Christmas By Candlelight: Two Regency Holiday Novellas by Andrea Pickens

shooting or dancing or choosing the cut of a waistcoat, but she could not recall one admitting to knowing how to fix an axle or coax a fire from damp shavings of wood. But by now, she was not at all surprised that he did not kick up a dust about getting his hands dirty.
    “You do not seem to mind doing menial tasks,” she observed.
    “Not when it is necessary.” He dusted his palms, then picked up the knife and began cutting more fuel for the fire. “I would rather shed my dignity than my life.”
    “Ever practical, sir?”
    “Practical, prudent and pragmatic,” he agreed. “I warned you not to expect Lord Byron’s Corsair hero as your companion on this journey.”
    He did look very raffish with his uncombed locks grazing his rumpled linen and a gleam of golden whiskers stubbling his jaw. Trying to put such thoughts out of her mind, Anna stood up and hugged her arms to her chest. “Speaking of journeys, we should probably be harnessing the horses and starting off.”
    Nicholas threaded a morsel of bread onto a sharpened stick and held it over the meager flames. “I am afraid we are not going anywhere.” Seeing her surprised expression, he waggled the piece of toast at the snowy silhouette of their coach. “I checked earlier on the wheel, and what with the weight of the ice and snow, the damaged spoke had cracked clean through.”
    “We could ride on to the next inn,” suggested Anna.
    “Too dangerous.” The bread angled heavenward. “With the clouds as thick as they are, I won’t chance it.” After one last pass over the coals, he held the stick at arm’s length. “Have some breakfast. It’s hardly a mouthful, but we had better conserve what we have.”
    A nibble of the toasted crust caused her to cough.
    He plucked a tin cup from the coals. “Sorry, unlike the wizard in The Frog Prince , I am not able to conjureup a spell to turn frozen apples into a pot ofsteaming tea.”
    “This is magical enough, sir.” Anna sipped at the cider, feeling an extra warmth tingling through her limbs. Lord Killingworth had a most delicious sense of humor—dry and spiced with a whimsical irony. As she swirled the last dregs, she felt an odd sort of emptiness in the pit of her stomach.
    Strong. Capable. Modest. Adding on a number of his other attributes, Annarealized she had never savored a gentleman’s companyquite so much. Yet quite likely their paths wouldnever cross again after this interlude.
    Her fingers tightened around the cup, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone.
    “Your cheeks are looking pale as ice, Lady Anna,” he said quietly. “We had best not linger here too long, exposed to the elements, lest you succumb to frostbite.”
    It was her heart, she feared, not her face, which was in danger of suffering some irreparable damage. The cold had seeped straight to her core. Not that she could quite explain why. Lord Killingworth would probably have some insight to offer on chance and fate. But she felt awkward, unsure.
    Unsure of what, she asked herself. Of whether he would laugh if she told him her thoughts? Of whether she would cry?
    Better to keep silent than risk breaking the fragile camaraderie that had formed between them.
    Eyeing her with growing concern, Nicholas tucked the blanket more snugly around her shoulders. “I had a look around while you were sleeping. The ruins of an old abbey are not too far off. The walls are crumbling, but there is a roof overhead and room to move about. If we bring along the blankets and a few essentials, I daresay it will be a bit more comfortable place to wait out the weather than a cramped, drafty coach.” He paused. “That is, if you are feeling up to the trek.”
    She nodded. “Of course. It is a sensible move to take leave of the coach.”

    * * *
    A fter strapping their luggage atop one of the horses, Nicholas turned to the other animal and arranged a blanket in place as a saddle. “Let me give you a hand up.” Worried about her pallor, he tried to tease a