Free A Warrior for Christmas by Beth Trissel Page A

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,