Chapter One
“Damn.” Reid shook snow off his shoulders and frowned at the pile that had dropped from the fir tree to smother him in icy wetness.
His assignment was to gather holiday greenery. Instead, he walked despondently along snow-covered paths, wondering why he wasn’t happier about the upcoming festivities.
He remembered years gone by, when the Yule log had seemed such a massive blaze to his young eyes.
He remembered the scent of the Christmas dinner, rich goose gravy, plum puddings, and pine boughs. Tables laden with hot mince pies and delicious tempting sweetmeats to please the children.
There would always be sweetmeats—he knew that. But as he’d grown to manhood, the pleasure of a sugared almond or a portion of fragrant gingerbread had paled, to be replaced by other things.
Foremost amongst those things was Chillendale ale.
It had been brewed at Chillendale since the dawn of time, said Reid’s father when Reid was very young. Back then he’d believed it, but now he knew that the first mention of the ale occurred in a document describing the celebrations marking the coronation of the great Queen Elizabeth.
Of course it had changed since then.
From the simple recipe used in the 1500’s—malt, water, yeast and a dash of rye flour—it had evolved to the process that thrived in the outbuildings of Chillendale Hall. Reid exalted in how simple copper kettles and vats of various things could be combined to result in such a fine ale. Their barley was definitely top-notch, sprouting and drying most happily, as if ready for its role in the creation of magic. And although the hop conflict raged on, Reid admitted that it didn’t do any damage to add some of the damn things. He refused to refer to the result as beer. No, he was still making Chillendale ale, and he was improving it to the best of his ability.
There would be a brand new batch on tap for the Christmas celebrations this year, and he was a little nervous about it, since he’d finally decided that adding a small amount of blackberry juice would enhance the rich flavor of the ale. Whether that would go over well, he had no idea. But it was up to each generation to make their own particular variations and he knew it was time to perfect his.
All this marriage nonsense was interfering with the only important thing in his life—his ale.
He walked on, his mission forgotten, his thoughts busy with notions of raspberries, or currants, or any other variety of fruits that might be tried in the next batch of Chillendale ale.
He’d reached peaches when he realized he’d come to the meadow that bordered the woods beyond the Hall. It was full night now, a half-moon starting its slow ascent and illuminating the fluffy mounds of snow that covered the field. No cows grazed tonight; they were snug in their barn. The irregular landscape had been transformed into a glittering rumpled sheet of sparkling white.
There always seemed to be something magical about snowfall, mused Reid, staring out over the growing brilliance. Something special. Perhaps it was the pristine perfection of the untouched snow, or the silence that fell on the land along with the flakes.
No birds called over the wintry meadows, and no horse made his clopping way down the nearby lane. There wasn’t even the sound of snow falling from the trees now…it was an almost eerily beautiful hush. As if the whole land held its breath.
It could not last, of course.
There was a sharp crack, Reid jumped, and a sizeable branch parted company with a tree right above him. He dodged the worst of it but took a solid whack just above his ear, knocking him flat into the snow and blurring his vision for a few moments.
As he came to, he had the oddest sensation that a warm hand stroked his cheek. He opened his eyes, blinking to clear the fuzziness from them, and saw a face above him.
“That was a fine smack you took, sir.” A low voice hummed in his ear.
Deep chestnut fire tumbled around him. It was soft and he vaguely realized it was hair. A lot of it.
“Uhh.” He groaned and attempted to move.
“Wait, please.” A hand pressed on his shoulders. “You must be sure nothing is broken.”
“I’m all right…” Reid formed the words awkwardly since he had acquired a mouthful of snow along with a bump on the head.
“Sshh.” She stroked his face again and then leaned closer, running both hands around his head. “I want to make sure you have not sustained a serious injury to anything vital.”
Something about her fragrance—soft and floral—and the way she touched him, not to mention the silken brush of all that hair…well, his vital parts were responding quite nicely. Which was comforting, since it reassured him nothing vital was damaged.
He could quite easily have lain there for an hour or so, enjoying the ministrations of this mystery woman. But the fact he was lying in fresh snow began to make itself felt up and down his back, soaking his breeches and sending a chill through him.
He shivered. “I must rise, Miss.”
Her lips curled into a smile as her gaze traversed his body lingering in all his male places. Her fingers danced dangerously close. “I believe you already have, sir.”
With that, she leaned even closer, her breath warming his lips. And then she kissed him.
