Free Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages) by L.L. Muir

boat with a gaping hole.
    From the start he’d known, somehow, that the child would be taken from him. It was simply too miraculous to be true. He’d feared it from the moment she’d been left with him.
    And she’d been as good as taken from him already.
    At the thought, pain arced through his chest like a mean bit of lightning. It was likely only a taste of the pain that would have come if he’d spent another week playing father only to find she was part of the conspiracy.
    Yes. It was a lucky thing he’d caught on right away.
    To be truly helpful, his Muir blood should have warned him to leave town days ago, instead of warning him, too late, that wickedness approached. By then, the wicked had already been inching their way toward his heart.  
    But there was more wickedness afoot, and he was going to discover it.
    With the only key to the room tucked into his pocket, he was free to turn his castle upside down if necessary to find those who would aid the little thieves. If his suspicions proved true, the lass was not his responsibility. But even so, it was reassuring to know that she was looked after. Surely, as the child’s mother, or older sister at least, the woman could keep her safe, warm, fed... Dear lord, but the fatherly concerns were going to take a fine time leaving him.
    If the woman had never come along, he’d be the happiest adoptive father alive and none would be able to take the lass from him without a fight to the death. But he would entertain not another moment of hope if it might break his heart in the end. He’d had enough.
    For fear of flushing any culprits outside and away, he started out of doors and worked inward, hoping to corner the guilty inside the castle. He’d barred the front door from the outside. Thanks to the heavy snow, it took little enough effort to do so. A sturdy board shored up the ice already forming against the thick wood. As most castle doors did, it opened outward, but not this day.
    The weight of the barbican gate was enough to close out any stealthy carriage deliveries, or collections—of any one or any thing.
    The stables held no surprises. No strange mounts huddled there against the still raging storm. No fresh footprints in the snow.  All his animals had long since been moved down into the glen for the winter. The only things left in his care for the twelve days of Christmas were his own mount, Macbeth, and the goose he was to roast for his Christmas supper. The pair had been sheltered inside the stone barn together and it was likely the harassment from the goose that kept Macbeth moving and therefore, warm. It also meant that in making itself useful, the goose had won another day of life.
    “The pair of you should be grateful for each other. Ye’ll both still be alive for Christmas.”
    Heathcliff closed up the barn and checked the rest of the out buildings but found not a sign of disturbance. Few of the structures were still in use, but they’d been built too well to see torn down. By the time the nineteenth century arrived, his family castle was no longer a bustling town unto itself; the villagers had gradually distanced themselves from the home of the Muir Witch in spite of it also being home to their laird.  After his grandmother died, activity increased in and out of the castle, but none lived too near.
    Managing his tenants and investments kept him busy enough during the day. When a man has no family to distract him, he has time to improve both his own lot and that of his people. Truth be told, if he did nothing but sit on his arse and grow fat, his wealth would continue to grow. And if being the grandson of a Muir Witch was his first problem, his money was his second. It was easy to suspect anyone who showed up on his doorstep.
    But a child? Even a child he’d come to care for? Had hoped to make his own?
    What the devil had become of him?
    Heathclilff stopped in his tracks, struck immobile by his thoughts. Was it the fresh air that helped him to think