Shirley Jump - A Christmas Letter - Snowbound in the Earl's Castle

He didn’t know what to do about that.

Especially as he’d promised her he’d keep his distance.

Especially as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t forget his own sensible plans for the next woman in his life.

But part of him ached to make the jump anyway, to give whatever was simmering between them a chance. However, the part that had been burned by Amanda’s departure was backing off fast, shaking its head. Hadn’t he’d thought Amanda the perfect fit too? On paper, much more so than Faith. He had to give Amanda her dues—she’d stuck with him a full six months after his father’s death before she’d finally jumped ship.

That had stung. In his own charge-the-world-head-on way he’d still been grieving. He’d needed her understanding, not his spare keys in his palm and a kiss on the cheek. He’d thought she was the one person in the world he could rely on. And he’d been wrong. It didn’t help to know that Faith McKinnon was a hundred times more skittish.

Even so, he excused himself from the conversation he’d been having and walked towards her, not taking his eyes from her face. He saw her heave in a breath, saw her eyes grow wide, knew the exact moment she’d decided to run but found her feet glued to the floor. It gave him a flash of male pride to know she reacted to him that way, that he wasn’t the only one in its grip.

He could make her change her mind if he wanted to. He knew that. And, oh, how he wanted to. But he’d given his word.

Nothing to say they couldn’t have a platonic dance, though. Especially at a big Christmas party like this. It was practically expected.

He reached her and opened his arms. She placed one gloved hand in his and the other slid to his shoulder, leaving his left hand to rest on her shoulderblade, touching delicious bare skin. Wordlessly they started to dance, moving through the chatting guests until they joined more couples on the dance floor.

Marcus hardly noticed who else was there, waltzing with them. He wasn’t really aware of doing anything—not moving his arms or legs, not dodging the other couples, just looking down at Faith, with some silent conversation going on between them.

He wished that duty and decency hadn’t been drummed into him since he was in nappies. Wished he could say what the hell and sweep her into his arms, drag her under the large bunch of mistletoe hanging from the chandelier over the dance floor and kiss her senseless in front of all these people. Suddenly he was slightly irritated with her for making him promise, because he couldn’t quite bring himself to steamroll over her feelings and take what he wanted as easily as he’d like to. That damn protective instinct of his kept him at bay.

That was why, when the music ended, he let her nod her thanks and slip from his arms, find another partner. Why he turned his back and did the same, refusing to watch her go.

But as he moved his feet to the rhythm of the music a thought started to pulse inside his head. Just for one night he wanted to ditch his blasted code of honour. He wished he could be wild and reckless and not care a bean about what the morning would bring. He’d hardly chosen a thing for himself in the last two years, always doing the right thing, always doing his duty, what was good for the family.

Tonight, for once, he wanted to choose something for himself. And he really wanted to choose Faith.

Faith had deliberately sought out the villagers of Hadsborough to talk to. She understood them, knew what they were about. And they were keen to chat about the restoration of the chapel and the stained glass window, keeping her busy, keeping her mind off where Marcus was and who he was with.

But after a couple of hours of being ‘on’, of having to smile and chat to one new person after another, Faith began to tire. In the back of her head she was still mulling over the puzzling Bible reference in the window, trying to work out if it meant something.

And when she wasn’t trying to figure that out, and make small talk with the next person who asked her about the window, there was Marcus. Every time she caught sight of him she experienced a sudden stab of breathlessness.

‘May I have another dance, my dear?’

She turned round to find Bertie beside her, smiling. He was in fine spirits this evening, and more energetic than she’d ever seen him.

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she said, and offered him her hand.

Bertie shook his head as he took it and led her onto the dance floor. ‘Time was when I’d have put on a good show for a pretty thing like you,’ he said. ‘I was quite the Fred Astaire in my day, I’ll have you know.’ He sighed. ‘No more dips and turns for this old back any more, though. You’ll have to put up with my shuffling instead.’

Faith laughed as Bertie took her in a classic ballroom hold. ‘And very elegant shuffling it is, too.’

He smiled back at her. ‘You’ll have to get Marcus to give you another spin round the dance floor.’

She kept her expression neutral. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to matchmake, would you, Bertie?’

He shrugged. ‘The boy needs to have more fun.’

Faith didn’t say anything, just let him lead her round the dance floor. Slowly. She didn’t disagree with Bertie, but whatever was going on between her and his grandson definitely wasn’t fun. It felt more like torture.

The music changed, and Bertie bowed to her and took his leave. Faith tried to curtsey back, but she wobbled badly in her borrowed shoes. A warm hand at her elbow steadied her. She turned to find herself staring up into a pair of smoky blue eyes.

‘Hi,’ she said softly.

His lips curved upwards. ‘Hi.’

And just like that her last defence fell. She’d thought it was made of cast iron, but sadly it snapped like spun sugar. The band were playing a slow number and she ended up with her head on his shoulder, one arm looped around his neck.

Try not to notice, she told herself. Try not to notice how well your head fits in the space near his neck, or how your bodies slot together like jigsaw pieces. Or how your chests rise and fall together, even when you’re not trying to match rhythm.

To distract herself she started thinking about the verse in the cartoon—the one that could be the key to Bertie’s past. Why hide it if it wasn’t? Why would someone have gone to all that trouble if the verse had nothing to do with the story Bertie had heard about his mother? And did the numbers have significance? Or was it in the words of the verse themselves?

‘Proverbs Four-Eighteen?’ he whispered in her ear.

She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. ‘How did you know?’

He shook his head, a rueful expression on his face.

‘What do you think the verse means? Have you had any thoughts?’

He pressed his lips together, then said, ‘Plenty of thoughts. Not sure any of them lead anywhere.’

Faith breathed out a little. This was easier, safer. They needed to keep talking about the window.

Marcus frowned as he pulled up a memory. ‘My great uncle told me once that his brother was very fond of treasure hunts. He used to lay one out every Christmas in the grounds for the village children.’

Faith’s eyes grew wide. ‘So maybe the reference isn’t a message in itself but a clue to something else? Another verse? Another destination?’

‘We should look for key words,’ he said.

‘Path,’ she said, nodding to herself.

‘And shining light,’ they both said, at exactly the same time, then both looked away and back again in complete synchronisation.

‘Stop doing that,’ she said. ‘It’s freaking me out.’

A mischievous glint appeared in Marcus’s eye. ‘It’s not just me.’ Then his expression became thoughtful. ‘There are paths all over the estate, but we don’t even know if it refers to something literal or figurative. As for shining lights …’