Chapter Eight
Any thoughts of Harriet’s bottom vanished quickly as the party arranged itself on the wagon and proceeded to reveal half a dozen flasks they’d secreted around their persons.
It had to be brandy, realized Paul as, to his astonishment, Sir Geoffrey broke into song—a Christmas carol—when they were barely five minutes away from the house. Damn, if the man didn’t have a most pleasing baritone.
The chorus ofGod Rest Ye Merry Gentlemenflew around the wagon, startling a rook or two, and increasing in volume as the others joined in. Sir Farren offered a respectable tenor, and Lady Aphrodite added a delightful contralto to the mix.
Even the Tisdales managed a verse or two, although they were hard to hear over Sir Ambrose’s loud contribution.
“They allus’ like this, then?” The young lad holding the reins glanced at Paul.
“I wouldn’t know,” sighed Paul. “But don’t complain. It could be worse.”
The carol gave way to one of the more popular songs from a theatrical production, and from there to ditties that were definitely not for the ears of the innocent.
“Oh lord,” muttered Paul. “Pull your hat down over your ears. You shouldn’t be hearing this.”
The lad flashed him a gap-toothed smile. “That’s one of me da’s favorites. Me ma boxes ‘is ears when ‘e sings it in the house.”
“I say, old chap…”
Paul jumped as something poked him in the rear. He turned to see Sir Geoffrey grinning happily up at him. “Sir?”
“Not that I don’t adore riding along with such a fine arse to look at…” He flashed a speaking glance at Paul’s rear end, “but we’d like to know where we’re going?”
It was on the tip of Paul’s tongue to inquire why on earth it should matter, since they were all half-shot, oblivious to their surroundings, and not even sure why they were there in the first place.
However, common sense prevailed. “We’re heading up to the edge of the forest, sir. In search of the perfect Yule log to bring us all luck in the new year.”
“Ah.” Sir Geoffrey nodded, then grabbed the edge of the wagon as if he was afraid he might fall off the seat if he nodded too much. “Well then. Yule log. Right.”
“Oh,yes. IloveYule logs.” One of the Tisdales chimed in, clapping her hands in glee. “Don’t you,darlingAmbrose?” Since she’d been shamelessly flirting with the poor footman during most of the drive, Paul had to wonder at her exclamation.
But darling Ambrose wasn’t paying attention. The other Tisdale was next to him and they were both mostly beneath one of the furs. More than that, Paul didn’t want to know.
Luckily, his driving companion nudged him. “Lookee, sir. ‘ere’s where we get the best o’ the Yule logs. Gonna take a bit of choppin’…” He pointed to a field where summer storms had felled more than a few older trees.
Paul thought for a moment. “Well, that’s good. But if you think I’m giving any one of this lot an axe, you’re fair and far off.”
The lad chuckled. “I can ‘ave a go at it, sir. Me an’ the footman back there if ‘e’s up to it. Will that do yer?”
The wagon slowed as the horses pulled it up the last half mile to the top of a small rise. The field was next to it and as they neared, Paul could see more than a few upended stumps. “Must have been quite a storm, eh?” He shook his head at the piles of dead wood.
“Aye. It was that. But good firewood. Used ter be more, but I reckon folks been up here all autumn, choppin’ and takin’ wood ‘ome.”
“Can’t say that I blame them,” Paul said. “A warm fire is a necessity.” He recalled that first night with Harry in the parlor when they’d buried themselves beneath cloaks, whatever blankets they could find, and a cat.
Arriving at their destination, Paul blessed the fact that it hadn’t snowed en route. Dry, his passengers were a noisy nuisance. Wet…well he might have been forced to take the axe in hand.
Of course, refreshments came first. As the wagon stopped and the horses were tied off, Lord Farren found the basket and the next half hour or so was spent in devouring the contents.
Paul left them to it, accompanying the two young men out into the rough field, stumbling a bit over the uneven ground. There was a stream at one end, and a good bit of hilly terrain, which was probably why these trees had taken the brunt of some storm. Their roots would have been weakened over the summer, one rainstorm after another soaking the ground. All it took was a good winter blow and over they went.
“‘Ow big a one yer wantin’ then, sir?”
“Good question.” Paul realized he’d never actually obtained a Yule log himself. “It has to go into the large fireplace in the hall.” He frowned. “And it’s supposed to burn until the new year, I believe.”
“That’s right, sir,” chimed in the footman. “You’ll be wantin’ summat like that one o’er there…” He pointed at what looked to Paul like a mountain of tangled roots and stump.
