Regency Christmas Wishes(34)

He couldn’t remember not feeling protective of Alice. As little as she’d ever needed protection, tiny as she was, he had still wanted to shelter her from the pains of childhood, of adolescence. The very first time he had seen her, a forlorn little figure in his mother’s parlor—her first visit, not a month after she’d lost her parents—he’d felt the urge to take care of her. And he’d continued to feel that way, long after she had proven her strength and resilience, through the rocks and the freeing of Cinn the horse and the bossy scoldings.

Then it had changed. So slowly that he hadn’t realized it was happening. He had gone from enjoying their meetings to craving them. He had wanted to hold her hand, not just have it tucked companionably through his arm on occasion. He’d wanted to kiss her. He had wanted to kiss her rather desperately.

But he had held himself in check, hard as it was. Until one night when he was twenty, she sixteen, and he could take it no longer. October. On a brilliantly clear night with stars filling the skies. He had meant to tell her that he was leaving Ireland, if only briefly. Instead he had kissed her. How sweet it had been. Sweet and deep and blood-stirring enough to shock him to the core.

He’d left a week later.

“Gareth?”

“Hmm?” He blinked. Alice, crimson hood up to frame her face becomingly, was waiting in the open doorway.

“Are you coming?”

For an instant he debated refusing. There were so many other things he could do. He could go back upstairs. He could find a good book. He could find a calendar on which to tick off the days before he could leave again . . .

He grabbed his coat and followed her.

She didn’t speak as she led him through the west gardens and toward the Kilcullen woods, merely smiling slightly when he demanded again to know where they were going. After a few minutes, Gareth realized he didn’t care. He had wanted to walk away from the house from the moment he’d entered it, and here he was—walking away from the house.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Hennessey!” Alice called.

They had reached the privet hedge. A stooped figure straightened and waved a cheery greeting. “Good morning, Miss Alice!” The man lifted his tweed cap, revealing a bald pate and craggy face that broke into a wide grin. Gareth stopped in his tracks. He had seen that smile a hundred times. Usually shining up at him from the base of a tree he had climbed. And more than once, in his childhood, from the top of a ladder when he’d needed rescuing from a tree far easier to get up than down.

“Hennessey.” Suddenly he was grinning, too.

“And I thought ye’d be sure to have forgotten me,” the old gardener beamed. “Welcome home, Master Gareth. ’Tis grand and no doubt to see you home again.”

“I . . .” He couldn’t do it, couldn’t say it was grand and no doubt to be home. “Thank you. You are well?”

“Oh, fine, fine. The rheumatism acts up a bit, old bones . . . But you don’t want to be hearing about that.” The fellow turned his smile to Alice. “A fine morning to be out and about, miss.”

“It is indeed. I thought to take Mr. Blackwell with me to find a bit of Christmas.”

“Did you now? Well, may you find it. ’Tis out there.” He lifted his hoe. “I’d best be getting back to work. Welcome home, sir.”

Gareth caught himself whistling as he and Alice descended the slope leading to the woods. It was Hennessey who had taught him how to whistle. Macatee the head groom had taught him the best bawdy tunes. He would have to go in search of Macatee, assuming the man hadn’t retired. The navy was the world’s best repository for bawdy songs and Gareth thought he might have a few that hadn’t reached Kildare.

The path grew slippery suddenly and Gareth saw Alice struggle to keep her footing. He reached out, grasped her arm, and, as if he’d been doing it every day, tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Her cheeks, when he glanced down, were pink in the crisp air, her eyes bright. Winter suited her. It always had.

They walked in companionable silence until they entered the woods. In an instant, eight years—more—dropped away. Gareth recognized a spreading oak where he had played Robin Hood as a boy. He heard the quiet flow of the brook where he’d floated leaves, bark, and little boats made for him by the estate’s blacksmith. His own naval fleet. He and Alice had sat on the mossy bank more than once, having the sort of discussion only youth can appreciate: too serious for their age, too earnest for adulthood. He glanced down at her, wondering if she remembered.

She must have. “Youth is its own excuse.”