Free A Warrior for Christmas by Beth Trissel Page B

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