one else existed.

  “I ache in places I have never ached before. I’m so wet,” she said.

  This sweet, erotic torture sent sparks of desire along his spine. Bran boldly swirled his fingers in her curls. He then removed her night rail, stunned at the lush femininity before him. Angeline’s breasts were ample, her waist narrow, and her legs long and shapely. Perfection.

  He positioned his shaft at her tight entrance, then gently pushed forward. Angeline’s back arched off the bed and her moan was not of pain. At least he thought it wasn’t. He’d heard virgins experienced some sort of soreness. Hurt was the last thing he wanted to cause her.

  “I’m sorry.” His words were garbled. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Only for a minute.”

  Bran moved in a little farther. He halted, not sure if he should continue.

  “It’s all right, Brandon.”Angeline lifted her hips to take more of him until he was fully seated.

  She said his name. His heart blew apart as he thrust in and out of her taut, wet sheath with deep, even strokes.

  “My angel,” he whispered.

  Bran opened his eyes. The water in the tub had cooled, but his desire had not. How often had he relived their first encounter? Too many times to count.

  Angeline. I want her still.

  He always would. Ultimately, even though he had more than a few opportunities to escape his so-called captors, he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her behind. The desire blossomed swiftly into a deep and abiding love. At least for him.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, Bran glanced at the closed door between them. All he needed to do was open the door and take her in his arms, but he couldn’t.

  Angeline was damaged inside far worse than he, perhaps beyond healing. Bran was filled with an overwhelming need to try to heal them both. The time had come to move past these hateful and hurtful memories. But the most startling admission of all?

  He would never get Angeline out of his blood. Never.

  Chapter 5

  After his soak, Bran dressed, reclined on his bed, and mercifully fell asleep for a short nap, though his dreams were tortured with the visions of the son he’d never know. Now awake, he had no idea how to proceed. He had not seen Angeline since she left him sitting in the tub.

  What would Braden be like at the age of ten? The thought was too painful to contemplate. Angeline said Braden had black hair and blue eyes. His dreams for the rest of his life would be haunted by a ghostly child who no doubt had been a remarkable mix of himself and Angeline. Trying to ban the images from his mind was daunting.

  “Mr. Knight?”

  His eyes snapped open and a flood of resentment washed over him as Oakby’s spawn stood before him. He sat upright, swinging his legs across the side of the bed. This boy lived, but Braden had not. His fists clenched, but he fought back his ire. It was not the boy’s fault. He was still a part of Angeline, and from what he had observed a large part.

  “What is it?”

  “Mama said my name will be Peter now. You may call me by that name if you wish.”

  The boy did not wither under his glare; he would give the lad that. He was small for his age, and far too thin and pale. Perhaps a weak heart made him sickly.

  “Do you like the name?” Bran asked.

  Peter took a moment to contemplate the question. Bran admired that; it showed character.

  “Yes. Mama said it suits me better. Nigel was Papa’s name.”

  “Do you miss your papa, Peter?”

  Peter lowered his head. “I did not know my papa well.”

  Bran felt a knife twist in his gut. Oakby finally got his heir, then deliberately ignored the child. God, he hated the man more with each passing day. What he would give to spend time with his own son. The loneliness he heard in the boy’s voice caused his heart to soften slightly.

  “What can I do for you, Peter?”

  Peter’s hand came out from behind his back where he had tucked it when he entered the room. “I’m wondering, if you were not too busy, if you would read me a story? Mama and I were at the book shop this afternoon and she bought me this!”

  Bran had instructed Quinn to give Angeline pin money, and she certainly hadn’t wasted time using it. If it made the child happy, all the better. Peter’s whole face lit up as color rushed to his
cheeks.

  He motioned him to come closer. Peter smiled broadly and ran toward him. He threw himself into Bran’s arms. With no effort at all, he lifted the boy and sat him on his lap. Peter held up the book The Night Before Christmas.

  Bran’s heart squeezed with a mournful spasm. This could be his son on his lap wanting a story read—cease this. He glanced down at Peter Hawdon, Earl of Oakby. Angeline’s eyes—Peter’s best feature—stared at him with worshipful awe. For some unknown reason the boy had taken a liking to him. No doubt he was starved for male companionship. Bran took the book and opened it.

  “It’s a very nice book,” he said softly.

  Peter laid his head on Bran’s chest, settling in for the narrative. “I like Christmas. Mama says we are getting a tree this year. We have never had one.”

  Bran nuzzled the top of Peter’s head. He smelled of clean soap and innocence. “Then we will be sure to get the biggest tree we can find.”

  He began to read.

  * * *

  Angeline was frantic. It was not like Peter to disappear without a word. He’d been going missing quite often of late. She instructed Anna to see to Peter’s tea while she located him. As she hurried along the hallway, she heard Bran’s masculine tones coming from the study. Did they have company? Then she heard the tinkle of a child’s laughter. Peter.

  Angeline slowly turned the handle and stepped into the room. Neither had noticed her. Peter was curled up in Bran’s lap, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed with pleasure.

  Bran animatedly read The Night Before Christmas using different voices for the two characters, much to Peter’s delight. Seeing her son happy filled her with comforting warmth, and she laid her hand flat above her heart, which stuttered to life at the sentimental scene. Bran would’ve been a wonderful father. How they were all cheated in so many ways. The tragedy of it?—it was too late.

  Angeline waited for Bran to finish. When he did, Peter gave Bran an impromptu hug. At first Bran looked shocked, his hands still clasping the book. He then hugged Peter tight and the book clattered to the floor. Hot tears burned at the corner of Angeline’s eyes, but she blinked them away.

  “Peter.” Her voice came out shakier than she wished. “Come. Anna is preparing your meal.”

  Peter tore himself from Bran’s embrace and ran straight into hers as he laughed happily. “Did you hear? Mr. Knight read The Night Before Christmas—that sounds funny!”

  Bran stood. “I would like you and Peter to join me for dinner tonight.”

  Angeline could not believe that he made the invitation. Surely he wasn’t serious.

  “Servants do not eat with their employers,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  Peter turned and tugged at her skirts. “Oh, please, Mama? I have never eaten in the dining room.”

  Angeline glanced at Bran. He smiled. What could she say? She’d never seen Peter this active and engaged. “Thank you, Mr. Knight. We will join you.”

  “Excellent. Tell the cook we shall eat at eight o’clock. I will see you then.” Angeline turned to leave, her hand firmly holding Peter’s. “Lady Oakby?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please dress for dinner. Surely you have something more appealing than that black monstrosity.”

  “Mr. Knight, may I remind you that I am in mourning?”

  “Oh, stuff it, Angeline. You do not mourn him, no one mourns him, and we both know it,” Bran scoffed.

  “But the servants, they will see—”

  “Hang the servants. If they are smart they will repeat nothing. Eight o’clock.” He paused. “Peter, what do you prefer? Chicken or fish—your choice.”

  Peter smiled broadly. “I love chicken.”

  “Angeline, please inform the cook it is to be the plumpest chicken she can find.” He bowed. “Until dinner.”

  * * *

  Bran was nervous. He dressed in formal dinner attire wearing black coat, black trousers, and a black-and-silver waistcoat with a white and silver cravat. He informed Quinn to make certain Angeline had the use of the maid to assist her in dressing. He wanted to see her in something other than that damned depressing black.

  It was quite apparent her youthful curves had changed into a lush maturity. She had given birth twice, after all. He wished to drink in those glorious curves in a proper gown on full display for his viewing pleasure. He paced the dining room, waiting for Angeline and the boy to appear. A footman stood nearby to serve the dishes.

  The table was immaculately set with fine bone china and crystal goblets neatly arranged on a white lace tablecloth. The footman, William, informed him that the cook, Mrs. Enfield, had prepared roast chicken with sage-and-onion dressing with a port wine sauce served on the side. A cucumber soup would begin the meal. At least he was learning the servants’ names, not that there was that many. Once he decided what he was going to do next, he would have to make arrangements concerning the staff.

  Bran was famished. He had not eaten in over twenty-four hours. No bloody wonder. So much had happened he still could not fathom it all. His heart still ached at the thought of his late son. Life was blasted unfair. But enough self-pity.

  His cold determination to wreak revenge on the heads of Lord and Lady Oakby had all but dissipated. Oakby was dead, and Angeline was all but dead inside. It made him examine his own black soul. For years he toiled and spun, planning his revenge. Bran no longer craved retribution.

  He craved Angeline instead.

  Claiming her as his seemed an insurmountable goal. He would have to tread carefully. Although she had returned his kiss last night, he’d felt her body stiffen and withdraw as if she abhorred the touch of any man. There was more to the story, and she did try to tell him, but he was so full of grief he could not focus. They had to discuss it and soon. Only when he knew the entire story could he plan a future—with her.

  The door opened and Angeline entered holding Peter’s hand. The child broke into a wide smile. Bran could not help himself, he returned it.

  His gaze slid to Angeline, and his breath seized. She was as he envisioned. The cranberry gown she wore was stunning, the bodice high and tight showing a generous expanse of her cleavage. The sleeves were short and worn off her creamy white shoulders. Elbow-length silk gloves covered her arms. She wore no jewelry. Her golden hair was swept up fashionably from her shapely neck. There was no tight matron knot tonight. Angeline was stunningly beautiful.

  Bran walked toward her, lifted her gloved hand to his mouth, and kissed it. His gaze stopped at her low neckline. She breathed in short, sensuous bursts. Enchanting.

  “You look magnificent, Angeline.”

  He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, led her to the chair, and held it out for her. The blush on her cheeks was attractive. Peter took the seat next to her.

  William brought over the tureen of cucumber soup. Peter looked a little overwhelmed. He wore knee-length brown wool breeches and matching coat, looking every inch the young earl. Angeline lovingly fussed about Peter, placing the napkin in his lap and encouraging him to take some soup.

  “I wish to ask, why was there no housekeeper or butler in your employ?” Bran asked.

  “They are the two most expensive positions. Five months past, I released them along with a footman and one of the maids. I paid them in full, using up the last of my funds, and asked the remaining staff if they would be willing to wait to be paid. They were.”

  “They are loyal to you.”

  “I treat them with respect and was always honest about the precarious situation we were in. It was plain to see Oakby handled his estate and accounts in a slipshod manner.”

  A good thing Sir Alastair was making arrangements to pay the staff immediately.

  “Peter, do you ride?” Bran asked.

  Both mother and son looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

  “He is much too young, he-he is not well,” Angeline sputtered.

  “Does he have heart p
roblems or any other such malady?”

  Angeline frowned. “No, nothing of the sort. He just—we will discuss this later.”

  Bran glanced at the child. “Would you like to learn to ride?”

  Peter looked nervously from his mother to Bran. He could see the anticipation on the boy’s face. He needed fresh air, exercise, and hearty food. The child had been cloistered away in the attic nursery for far too long.

  “Yes sir, I would—if Mama allows.” The boy gave a diplomatic answer, and he was thoughtful to the concerns and objections of his mother, but independent as well. Bran was beginning to like this boy immensely.

  “Perhaps tomorrow we will seek out a nearby stable.”

  The child smiled broadly, and ate his soup with enthusiasm. Bran felt Angeline’s icy stare on him.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Angeline, I want to apologize for offering the housekeeper job to you. It was highly insulting, and the reason I offered no longer exists. You are not required to fulfill your duty. I wish for you and Peter to stay here as my guests until we can arrange a settlement on you.”

  Angeline dropped her spoon on the floor and it clattered noisily. The footman reached down to get it, and hastily retrieved a clean one.

  She glanced at William then back at Bran. “Mr. Knight—”

  “William, you may go. I will ring when we require you further. Please close the door and ensure we are not disturbed.”

  When the door closed, Angeline turned her frosty gaze to him. “Have you not humiliated me quite enough? A widow cannot stay in a house with an unmarried man. It isn’t done. Society—”

  Bran tossed his napkin in annoyance. “Hang society and their damnable rules.” He kept his voice steady as he did not wish to alarm Peter, even though he remained engrossed with his soup.

  Angeline, with a tilt of her head, considered his words. “I’m inclined to agree. What has society ever done for me? At least as housekeeper I have a reason to be here. However, I must think of my son. He is the Earl of Oakby.”