Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

She sent him a quick smile. “You might be sorry you asked.”

Rory had an inkling that she might be right. On the other hand, when she set up the house, she’d be under his feet and ripe for courting. She wasn’t quite as ahead of him as she imagined. “Try me.”

“You can reinstate the village Christmas party.”

He regarded her steadily. “That means getting the house into fit state in a hurry.”

“Only the public rooms. Just the great hall really.”

“Aye, very well. I agree.”

His swift capitulation obviously surprised her. “I haven’t finished yet.”

He’d had a feeling there might be more. Nothing he’d seen so far indicated that she was an easy mark. Although he still held her arm, and that had proven simpler than he’d expected. “What else?”

“Joseph from the play has broken his leg.”

Hell’s bells. Theatricals had never been his forte. As a boy before he’d gone to sea, his stepsisters in Edinburgh had loved to dress up and playact. He’d preferred to be outside riding or playing a rough game of football. “Joseph?”

”Yes.” She shrugged. “If you feel it’s beneath your dignity—”

He snorted. “Anyone who’s been a midshipman gets all notions of dignity knocked out of him quick smart.”

Her brilliant smile made his foolish heart leap like a salmon up a Highland burn. “So you’ll do it?”

“Aye, if you promise to bring my house up to scratch and run this Christmas party—and never send me another letter.”

“Thank you!” For a moment, he thought she might hug him, but unfortunately, she thought better of it. She regarded him thoughtfully as they continued along the path. “I hope you’ll help me with the house.”

“If I must,” he said, hiding his glee. Days in Miss Farrar’s company. Days to convince her he’d make a deuced fine husband. And all he had to do was put on Christmas dinner for a lot of rustics.

“Excellent.”

“Who’s playing Mary?”

She met his eyes and at last noticed that they were arm in arm. With a fluster that hinted she was unused to the wiles of determined gentlemen, she pulled free. “I am.”

Marvelous. “Then I’d better make sure I have the measure of this elusive donkey.”

They emerged into a wide field with a burn running through it. A post and rail fence separated the wood from the meadow. In the distance, an open byre sheltered a wee black donkey.

“Stay here,” Miss Farrar said, placing a hand on his arm. “Daisy can be skittish after she’s been left to her own devices.”

He liked that she touched him so unselfconsciously. “Still giving orders, Miss Farrar?”

She cast him an unimpressed glance. “It’s for your own good. She bites.”

So do I. “I bow to your local knowledge.”

He leaned on the gate and watched as Miss Farrar slowly crossed the grass in Daisy’s direction. With seeming docility, the donkey turned to observe her approach. Then when Miss Farrar was a matter of feet away, she trotted out of the byre.

Miss Farrar paused to lift a halter from a hook before she went in pursuit. Again the donkey waited until Miss Farrar was near enough to catch her before she kicked out her hind legs and veered toward Rory. Rory was no expert on donkeys, but it looked to him like Daisy was having a good laugh at Miss Farrar’s expense.

Miss Farrar followed with a dogged patience that indicated this game was nothing new. The donkey’s ears moved backward and forward, but only when she was almost upon him did he realize that he could hear singing.

And it was a song he knew well.

“Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves. Britons never, never, never will be slaves.”