Yuletide Treasure (Thornton 1.50)

With a weary sigh, Eric dragged a tufted chair to the foot of the bed. Then, he dropped into it, tossed a blanket over himself, and closed his eyes.

His last thought before drifting off was that he’d have to conjure up some halfhearted punishment for his precocious tempest of a niece. Nothing too severe. In truth, the little troublemaker had done her job well….

—

“Brigitte!”

The shriek pierced through Eric like a knife.

Scrambling to his feet, he shook his head, trying to orient himself. Where was he? Who had screamed?

“Brigitte … don’t leave me!”

Noelle.

Memory jarred into place.

Swiftly, Eric glanced at the bed, assuring himself that Brigitte was deeply asleep, oblivious to the world and everyone in it. Then, he dashed from her room and down the hall to Noelle’s, flinging open the door to find the child sitting up in bed, crying as if her heart would break.

“Noelle—what’s wrong?”

Coming to her knees, Noelle didn’t question his presence, just reached out for him, her small body wracked with sobs. “Uncle … I had a bad dream …” She broke off to catch her breath. “About Brigitte. She was so sick when you put her in bed. And Mama died of a fever. Mrs. Lawley said so. I dreamed I tried to wake Brigitte up, and I couldn’t … and she never woke up … and …”

Eric crossed over to the bed in four strides, gathering Noelle in his arms. “Brigitte is fine,” he assured her fiercely.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” Eric could feel the tension ease from Noelle’s shoulders.

“Did she wake up at all?”

“Um-hum. In fact, she just had a bad dream, too.”

“She did?” Noelle raised her tear-streaked face, the terror of her nightmare temporarily held at bay. “But she’s a grown-up.”

“Grown-ups have bad dreams, too, Noelle.” Eric stroked her hair, paternal instinct reawakening from its lengthy slumber. “Nightmares are just fears that lie in wait for our other thoughts to rest. Then, when the path is clear, they dash out and wreak havoc in our minds. And, since everyone has fears, everyone has nightmares.”

Noelle digested that information with a loud, shuddering sniff. “If Brigitte is right and grown-ups have to obey rules, and you’re right and grown-ups have fears and nightmares, what’s the difference between being an adult and being a child—’cept the fact that children are shorter?”

An ironic smile touched Eric’s lips. “Not much,” he confessed. “Except that children don’t try to hide their feelings behind stupid walls of self-delusion and self-protection.”

“Brigitte doesn’t hide her feelings. You just don’t look hard enough to see them. Actually, you’re not real good at seeing your own feelings either.” Noelle plucked the handkerchief from her uncle’s pocket. “May I use this?”

“Feel free.” Eric frowned. “What do you mean? What don’t I see?”

“How much you like Brigitte.” Shrugging, Noelle blew her nose with an unladylike honk. “Or how much she likes you.”

Eric shook his head in amazement. “Are you certain you’re only going to be four?”

“That’s what you told me. You said I was born on Christmas Day, 1856.”

“You were.” He tipped up her chin. “You were tiny and beautiful. You were also loud. You began wailing and kicking the instant you were born.”

A grin. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Uncle, how did Mama die?”