The Christmas Cuckoo

JACK Howard, late a major in the 51st Regiment, gave a depressed sigh as he folded his large frame into the chair nearest the fire. After eight weeks of nonstop travel, he was rumpled, tired, and in dire need of a haircut and a shave. He had looked forward to reaching the Red Duck Inn so he could eat, sleep the rest of the afternoon, eat again, then perhaps enjoy a spot of socializing in the taproom before retiring for the night. By morning he would have been sufficiently recovered from the rigors of travel to endure the ordeals ahead.

Instead, no sooner had Jack set foot from the stagecoach than he had been intercepted by a small gray clerk. The aptly named Mr. Weezle was secretary to the countess—everyone always called her "the countess," as if she were the only one in England—and he had been meeting the Portsmouth Courier every day for the last week. After the barest minimum of civil greetings, Mr. Weezle had swept Jack off to the coaching inn's private parlor, then pulled a paper from his pocket and begun reading through the items, ticking each off with a pencil. And the more the secretary talked, the more depressed Jack became.

Weezle punctuated his monologue by pulling, a card case from his pocket and handing it to Jack. "The countess took the liberty of having new cards made for you."

"The countess has taken rather a lot of liberties," Jack said dryly as he glanced at the top card before slipping the flat gold case into the single piece of baggage by his feet. At least the spelling was correct. But then, it was hard to mistake a name as common as John Howard.

Ignoring Jack's ungracious remark, Weezle adjusted the spectacles on his nose and consulted his list again. "There are some people the countess wishes you to call on before you leave London, but of course you cannot do so until you are properly attired. After we leave here, we will stop at Weston's. Though this is a busy time of year, Mr. Weston has promised to produce some decent clothing for you overnight. Naturally, the garments won't be done to his usual standards, but at least you will be presentable. A more appropriate wardrobe will be sent to Hazelwood within a week."

"Obliging of Mr. Weston, but I have no intention of visiting any tailor this afternoon. When I do go to one, it will probably be Scott."

"The countess would not like that," the secretary stated, as if that settled the matter. For him it did. "Of course you need a valet, but it's impossible to hire decent servants at this time of year. A pity you didn't reach London last week, when you were supposed to. With Christmas just three days away, there simply isn't time to accomplish all that should be done before going to Hazelwood. One of the countess's cousins here in London has agreed to instruct you on how to get on in society, but there will be time for only a single lesson."

Among his friends Jack was famous for his imperturbable good nature, but Weezle's words triggered a slow burn of anger. "No," he said flatly. "My manners may be rough by her ladyship's standards, but I'm too old to learn new ones."

Weezle peered over his spectacles. "No one doubts that your manners are gentlemanlike," he said with a belated attempt at tact, "but since you've spent so many years in the army, the countess thought that a bit of polish would not go amiss. There will be a great deal of formal entertaining at Hazelwood."

Jack sighed, knowing that it was a waste of energy to be annoyed with the countess. She was his great-aunt by marriage and he had known her since he was in short coats. Usually he had been able to shrug off her domineering ways, so why was he so irritated today?

Perhaps because he'd had no chance to eat since hastily swallowing a slice of bread and a mouthful of ale at dawn. He stood and walked across the room to ring for a servant so he could order food and drink.

The secretary's gaze fell on Jack's shabby top boots. "Those boots will have to go."

Jack stopped in his tracks, once again terminally exasperated. "These are the most comfortable boots I have ever owned, and where they go, I go."

Ignoring the remark, Weezle said, "Perhaps Hoby can find time to fit you for new boots tomorrow morning." "No."

Belatedly noticing Jack's dangerous tone, the secretary said, "Would you prefer the afternoon? Perhaps before visiting the countess's cousin."

"No, and no, and no again. I have no desire to visit Hoby or Weston or any of the people on the countess's list, nor be drilled in etiquette like a raw lad up from the country. All I want is a meal and a hot bath and a decent night's sleep. Come back tomorrow morning and we can talk about your wretched list."

"Very well, if you insist," Weezle said stiffly. "I've reserved rooms for you at the Clarendon. I'll summon the carriage to take us there."

"What is wrong with staying here?" Jack glanced around the inn's clean and thoroughly comfortable private parlor.

"This is hardly a suitable place for you."

Jack laughed, his good humor restored. "There have been nights when I've haggled with a cow for the right to share her straw, and been grateful to have that much."

Weezle's nose twitched like one of the lesser rodents'. "You must be most grateful to be returning to Hazelwood."

"Not particularly." His brief amusement fading, Jack said, "I'm not sure that I want to spend Christmas at Hazelwood."

Weezle looked shocked. "But the countess expects you."

"She may expect me," Jack said recklessly, "but she is not my commanding officer and has no power to order my presence."

"The countess said you might prove recalcitrant," the secretary said with ill-concealed irritation. "But where could you possibly spend the holiday except at Hazelwood?"

Until now Jack had intended to fall in with the countess's plans, but Weezle's remark was the last straw. "There is a whole world of possibilities out there"—he pulled his heavy greatcoat on, then stooped to pick up his bag—"and I'm going to discover what they are. Good-bye, Mr. Weezle. Tell the countess that I'll pay a call on her after the holidays."

Ignoring the secretary's outraged sputtering, Jack left the parlor and strode out into the courtyard. A fine, saturating rain was beginning to fall, and the bleak prospect made him hesitate while he considered what to do next. A pity he had no friends who would be in London this close to Christmas. Winter gales had blown his packet from Lisbon several days off-course, the journey up to London had been made interminable by muddy roads, and Jack was heartily sick of traveling. All he wanted was to enjoy a little peace and warmth after too many years away from his homeland.

His brief burst of temper cooled. He was about to return to the inn to make his peace with Mr. Weezle, when the secretary's sharp voice sounded from the doorway. "The countess will be most displeased if you don't come to Hazelwood."

Disapproval revived Jack's flagging resolve. He had no particular destination in mind, but he'd be damned if he would let himself be bullied by the countess and her minions. His gaze fell on a heavily loaded stagecoach that was preparing to leave. Impulsively he called to the guard, "Have you room for another passenger?"

The guard was busy stowing parcels in the front boot, but he paused to consult the waybill. "Aye, there's one outside place left." He shoved the waybill in his coat pocket and returned to his task. "But if you want it you'll have to move smartly, 'cause we're ready to roll."

As Jack turned toward the booking office, Mr. Weezle said, aghast, "You don't even know where that coach is going!"

"No, I don't," Jack said cheerfully. "But anywhere is bound to be better than the countess's demanding hospitality."

After hastily buying a ticket, Jack tossed his bag up to the guard, then began to ascend the ladder leading to the seats at the back of the carriage's roof. The vehicle lurched into motion, and Jack would have fallen if a helpful fellow passenger hadn't reached down to steady him. "Thanks," Jack gasped as he swung up to safety.

He turned and looked back. The last thing he saw as the coach left the yard was Mr. Weezle's slack-jawed face. The sight was almost worth the knowledge that Jack's grand gesture was going to cost him hours of cold, wet misery.

The seating consisted of two facing benches with room for three passengers in each. That is, there was room if one considered sixteen inches' width per passenger adequate, which it wasn't for most people, especially not men as large as Jack. As he squeezed into the middle place on the backward-facing seat, four of the other five passengers regarded him dourly, obviously regretting the amount of space the newcomer would occupy.

The fifth passenger, a rotund gentleman dressed as a farmer, was the one who had helped Jack up, and he offered the only friendly smile. "Going to be a cold ride to Bristol, brother."

"That it will," Jack agreed. So Bristol, where he didn't know a single soul, was his destination. He was going to spend hours in the freezing rain, squeezed as tight as a herring in a barrel, all for the dubious privilege of ending in another inn that would be no better than the Red Duck, and likely a good deal worse. It wasn't the first time his stubborn streak had gotten him into trouble, he thought philosophically, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Silence reigned as the coach rumbled through the crowded city streets, swaying like a ship at sea. Jack adjusted his hat in a vain attempt to keep rain from running down his neck. The raw cold bit to the bone. On the Continent, severe winters prevented coaches from having outside seats. Fortunate Britain, whose milder climate wouldn't kill outside passengers. At least, not quite.

An hour later Jack was thinking that he hadn't felt so cold since the retreat to Corunna when the rotund farmer reached inside his coat and pulled out a flask. "Me name's Jem," he said, addressing his words to all his companions. "Anyone care to join me in some Christmas cheer?"

Four of the passengers fastidiously ignored the offer, but Jack said, "Don't mind if I do." Though he knew that drinking on an empty stomach was a mistake, it was a little late in the day to start acting rationally. As he accepted the flask, he added, "My name is Jack."

Expecting brandy and water, Jack took a deep swig, then burst into strangled coughing as raw fire scalded his throat.

"Prime stuff, ain't it, Jack?" Jem said cheerfully.

"Quite unlike anything I've ever drunk before," Jack said with absolute truth. After a more cautious sip, he decided that the beverage was undiluted whiskey of a potency that should have dissolved the container. "Certainly takes the chill off."

Jem took a swig, then passed the whiskey back to Jack. "This is nothing compared to the winter of eighty-six. Why, I remember ..."

Jack settled back contentedly. Cold and wet he might be, but Jem was certainly better company than Mr. Weezle.

THE striking of the kitchen clock informed Meg Lambert that she couldn't delay any longer. She glanced at the kitchen window, where rain had drummed relentlessly since midafternoon. Ordinarily Meg did not mind bad weather, for the contrast made her appreciate the comfort of her farmhouse even more. Tonight, however, when sensible people were staying by their fires, she must go out into the storm.

She drained the last of her tea and set the cup down, then ordered, "Out of the way, Ginger." When the calico cat ignored her, Meg unceremoniously jerked her brother's letter out from under the furry feline rump. Ginger raised her head and gave the mistress of the house an injured glance, then tucked her nose under her tail and returned to slumber.

Meg scanned the letter once more, wishing the contents might have magically changed, but no such luck. It still said:

Dear Meg,

Please excuse my hasty scrawl, but the courier is waiting for this and impatient to leave. I'm most dreadfully sorry to say that I will be delayed and won't be home in time to meet Jack Howard myself. The colonel has asked me to perform a commission for him, and one doesn't refuse one's colonel!

Jack will be arriving in Chippenham on December 22 on the evening coach from London. You won't have any trouble recognizing him—he's tall and dark and handsome and looks just as an officer ought. I expect Phoebe to be most impressed with him. (And vice versa, of course!) Jack is a great gun and will fit right in. I swear I will be home as soon as possible, though I fear it won't be until after Christmas. Save me some of your special pudding and say all that is proper to Jack.

Love to all, Jeremy

As Meg folded the single sheet again, her younger sister floated into the kitchen. Phoebe didn't walk like normal females; she had the drifting grace, ebony hair, and porcelain features of a woodland fairy.

"I'm going to take the gig into Chippenham now," Meg said. "I imagine the little girls are asleep, but you should probably look in on them later. And keep the fire up—I'm sure that Captain Howard and I will need it when we return."

Phoebe went to the window and peered out, her blue eyes concerned. "With a storm like this, perhaps Captain Howard has been delayed and won't arrive tonight."

"Perhaps not," Meg admitted, "but I still must go as long as there is any chance that he will be there."

Her sister frowned. "You shouldn't be driving alone on a night like this. Since Philip isn't home. I'll go with you."

"Thank you, darling, but there's no need. It's scarcely three miles, and Clover and I have made the trip hundreds of times. Besides, you're just recovering from one chill—it would be foolish to risk coming down with another one."

Phoebe started to protest, then stopped. "I expect you're right. But be careful."

Swaddled in cloak, bonnet, scarf, and gloves, Meg squashed her way to the barn, her pattens sinking into the mud as sheets of icy water swept across the farmyard and wind rattled the branches of nearby trees. She should have left earlier, for it would be a slow trip into town.

It took only a few minutes to harness Clover. Before climbing into the gig, Meg pulled a carrot from her pocket and gave it to the pony. "You'll get another when we're home again."

The pony flicked his ears back in acknowledgment of the bribe and they set off for Chippenham. Fortunately Meg knew the route well, for the slashing rain made it hard to see even the hedgerows that lined the lane.

The farmhouse stood on top of a large, gradually inclined hill with a brook winding around the base. Usually the water was scarcely more than a trickle, but now the ford was over a foot deep and a strong current rocked the gig as it splashed through the water. The lane beyond was soggy, and soon one wheel bogged down in the mud.

Meg sighed as she climbed down to push the vehicle free. Everything was going wrong, which was what always happened when one wanted matters to be exactly right. Even to herself, Meg hated to admit how much hope she had pinned on this visit of Jeremy's friend. Phoebe was twenty and it was high time she married, but it was hard for a girl to find a husband when she never met any suitable young men. Given the disastrous state of the family finances, Phoebe would never have the London Season she deserved. Meg had been deeply concerned about her sister's future. Then her brother wrote that he would be able to come home on leave at Christmas, and he had invited his best friend to join them.

Judging by Jeremy's letters, Captain Howard was the answer to Meg's prayers: honorable, good-tempered, and from a well-to-do family in the Midlands. Now, if the captain would just cooperate and fall in love with Phoebe. There was an excellent chance he would, for the girl was so beautiful and sweet-natured that any normal young man was bound to lose his heart to her.

Phoebe herself always greeted Jeremy's letters with an excitement that was more than sisterly fondness. Though the sisters had never discussed the matter, Meg suspected that the younger girl was halfway to being in love with her brother's friend. Yes, Meg had high hopes for Captain Howard's visit.

A branch slapped Meg's face, stinging her cheek and jerking her out of her reverie. As she batted the branch away, she thought wryly that Jack Howard had better be at the George, for she would feel most provoked if this journey proved fruitless.

"CHIPPENHAM! Twenny minutes fer dinner afore we go on to Bristol!" the guard bawled.

There was a stampede of passengers to reach the ground. Jack yawned and stayed where he was, grateful to have room to stretch his legs after hours of cramping. Not that he was feeling much discomfort. In fact, he felt nothing at all. Solemnly he pondered the question of whether he was numb with cold or paralyzed by his companion's whiskey. Probably both.

Before Jack could drift into full sleep, Jem tugged on his sleeve. "Come along, brother," the farmer said. "You shouldn't stay out here in the rain."

Obediently Jack stood and followed the older man down the ladder. The ground showed a distressing tendency to rise up to meet him, and he watched it with interest.

Jem grabbed Jack's arm and steered him into the inn. "You'll be better for some food in your belly."

Jack hiccuped. "Very likely."

The warmth of the inn hit him like a steaming blanket and he began wavering again. Tolerantly Jem steered Jack through the main taproom into a smaller room beyond, then deposited him on an inglenook bench by the fire. "I'll bring you something to eat."

"Much obliged." Jack hazily pulled a coin from his pocket and pressed it into the farmer's hand. Then he lay back on the bench and promptly fell asleep.

Jem took the silver crown and went to order food. More than ten minutes passed before he managed to purchase two hot meat pies from the busy hosts. Munching on one, Jem returned to his companion. "Here you go, lad, a nice pork pie."

Sublimely unaware, Jack slept on.

Next door the guard shouted, "Time to board the ExpressV

Jem swallowed the rest of his pie and shook the sleeping man. "Look lively or you'll miss the coach."

Jack batted at the insistent hand, then subsided again.

Deciding stronger measures were needed, Jem tried to pull the other man off the bench, thinking that would wake him up.

Instead, Jack made a swift movement with his arm and Jem found himself polishing the floor with his breeches five feet away. Unhurt, he said admiringly, "Wish you were awake enough to teach me that trick, brother."

The guard yelled again, "Last call!"

Torn, Jem gazed at Jack and tried to decide what to do. Didn't look like the lad wanted to go anywhere, and Jem didn't want to learn what would happen to the next man who tried to wake him. Coming to a decision, Jem scrambled to his feet and dashed outside, where the coachman and guard were taking their seats.

"The gent who got on at the Red Duck at the last minute don't want to go no farther," Jem said breathlessly. "Toss down his bag. I'll take it inside and be right back."

The coachman growled, "Time we was leaving."

Knowing the infallible way to ensure cooperation, Jem gave each of the men a half-crown. "For your trouble."

The guard turned and rooted in the luggage, then handed the bag down to Jem. "Mind you hurry right back, or we'll leave without you."

Jem raced inside and tucked the bag under Jack's bench, then gave another half-crown to the landlord, who was regarding the sleeping man disapprovingly. "Let the lad spend the night here."

The landlord pocketed the coin. "Very well. I suppose there's no harm in it."

Jem still held the second pork pie, so he took a bite. "Have a happy Christmas, Jack," he said, his voice muffled with flaky pastry. Secure in the knowledge of his good deed, he dashed outside and boarded the coach that would return him to his own comfortable hearth before the night was over.

TIRED and splashed with mud, Meg tethered Clover inside the stable of the George. She guessed that the coach from London had already come and gone, and sure enough, inside the inn the landlord and his wife were clearing away plates left by hasty passengers. Meg removed her dripping bonnet and shook out her damp curls. "Good evening, Mr. Bragg."

The landlord glanced up, surprised. "What brings you here on such a nasty night, Miss Lambert?"

"A friend of Jeremy's was supposed to arrive on the London coach." Seeing only a handful of locals drinking ale by the fire, she asked, "Didn't any passengers get off here?"

"Well, there's a gent in the other room," Mr. Bragg said dubiously, "but I doubt he's the one you're looking for."

Hoping the landlord was wrong, Meg crossed the main taproom to the smaller chamber beyond. She halted in the doorway, wondering if the room's sole occupant could possibly be the right man, for her mental image of Jack Howard was quite different. Unconsciously she had assumed that Jeremy's friend would be in the same mold as her brother: slim and young and elegant.

Instead, the man sprawled along the bench was very large, very shaggy, and not at all elegant. Wisps of steam rose gently from his worn coat, and his hat had fallen to the flagged floor. Jeremy had mentioned that his friend was a bit older, but Meg had assumed Jack Howard would still be somewhere in his midtwenties. The man in front of her appeared to be at least a decade her brother's senior.

Systematically Meg compared the stranger against Jeremy's comments. Tall? Yes, definitely tall. Dark? She studied the long unruly hair. She would have called it brown rather than dark, but certainly it wasn't fair.

How about handsome? She examined the sleeping face, where several days' worth of beard darkened the long jaw. Even worn by fatigue it was a pleasant countenance, but "handsome" did seem rather an overstatement. Still, one tended to think one's friends were attractive, and Jeremy and Jack were very good friends. Meg just hoped that Phoebe wouldn't be disappointed.

Meg bent over the recumbent form. Then she stopped and wrinkled her nose. The gentleman smelled as if he had been held prisoner in a distillery. Not the most proper behavior for a man visiting friends, but fortunately Meg was not easily offended. Besides, on a night like this, spirits were a sensible way to counter the cold and damp. "Captain Howard?"

When there was no reply, she tried again, raising her voice. This time his lids fluttered open, revealing intensely blue eyes. Meg caught her breath, understanding why someone would describe this man as handsome. However, those gorgeous blue eyes were blank with incomprehension. "Are you Captain Howard?"

Hearing a military rank penetrated Jack's whiskey-aided exhaustion as nothing else would have, for a soldier who wanted to die in his bed learned to respond to emergencies no matter what his state. But what kind of emergency had a voice like spring flowers? "Not captain. Major."

The voice said with apparent pleasure, "I didn't know you had received a promotion. Congratulations, Major." Then, uncertainly, "You are Jack Howard?"

"I was last time I looked, but it's been rather a long day." Wanting to see the face that went with that delicious voice, Jack concentrated until her features came into focus one by one. A riot of bright brown curls. Thoughtful hazel eyes with green flecks. A scattering of freckles across cheeks rosy with good health. And an extremely kissable mouth. His gaze fixed on that last feature, he asked hopefully, "Do I know you?"

"I am Miss Lambert," she explained, as if that would instantly clarify his confusion.

Jack frowned, trying to recall the name. "Miss Lambert?"

"Margaret Lambert, Jeremy's older sister, though if he ever mentioned me, he would have called me Meg. Everyone does."

Margaret. Jeremy. Meg. Who were these people? He would never have forgotten this lady's face. For that matter, Jack thought as he raised a vague hand to his head, where the devil was he and how had he gotten here?

"Where is Jeremy?" He knew several men by that name. If he recognized Miss Lambert's Jeremy, this conversation might make more sense.

The mobile face above him showed regret. "Jeremy has been delayed for a few days and won't be home until after Christmas. He asked me to apologize for his absence."

Jack sighed; no enlightenment there. Doggedly he tried to recall what had happened. Ah, yes, the irritating interview with Mr. Weezle that had driven Jack to board the coach to Bristol. What then? With a faint shudder he remembered the friendly farmer with the lethal flask of spirits.

After a brief survey of his surroundings, Jack concluded that he was in a tavern. Either he had liked the place and decided to stay or he had been incapable of further travel. But none of that explained how this appealing lady knew him.

As Jack racked his brain, the lady said helpfully, "Were you expecting to be met by Phoebe? No doubt Jeremy spoke more of her, for she's the family beauty. I don't look at all like her or Jeremy, for I'm only a half-sister."

"You look quite whole to me." He surveyed her from muddy toes to curly hair, missing nothing in between. "Women like you are why men will fight and die to defend home and hearth."

Miss Lambert blushed prettily. "I can see why Jeremy said you were charming, but don't waste your flattery on me. Phoebe is a much more suitable object."

Jack started to shake his head, then stopped hastily when the world began spinning. "Not flattery. God's own truth." Belatedly recognizing his impropriety, he added, "Begging your pardon for the language, Miss Lambert."

"Quite all right. One can't expect a man who is foxed to have perfect control over his tongue."

"Not foxed." It occurred to Jack that a gentleman did not converse with a lady while lying on his back, so he sat up, exercising great care. "P'haps a trifle well-to-go." Being upright gave him a better view of the lady, and it was well worth it. She was of medium height and her cloaked figure was agreeably round in all the right places, not like one of those skinny fashionable wenches.

"If you're feeling more the thing, it is time we set off," Miss Lambert said briskly. "The weather is dreadful and it will be nearly midnight before we get home."

"Home?" Jack asked, startled. Was he dreaming? In normal life, well-bred, wholesome young ladies did not invite strange men home with them. Or perhaps she wasn't a lady? What a splendid thought.

"Of course." For the first time she showed a hint of impatience. "I certainly don't want to spend the night here. Can you manage to walk to the stables?"

Foxed he might be, but Jack knew a good offer when he heard one. "Be delighted to go home with you."

He stood, swaying slightly, then pulled his bag out from under the bench. Though she might not be quite a lady, she wasn't a tavern wench either. Her home would be much better. There was a danger that he would be in no shape to perform when he got there, but he would certainly try. He gave her a sweeping bow. "For the honor of the regiment!"

Meg laughed. "For the honor of the regiment." Though the major did not make much sense in his present condition, she couldn't help liking him.

Taking her guest's arm, Meg guided him through the inn. To her surprise, he put his arm around her shoulders when they stepped outside, but she guessed that he needed a bit of steadying. She didn't mind if he used her for a cane. He was good protection from the wind and rain.

However, even the most liberal of interpretations could not excuse what happened in the stables. Meg untethered the pony and sacrificed half of her remaining carrot to reward Clover for his earlier endeavors. After stroking his velvety nose and saying a few appreciative words, she turned to her guest, who had loaded his bag and was standing by the gig. "Will you open the doors so I can drive outside, Major?"

He nodded but made no move toward the entrance. Thinking he intended to help her into the gig, Meg put her hand in his. But instead of assisting her up as a gentleman should, Jack Howard gave a slight tug that pulled Meg against his broad chest.

Startled, she glanced up to find the major's face descending. When his warm mouth encompassed hers, Meg gasped, then began cooperating from sheer surprise. No one had stolen a kiss from practical Miss Lambert since her salad days. And none of the Chippenham lads had ever kissed like this.

The major's hands did interesting things that made Meg's knees weaken so that she had to cling to his large frame for support. She had forgotten just how pleasant a kiss could be. . . .

But how dare Jeremy invite such a dangerous man to stay under the same roof as his sisters! Immediately she realized that her brother would not knowingly have invited a rake home, so Jeremy must be ignorant of the major's disgraceful behavior. Well, if Jack Howard was a rake, Meg decided, he simply would not do for Phoebe.

Having reached that wise conclusion, she realized that all the time she had been weighing the major's scandalous misconduct, she had continued kissing him. In fact, her arms were twined around him like ivy.

Shocked more by herself than by him, she pulled her head back and exclaimed in freezing accents, "Major Howard!"

As an elder sister, Meg had developed an exceedingly peremptory voice. The major instantly released her and jumped back as if she were made of red-hot iron. "B-beg your pardon, Miss Lambert," he stammered. "Don't know what came over me."

He did not look at all rakish; in fact, his confused, guilty expression reminded Meg of a hound that had just been caught snatching food from the table.

Disarmed, she almost laughed. In truth, she was more flattered than angry. Men never noticed Meg when Phoebe was in the room, so she felt a secret guilty pleasure in the knowledge that the major had found her worth kissing. Suppressing her amusement, she said frostily, "We shall both forget that happened." She climbed into the gig—without help—and lifted the reins. "Please open the stable doors, Major Howard."

Hastily he complied. Meg drove outside, then waited while her guest closed and latched the doors behind her. Silently he climbed into the carriage and settled himself as far from her as possible, which wasn't very far in a gig.

The storm soon quenched Meg's amusement, for driving demanded all her attention. As she concentrated on avoiding the worst of the ruts, the major slouched beside her, so quiet that she might have thought he was sleeping or passed out from drink.

However, her passenger came alive whenever the gig bogged down in the mud, which happened about every ten minutes. No sooner would they shudder to a halt than the major jumped down, wordlessly freed the light vehicle from the rut, then climbed back in and returned to his torpor. Meg found it fascinating to watch him. Clearly a seasoned soldier could do whatever was necessary, even when half-seas-over.

The drive home seemed much longer than the trip to town, and by the time they reached the ford, Meg was tense with strain. Pulling Clover to a halt, she studied the rushing water, which was wider and deeper than it had been earlier. Briefly she considered returning to Chippenham, but she hated to give up when they were so close to home. Besides, Phoebe would worry if they didn't return. The water was a little high, but the streambed was firm and they should be able to cross safely.

Clover was less sure, and it took all Meg's powers of persuasion to convince him to move forward. As the gig entered the water, the current battered the wheels and the pony stopped, whickering nervously.

"Steady, Clover," Meg murmured, her hands firm on the reins. Clover started forward again and in another minute he reached the far bank and began scrambling out of the water.

Disaster struck with shocking suddenness. One moment Meg was holding the reins and in control of the gig. Then something smashed into the vehicle, knocking it over and pitching the passengers into the roiling stream.

Meg opened her mouth to cry out and found herself choking on icy water as her heavy cloak dragged her below the surface. There was a deep pool to the left of the ford, and the current tumbled her into it. Helpless, drowning in the pitiless depths, Meg succumbed to blind panic, striking out hysterically as she fought for air.

One of her flailing feet kicked a yielding object, and an instant later strong hands seized her and pulled her to the surface. The major was tall enough to stand on the bottom of the stream, and his powerful arms held her securely against his chest as dark water swirled around them.

Unable to touch bottom, Meg clutched her rescuer desperately as she coughed convulsively. Finally air reached her anguished lungs, but even though the danger was past, panic drummed through her with every beat of her pounding heart.

Then Major Howard murmured in her ear, his voice warm and amused, "That was quite fun. Shall we do it again?"

Meg choked in momentary outrage. Then laughter dissolved her terror. "You absurd man," she gasped, incongruously aware of the scent of wet wool and warm male. "If that is your idea of fun, perhaps I should take you back to the George."

"Don't do that. This is much more amusing." The major lifted Meg in his arms and carried her through the water to the bank. There he set her on her feet, keeping his arm around her waist until it was clear she could stand alone. "How much farther to your house?"

"J-just up the hill." Meg wrapped her arms around herself in a futile attempt to find warmth as the icy wind bit through her saturated clothing. "Do you know what caused the accident?"

"I think a tree trunk hit the gig and knocked it over. Your pony is over there, unhappy but unharmed."

Following the direction of his gesture, Meg saw Clover stamping about nervously, confused and distinctly disapproving. A tangle of harness attached him to the damaged carriage, which was snarled in a bush.

Major Howard guided Meg to the gig, then swiftly disconnected the harness and freed Clover. "Can you stay on the pony long enough to reach home?"

"I th-think so."

He put his hands around Meg's waist and lifted her to Clover's back, setting her sideways. Then he took off his greatcoat and draped it around her shoulders. "A pity this isn't dry, but at least it will block some of the wind."

The coat did help, but Meg protested, "You'll freeze!"

"Not as quickly as you will."

When Meg opened her mouth to argue further, the major barked, "No arguments, soldier!"

Stunned, Meg closed her mouth and obediently curled her numb fingers around the leather harness straps. Was her companion joking or so drunk that he wasn't quite sure where he was? No matter. He certainly knew what to do.

They began to climb the hill, the major guiding the pony with one hand and using the other to steady Meg. Eager to return to his own stall, Clover moved briskly, and in less than five minutes they reached the old farmhouse.

"This is it," Meg said, her voice a croak.

"Here?" he asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

Apparently Jeremy had not explained the family circumstances to his friend, and the major had expected something grander. Too drained to explain, Meg merely said, "Around the house to the left. We'll go in the back."

They circled the building and found light streaming through the kitchen windows. The major stopped at the door, then reached up and lifted Meg's shivering body from her perch. "You go inside and I'll stable the pony. I'll be along in a few minutes."

"But you're a guest," Meg protested through chattering teeth. "I'll take care of Clover."

He took her shoulders and turned her to the door. "Never disobey a superior officer. Now, march."

Too cold to argue further, Meg fumbled with the latch. Almost immediately the door swung open and Phoebe was standing there, a lamp held high in one hand, her exquisite face warm with concern. With a small twinge, Meg knew that Jack Howard must be falling in love with her on the spot.

Oblivious of the dramatic picture she presented, Phoebe exclaimed, "Thank heaven you're home! I was getting worried. Don't just stand there, Meg, come inside—you're soaking wet." Then she looked over her sister's shoulder, her eyes narrowed as she peered into the darkness. "Welcome to Brook Farm, Captain Howard. Please, come in right away. You look as wet as Meg."

"He's a major now, Phoebe." Meg took off the greatcoat and handed it to her guest.

"This is not the time for formal introductions." The major draped the coat over his shoulders. "There was an accident and Miss Lambert is freezing. Put her next to the fire and warm her up. I'll be along as soon as the pony has been bedded down for the night."

Phoebe made a shocked sound and ushered her sister into the house. Once in the warm kitchen, Meg peeled off her cloak as she described the accident, then went to change into dry clothing while Phoebe set tea to brewing.

Still shivering, Meg returned to the kitchen and gratefully accepted a mug of tea fortified with brandy. "Major Howard hasn't come in yet?" she asked, wondering if some combination of drink, fatigue, and cold might have overcome him in the barn.

Before Phoebe could reply, the outside door swung open and their guest—large, unkempt, and gently dripping water from his soaking garments—appeared in the doorway between hall and kitchen. Now that the danger had passed, his decisiveness was gone and he had lapsed back into dazed confusion.

Meg stepped forward and handed him the other mug of fortified tea. "Drink this."

It took him a moment to comprehend her command. Then he took the mug and downed the contents in one long swallow that must have scorched his mouth and throat.

Phoebe took over, seating both orphans of the storm by the fire, then feeding them potato-cabbage soup hot from the hob. Warmed both inside and out, Meg felt considerably better. She assumed the major did, too, though he did not speak, simply ate his soup with clumsy hands and an unfocused gaze.

When he was done, Meg said, "Time for bed." Taking his hand, she led him upstairs as if he were a child. "Leave your wet clothes outside the door and we'll dry them tonight."

Reaching the bedroom that had been assigned to the guest, Meg opened the door and gave the major a gentle push. "Put your wet clothes outside," she repeated, hoping he understood.

Before Meg could leave, the major peeled off his blue coat and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a wet, squishy sound and was joined by his shirt a moment later.

Meg's mouth dropped open in astonishment. He really was a splendid specimen of masculinity. Her gaze riveted to her guest's muscular torso and the dark hair that patterned his broad chest.

Oblivious of his shocking impropriety, the major began to unbutton his trousers.

Released from her paralysis, Meg blushed scarlet and beat a hasty retreat. "There are towels on the washstand," she called over her shoulder before shutting the door. "And hot bricks in the bed."

Downstairs Phoebe waited, her expression doubtful. "He isn't at all what I expected. And ... is it possible he has been drinking?"

"I'm afraid so," Meg admitted as she went to stand in front of the fire. "But in spite of that, he has been very gentlemanly. He also just saved me from drowning." Remembering how important it was for Phoebe to like their guest, Meg spent the next ten minutes giving a glowing description of the major's virtues.

All the while, she listened for the sound of the bedroom door, but upstairs there was only silence. Finally Meg sighed. "He must have fallen asleep right away. I'd better get his clothing so it can dry. Perhaps we can find his baggage in the daylight, but if not, the major has nothing to wear but what he had on. Jeremy's garments certainly aren't large enough."

"Let me get his things," Phoebe offered. "You should be in bed."

Meg was tired enough to be tempted to accept. Then a vivid memory of Major Howard unbuttoning his trousers made her shake her head. There was no telling what condition their guest was in, and Meg was not about to let her innocent young sister find out. "This will take just a moment. While I'm upstairs, will you make me another cup of tea?"

"Of course."

Meg was unsurprised when there was no answer to her knock. Steeling herself, she opened the door and was greatly relieved to find the major in bed and mostly covered.

The wet garments lay scattered across the room, but before collecting them, Meg found herself walking quietly to the bed and looking down at her guest. The blankets were drawn only to midchest, as if he had been too tired to finish covering himself, so Meg pulled them up around his throat. In spite of his ruffianly appearance, he looked exhausted and vulnerable.

With a surge of tenderness, she brushed back his thick brown hair, as she would have done with a slumbering child. "Sleep well, Jack Howard," she whispered.

As Meg made her way downstairs again, she thought that it would certainly be an interesting Christmas.

FOR a long time Jack hovered in the twilight area between sleep and waking, instinctively knowing that full awareness would not be a desirable state this morning. Then a bloodcurdling shriek shattered the last remnants of slumber.

Reflexively he opened his eyes and started to sit up. A wave of nausea swept over him. He fell back against the pillows, heart pounding and eyes closed against the sunlight streaming through the window. Though it had been at least a decade since he had experienced this particular kind of wretchedness, Jack recognized it immediately as the aftermath of a truly appalling carouse.

The shriek sounded from outside again, the noise stabbing his throbbing temples. After identifying the sound as avian and presumably harmless, Jack dismissed it from his mind.

Far more important was coming to terms with the events of the previous night, which he recalled with painful accuracy. London. The wet, freezing ride on the stage to Bristol. Jem. Then the coaching inn, where the delightful Miss Lambert had approached and greeted him. She had wanted a Jack Howard, and in his befuddled state he had been more than willing to oblige.

He winced as he remembered what had happened in the stable. Even three sheets to the wind, he should have known that a female so refined and well-spoken could only be a lady. Instead he had believed her a light-skirt and had lunged at her like a sailor just home from a year at sea. Though in fact she had not seemed to mind, at least not at first. . . .

Recalling that kiss in detail briefly mitigated Jack's misery. Then the faint sound of voices downstairs brought him back to the present.

Now that he was sober, Jack could hazard a guess about what had happened. Though the two men had never met, there was another officer named Jack Howard, a captain of the 45th Regiment. Probably there were half a dozen Jack Howards in the army; the name was common enough. And one of them was the friend of Miss Lambert's brother, but it wasn't the Jack Howard presently lying naked in bed in this pleasant farmhouse. That thought led him to offer a swift prayer that he had been conscious enough to undress himself, for the alternative did not bear thinking about. Jack groaned as he considered the dreadful bind he had gotten himself into. How the devil was he going to tell Miss Lambert that he was an unintentional impostor? Last night she had been remarkably tolerant of his disgraceful condition, but the news that she had been misled would make those lovely hazel eyes flash with fury.

Immersed in his dilemma, Jack failed to hear the soft knock at the door, so Miss Lambert's entry into the bedroom caught him by surprise. He cast one horrified look at her, then behaved like any proper military hero would under such conditions. He dived under the covers and pulled a pillow over his head.

Unlike the shrieking bird that had awakened him, Miss Lambert's voice was gently soothing. "Forgive me for disturbing you, Major Howard, but are you feeling all right?"

"Better than I deserve," Jack said in a strangled voice.

"Sorry, I can't hear you clearly." The pillow was tugged from his clutching fingers. "Were you injured in the accident? Or did you take a chill from falling in the water?"

Turtle-style, Jack poked his head out from under the covers. Miss Lambert looked as bright and honest as a summer day. She was also remarkably self-possessed, given the fact that she was in the bedroom of a strange man. A man who was in fact considerably stranger than she knew. "The only thing wrong with me is just punishment for my sins."

"I thought you would be suffering the effects of intemperance." She motioned toward the tray she had set on the bedside table. "That's why I brought up a pot of coffee. Would you like some?"

"Miss Lambert," Jack said fervently as his head emerged from its cocoon, "you are a woman in a thousand. A million."

Though he would not be fully recovered before the next day, the large mug of steaming hot coffee went a long way toward restoring Jack's raveled nerves. It also reminded him of the impropriety of this situation. "Miss Lambert," he said, setting down the empty mug, "you should not be here. Have a care for your reputation."

She laughed and poured him more coffee. "I've been on the shelf far too long to need to worry about my reputation. At least, I won't worry when I am under my own roof with my brother's best friend." She gave him a sudden sharp look. "Of course, it's different with Phoebe, who is of marriageable age. I've always taken care to see that she is properly chaperoned."

Ah, yes, Phoebe, the very pretty, very young female who had let them in the night before. Jack dismissed Phoebe and her perfections without a thought. It was Miss Lambert's good graces he craved, and was about to lose. "Miss Lambert, I owe you a profound apology."

A hint of color showed in her face and her gaze flickered away from his. "Please, say no more about what happened. You were not yourself last night."

He had been himself—that was the whole problem.

While Jack tried to find the words to explain, Miss Lambert continued, "I assume that you imbibed a bit too much when warding off the cold. Consider the episode forgotten."

Once more Jack braced himself to confess his underlying crime, which was far worse than stealing a kiss. "There is something I must tell you, Miss Lambert."

"Call me Meg. I'd like to think of you as one of the family. By the way, do you remember my telling you that Jeremy won't be home until after Christmas?"

Jack nodded.

Meg gave him a rueful smile. "The household is at sixes and sevens just now. Besides Jeremy being delayed, Phoebe is recovering from a chill, Philip is visiting friends in Gloucester and won't be back until this afternoon, and my two goddaughters are here for Christmas because their older brothers have the measles and their mama asked me to take the girls until everyone is well again. And as if that weren't enough, our maid asked for a fortnight's holiday to visit her mother, who is ailing. I hope you'll forgive the disorganization."

"All soldiers become accustomed to disorganization."

Meg chuckled as she knelt on the hearth. "I imagine you'll want to bathe, since falling in a stream is not quite the same thing. I'll build a fire and bring up some hot water."

Jack sat up. "I'll do that. You shouldn't be acting as a servant for me."

"Major Howard!" she said, blushing. "If you don't stay where you are, I am going to be very embarrassed in a moment."

Abruptly remembering his nakedness, Jack slid down and pulled the covers to his chin. "I'm sorry. You are going to think me a complete lack-wit."

She smiled. "Having raised two younger brothers, I am not easily shocked by male impulsiveness."

"You raised your brothers?"

"To a large extent." His hostess struck a spark into the nest of twigs she had laid. Tiny flames began licking around the wood. "I don't suppose Jeremy ever explained the family situation?"

"He never told me a word," Jack said with perfect truth and a guilty pang. It was hardly the act of a gentleman to listen to her confidences, but he was curious to learn why people of obvious gentility were living in such reduced circumstances.

Meg sat back on her heel. "We lived at Peacock Hill, a manor about a mile west of here. The estate has been in the Lambert family for generations, and Jeremy expected to inherit it even though Lord Mason, our local nobleman"—her voice became heavily sarcastic—"tried to buy the property several times. Peacock Hill adjoins Lord Mason's estate, and his lordship has coveted it for years, but of course Papa never considered selling.

"Five years ago, my father died quite unexpectedly and I was left as guardian of the younger children. The day after the funeral, Lord Mason called and informed me that Papa had lost the manor to him in a card game several months earlier."

Jack sat up in the bed, remembering just in time to pull the blankets up to cover his bare chest. "Did Lord Mason have any proof of such an outrageous statement?"

"He had a deed, plus a vowel that he claimed Papa had written. It said that if Papa did not repay five thousand pounds to Lord Mason, Peacock Hill would go to his lordship on my father's death."

"You say 'claimed.' Were the documents false?"

"I think so, but I can't prove it, for the handwriting was very like my father's. When I told Lord Mason that I thought they were forgeries, he challenged me to produce a real deed. We searched through all of Papa's papers and everywhere else we could think of, but without success, so perhaps the deed he showed us is the real one."

"Was your father the sort of man who could have gambled away his children's inheritance?"

"It's not quite impossible," Meg said reluctantly. "Papa and Lord Mason were friends of sorts, and they did play cards occasionally. In a mad mood Papa might have wagered far beyond his means. If he did and lost, he would have been ashamed to tell anyone what he had done. Since he seemed to be in good health, he would have assumed there was time for him to repay the debt to Lord Mason, perhaps by taking out a mortgage."

Jack's mouth twisted. Miss Lambert had had to take responsibility for her family when she was not much more than a girl herself. "It's an infamous story. Since you thought the papers forged, did you consider taking the matter to law?"

"I hired a lawyer. Lord Mason hired three. What chance does a poor person have to win justice from a rich aristocrat?" Her hands, which had been lying quietly on her knees, suddenly clenched. "I despise the nobility."

Jack flinched back from her intensity, not that he blamed her for being angry. "Is this farm another family property?"

"No, Brook Farm belongs to me. My mother was the only child of an old yeoman family that has been here even longer than the Lamberts. Neither set of parents was enthralled when she and Papa fell in love, but the farm adjoins Peacock Hill and it made a decent dowry even though my mother's birth was inferior."

Using tongs, Meg laid several small pieces of coal on the fledgling fire. "My mother died when I was three, and two years later Papa married again. My stepmother was a wonderful woman and quite wellborn, but she was dowerless and left nothing to her children. So, when Lord Mason claimed Peacock Hill, Brook Farm was all we had left to keep us. A neighboring farmer works most of the land and the rent he pays is enough to support the family. Fortunately Papa had left enough money to buy Jeremy a commission. If Jeremy hadn't gone away, I think he would have gone mad with frustration."

"So you are devoting your life and your inheritance to caring for your family. You are very generous."

"It is not generous to perform what is both one's duty and one's pleasure. " Meg's hazel eyes clouded. "Jeremy and Philip can make their own way, but I worry so about Phoebe. She deserves the opportunity to go to London, to see the world and find a man worthy of her."

"Even if the paragon proved to be a nobleman?"

"I doubt there are many worthy noblemen," Meg said dryly. "What I want for her is a man of character who will appreciate her sweet disposition as well as her beauty. He needn't be rich, just have sufficient fortune so that she will be cared for."

Jack was irresistibly reminded of a horse coper, though Phoebe was a much prettier piece of merchandise than a horse. It wasn't hard to deduce that Meg cherished hopes that her brother's friend might form a tendre for her sister.

Jack shifted uneasily under his blankets. He should have confessed earlier, before Meg Lambert had told him all the family secrets. Now he would have to wait a few hours, until a time when there wasn't such a feeling of closeness between the two of them. "Your concern for your family is admirable, but what do you want for yourself? A London Season? A husband and children of your own?"

"Heavens, no! No reasonable man would want me, for I'm the managing sort. As for a London Season ..." She looked a little wistful. "Even if I could have made my come-out, I wouldn't have 'taken' in society. I'm not beautiful like Phoebe, nor as well-bred, and owning one small farm hardly qualifies me as an heiress. No, I'm plain and practical and opinionated, and I belong here."

"I think you underestimate the popularity you might have had," Jack said warmly. "Females who are attractive, charming, and intelligent are always in short supply."

Meg stood and brushed dust from her hands with quick, nervous movements. "I looked at the wrecked gig this morning, and for a wonder, your bag was still safely inside—it was only the passengers who went in the water. I'll bring the bag up, along with your clothes. They're a bit the worse for wear, I'm afraid, but at least everything is dry."

As she disappeared out the door, Jack folded his hands beneath his head and thoughtfully regarded the ceiling. What a splendid young woman she was, as pretty as she was kind and sensible. He envied the younger Lamberts for being the beneficiaries of her warmth and caring.

Jack sighed, knowing that he would have to leave Brook Farm as soon as he confessed that he was an impostor. A pity he had to reveal the truth, for a solitary holiday in an inn was not what he would have chosen for his first English Christmas in many years. It would be far more pleasant to stay right where he was.

Perhaps he shouldn't tell Meg that he was the wrong man.

Jack found that he was nowhere near as shocked by the thought as he should be. Too many years of military pragmatism had eroded his higher sensibilities. Having found a comfortable billet, he was loath to leave, even though his presence was based on a deception.

Even if he were shameless enough to conceal the truth, doing so was impractical, for Jeremy Lambert would be home in a few days. Worse, the real Captain Howard could walk in the door at any moment, and when that happened Jack would be in dire trouble.

Jack winced as he remembered how Meg Lambert had railed at the nobility. The lady had a temper, and she would feel hurt and betrayed by his abuse of her hospitality. At least if he confessed voluntarily, she might forgive his accidental transgression enough to let him call on her in the future.

He fervently hoped that she would.

AFTER washing, shaving, and rendering himself as presentable as possible, Jack went downstairs, prepared to confess all to his hostess and throw himself on her mercy. Unfortunately, the only person in the kitchen was Phoebe Lambert, who sat by the fire doing mending.

Jack paused in the doorway, struck by the room's welcoming warmth. The previous night he had been too exhausted to notice his surroundings, but now he saw that the old-fashioned kitchen was rich with the unpretentious beauty of utility. Delicious scents filled the air, clusters of dried herbs and onions hung from the beamed ceiling, and comfortable wooden chairs circled the scrubbed deal table.

Jack guessed that the Lamberts did most of their living and laughing here. No formal drawing room would ever be the heart of a home the way this kitchen was the heart of Brook Farm.

As he examined the room, he realized that Phoebe was not the only inhabitant. A tabby cat was curled on the girl's lap, a large black cat sprawled pantherlike on top of the cupboard, legs and long tail drooping over the edge, and a plump calico was tucked in on herself on a Windsor chair. Jack chuckled at the sight. Trust cats to find a snug spot. The kitchen made him want to curl up and purr too.

Hearing his sound of amusement, Phoebe looked up and became quite still for a moment. Then she set aside both cat and mending and came across the room to greet him, her eyes bright as the copper pans that hung on the walls. "I hope you have taken no harm from the accident, Major Howard. Meg told me how you risked your life to save her."

"I don't think the situation was quite that grave," Jack said uncomfortably. "While the water was over her head in that one spot, I think it likely that Miss Lambert would have been able to save herself if I hadn't been on the scene."

"You are too modest, Major. Would you like a cup of tea? Meg is outside feeding the animals, but when she returns we will have luncheon."

While Phoebe brewed the tea, Jack sat in a Windsor chair. The calico cat materialized at his feet with a speculative look, then sprang onto his lap. She landed with an impact that proved that she didn't miss any meals. Jack scratched her head, honored by her company.

As they chatted over their tea, Jack could not escape the feeling that Phoebe was disappointed in him, though her manner was entirely gracious. He suspected that she, too, had had hopes of Jack Howard, and was reluctantly letting go of them now that she was confronted with a real man rather than the image created by her brother's letters. If so, Jack was glad, for it would be a nuisance to have her become enamored of him simply because he was a new face—particularly since he was an impostor. Perhaps the real Captain Howard would please her more.

Jack had reached that point in his thinking when his hostess returned. She was accompanied by two miniature blond charmers and a shaggy dog of dubious breeding but noteworthy enthusiasm.

"I'm glad to see you so restored from the rigors of travel, Major." Meg deftly removed cloak and bonnet from the smaller child. "You haven't met my goddaughters yet, have you?" She gestured to the taller girl. "This is Tizzie." Then to the smaller: "And this is Lizzie. Girls, this is Major Howard."

Both girls curtsied gravely. While Tizzie shyly studied the stranger, Lizzie, a brazen little hussy, climbed into Jack's lap, which was vacated by the prudent calico.

Lizzie regarded him soulfully. "I been feeding the chickens with Miss Meg. She has the fanciest chickens in the world."

Not to be outdone, Tizzie piped up, " 'N I helped milk the cows."

"How clever of you. Miss Meg is very fortunate to have such good helpers," Jack said admiringly, thinking that it was quite pleasant to have a warm, trusting armful of little girl on his lap. Glancing up, he said, "If I am to call you Meg and Phoebe, you must both call me Jack."

"Fair enough. You'll have noticed that this is not a very formal household." Meg removed her bonnet and shook out bright chestnut curls. "The girls have been a wonderful help. They are going to help me with the Christmas baking."

Visions of nuts and fruit in his head, Jack said hopefully, "Can I help too?"

"Of course. The more the merrier. But I think I'll postpone the baking until this evening. There's a hint of snow in the air, so we had best take advantage of the good weather to gather the evergreens this afternoon."

As the dog trotted over to the visitor and rested his jaw on Jack's knee, Meg added, "That's Rugger. He's a variety hound."

Jack smiled at the description as he reached down to ruffle Rugger's ears. Snow? Surely that would delay Captain Howard. Perhaps it was safe to postpone his confession a bit longer.

The door opened again, and fickle Rugger bolted off to greet the handsome youth who entered. Meg welcomed the newcomer with an affectionate hug. "What wonderful timing, Philip! We were just about to eat. I suppose you were dreadfully underfed in Gloucester."

"Dreadfully," he agreed, laughing.

Taking her brother by the arm, Meg brought him over to Jack. "As you see, our guest has arrived, though Jeremy has been delayed for several days. Jack, I'm sure you could pick Philip out of a crowd as Jeremy's brother. They're as like as peas in a pod."

"A pleasure to meet you, Philip." Jack offered his hand without standing, since Lizzie showed no inclination to leave.

"It's a real privilege to have you here, sir." Philip accepted Jack's hand enthusiastically. He was a handsome youth of fourteen or fifteen, with Phoebe's dark good looks.

"It is I who am privileged. Your sisters have been making me feel very welcome."

Meg was pleased to hear the sincerity in Jack Howard's voice. She had worried that her brother's friend might be disconcerted by the modest way they lived, for she knew that he had been raised in much grander circumstances. But the tall major seemed perfectly at home. In fact, she thought with amusement as Tizzie came to lean against his knee, he seemed to attract children and animals like blossoms attract bees.

The major cleaned up exceedingly well. She hoped Phoebe was suitably impressed.

BUNDLED and basketed, the greens-gathering expedition set out. The weather was clear and cold, with only the softness of the earth as a reminder of the previous day's rain. Jack inhaled crisp fresh air and decided that Meg was right about the possibility of snow.

The party was passing the barn when another avian shriek rent the air. Jack jumped as a large, shimmeringly colorful bird, darted past. "Good Lord, is that a peacock?"

"It is indeed—one of what Lizzie calls my fancy chickens. The silly beast has escaped again," Meg said with resignation. "Philip, will you catch Lord Feathers and return him to his pen?"

"Yes, but it will take a few minutes," her brother replied. "Here, Phoebe, you carry my basket. I'll catch up with you once that imbecile bird is back where he belongs."

Minus Philip, the party proceeded. Phoebe walked ahead with Tizzie, Lizzie, and Rugger, while the older members of the party followed. Jack cocked an eye at his hostess. "Peacocks?"

"They came from Peacock Hill, of course," Meg explained. "Since they weren't technically part of the manor, we brought them with us. They're quite useless, but we thought that the least we could do was make Lord Mason buy his own peafowl." She glanced up at Jack, guilty amusement in her eyes. "The entrance to Peacock Hill has always been flanked by two magnificent topiary peacocks. The week after we removed to Brook Farm, someone cut off the tail feathers of both. I suspect that Jeremy and Philip did it, though I never dared ask."

"It was a relatively harmless way of expressing some of their anger. Topiary tail feathers will grow back."

"They have," Meg agreed. "It's more than Lord Mason deserves." They had been climbing steadily, and finally reached a summit that yielded a magnificent view of the rolling countryside. As the younger members of the party skipped ahead, Meg halted and pointed into the middle distance. "There is Peacock Hill. Since Lord Mason wanted only the land, the house is empty now. A pity, when it was always such a happy place."

Through the leafless winter trees Jack was able to distinguish the outlines of a lovely Cotswold stone manor. In the pale solstice sunshine, it seemed magical, a dream kingdom from which the Lamberts had been banished.

"I don't usually dwell on the past as I'm doing today," Meg said apologetically. "We're very fortunate we had Brook Farm to fall back on, and I'm proud of the way the younger ones adjusted to living in a farmhouse. After we moved in, there was never a complaint from any of them."

"Perhaps it was because you set them a good example."

As the major's gaze met hers, Meg found herself momentarily immobilized by the admiration in the dark blue depths of his eyes. He really shouldn't look at her like that, she thought weakly, as if she were as young and attractive as Phoebe. It was enough to make even a sober spinster lose her head.

Fortunately Philip chose that moment to catch up with them. As they resumed walking toward the clump of holly bushes, he said with shy eagerness, "Sir, Jeremy wrote us of what you did at the Battle of Vittoria—he said that he had never seen such courage in his life. If you don't mind speaking of it, we would greatly appreciate your describing the battle to us."

Jack Howard looked disconcerted. "I do mind, actually."

"Your modesty does you credit, sir, but I may never get another chance to meet a real hero," Philip said coaxingly. "I'd like to hear what happened in your own words."

Meg opened her mouth to reprove her brother for pestering their guest, but Jack's answer cut her off.

"War heroics are a sham, Philip," he said quietly. "Oh, sometimes soldiers act from great courage, but more often they do what they do because they have no choice—because it is safer to charge than to turn and run, or because they fear appearing cowardly, or because they are so tired of being afraid that death seems a welcome alternative. For real bravery, look at a widow struggling to raise her children alone or a doctor going into a plague-stricken city to treat the dying."

"Of course there are many kinds of courage," Philip said, taken aback, "but there is something splendid and glorious about risking death for one's country."

His voice edged, Jack replied, "Death may sometimes be necessary, but it is never glorious. For years my fondest ambition has been to die at home in my own bed."

Philip stared at their guest, shock and disillusion clearly visible on his handsome young face. Too polite to criticize the major for his unheroic attitude, he said stiffly, "I'd best retrieve my basket from Phoebe—the holly is just over there." Turning, he bolted off to join the others.

For several long moments there was silence between Meg and her guest. Then Jack said harshly, "Meg, I'm not the man you think I am."

Far more than her brother, Meg could guess at the bleak experience that lay behind his words. "Who of us is what others think? Certainly I am not the strong, generous woman you think I am, for I too have done what I have because I had no choice," she said softly. "Don't condemn yourself for not living up to a boy's ideal. Philip is too young to understand that nothing is simple, least of all courage."

"I know that, for I was no wiser at his age." The major drew a deep breath, his large frame rigid with tension. "But that is not all I meant— what I'm trying to say is that I am not Jeremy's heroic Jack Howard."

"Please, don't say anything more—words are never adequate for the deepest truths." Wanting to remove the shadows from Jack's anguished blue eyes, she laid a gloved hand on his arm. "My trials have been different from yours, but I have learned that heroism lies beyond despair. And while it is certainly admirable, it is never glorious."

"You say that words are inadequate, yet you have just said something vitally true far more clearly than I could have." He covered her hand with his, fingers gripping tightly. "But you are making confession very difficult."

For an instant, as their gazes met, Meg felt disoriented. The farm, the crisp winter day, her nearby family, all fell away, no longer important. Reality was the man in front of her, and the feeling of profound intimacy between them.

Shaken, she disengaged her hand. "Christmas is no time for confessions," she said, striving to keep her voice light. "This is the season for hope. Forget the past and your own imagined failings and simply enjoy the moment."

Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking. His tension disappeared as clearly as milk flowing from a spilled jug. "You make it easy for me to yield to my less admirable impulses, Meg. Please don't judge me too harshly when you find out what a weak, deceitful fellow I am."

"I'm sure that you are far too hard on yourself." She grinned remembering how he had barked at her after pulling her from the flooded brook. "You're under orders, soldier, to relax and enjoy the holiday."

Their laughter was interrupted by a distressed wail, so they hastened down to the holly bushes, where Lizzie was sucking fingers pricked by the spiky holly leaves. Meg quickly soothed her wounds, and the rest of the afternoon passed in simple pleasures. Working with leather-gloved care, they collected basketfuls of bright-berried holly, then added glossy ivy. Philip, his earlier discomfiture forgotten, scrambled up an oak tree and cut a large handful of mistletoe.

Lizzie tired on the walk home, so Jack transferred his evergreens to the others and carried her the rest of the way, her drowsy blond head nestled on his shoulder. He felt quite absurdly at peace. When Meg had commanded him to relax and enjoy the present, he had surrendered all common sense and scruples. Of course he was a fool to continue his pretense, for there would inevitably be a reckoning, but he refused to worry about it. For whatever reason, fate had sent him to this warm and welcoming place, and fate could jolly well help him cope with the inevitable explosion when the truth came out.

In the meantime, he intended to savor every glowing moment.

DUSK was falling fast when the party reached the house. Since it was unlucky to bring the evergreens inside before Christmas Eve, the prickly bounty was left in a shed before they proceeded into the kitchen.

After everyone had shared tea and currant cakes, Meg said, "Come along, girls, it's time for a nap."

"No!" her goddaughters said in chorus. Tizzie added, "We c'n help fix dinner, Miss Meg."

"It is very good of you to offer," Meg said seriously, "but if you don't nap now, I'm afraid you'll be too tired to help with the baking later, and I need your assistance for that more than I do for dinner."

The girls looked horrified, so Phoebe seized the moment and their hands and led them off to the small room they shared.

Jack watched them go fondly. "Is her name really Tizzie?"

"Actually it's Thomasina, but Lizzie couldn't pronounce that, and calling them Tizzie and Lizzie proved irresistible."

Philip interjected, "I'm going out to feed the animals now, before it becomes dark."

"Will you see if there are any fresh eggs?" Meg lifted an apron from a peg and tied it around her trim waist. "I'll be using a lot of them tonight, and we'll need more for breakfast."

Philip nodded as he lit a lantern to take outside.

Rather hesitantly Jack said, "Can I help with the chores?"

"Of course, sir, if you wish to," Philip said, his face expressionless.

Outside the temperature was dropping and a few errant flakes of snow drifted about aimlessly. As they crossed the yard, Jack said, "I'm sorry to prove such a disappointment, Philip."

The youth turned his head quickly to the visitor. "Please, sir, it is I who should be apologizing. Ever since you spoke to me, I've been thinking. Jeremy used to talk like I did, but when I remembered the letters he's written, I realized that they changed after he had been in Spain for a few months. He stopped writing about the war and mentioned fighting in only the briefest way, usually just to assure us that he was all right. Instead, his letters are about his friends, like you, and about amusing things that happen. I didn't really notice at the time, but now I think I understand better how war changes a man."

"That it does." Jack swung open the barn door and let his companion proceed in with the lantern. "Congratulations, Philip. You are learning wisdom much more quickly than I did. Is it your ambition to be a soldier?"

Philip hung the lantern on a hook so it illuminated stalls containing three horses and four cows. "I'll leave that to Jeremy. One of my father's cousins is in the East India Company, and he said he'll get me an apprenticeship when I reach sixteen. Someone in this family needs to make money if my sisters are going to be taken care of."

Clearly Meg wasn't the only practical Lambert, Jack thought, impressed by Philip's clear, unselfish thinking. "I imagine Phoebe will find a husband if she wants one. But why has Meg never married—have the men of Wiltshire no sense?"

Philip lifted a pitchfork and began transferring hay to the stalls. "An aunt offered to sponsor Meg for a London come-out. I was very small, but I remember how excited she was. Then my mother became ill and Meg canceled her plans. She's been taking care of us ever since, and now she's almost thirty." He shoved his pitchfork into the haystack with unnecessary force. "That's why I want to be in a position to look after her."

"Is it so unthinkable that Meg might still marry? She is hardly ancient."

There was nothing wrong with Philip's understanding. Resting the tines of the pitchfork on the plank floor, he regarded Jack with stern blue eyes. "Since Jeremy isn't here, it is my duty to ask if you have intentions toward my sister. And if so, whether they are honorable."

Perhaps it should have been humorous to see a boy so young challenging a man over twice his age, but Jack was moved rather than amused. He envied the Lamberts the love that bound them together. "Perhaps it is early to declare intentions, but if I develop any, I assure you they will be honorable."

Philip relaxed. "Good. I'd hate to have to put a pitchfork through you."

Jack chuckled. "Being a devout coward, I assure you that I won't risk such a fate. Meg is lucky to have such defenders."

"Even Tizzie and Lizzie would attack anyone who hurt Meg, and believe me, those two can bite when sufficiently provoked," Philip said with feeling. "Do you want to help me feed cabbage to the peafowl? Believe me, it's quite an experience."

In perfect charity they finished the chores in the stables, then went off together to the poultry shed.

MEG took the bubbling steak-and-kidney pie from the oven and set it on the wooden chopping block, regarding the crumbly golden crust with satisfaction. The pie was plain country food, but it did her no discredit. When Jeremy had first asked permission to bring his friend for Christmas, Meg had confronted the limitations of house and budget and decided that Jack Howard would have to take them as they were, or not at all. Fortunately, in spite of his privileged background, the major had accepted everything with cheerful goodwill. He looked like a man who would enjoy a good steak-and-kidney pie.

Across the kitchen Phoebe asked, "Is it time to start boiling the Brussels sprouts?"

"Wait until Philip and Jack come in." Meg gave the soup pot a stir. It was bean soup tonight, rich and savory. "There is nothing worse than gray, overcooked Brussels sprouts." Glancing up at her sister, she asked hopefully, "What do you think of Major Howard now that you've had time to become a little better acquainted?"

Phoebe made a rueful face. "I'm sorry, Meg, I know you were hoping that he and I might form an attachment, and I must admit that I had certain hopes in that direction myself. But I'm afraid it just won't do."

"Don't you like him?"

"I like him very well," Phoebe assured her. "The major is kind and good-natured and there's something wonderfully solid about him. But he's much older than I expected, and not at all dashing—more like a large shaggy bear. I just can't imagine falling in love with him, and he certainly shows no disposition to fall in love with me." She gave her sister a teasing smile. "I know that you're concerned about my future, but I'm not at my last prayers yet. Rather than casting lures to Major Howard, I'm prepared to wait and see if someone better comes along."

As Phoebe talked, Meg felt a surge of relief so intense that it shocked her. Could she possibly be yearning for the major herself? The idea was so nonsensical that she could feel color rise in her cheeks. To conceal her expression from Phoebe's interested gaze, Meg scooped up a spoonful of soup and sampled it, scorching her tongue. She gasped and waved her hand in a vain attempt to cool her mouth. "Needs more salt."

As she reached for a salt cellar, Meg decided that soup was really a safer subject than men, for a burned mouth would heal much faster than a burned heart. As she added a large pinch of salt to the pot, she reminded herself firmly that the fact Phoebe wasn't interested in the major did not mean he was available for her. Then she reminded herself again.

And again.

THE household Jack had grown up in had treated him with sufferance rather than affection, so he had never known the kind of holiday happiness he discovered that evening. Baking proved to be a family affair, with Philip and Phoebe chopping nuts and dried fruit, Jack assigned to grind lumps of sugar to powder fineness, and Tizzie and Lizzie aiding Meg in ways that seemed to involve squealing and covering all three of them with flour. The cats and Rugger made periodic patrols under the tables, hoping that all this activity would produce tangible benefits for them.

Under Meg's direction they made a vast quantity of tiny mince pies, enough so that everyone at Brook Farm could have one on each of the twelve days of Christmas, to ensure luck for the coming year. Then came gingerbread; Meg had everyone help her cut it into the shapes of stars before baking.

As the house filled with irresistibly spicy scents, Phoebe unexpectedly broke into song. To Jack's surprise, everyone else joined in, as if singing "Joy to the World" was the most natural thing in the world. For the Lamberts, it clearly was. Phoebe was a soprano, her voice a little weak because of her recent cold, but very sweet. Meg had a rich contralto and Philip a very passable tenor. Even Tizzie and Lizzie chimed in, their high clear voices like cherubim.

After the song was done, Meg looked up from the hazelnut-and-chocolate pudding she was mixing. "Do you sing, Jack?" she asked with a bewitching smile. "We could use a baritone."

As he looked into her warm hazel eyes, Jack felt something very strange happen deep in his chest. It wasn't the kitchen that was the heart of the Lambert household, it was Meg herself. And more than anything else on earth, he wanted to spend the rest of his life within the circle of her warmth. If they had been alone, he would have said as much.

Instead, Jack cleared his throat gruffly. "If you don't mind hearing a voice that has been described as capable of stopping a bull in its tracks, I'll be happy to join in."

This time it was Philip who started a song, choosing "The Holly and the Ivy," and for the next hour they sang all the Christmas carols they knew. Then Jack taught them a simple Spanish song that he had learned on the Peninsula.

The party broke up gradually, first the little girls being taken off to bed, then the adults yawning and conceding fatigue. As Jack drifted toward sleep with the calico cat sprawled on his stomach, he knew that he had never felt so much a part of a family in his life.

"YOU may enter the parlor now!" Phoebe announced grandly.

It was Christmas Eve, and Phoebe had insisted on total privacy while she decorated the kissing bough. Tizzie and Lizzie had been excited to near-speechlessness by the secrecy and would periodically peer into the parlor, attempting to steal a glimpse.

Caught up in the holiday mood, Jack had felt as much anticipation as the little girls. After doing the farm chores, he and Philip had brought in the Yule log. Then they all sat in the kitchen and turned the evergreens they had collected into yards and yards of garlands while Meg produced more delicacies for the Christmas feast.

Summoned by Phoebe, everyone solemnly entered the parlor to see the results of the girl's handiwork. Jack was prepared to admire whatever she had made, but it was quite unnecessary to counterfeit enthusiasm.

As Tizzie and Lizzie squealed rapturously, Meg lifted the kissing bough and exclaimed, "Oh, Phoebe! What a wonderful idea to use peacock feathers. I never thought of such a thing."

The kissing bough was a double hoop of dried vine, and traditionally it was decorated with evergreens, scarlet berries, candles, and mistletoe. That was quite enough to make it pretty, but bows of silver ribbon and the gleaming, colorful tips of peacock feathers made this one breathtaking.

"It was rather a stroke of genius, wasn't it?" Phoebe agreed. Clearly she was no believer in false modesty.

Taking the kissing bough from Meg, Philip gave his other sister a wicked grin. "Considering that you're as vain as a peacock, you should have thought of this years ago."

For a moment Phoebe teetered between behaving like a mature lady and giving in to her natural instincts. Instinct won and she threw a handful of feather scraps at her brother. "Beast! You should talk—it wasn't me who asked if I looked like that picture of Lord Byron."

"You don't have to—you look more like him than I do," Philip retorted, then retreated hastily across the parlor as Phoebe began stalking him with wrath in her eyes.

"Children, children," Meg said indulgently. "What will Major Howard think?"

Laughing, Jack replied, "Major Howard thinks that the Lamberts know how to have a good time."

Phoebe ceased chasing her brother and gave a wistful sigh. "I do so wish Jeremy was here. For weeks I've been looking forward to having him home for Christmas."

"We all have," Meg agreed, "but he'll be home soon, and that is almost as good." She smiled at their guest. "We're fortunate to have Jack here even though Jeremy was delayed."

Jack felt a massive stab of guilt at his deception, knowing that if Jeremy were here, Jack wouldn't be. "The good fortune is mine."

Meg scooped Lizzie into her arms. "It's time to put up the rest of the decorations. Shall we set this little angel on the mantelpiece?"

Lizzie shrieked with delight as Jack took her from Meg and perched her on the mantel, then put Tizzie by her side. "With their bright blond hair, they made very fine angels for about one minute, after which the small sisters demanded to be taken down so they could help Phoebe weave bright bits of peacock feather into the garlands.

The mantel was decorated with candles and evergreens and ribbons, and the garlands were hung, filling the room with a tangy forest fragrance. Then Philip hung the kissing bough from the chandelier. As he lit the candles, all around the room feathers shimmered with iridescent blues and greens, and silver bows sparkled to life. There was a soft collective intake of breath as everyone admired the effect. Outside it was dark and a bitter wind rattled the windows, but the parlor glowed with warmth and color and love. Most of all, love.

Philip pulled Tizzie under the bough and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. "There!" he said with a grin. "That's what kissing boughs are; for."

As Tizzie gazed at him adoringly, Lizzie moved in for her kiss, followed by Philip's smiling sisters.

A quick learner, Tizzie seized Jack's hand, tugged him under the mistletoe, then waited hopefully. He laughed and obliged her, thinking how much a child's delight added to the magic of the season. Of course Lizzie also had to be kissed, and after that Phoebe presented herself with as little self-consciousness as the girls.

After receiving Jack's playful kiss, Phoebe said gaily, "Your turn, Meg."

Jack gave Meg an appalled glance. As plainly as if it were written on the wall in letters of flame, he knew that they were both thinking of the kiss in the stable at Chippenham. So much for her comment that they should forget what had happened. Jack recalled with absolute precision how her soft body had molded against him, how she had tasted, and how she had responded. Remembering that, it was impossible to kiss her casually now.

Just before the silence became embarrassingly obvious, Meg stepped up and presented her cheek with a determined let's-get-this-over-with expression. Jack gave her a quick, awkward peck. Her creamy skin was silky smooth beneath his lips. Then the moment was over, to Jack's immense relief.

The evening's program was simple but rewarding for all ages. They dined, then danced as Meg and Phoebe took turns playing the old spinet. There was wassail for the adults and hot spiced cider for the little girls, and games like snapdragon and puss in the corner—once played with a real puss.

Eventually Tizzie and Lizzie curled up together in a ball, snoozing like kittens, and had to be carried off to bed. Then the adults relaxed around the fire, the Lamberts reminiscing about notable Christmases of the past. Jack said very little, though he several times compared this evening with what he would have had to endure at the countess's hands. As he sipped wassail, he gave thanks to the fate that had sent him here.

Finally Philip rose and clasped both of Phoebe's hands. "Time for bed, sleepyhead," he said, hauling his sister to her feet. "You'll have to walk because you're too heavy to carry."

"But I don't want to go to bed yet," she protested.

Her brother directed a meaningful glance from Meg to Jack. "Yes, you do."

Phoebe's eyes widened. Then she gave an exaggerated yawn. "For once you're right. I am rather tired."

As Philip tugged Phoebe from the room, he gave Jack a conspiratorial smile. Jack almost laughed; seemed to have acquired an ally.

As her brother and sister left the room, Meg murmured, "I should go to bed, too. It will be a busy day tomorrow. There's the goose to prepare in the morning, and church, and a thousand other things." But she made no move to rise.

Curled up on the sofa with two cats, a dreamy smile, and tousled curls that glowed in the firelight, Meg looked good enough to eat, even though Jack should not be hungry after all the food he had put away. If he had any sense, he would also go to bed and leave his hostess in safe solitude, but these moments of peaceful togetherness were too precious to end quickly.

Needing something to keep his hands busy and off his hostess, Jack I put his glass down and wandered over to the large Black Forest clock that hung on the wall, sprigs of holly fastened on top. "I've always had a fondness for cuckoo clocks. Is this one broken or has it just run down because you've been too busy to tend it?"

"There is a story to that clock. My father bought it in Munich when he was on his grand tour. He was always very fond of the clock and kept it in his study at Peacock Hill." Meg raised her glass and drained the last of her wassail. "He died in that study. It was very sudden—the doctor said his heart failed. The clock stopped that day and never ran again."

Intrigued, Jack ran appreciative fingers over the silky, beautifully carved wood. The hands had stopped at 11:27. "Did you decide to leave it like this as a memorial to your father?"

"Not really. It was just that so much happened after my father died— losing Peacock Hill, having to move. There was neither time nor money to have the clock fixed." Meg smiled wryly. "I suppose that I should see to it. Jeremy won't have Peacock Hill, but at least he can have Papa's clock, and it will be much more useful to him if it works."

"Shall I take a look at it?" Jack offered. "I'm a fair hand with things mechanical. Even if I can't fix it, at least I should be able to find out what's wrong."

Since Meg looked doubtful, he said coaxingly, "Please? I didn't bring any real Christmas presents, so fixing the clock can be my gift to you. I promise I won't leave it in worse condition than I found it."

Meg smiled. "Very well, if you don't mind. I'm fond of the clock, though I've always thought cuckoos quite dishonorable for their habit of laying their eggs in the nests of other birds. The poor host birds become fagged to death raising the cuckoos' ravenous offspring."

Meg's words struck so unexpectedly close to the bone that Jack almost dropped the clock as he moved it to a table by the fire. What was he himself but a Christmas cuckoo who had ended up in the wrong nest? He uttered a brief prayer that Meg would prove more tolerant of him than of the despised cuckoo.

As he opened the clock, he remarked, "A cuckoo is not that different from aristocratic parents who give their children to nurses to raise."

"Another reason to despise the nobility," Meg retorted, "though at least nurses are paid, unlike the poor victims of the cuckoos' deceit."

Jack concentrated on the clock, uneasily aware that Meg was going to require a great deal of persuasion to see him as an acceptable suitor. Perhaps he should confess now, when she was mellow with contentment and wassail.

Resolved, he opened his mouth to speak, then frowned as his probing fingertips touched something unexpected inside the clock case. "There is some kind of obstruction—paper, I think. Could one of the children have stuffed something inside?"

"I suppose so," Meg said without much interest. "There were always children in and out of Peacock Hill. Be grateful if it's paper and not something dreadful like a petrified frog."

Jack managed to pull the paper out without ripping it. There was one large sheet, bulky and yellow-gray with age. Curious, he flattened the sheet on the table, then peered at the faded writing in the flickering firelight.

The words were in Latin and it took time to puzzle out the old legal phrases. Then he gasped, his heart speeding up like a galloping horse. "Meg, come look at this."

Startled by his tone, she set her glass aside and came to peer over his shoulder.

"I hope to God I'm not raising false hopes," Jack said in a choked voice, "but I think this is the deed to Peacock Hill."

Meg felt the blood drain from her face. Snatching the paper up, she tilted it toward the fire. "Merciful heaven," she whispered. "You're right, this is the deed. Not long before he died, Papa waved it at me when he said that Lord Mason would give a fortune to possess this piece of paper." She ran awestruck fingers over the old lettering. "How on earth do you think it came to be inside the clock?"

Jack considered. "You say that your father died in his study. When he was stricken, he may have become confused and felt that he had to put the deed somewhere safe, where Mason couldn't get it. The clock was right there and had always been special to him, so he shoved the deed inside, jamming the mechanism. We'll never know, of course, but that seems a plausible explanation."

"But how did Lord Mason know that we would be unable to find the deed?" she asked in bewilderment.

Jack thought some more. "Perhaps your father once told Mason that the deed was hidden safe away. Then, when he died so suddenly, Mason decided to gamble on the chance that no one would know where your father had left it."

"It's the sort of thing Lord Mason might do, for he is a famous gamester," Meg said thoughtfully. "He had little to lose by trying, and his gamble paid off spectacularly well. The despicable wretch."

"His gamester's luck has run out," Jack said with deep satisfaction. "Not only can you reclaim Peacock Hill, but you can file a suit for fraud against Lord Mason. He'll probably pay a handsome settlement to keep the case from going to court and becoming public knowledge. I doubt he will want to be known as someone who stole the inheritance of a family of orphans."

Meg was too happy to be concerned with retribution. "You know what this means?" she said, bubbling with joy. "Jeremy will be able to sell out and come back to Peacock Hill and marry his sweetheart, Anne Marshall. I'm sorry, Jack, I know you'll miss him, but we need him more here. And Phoebe will be able to make her come-out and Philip won't have to go to India unless he really wants to. ..."

Distractedly she brushed her hair back as she tried to think of all the implications. "You've given us all a Christmas present beyond our wildest dreams. I know the words are feeble, but thank you, Jack, from the bottom of my heart. I must go tell Philip and Phoebe."

"Let them sleep. The deed has waited for five years, it can wait until morning." Jack stood and put a hand under her chin, lifting it so that her gaze met his. "You always say 'we' and 'us,' Meg. Isn't there anything that you want just for yourself?"

As Meg looked into Jack's intense blue eyes, she felt a shiver that started in her toes and tingled through her entire body. She made no protest when he drew her into an embrace under the kissing bough. His lips met hers in a warm, wise, leisurely exploration that bore no resemblance to the chaste kiss he had given her earlier.

Delirious with happiness and desire, Meg kissed him back. As Phoebe had said, there was something wonderfully solid about Jack Howard. But he was also the most intoxicatingly attractive man she had ever known. He made Meg feel as irresistible as Helen of Troy. She almost dropped the precious deed.

Abruptly Jack set Meg away from him, though fortunately he kept his hands firmly on her waist or she might have folded down to the floor. "Tomorrow, after breakfast and church and all the rest, I have something very important to say to you," he said huskily. "You—not Phoebe or Philip or Tizzie and Lizzie, but you. Then I'm going to ask you a question. You know what it will be, don't you, Meg?"

"Yes, Jack." On this magical night, Meg knew that anything was possible, even that this delicious man might fancy an old spinster like her.

"Good. Then think about your answer." He bent his head and gave her a quick, expert kiss in case she had forgotten in the last sixty seconds. "Just be sure that the answer is yes."

"Yes, Jack," Meg said obediently. She knew that her eyes must be shining like the Star of Bethlehem.

Turning her around, he gave her a gentle slap on the backside. "Now, go to bed, Miss Lambert, or tonight might end in a way that would make Philip feel honor-bound to put a pitchfork through me."

Meg floated across the room, then turned in the doorway. "Good night, Jack." She blew him a kiss. "I love you, Jack."

When he took a step toward her, his face glowing with joy, Meg whirled and dashed across the hall and through the kitchen to her room. The only thing that kept her from expiring with embarrassment was the knowledge that she had spoken the plain truth.

Her bedroom was freezing, so Meg set the deed on the table and quickly undressed. Then she moved the tabby cat, Striper, to the foot of the bed and slid under the covers. Wrapping her arms around a pillow, she whispered again, "I love you, Jack."

Life was perfect.

IT was very early when Meg woke, only the faintest hint of dawn coloring the eastern sky. She stretched luxuriously, feeling marvelous in spite of the short night's sleep. Could she possibly have dreamed the events of the previous night? No, on her table the deed was visible, a pale rectangle in the gloom.

Jack had said he had something to ask her, and that she should answer yes. Meg touched her lips, where the memory of his kiss lingered. The lovely, kind man upstairs actually wanted to marry her. When she was younger, she had twice refused suitors who wanted her but regarded her family as an unpleasant necessity. Jack was different, for he fitted into her family as if there had been a Jack-size vacancy just waiting for him. There would be no problem giving him the answer he wanted.

Meg was too full of energy to stay in bed, so she threw back the covers and dressed, then went into the kitchen and built up the fire. After stuffing the goose for roasting, she started readying potatoes, onions, bacon, and eggs for the hearty dish that was the traditional Lambert Christmas breakfast.

Breakfast preparations complete, Meg glanced out and saw that it was almost full light. A couple of inches of feathery snow had fallen in the night, enough to make snow cream. Tizzie and Lizzie would enjoy that. Jack probably would, too.

Thinking of Jack, Meg was gazing out the window with a foolish smile on her face when she heard the outside door open in the hall next to the kitchen. For a moment she was startled and a little alarmed. Then she realized that there could be only one person arriving so early on Christmas morning.

She raced across the kitchen. "Jeremy?" she called softly, not wanting to wake the others. "Is that you?"

A lean, snow-dusted figure appeared in the kitchen door. "It is indeed, Meg," said a familiar beloved voice. "Cold, hungry, and ready to be pampered."

With a squeal that would have done credit to Lizzie, Meg hurled herself into her brother's arms. As she did, footsteps sounded on the stairs and Philip appeared, dark hair wild and clothes hastily thrown on. "Jeremy—you finally made it!"

"Now, this is what I call a proper welcome!" Jeremy said, hugging his sister so hard that he lifted her from her feet. Setting her down, he added, "You've shrunk, big sister."

Turning, he wrapped an affectionate arm around his younger brother's shoulders. "And you've grown."

Meg studied Jeremy's tired but happy face. He looked older, of course, and stronger. Her little brother had become a man. Voice breaking, Meg said, "Oh, Jeremy, it only needed you to make Christmas perfect."

"Not quite." Smiling, Jeremy stepped back and motioned toward a tall black-haired young man who waited just inside the door. Meg had not noticed him, for the stranger had tactfully stayed in the background during the family greetings. "Look who else is here."

Meg was only momentarily off-balance. So Jeremy had brought another friend. Fortunately the goose was a large one. She gave the newcomer an approving glance. Like Jeremy, he, was travel-stained and bristle-chinned, but still very attractive.

"I'm very pleased to meet you. Do you mind if I call you Meg?" the newcomer said. "Jeremy has told me so much about his family that I feel as if I know you all."

"Please do. And what is your name?" Meg replied, thinking that the young man had a charming smile. Phoebe would like him.

Jeremy laughed. "This is Jack Howard, of course."

With a flourish, the newcomer kissed Meg's proffered hand. "I'm sorry that I was unable to notify you that I wouldn't reach Chippenham three days ago," he said apologetically. "My packet was blown off-course and I reached London about the same time Jeremy did. By the sheerest coincidence, we met at the coaching inn last night. The coach was full, so we hired a chaise and drove all night to be here for Christmas."

Meg gasped. "But you're not Jack Howard."

"I assure you that I am," he said, gray eyes twinkling. "No doubt you were expecting someone a bit more presentable, but Jeremy will vouch for me."

Meg felt as if she had been turned into a marble statue. Then her gaze turned to meet Philip's shocked stare.

It took her two tries to croak out the words, "If you're Jack Howard, then who is the man sleeping upstairs in Jeremy's bed?"

THE calico cat woke Jack, nuzzling his cheek in a bid for attention. Absently he scratched her furry head, his thoughts on Meg. He hoped she would agree to an early wedding date.

He heard sounds downstairs and guessed that it was Meg, up early and working. Quietly he rose and dressed, thinking that he could either help her in the kitchen or compromise her, whichever seemed most appropriate.

He went into the corridor to the top of the stairs and was just starting down when he heard the fatal words. "If you're Jack Howard, then who is the man sleeping upstairs in Jeremy's bed?"

Jack froze, one hand on the banister. He had become so convinced that fortune was favoring his cause that he had forgotten that the sword of Damocles hung over his head—and the supporting thread had just broken.

He almost bolted, but it was too late. A board shifted under his foot and the four people down in the hall turned to gaze up at him. There stood Philip and a frowning, older version of him, a tall black-haired young man with puzzlement on his face. And Meg—his darling Meg, who stared as if Jack were something she had just found under a dead leaf.

With a groan, Jack sank down onto the steps and buried his face in his hands, wondering how on earth to explain himself.

Before he had a chance to try, a white-faced Meg snapped, "Just who the devil are you?"

Jack looked up. "My name is Jack Howard," he said simply. "I'm just not the Jack Howard you were expecting."

Meg said icily, "Are you really a major?"

When Jack nodded, there was a soft murmur of surprise from below. Jeremy asked, "Are you Major Jack Howard of the 51st? 'Mad Jack' Howard, the hero of Badajoz?"

Jack winced. "For my sins, yes."

The black-haired man exclaimed, "Good God, Mad Jack Howard! It's a great pleasure to meet you, sir. I wish I had a guinea for every man who offered to buy me a drink, thinking I was you. I believe we are distantly related."

"Very likely," Jack agreed. "I have a great-aunt who would be able to explain the connection."

He saw that Philip had recovered quickly from his surprise and was now studying the fraudulent guest curiously, doubtless trying to reconcile Jack's diatribe on heroism with his ridiculous nickname. Meg, however, looked as if she had been stabbed through the heart.

Jeremy's brows drew together. "But I heard that you had sold out because you'd inherited the earldom of Winstoke?" he said, his rising tone making it a question.

Jack sighed. "You're well informed, Captain Lambert."

Jack's answer was the last straw for Meg. Face stricken, she whirled and fled down the hall.

"Meg!" Jack called out despairingly. "Please give me a chance to explain." Abandoning his efforts to make polite conversation, he bolted down the stairs, past the startled group of young men, and followed Meg into the parlor.

As the parlor door banged shut, Jeremy Lambert turned to his younger brother. "Would you kindly tell me what the devil has been going on here?"

Philip grinned wickedly. "Meg found him at the George in Chippenham. He followed her home and, if I'm not mistaken, she had just about decided that she wanted to keep him. Unfortunately, she's a bit disconcerted to discover that he may be a tiger rather than a tabby cat."

"You mean that Major Howard—sorry, Lord Winstoke—wants to marry our Meg?" Jeremy asked in amazement.

"I think so. Not that anyone tells me anything."

A clear voice sounded from above. "Jeremy, is that you?"

Phoebe scampered down the stairs, resplendent in a scarlet robe, her dark hair curling deliciously around her face. Just like her older sister, she leaped into her brother's arms. "Oh, marvelous, you made it home in time for Christmas!"

"Indeed." Jeremy laughed. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if I've landed in Bedlam instead." Taking Phoebe's arm, he turned her to his companion. "This is my friend Jack Howard. . . . Captain Howard of the 45th, not to be confused with Major Howard of the 51st, though apparently he was."

As she tried to sort out her brother's words, Phoebe automatically offered her hand, then gasped as she focused on the captain. "You—you look exactly as I thought Jeremy's friend would," she said stupidly.

The captain kissed her hand, then straightened without relinquishing his grip. "You are Phoebe. You couldn't be anyone else." He had the stupefied look of a man who has just hit a stone wall at high speed. "You can't imagine how much I've looked forward to meeting you."

Philip rolled his eyes. Fearing they would continue making sheep's eyes indefinitely, he gave his sister a light pinch on the rump. "Go put some decent clothes on, Pheebles—you are quite putting me to the blush."

It was Phoebe who blushed as she remembered her state of dishabille. She released the captain's hand, shooting Philip a dagger look and whispering under her breath, "Don't you dare use that appalling nickname again—Phippy."

"Pax!" He grinned. "No nicknames."

As the entranced captain's gaze followed Phoebe up the stairs, Philip decided that it was time to play the host. "Jeremy, Captain Howard, you must be cold and famished. Why not come into the kitchen for some hot tea and breakfast?"

The two travelers accepted with alacrity, and Philip ushered them into the kitchen with a philosophical sigh. It would be a bit confusing if they ended up with two brothers-in-law named Jack Howard, but no doubt they'd learn to cope.

THE fact that Jack had followed her into the parlor was the only thing that kept Meg from dissolving in tears. She retreated to the far corner of the room. "Your game is over, and I think it is time for you to leave, Lord . . . What was it, Winsmoke?"

"Winstoke, and I'm not leaving until I've said my piece." He looked at her pleadingly. "Later today I was going to tell you the truth—in fact, I tried to confess earlier, and you kept telling me not to say any more. I admit that I should not have left it at that, but I honestly did attempt to explain."

Meg gave a brittle laugh. "So you were being literal when you said you weren't the man I thought you were. Foolish me—I thought you meant something profound and mysterious. I didn't understand much, did I?"

"You understood a great deal more than I was able to say, Meg," he said quietly. "Please, try to understand now."

His words silenced Meg. As she thought back over the three days the major had been at Brook Farm, she realized that it was true that several times he had started to tell her something, but the conversation had always gone astray. And there had been other clues; he had never spoken of Jeremy or the regiment or any other aspect of his background. Thinking they knew who he was, the Lamberts had noticed nothing unusual in his behavior.

Meg's face burned as she realized how she had misunderstood him from beginning to end. Particularly last night; he couldn't possibly have meant that he wanted to marry her, not with him being an earl. God only knew what he had meant. Her hands clenched spasmodically. "Why did you come home with me?"

"I wouldn't have been so brazen if I was sober, but you seemed to know me, and you were so lovely and kind. I would have followed you anywhere," he said simply.

Meg shivered. He didn't look like an earl or a legendary war hero; he still looked like Jack, large and shaggy, with an unpredictable mixture of shyness and humor and those blue, blue eyes that were so misleadingly honest. "Why were you in the George at all? Surely the Earl of Winspoke had someplace better to be for Christmas."

"Winstoke. And no, I definitely did not have a better place to be." He gave a faint, humorless smile. "When you met me, I was running away from my great-aunt by marriage, the dowager Countess of Winstoke, the most terrifying old dragon you could ever hope not to meet." His voice softened. "You're freezing, Meg. I'll build a fire and you'll feel better."

Meg was freezing, but she maintained a wary distance while he knelt at the hearth and efficiently laid a new fire. "Why were you running away?"

He struck a spark, then sat back on his heels and watched as the tinder began to burn. "Do you want the short reason or the long reason?"

"The long one."

Still looking down, Jack said, "I was never supposed to inherit the earldom. I was an orphaned second cousin with half a dozen heirs between me and the title. With my parents dead, my great-uncle, the third earl, took responsibility for raising me. The dragon dowager was his wife. Just like you, they knew their duty to family and were quite punctilious about discharging their obligations. But, unlike you, they performed their duty with all the warmth and charm of a pair of testy hedgehogs."

He sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair, leaving it hopelessly disordered. "I don't mean that anyone was cruel to me. It was just that the Winstokes were very busy and I was very . . . insignificant, living in the margins of Hazelwood like a mouse in the larder. I was sent to school, though not Eton, of course. Eton was for heirs.

"I spent holidays at Hazelwood because there was nowhere else to go. I was given an allowance, a modest one, so I wouldn't get any ideas above my station, and a commission was purchased for me when I was old enough to be sent into the world. No one bothered to invite me to come back for a visit, although, to be fair, if I had visited, no one would have dreamed of asking me to leave. As a Howard, I had a right to be there. But that isn't quite the same thing as being welcome."

Reluctantly Meg felt a tug at her heart. There was no self-pity in Jack's voice. Just flat acceptance masking a sadness as large as all outdoors. She took a few steps toward the fire. "But now you're the master of Hazel-wood. Surely that will make a difference."

"I will be obeyed, of course, but hardly loved. There was never enough love to go around at Hazelwood, and my becoming the master won't instantly change that. I fell out of touch with the family and didn't realize how close I stood to the title. It was a shock to be summoned back to England to take up my responsibilities when my cousin, the fifth earl, died. I'm still not quite accustomed to the idea of being the head of the family." He smiled wryly. "The way you railed against the nobility made it even harder to confess my sins."

Meg bit her lip. She had sounded rather fishwifish. "You've only just arrived back in England from the Peninsula?"

"The very day I met you. The dowager countess arranged everything, but characteristically forgot to consult me about my wishes. Her secretary met me in London and presented me with a list of things I must do to avoid disgracing my new station. He couldn't bring himself to call me Lord Winstoke—in fact, he barely managed common civility. After half an hour of that, I succumbed to an attack of rebelliousness and walked out of the inn and got on the first coach I saw. It happened to be going to Bristol. The rest you know."

Meg perched on the edge of the sofa and held her hands toward the fire. She felt much warmer. "The countess sounds like a proper tartar."

"She is," Jack agreed. "Mind you, this is no easier for her than for me. Her own son and grandson have died—seeing me in their place will be a bitter pill to swallow. But she will accept and help me because that is her duty. I've no doubt that she and I will learn to rub along tolerably, but it was not a bad thing to refuse to spend Christmas at Hazelwood. She needs to know that I won't let her bully me."

Meg shivered again; there must be a draft. "So Brook Farm was merely a convenient place to hide from the countess."

"When I reached the George, I was running away, and any inn would have done." His grave blue eyes met hers. "But as soon as I saw you, I had something to run to. As I said at the time, I knew you were everything men fight for: home, warmth, love."

Meg linked her hands tightly in her lap. "You weren't secretly laughing at our rural simplicity?"

"Good God, Meg, no! I was so moved, so grateful, for the way you and your family welcomed me. I felt as if I'd come home after a lifetime of wandering. Meeting you seemed like fate. Nothing else could explain my being at exactly the right place at the right time with the right name, and the correct Jack Howard not being here." He gave her a crooked smile. "If I had told you the truth, I would have had to leave, and I couldn't bear the thought of that. It would have been like expulsion from the Garden of Eden."

Meg gave an involuntary chuckle. "It was Adam and Eve who were expelled—the role you played was the serpent."

Jack's expression eased at her laughter. "Not the serpent—just a cuckoo who landed in the wrong nest and was too happy to want to be cast out into the cold, cruel world."

She bit her lip. "I wouldn't have cast you out if I'd known you had no place to go for Christmas."

"Then don't cast me out now, Meg." He held his hand out to her.

Hesitantly Meg accepted it, and Jack tugged her down onto the carpet next to him. This close to the fire, it was much warmer, quite cozy in fact.

He clasped both her hands in his. "Yesterday I said that I had something to say to you, and then a question to ask. Now you know what I was going to tell you. Have you been thinking about your answer to the question?"

"Just what was the question, Jack?" Meg asked.

His brows lifted. "Don't you know?"

"I thought I did, but perhaps I was wrong." The expression in his eyes made Meg feel rather breathless. It was really quite warm now, almost uncomfortably so. "You had better say exactly what you mean."

Jack smiled at her tenderly. "I want to marry you, of course."

"Is it because you want me to protect you from the dowager countess?"

"No." He grinned. "Or at least that's only a small part of the reason. I want to marry you because I love you and will certainly go into a decline if banished from your presence." He lifted her hands and kissed first one, then the other.

Meg's fingers curled around his. "I'm dreadfully managing, you know. I would torment you unmercifully."

He looked hopeful. "Please torment me, Meg. You can't imagine how much I look forward to that."

She could not stop herself from laughing. "Are you never serious, you absurd man?"

"I am when I say that I love you." Suddenly solemn, he met her gaze. "Were you serious last night, Meg?"

She blushed and nodded. "I've never been in love before. This morning I felt like a bit of a fool when I realized that I'd fallen in love with a cuckoo."

Jack laughed and drew, her into his arms so that her head tucked under his chin. Meg relaxed against him, thinking how very large and comfortable he was.

He murmured into her ear, "You still haven't answered my question. Will you marry me?"

"I'll never make a proper countess."

"All it takes to be a proper countess is to marry an earl, and I'll take care of that part of it," he said, laughter in his voice. "With your warmth and wisdom, you'll make a countess such as Hazelwood has never known before."

Weakly she summoned the last argument she could think of. "We've known each other for only three days."

"But I've been looking for you all my life."

Meg caught her breath. It was easy to believe that he was a military hero, for he certainly knew how to destroy one's defenses. "Is it really that simple?"

"It is for me, Meg." He brushed her hair with one large hand. "And if you do love me, it should be simple for you too."

With a slow flowering of joy, Meg's hesitation dissolved. "It really is that simple, isn't it?" she said in a voice full of wonder. "Yes, Jack, I'll marry you."

He gave a whoop of delight and fell back onto the carpet, pulling her with him so that she was sprawled across his chest in a perfect position for serious kissing. For the next several minutes, guests and Christmas were utterly forgotten. Then came the faint squeaking sound of a tiny door opening, followed by a clear, "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

They stopped kissing and counted. "Nine o'clock," Jack said with satisfaction. "The clock is working just as it ought. Do you think your father would be pleased?"

"Good Lord!" Meg clapped her hand over her mouth. "I had completely forgotten about the deed and Peacock Hill. We must go tell the others. What an unforgettable Christmas this will be!"

Jack stood, then assisted Meg to her feet. "It already is."

As she made a token attempt to restore her appearance to that of a decorous older sister, Meg said mischievously, "I never realized that the cuckoo and his foster family might become attached to each other in spite of their differences. But then, I never met a Christmas cuckoo before."

Laughing, Jack put his arm around his ladylove's shoulders and escorted her to the door of the parlor. But just before leaving the room he gave the cuckoo clock a salute—as a mark of respect between two birds of a feather.