A Warrior for Christmas Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Warrior for Christmas

  Copyright

  Praise forBeth Trissel

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  A word from the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  A Warrior

  for

  Christmas

  by

  Beth Trissel

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

  A Warrior for Christmas

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Beth Trissel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First American Rose Edition, 2012

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-478-5

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise forBeth Trissel

  ENEMY OF THE KING: “Beth Trissel is a skilled storyteller and scene-builder. She immediately plunges the reader into action and excitement with a vivid sense of time and place.”

  ~Kris Kennedy, historical romance author

  ~*~

  2008 Golden Heart® Finalist

  ~*~

  2008 Winner Preditor’s & Editor’s Readers Poll

  ~*~

  Publisher’s Weekly BHB

  Reader’s Choice Best Books of 2009

  ~*~

  2010 Best Romance Novel List at Buzzle

  ~*~

  Book of the Week Winner five times at LASR

  ~*~

  2012 Double Epic Award Finalist

  Dedication

  To my grandmother, “Mommom,”

  who loved Christmas more than anyone I’ve ever known and kept it in her heart all the year.

  Cherished memories of Christmas with Mommom,

  my aunt Moggie, Uncle RW, and all my cousins

  at the beautiful old family home, Chapel Hill,

  will remain with me always.

  Chapter One

  December 1764

  An estate outside Philadelphia

  Blinking against wind-driven sleet, Corwin Whitfield followed the stout man through the front door of the massive stone house far larger than he’d imagined. A dozen cabins or Indian lodges put together could fit inside and still leave ample room. With winter lashing at their heels, Uncle Randolph had pressed both man and beast hard to reach Whitfield Place before nightfall. Icy pellets hit the door as his uncle shut the solid wooden barrier.

  Better than a skin flap, Corwin supposed. He was well accustomed to the wet and cold, but a fire would feel good. His gloved fingers were numb from riding over snowy roads all day, not to mention all the previous days. Puddles spread at his boots on the flagstone floor in the entryway.

  “Welcome home, Mister Whitfield.”

  By the light of the small glass lamp on the stand inside the door, he saw a woman in an apron, severe skirts and gray shawl. The cap engulfed her pinched face. Inclining her head and curtsying, she said, “How was your journey, sir?”

  “Wretched, Mistress Stokes.” Uncle Randolph waved a gloved hand at Corwin. “My nephew.” He swiped a paw at her. “My housekeeper,” he added by way of introduction. “Fifth cousin of my late wife’s, or some such connection.”

  “Indeed.” Mistress Stokes curtsied to Corwin. “Welcome to Whitfield Place.”

  He considered the etiquette drilled into him by his uncle and offered a brief nod. A bow didn’t seem required.

  Uncle Randolph scowled. “Foul weather.”

  She seemed unperturbed by his gruff manner. “Yes sir.”

  “Bound to worsen. See to it the fires are built up.” Unbuttoning his brown caped coat, Uncle Randolph flung it onto the high-backed bench along one wall. He peeled off his gloves, tossing them and his tricorn onto the sodden heap.

  Corwin did the same with his newly acquired garments. He couldn’t fault his uncle’s generosity, but the man had the temperament of an old he-bear.

  Uncle Randolph ran thickened fingers over gray hair pulled back at his neck and tied with a black ribbon. “Where’s Miss Dimity keeping herself? Is she well?”

  Corwin detected a trace of anxiety in his tone.

  The dour woman gave a nod. “Quite well, sir. She’s in the drawing room just after having her tea.”

  “Good,” his uncle grunted. “Tell cook we’ll have our supper in there. Stew, pastries, and ale will serve. Don’t neglect the Madeira.”

  Another curtsy and the housekeeper turned away to pad down a hall partly lit by sconces wrought of iron. His uncle frowned after her. “She’s a good body and keeps this place tidy but tends to be lax on the fires. We mustn’t risk Dimity taking ill. Delicate girl. Cold as a tomb in here.”

  Corwin found Whitfield Place equally as welcoming as a grave. The chill was pervasive. A fur-lined wican would be warmer. He followed his uncle across the frigid entryway and through a wide double door. His relation paused just inside the spacious room and Corwin halted beside him.

  “There she is,” Uncle Randolph said with the hint of a smile in his normally reluctant features. “My ward, Miss Dimity Scott. The little Quaker as I call her.”

  Corwin thought it highly doubtful this staunch Anglican had taken in an actual Quaker. Looking past assorted tables, gilt-covered chairs and a gold couch, he spotted the feminine figure seated before the glowing hearth. A padded armchair the color of ripe berries hid much of her slender form. His first impression was of fair curls, like corn silk, piled on her head beneath a circle of lace; his second, that the young woman bent over her embroidery seemed oblivious of all else.

  One this unaware would never survive in the frontier. He’d been taught to move with the silence of a winged owl while observing all around him. “Why does she not look up at our coming?”

  “Ah, well, that’s a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” The hesitancy in his uncle’s tone was unlike this man who knew his own mind and was swift to instruct others.

  He squinted at Corwin with his good eye; the other perpetually squinted from an injury he’d received in a duel. “I trust you’ll not hold it against the poor girl as a sign of weakness, my boy. Warriors sometimes do and you’ve kept company with those savages far too long.”

  It wasn’t like his uncle to ramble, and Corwin shifted impatiently upon hearing his adopted people disparaged again. “What are you saying, Uncle?”

  He rubbed his fingers over a chin grizzled with whiskers. “Dimity cannot hear us.”

  “At all?”

  “Not a sound, unfortunately. Though she is able to detect the vibrations of music. Odd, that.”

  Like the beating of Indian drums. “Has she always been without hearing?”

  “No. A bad bout of scarlet fever nearly took her life and left her deaf. Pox claimed her mother and war her father, my good friend, Colonel Scott. Like a daughter she is to me now.” Uncle Randolph glanced at Corwin with a peculiar expression. “I’ve made generous provision for her, though my estate will pass to you after my death.”


  “Shall you never remarry?”

  “No. I have ample female companionship in town. I expect Dimity will remain here with us at Whitfield Place. It is my hope that you will share in her guardianship.”

  Corwin concealed how little inclination he had in that regard. As far as he was concerned, Miss Dimity Scott could inherit the entire estate. She’d have fortune enough to hire servants and live comfortably after his uncle had passed on.

  As for Corwin, his needs were simple: a horse, some food, arms. Freedom. This sole surviving relative had come to claim him as a result of that infamous peace treaty. After journeying from the Indian village to Fort Pitt, where all captives were to be accounted for, then on to Whitfield Place he was sick to death of the entire business. He’d accept his uncle’s hospitality for a while and then—

  The big man beckoned to him. “Come meet Dimity. She’s expecting us.”

  “How can she be?”

  “I sent a courier with a letter advising her of our impending arrival. She can read, just not hear.”

  Corwin walked across the carpet patterned with birds and flowers. His Shawnee mother would cherish the rich hues, but it would never fit in their wican. He spotted what must be a pianoforte in the corner and wondered if Dimity played the musical instrument.

  Uncle Randolph paused behind her armchair, and still she took no notice of them. A panther could seize her by the throat or an enemy fall upon her before she knew. It was well she dwelt here in safety.

  Not wishing to alarm her by his sudden appearance, Corwin stopped a few yards short of the chair. A second armchair, the twin of the one occupied by her, faced the crackling fire. That must be his uncle’s usual place. Though not a snug room, the heavy drapes helped keep out the wind and Dimity was wrapped in a creamy wool shawl. A sweet perfume Corwin could only think was violets wafted lightly from her in contrast to the aroma of wood smoke. He hadn’t expected this, or his uncle’s mild manner.

  The usually undemonstrative man laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and she glanced around. Granted, she had an appealing face. Her smooth complexion was free from scars, her forehead, nose, and chin well proportioned, and her mouth a soft rose. But she wasn’t a beauty. Corwin was used to women with dark eyes and hair and vibrant spirits; this one seemed colorless by comparison, her gaze too pale.

  Then she smiled.

  Corwin wasn’t in any way prepared for the radiance charging her blue eyes, like sunlight dancing on lake water. Her entire being seemed shot through with light. He almost staggered back as if struck, but fought to hold his ground and conceal his volatile reaction. Dimity was good, he realized, with a sudden, acute awareness of his shortcomings.

  Laying her sewing on a small table beside the chair, she sprang to her feet and threw her arms around what she could encompass of Uncle Randolph. Her blond head reached midway up his chest. “Mister Whitfield, you’ve come at last!”

  Her accent was strange, but she’d spoken. How was this possible?

  His uncle gathered her in a hearty embrace with a great deal more affection than he’d ever shown Corwin. “Dimity remembers speech from her hearing days,” he said over his shoulder. “And mind what you say. She can read lips.”

  As a keen warrior read faces. That would aid her as long as she clearly saw the speaker. In the dark, she would be lost.

  Now why had Corwin just envisioned himself alone with Dimity in the dark? The old bear would have his hide.

  ****

  Peering around her guardian’s bulk, Dimity took in the newcomer. This must be Mister Whitfield’s nephew, the former Indian captive. Eight years, was it, he’d been with them? The young man exuded masculine energy and had the air of one who’d lived in the wild. Not a dandy, like some.

  The force of his regard took her aback. Hazel eyes with a greenish cast spoke to her of the leafy forest, the dark chestnut hair falling around his shoulders and his sun-browned skin of the earth. Nearly as tall as her guardian, he embodied the frontier where he’d dwelt for many years. His sinewy build was lean.

  The fashionable clothes seemed out of place. She suspected the russet coat and striped waistcoat were new to him, though he carried them with grace. Had he worn the Indian breechclout and leggings she’d heard of? She nearly blushed at the thought.

  She looked at his mouth to see if he spoke in words. He hadn’t yet uttered a syllable and seemed to be waiting. For what, her? A tremor darted through her middle.

  Her guardian put her from him to look into her face. “You shiver, my dear. Meet my nephew, Corwin Whitfield, and settle back by the fire. Corwin, this fair lady is my ward, Miss Dimity Scott.”

  Corwin gave a short bow. She curtsied in turn then watched him approach to stand before the hearth. The flames outlined his muscular figure and thigh-hugging breeches made of fine quality leather. Another unladylike thrill ran through her.

  Remembering decorum, she held out her hand. “I am pleased to meet you at last, Mister Whitfield,” she said, shifting her eyes between his intent gaze and mouth. She liked the shape of his lips, neither too thin nor too full; he was clean-shaven with only a shadow of whiskers.

  He took her hand in his, but didn’t squeeze too hard as some exuberant men did. A tingle ran up her arm at the feel of his fingers.

  What on earth had come over her? She’d met young gentlemen before. It occurred to her that Corwin wasn’t a true gentleman and likely half savage. The hand that held hers had fired a musket, wielded a tomahawk and hunting knife. And Lord only knew what else. His was raw strength, held in check.

  He moved his lips and she read, “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Scott.” He waved his other hand at the armchair. “Pray do not stand on my account.”

  He was all decorum for one so newly arrived from the frontier. His uncle must have rehearsed him well. Sliding her fingers from his, she sank down into the chair. Her focus on Corwin’s face, she said, “Please join me.”

  A smile touched his eyes with a near dizzying effect on her. “Gladly.”

  If her guardian spoke, she failed to follow the movement of his lips, but was aware of the older man nudging Corwin into his usual seat before the hearth and pulling up another chair for himself.

  She looked into Corwin’s unrelenting gaze. “How do you like Whitfield Place?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  She detected the reserve in his expression. He’d left something unsaid. She wished this dark house had more life, more cheer. “‘Tis rather glum now, I fear. You will join in our Christmas celebration, will you not, Mister Whitfield?”

  He seemed puzzled.

  “We have a lovely dinner.” She lifted her face to her guardian’s. “We must have quite the feast this Yuletide in honor of your nephew’s coming.”

  “Of course. He will enjoy the festivity.”

  “We are a merry company at Christmas, Mister Whitfield. ’Tis only seven days hence,” she reminded her guardian.

  “I suppose you’ll want invitations sent out at once,” he grumbled, but his eyes belied his pretended annoyance.

  “I shall pen them on the morrow, sir, with your leave. I was afraid lest you not return in time.”

  “As you see, we are here in ample time. Invite all the neighbors to our dinner.”

  “And dance,” she prompted.

  “We shall have musicians aplenty. Whatever you like,” Mister Whitfield promised.

  “Oh, good.” She envisioned the merriment and wonder of having such a guest as Corwin. Inexplicably drawn to him, she said, “I’m certain we shall be splendid friends.”

  “I look forward to deepening our acquaintance. Yet I remember little of English dancing.”

  “I shall teach you, Mister Whitfield.”

  His lips twitched. “What shall I teach you, Miss Scott?”

  Her heart fluttered at the thought of all he could likely instruct her in. “Please, call me Dimity.”

  Corwin replied, “Call me Black Hawk.”

  Startled beyond w
ords, she widened her eyes at him. Fortunately, her guardian had taken no notice of his nephew’s outrageous response and she suspected he’d only mouthed it.

  His smile broadened. “You must call me Corwin. We can’t have two Mister Whitfields.”

  “Indeed,” she said, studying him all the while.

  There was much mystery in Corwin’s expression. He gestured little as he spoke and seemed quite self-contained.

  He was full of secrets, and Dimity determined to ferret out the truth. After she lost her hearing, she’d found her other senses heightened and often detected that in people which others missed.

  She bent toward him, the thrill of discovery pulsing in her veins. “Tell me of the red men. What was it like to live among the Indians?”

  Before Corwin replied, her guardian cupped his fingers to her chin and tilted her face to meet his frown. “Do not invite my nephew to speak of those savages.”

  “But the tediousness of my hours with you so often away and him newly come would be enlivened by his tales.”

  A milder look came into Mister Whitfield’s expression, but he shook his head. “Speak all you like to Corwin and him to you, my dear, but not of the life I wish him to forget.”

  She doubted Corwin had in any way forgotten.

  “His place is here now,” Mister Whitfield continued. “You must encourage him in his new life, my little Quaker.”

  In the greenish depths of Corwin’s eyes, she saw a blend of anticipation and reluctance. Then Dimity knew he would leave them and return to these people unless she prevailed upon him to stay. How could she compete with the primal call of the frontier?

  ****

  Corwin couldn’t take his eyes from Dimity. Not only was she the most exquisite creature he’d ever seen, but communication between them wasn’t possible if he looked away. Conversing with her was a far more intimate affair than with any other woman. Normally he didn’t speak face to face. With rare exceptions, he’d remained aloof from women. But now, in the flash of her smile, all that had changed.

  He’d detected no fear in Dimity when he mouthed his Indian name, only shock and then fascination. Most women would have been horrified. She was unique in many respects. But his uncle would have to interfere. At the same time the old bear pushed them together, he did his utmost to pry Corwin from the past. He wanted Corwin strictly on his terms, the price a steep one. Surrender his freedom, and all that Corwin beheld was his.