Free Barbara Metzger by Christmas Wishes

his arms, never caring to stay the night with any of his paramours. Now he thought he might enjoy starting the days this way. Not with unfulfilled desires, naturally, but a special license would take care of that problem. He expected the other, the feeling of comfort and joy, just like the old carol they sang last night, to last for the next fifty or sixty years. God rest ye merry gentlemen.
    Time didn’t matter anyway. St. Cloud was already long overdue at the Priory, and Juneclaire had no coach to catch in Bramley, even if they were running. And the boy had returned. He could hear Ned whistling about his tasks and jingling harness. Tactful lad.
    St. Cloud wondered what Juneclaire would be like in the mornings. Some women, he knew, were querulous if roused early. Not even the earl dared approach the dowager Lady St. Cloud until Grandmother had her fortifying chocolate. Others, like his cousin Elsbeth, were vain of their looks until safely in their dressers’ hands, and his mother had to lie abed all afternoon if forced to bestir herself before noon. Junco was not temperamental, conceited, or missish. St. Cloud could not wait to find her reaction to being kissed awake like Sleeping Beauty. He himself woke up amorous.
    He raised the coat to stroke her smooth cheek—and his hands touched hair more bristly than his own side-whiskers. His eyes jerked open to stare into little red-rimmed beady ones, with absurdly long white eyelashes.
    St. Cloud jumped up. Pansy jumped up. St. Cloud shouted: “What the hell!” And the pig raced off with a piercing whee that sounded like the gates of hell swinging shut.
    “Stop that, you confounded animal,” the earl ordered. “You weren’t hurt, so quit overplaying your part, you ham. Your mistress must be out talking with Ned, so you’re wasting your time trying to get sympathy.” St. Cloud felt he was the one who deserved pitying, denied the pleasure of waking his bride-to-be. On his way out of the barn he tossed Pansy an apple saved from Juneclaire’s hoard the night before. “There, and don’t tell anyone I tried to kiss a pig good morning!”
    Juneclaire wasn’t polishing tack with Ned. She must be using the convenience, or be out by the pump, washing. This would be the last time in her life she’d use icy water or sleep on the ground, St. Cloud vowed.
    Ned jumped off the upturned barrel and touched his cap. Then he fumbled in his pocket and withdrew St. Cloud’s ring. “Here, my lord. I was back by first light, I swear, but you didn’t say nothing ’bout waking you up.”
    The earl could see that the curricle was clean and shining in the wintry sun. The boy must have been back for hours, working outside in the cold. “Thank you,” he acknowledged, nodding toward the equipage, and Ned blushed with pride. He was no more than twelve or thirteen, St. Cloud saw now by light of day, though tall for his age. He shouldn’t have been out riding the roads all night, damn it, but he shouldn’t have been mixed up with highwaymen either.
    “Did you have any trouble?” the earl asked.
    “Nary a bit. That widder lady went back toward Bramley, and the innkeeper sent her to Lord Cantwell at High Oaks to report the robbery. She was still kicking up a dust over to the manor. Magistrate was having to give her hospitality for the night, it seems, ’cause she was too afrighted to go back on the roads and had no money for the inn. He was right pleased to see me with the widder’s purse and sparklers, I can tell you that.”
    “And what did he say about Charlie?”
    “He said good riddance to bad rubbish, is what. Charlie’d been poaching up at High Oaks for as long as I can remember, only Cantwell’s man could never catch him. His lordship being magistrate and all, he had to have proof. Charlie Parrett was too smart for that.”
    “If he was so smart, he should have stuck to poaching instead of going on the high toby.”
    Ned scuffed his worn boots in the dirt. “I reckon.