The Holly and the Ivy, page 21
But his loneliness wasn’t Kirstine’s fault. He slid his hand off the side table and straightened his back. He may not be responsible for bringing joy to Kirstine like she did to him, but he wouldn’t be the reason she stopped smiling today.
He cleared his throat and broadened his own smile into something he hoped looked genuine. “Will I be getting a piece of that Yule bread? I feel partially responsible for it after all.”
Kirstine’s shoulders relaxed, but she raised an eyebrow. “Granny and I are the ones who smuggled the thing over the border. How are you responsible?”
Isaac stepped forward, his smile at last feeling real. “Last I checked, I was its father.”
Kirstine lips, the same ones he had come so close to kissing only moments ago, burst into a smile. To his left, Aunt Gill let out a guffaw that rocked the room. She slapped her hand to her thigh. “Englishman or no, I like this one.”
* * *
Despite Mr. Parker’s jest, his eyes still had a dull, haunting look behind them. She laughed, and Aunt Gill’s laughter softened the tension, but Kirstine could tell Mr. Parker was still adjusting to the bread now sitting on the table. Kirstine should have told Mr. Parker earlier what she was hiding, but after a while, the whole situation had started to feel ridiculous. How, exactly, did one go about telling a person that she was hiding a Yule bread on her person? Especially when hiding it had threatened her reputation so thoroughly? Despite Mr. Parker’s jest, she could still see a line of tension in his jaw.
“We are fortunate Mr. Parker was home when we needed help,” Granny said.
Kirstine tipped her head to one side. “I suppose he did play the role quite well.”
“He played it perfectly, and you know it,” Granny said. “I can’t think of a single thing that could have been improved upon.”
Kirstine risked a glance at Mr. Parker. He was still smiling, but his back was soldier straight. Gone was the friendly, relaxed conversation of earlier. He was back to being a stiff Englishman. She longed to see him comfortable or at least flustered by her. She didn’t want the fact that she had hidden the loaf from him to taint their friendship. “Well, perhaps not perfectly.”
Mr. Parker swallowed. “Is there something I could have done better?”
Kirstine raised both eyebrows and stepped closer to him. “I can’t help thinking that your kissing skills could be improved upon.”
She had hoped for a laugh, but instead, the muscles in his jaw clenched tighter. Don’t disparage a man’s kissing skills. She supposed she should have known that. And besides, even with all her taunting, it had been a very sweet kiss.
If Granny and Aunt Gill hadn’t been there, she may have even turned her head at the last moment and planted a kiss on his mouth.
What would he have done if she had?
Probably run off in fear. She should be kinder to the man, but old habits die hard. Even though the hard feelings that had led her to treat him badly were gone, now she had the strange desire to taunt him about his straightlaced English nature. Seeing his jaw clench was like a personal reward every time.
This time a little less so. She would have rather made him laugh.
“Oh, Lucy,” Aunt Gill said, though her eyes were on Kirstine and Mr. Parker. “I haven’t shown you my most recent letter from Jim. His granddaughter is to be married.”
Granny had received a similar letter from their younger brother, but she followed Aunt Gill to a writing table so they could look over the letter together. Kirstine would wait to pour their tea when they got back.
Kirstine took the pot, leaned forward over Mr. Parker’s cup, and poured carefully.
His head lowered until it was not far from her own. His voice was soft and overly proper, with that decidedly English pronunciation not far from her ear. “I would like to think when I do have a wife, she will have nothing to complain about.”
She didn’t look up, but if she had to wager, his jaw was clenched. “Cream?” she asked, keeping her voice light, even though his nearness made her hand tremble slightly.
He shook his head. She set the cream pitcher down with both hands. As long as she used them together, they were steady. She glanced up, and his face was only inches from her own. His eyes were dark and cloudy instead of their usual bright almost icy blue. Had the incident with the loaf been too much for him? Or was it their kiss?
“So you would kiss your actual wife under the kissing bough?”
“I should think so.”
“But you don’t know.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and for the briefest of moments, she was certain he would prove her accusations about mediocre kissing wrong, right here over the tea things. She swallowed. Perhaps she was wrong about him running away if she had actually tried to kiss him in the foyer.
“I don’t know that I would kiss her any differently than I did you in a situation like that.” His words were heavy with meaning. “But when I am married, and I am alone with the woman I love, I will make certain my wife is not disappointed to have my lips on hers. I may be a proper Englishman, but that does not mean I won’t know how to let my wife know how much I—” He cleared his throat and leaned away from her. The movement was small, but she felt it. “Care for her.”
She blinked and concentrated on keeping her breathing even. Why was she suddenly jealous of Mr. Parker’s future wife? Perhaps more curious than jealous. What would it be like to be cared for by him? “Your wife will be a lucky woman.”
He tipped his head to one side and lowered it, bringing it close once more. “Do you really believe that?”
Yes. Yes, she believed that, and if he didn’t move away from her, she might do something rash and very improper to add weight to that thought. “Of course. You are a good man, Mr. Parker.”
“Just not a good kisser.”
“Your kiss was very pleasant.”
“But not pleasant enough to tempt you.”
Had she not just been thinking what it would be like to have turned her head and kissed him properly? He was here now, only inches away, and she had the sudden desire again. It would take only the slightest of movements from either one of them. Aunt Gill and Granny were bent over the writing desk, their voices still humming in conversation. They wouldn’t notice, just as they hadn’t noticed Mr. Parker’s nearness for the past moments. “I wouldn’t say that.”
His eyes sought hers, searching. “Truthfully?”
How to answer? She swallowed again, but she shouldn’t have. The motion brought Mr. Parker’s eyes to her throat, and suddenly she knew. Mr. Parker was telling the truth about how he would treat his wife without the watchful eyes of a granny and an aunt. For all of his stuffy exterior, he was also a man who had led soldiers into battle, willingly moved from his home country, and held her brother until he breathed his last breath.
Mr. Parker was a man of passion.
He simply hid it well.
His eyes were still tracing her face when she reached down and grasped the sugar bowl, desperate to focus on anything other than his nearness. “Sugar?” she asked. This time her hands shook noticeably.
“Yes, please.”
If she thought her hands were shaking while holding the bowl, it became even more apparent when she held up a cube of sugar with the tongs. She quickly deposited one cube into his cup and sat down, placing her hands in her lap.
What was wrong with her today?
“Do you wish Mr. MacKinnon was here now, instead of me?”
“Angus?”
Mr. Parker flinched and nodded. “Do you miss him? I believe you’ve been with him every time I’ve seen you in Glenbeath.”
She supposed she should miss someone she spent so much time with, but she didn’t. He would be there when she got back. She had no need to hurry their time apart. “No. I’m so used to him, there isn’t any reason to miss him.”
“What are your plans for Christmas?”
Her hands were still in her lap, and she didn’t look up. “Tomorrow we will stay here, then on Christmas day, we will go to the cemetery where my grandad is buried.”
“Would you like me to stay and celebrate Christmas with you?”
“I’d love to have you stay.”
A warm hand covered her own, settling the small tremors that had persisted throughout their conversation. “Then I will stay.”
Chapter Eleven
The next day, Isaac woke to the sun on his face. It shone through the curtains. He blinked his eyes, and slowly, the events of the day before replayed in his mind. He had kissed Kirstine, had even held her hand. The kiss had been forced and, despite her reassurance, awkward. But when he’d placed his hand atop hers, she didn’t pull away. If anything, she seemed to welcome his touch.
He grabbed a pillow from the other side of the large bed Aunt Gill had made up for him and smothered his face in it. He could not allow one good day with Kirstine to make him dream of . . . dream of what? He pressed the pillow harder into his face.
She was Kirstine Jamieson. Most of Glenbeath’s male population was in love with her. He had been partially in love with her even before seeing her. Nothing compared to the days Stephen received letters from Kirstine. Isaac’s own letters were filled with all the things his mother was certain he felt he was missing out on by leaving home. The ton, marriages of men and women he had no real relationships with, and her new tea service.
Kirstine’s letters were full of light. She never mentioned the war, except to wish Stephen home. And the way she wished it was bright and happy, not desolate and needy. She wished Stephen had been there to see a neighbor’s face when she dropped off her extremely burnt pudding for him to give to his chickens. Or she wished he could have seen a boy in Glenbeath walking down the street in long trousers for the first time and the way he strutted about. She spoke about the sun coming up on a cool autumn morning and the slow warmth its rays brought to her skin.
Her letters were filled with nothing important.
And everything important.
And Stephen had shared them with Isaac. He had seen that what Isaac needed in order to keep fighting for England was not a list of which men were joining White’s, but a girl in Scotland who didn’t know she was living his own personal fantasy.
But Kirstine’s life was no longer a fantasy; it was real and in front of him every day.
He pulled the pillow off his head and jumped out of bed. Kirstine was his friend. He had forced her to become his friend. She was Scottish and open and caring toward everyone. Putting his hand over hers at that tea table had been one of his bravest moments, but for her, it was simply how she lived her life. She was surrounded by people who cared. She was accustomed to it. He would not read into her friendship and imagine it to be something more.
He washed his face in the bowl of water and started riffling through his trunk, deciding what he should wear while he waited for Matthew to arrive. After helping him this morning, Matthew would return with Mr. Thompson to Dum-fries. Isaac would find his own way back to Glenbeath. He would have to live a few days with borrowed or no servants, and despite his protestation that had led him on this journey, he would be able to survive without any problems.
Notwithstanding his preparation, seeing Kirstine smile up at him when he walked into the breakfast room left him breathless. His foot stumbled, but he recovered. How many times had he seen Kirstine smile at a village boy or the grocer? Dozens of times. He squared his shoulders and made his way to the sideboard. Today he would remain calm. No matter how many times Kirstine smiled at him, he would remain calm.
The day was spent planning their Christmas on the morrow. His family had never done much to celebrate Christmastide. Some of the servants had taken time off to see their families, and Cook had made them a special pudding, but other than that, it was just another day.
Mrs. Jamieson and Aunt Gill loved Christmas, as was apparent in their preparations for Christmas Eve dinner. The Yule candles were set out and ready to light. The servants brought in greenery and proceeded to decorate doorways and tables. Isaac had never seen such cheer surround the holiday. No one was exempt from the work of decorating. Aunt Gill saw it as part of the excitement and wouldn’t allow the servants to be the only ones enjoying themselves.
Every time he finished placing a sprig somewhere, Aunt Gill would hand him another and ask Kirstine to help him decide where it should go. They had just finished tying a few long garlands upon the staircase when Aunt Gill approached them with a small mound of greenery and ribbons in her hands.
Kirstine took them, just as she had the last bit of greenery. “Where would you like these?” she asked.
Aunt Gill smiled. “Over some of the doorways. These are kissing boughs. I don’t believe the one at the entry will be enough. Why not have more fun?”
Kirstine coughed and shook her head and then counted the boughs in her hands. Isaac followed her movements. Seven. Which meant there would be eight kissing boughs in the house. He would have to be very careful where he stood.
Kirstine raised her eyebrows at her aunt. “Seven? Why would you need seven kissing boughs?”
Aunt Gill waved her hand and started to step away. “Any doorway will be all right,” she said without answering Kirstine’s question. “Don’t forget the drawing room and the writing room. We use those a lot.”
Kirstine reached for her aunt’s elbow and stopped her retreat. “Who, exactly, do you expect to use these, Aunt Gill?”
“Oh, the servants love this type of thing.”
Kirstine tilted her head to one side. “You have exactly one male servant inside the home, and Mr. Carson is happily married.”
Aunt Gill shrugged, slipped her hand out of Kirstine’s grip, and scurried off to find her sister.
Kirstine stood with the seven boughs in her hand, watching her aunt retreat. Isaac had said nothing throughout the exchange. If he and Kirstine hung the boughs together, they would stand under each and every one.
The math was simple. If he played his cards right before the evening was out, he would come away with seven kisses.
Chaste kisses, of course. Similar to the first one. Isaac was still a gentleman, but the holiday spirit had taken hold of him, and he was not going to let this opportunity pass him up. “Shall we start in the drawing room?”
Kirstine shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know how she expects us to hang them. There is a nail for that purpose in the foyer. Does she want us hammering nails above every doorway?”
Mr. Carson entered the foyer with a hammer and a handful of nails. “Mrs. Gill told me you would need these.”
“I suppose that is exactly what she wants.” Isaac strode over to Mr. Carson and retrieved the hammer and nails.
“Will you be needing anything else?” Mr. Carson asked.
“No, thank you,” Kirstine said behind Isaac, and the butler’s footsteps marched away.
Isaac didn’t turn to look at Kirstine but instead set about his work. He walked the few steps to the entry of the drawing room, stood in front of the doorway, and reached as high as he could to place the nail above the door. A few taps were all it took to keep the nail in place. He then reached down and held out his hand. Kirstine must have made her way over to him while he had been hammering, for within a moment, the bough, which had a ribbon tied to the top of it, was in his hand. He looped the ribbon over the nail and the mistletoe fell into place.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he bent and kissed Kirstine’s cheek, just above her cheekbone.
She made a small squeak, and her hand flew to the side of her face. “What was that for?”
“If you think your Aunt Gill had any other motive than for us to stand under these while we hang them, I think you don’t know your aunt very well.”
“Well, of course that is what she wanted. But that doesn’t mean we actually have to do it.”
“Miss Jamieson.” Isaac couldn’t keep the smile off of his face. Kirstine’s cheek was as soft as he remembered, and for once, he had been the one to surprise her. “I am a guest in this house. What kind of guest would I be if I didn’t do my hostess’s bidding?” Without waiting for a reply, he stepped forward. His heart was still pounding as if he had narrowly missed enemy fire, but he was fairly certain Kirstine couldn’t hear it. “Shall we go to the writing room next?”
She followed his lead, but this time, when he finished hanging the bough and turned to her, she jumped and placed a kiss near his temple. Then she grabbed his hand. “Let’s put one over the entrance to the kitchen. Maybe Cook will have some delivery boys make use of it.”
Cook was busy working, but she laughed when she heard Kirstine’s explanation. With a shrug, she went back to work. When that bough was hung, Isaac and Kirstine turned toward each other. Her kiss had been quick and surprising, and now it was his turn again.
Kirstine’s eyes found a spot on his cheek, and her eyes narrowed. She swept forward, but he dodged and placed a kiss at the top of her head. Her lips pursed in frustration, but with Cook busy in the kitchen, she didn’t say anything.
She pulled on his hands and led him to a long corridor filled with doorways on each side. It looked a lot like the servants’ quarters. “You think your aunt would want them hung here?” he asked.
“I don’t think my aunt cares where they go.”
“Then why here?”
She smiled. “These doors are very close together.”
He leaned forward. A wisp of hair had fallen out of her coiffure, and his fingers itched to tuck it behind her ear, but as far as he knew, there was no Christmas tradition that would allow him that privilege. “Are you trying to finish this unpleasant task quicker?”
