Yuletide Treasure (Thornton 1.50)

The befuddled man was wiping his brow with a dirty handkerchief. “Thank you,” he croaked.

“Thank you, sir.” She waved, then headed toward Noelle.

The clattering of the departing carriage shattered Eric’s paralyzed state.

Rage, vast as a storm-tossed wave, erupted inside him. He charged toward the roadside, where, at that moment, Noelle’s rescuer was placing Fuzzy in the child’s arms.

“Here you are,” she said brightly. “Fuzzy survived his adventure and is none the worse for it.”

Noelle snatched her beloved toy, her eyes still wide with disbelief.

“My name is Brigitte,” the woman offered, patting Fuzzy’s tattered head. “What’s yours?”

A heartbeat of silence. Then: “Noelle.”

“Well, Noelle, being that you’re obviously quick on your feet, I’m sure you would have escaped that carriage unharmed. But I’m not nearly as sure about Fuzzy. For his sake, perhaps you could be a bit more cautious in the future.”

“I suppose.” Noelle glanced up to see her uncle bearing down on her. “I’m about to be chest-ized.”

Brigitte stifled a grin. “And who is going to chastise …” Her mouth snapped shut as Eric loomed over them.

“Noelle, I ordered you to remain on the church grounds,” he thundered. “What the hell were you doing in the middle of the street?”

Chewing her lip, Noelle regarded him solemnly. “That’s twice in one morning,” she pronounced. “I think you’d best not say hell again, Uncle. Even God has His limits.”

A choked sound emerged from Noelle’s rescuer—an obviously unsuccessful attempt to smother laughter.

“You find recklessness and impudence to be amusing traits, young woman?” he roared, unleashing his outrage on her full force.

To his astonishment, she raised her chin, meeting his ferocity head-on. “Recklessness, no, Lord Farrington. Nor impudence—at least not in its mean-spirited form. However, in this case, I must admit to finding Noelle’s observation—albeit outspoken—to be amusingly valid.”

Anger was eclipsed by surprise, and Eric’s brows drew together. “You know who I am.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“I have a remarkable memory, my lord. And five years is not so very long a time. While your appearance has altered somewhat”—she indicated his unshaven face and unruly hair—“on the whole, you look much the same.”

“I don’t remember you.”

An ever-so-faint smile. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

Pensively, he scrutinized her. “Since you know who I am, I assume you’re also familiar with my shrouded past, and my ultimate—and permanent—seclusion.”

“I’m aware of your reputation, yes.”

“Yet you’re not afraid of me?”

“No, my lord, I’m not.”

“Why is that?”

A peppery spark lit her eyes, warming them to a radiant golden brown. “Stupidity, probably. But, you see, I’ve spent the past year and a half teaching children—two dozen of them, in fact, ranging in age from four to fourteen. As a result, it seems I have become impervious to both shock and fear. Even in the case of a notorious man like yourself.”

“Brigitte!” The vicar’s anxious voice interrupted, as he finally made his way to the roadside. “Are you all right?” He reached for her hands, clasping them in his.

“I’m fine, Grandfather,” she assured him gently. “Dusty and disheveled, but fine.” She rubbed one smudged cheek. “We all are—Noelle, Fuzzy, and me.”