Page 82 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Catriona rose from her bed the following morning after a fitful night spent tossing and turning. One thing was clear in her mind—if she was going to defend the castle, she was going to need reinforcements.

The problem was that the nearest village, Teangue, was a mile and a half away.

Which was usually no impediment, but the journey would be arduous through thigh-deep snow.

Going there and back would give the robbers ample time to break in and steal the Viking treasure.

Her Viking treasure. Her pride. Her joy!

The one thing that served as proof that she, Catriona McCallister, was worth something, in spite of what her family said.

She would not allow it!

And it happened that there was one person close at hand whom she might be able to recruit to her cause.

She peered out the window. A thin trail of smoke rose from the chimney of the gamekeeper’s cottage.

Unfortunately, the person in question either had or had not murdered someone in a blind rage using a shovel.

On the bright side, considering the task at hand, that experience might come in handy!

Turning from the window, Catriona hastily dressed. This was probably the daftest idea she’d ever had, which was really saying something.

No matter. It was her only chance, and she was taking it.

Will was standing over the frying pan, minding both the eggs and his own business, when the door to the cottage burst open.

He instinctively grabbed the shovel leaning against the wall and spun around, brandishing it over his head.

He regretted his reaction when the petite woman standing in the doorway gasped and clutched a hand over her heart.

Will was about to apologize when her brow lowered in annoyance.

“We’ll have none of that, now!” she declared, striding into his cottage.

She plucked the shovel from Will’s hands and leaned it against the wall.

“Ye think ye can scare me with all of that Sussex Shovel Slayer nonsense?” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Well, ye can’t! ”

His brain, which was normally as sharp as a butcher’s cleaver, was struggling to make sense of her words. “Sussex Shovel Slayer? What are you talking about? I’ve never even been to Sussex!”

It occurred to him too late that the more significant point was, nor have I ever slayed anyone with a shovel.

But he had missed his chance, as she was already speaking again. “It happens that I need yer help, so here’s what’s going to happen. Ye’re going to come back to the castle with me, and…” She broke off, noticing his breakfast crackling in the frying pan. “Ooh! Are those eggs? Have ye got any more?”

“I… Yes. Yes, I do.” He must’ve been even lonelier than he’d thought, because he found himself cracking two more eggs into the pan.

He longed for company so much that he was willing to accept it from this strange woman who had burst into his cottage, accused him of murder, and then demanded breakfast in her next breath.

“Bacon?” he asked once the eggs were sizzling in the pan.

Seconds ago, she’d been shouting at him. But now, she gave him a brilliant smile. “Yes, please!” She crossed the small space to the butcher block and began slicing the bread. “I’ll make us some toast while ye work on the rest.”

While he minded the pan, Will took a moment to study his new companion.

She was a tiny thing, scarcely coming up to his chin, but the energy she radiated filled the little stone cottage.

She had windswept brown hair which she had half-heartedly pulled into a tail with a scrap of twine, rather than ribbon, and bright, hazel eyes.

She was pretty, but not in the conventional, refined, every-hair-neatly-curled-and-pinned-in-place sort of way.

Hers was the rugged beauty of Skye—spirited, wild, and untamed.

He kept those thoughts to himself. “The eggs are almost ready,” he announced. “Would you lay another place setting?” He nodded to the shelf above the basin, and she hurried over to fetch a second plate.

Will slid eggs and bacon onto both of their plates, then fetched the crock of butter and some blackberry jam for the toast. His new companion busied herself pouring them each a cup of tea. “There!” she exclaimed, taking her seat. “Now this is what I call a proper breakfast.”

Will took his own seat a bit stiffly. It was a proper breakfast, if a strange one. He was still unsure what, exactly, was going on.

He reached for the butter. “You said something earlier about needing my help.”

“Mmm, that’s right!” the woman said around a mouthful of bacon. “It’s not as if one woman… and one raven—it would be remiss of me not to mention the raven—can defend an entire castle from a band of marauders.”

Will didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

The tale finally came out in a comprehensible order. The woman was Catriona McCallister, daughter of Peader McCallister, who owned the castle next door, and from whom Will had leased this cottage.

But just because the tale was comprehensible didn’t mean it made a great deal of sense. “Your family left you behind?” he asked, confused. “How is that possible?”

Catriona waved a hand. “’Tisn’t all that surprising. They prefer to pretend I dinnae exist, after all.”

Now there was a statement Will could relate to. There was nothing his family wished more fervently than that he did not exist.

And yet, how could anyone fail to notice this woman, who was a veritable force of nature?

Will cleared his throat, trying not to gape. “And they didn’t notice they’d forgotten you?”

She shrugged as she reached for the jam.

“Apparently not. Maybe they’re snowed in at Portree.

Maybe they made it all the way onto the ferry without noticing I wasnae there.

I have no way of knowing. But the point is, they’re not here, and the servants who were supposed to be watching the castle had to leave. Ye see…”

She explained about the baby coming early and how the two men had tried to force their way inside the castle last night.

“Does your mother own expensive jewelry?” Will asked.

“She does.” Catriona poured herself a second cup of tea, then held the teapot up in question. Will slid his cup across the table. “She’s taken it with her to Paris, though.”

“Thank you.” Will dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and began to stir. “I’m wondering what valuables these men expect to find.”

“Oh, I know that—they’re after the hoard of Viking treasures displayed in our armory.”

Will frowned. “How can you be sure?”

“I overheard them discussing it last night. They plan to melt it down and sell it as bullion.”

Will’s tea splashed across the table as he surged to his feet. “Melt it down? They can’t melt it down!”

Catriona reached for the tea towel. “That’s what I said!”

Will, who was usually taciturn by nature, found himself ranting. “Those treasures are more than a thousand years old! They are a crucial link that tells us about our past, our history—”

Catriona thumped her tiny fist against the table. “I couldnae agree with ye more.”

Will’s hands, which had curled into claws, trembled in front of him. He was furious at the mere thought of those artifacts being destroyed. “It is almost impossible to put a price on them. They are indescribably dear. They must be preserved for future generations!”

Catriona leaned back in her chair and cast her gaze toward the ceiling. “Finally, someone who understands!”

“We’ve got to stop them.” Will grabbed his shovel and brandished it overhead. “To the castle!”

Catriona stood, shaking her fist. “To the castle!”

As Will turned toward the door, he noticed the table littered with their dirty breakfast things. “Hang on. I probably ought to do the washing up first.”

Catriona heaved a theatrical sigh. “I suppose. But be quick about it!”

He rolled up his sleeves and filled the basin with sudsy water.

Catriona grabbed a towel and came over to dry. “So, what’s this business about the Sussex Shovel Slayer?”

“You tell me,” Will said, plunging the frying pan into the soapy water. “I hadn’t heard anything about it until you showed up today.”

“They say ye murdered yer betrothed with that there shovel,” she said, tilting her head toward the ostensible murder weapon.

Will bristled. “That’s not true. I purchased that shovel in Portree! Look at the blacksmith’s mark if you don’t believe me.”

“Hmm.” Catriona strolled over to examine the shovel, then shrugged. “So, what ye’re saying is that ye murdered her with a different shovel?”

“I didn’t murder her!” Will scrubbed furiously at the pan. “And she’s not my betrothed.”

Catriona jabbed him in the shoulder with her finger. “And yet ye seem to know precisely who I’m talking about!”

He did. He and most of London.

He could try to explain. But he’d done that already. No one in London had believed him.

Why should Catriona be any different?

After a fraught silence, he finally settled for, “It’s complicated.”

“Is it, now? How complicated could it possibly—”

He rounded on her. Standing this close drew attention to his superior size and strength. “Do you want my help or not?”

Any other woman would have fainted dead away.

Catriona merely lifted her chin. “Answer me this, then. Can ye honestly say that ye’ve never killed anyone?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say yes.

But then, he remembered.

“No,” he said, his voice gruff. “I cannot honestly say that.”

She narrowed her eyes, considering. “Do ye plan on killing me?”

He met her eyes then. Because he wanted to do this. He wanted to protect the artifacts, obviously. The thought of them being melted down, being lost forever, was horrific.

But he found that he also wanted the experience Catriona McCallister promised.

He wanted the adventure of it, yes. He also wanted to feel useful.

He hadn’t felt useful once in the past eight months, not since he had inherited his uncle’s title.

His heart leapt at the chance to do something important, to have a sense of purpose.

Part of it was that he didn’t want to spend Christmas alone for the ninth year in a row. Surely it was understandable that he would jump at the chance to have a little company, even if it were the company of the strangest person he’d ever met.

But that wasn’t all. He had a feeling about Catriona McCallister. That this woman was going to change his life.

Probably by getting him shot by these alleged thieves.

But a tiny voice in the back of his head insisted that she was different. That she was special.

That maybe, just maybe, this woman who flew through life with such obvious joie de vivre was precisely what he needed.

So, he tried to imbue his face with every ounce of sincerity he possessed as he replied, “I swear that I have no designs on your life.”

Catriona studied him for a moment with pursed lips.

Without warning, she grabbed his arm. “That’ll have to do!” she cried, hauling him toward the door.