She led him away by the hand. “Come, you must see the baby.”

When they were gone, Claxton drew Sophia into the circle of his arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She eased against him with a deep sigh, curling her fingers in the front of his shirt. In that moment she decided it was very nice to have someone to lean upon. With her sisters, being the eldest, she always provided the comfort, the calming words. In this moment, being in her husband’s arms felt very right.

“For once, I agree with Annabelle.” She chuckled. “Ghastly and beautiful all at once. It is true what they say, babies are miracles, and this one a Christmas miracle.”

Claxton said nothing. Her chest rose and fell as she inhaled and exhaled—a more labored effort with each passing breath. How could she feel so happy and so sad all at the same time? The smile faded from her lips.

“I just wish—I just wish—” Emotion welled in her throat, so sudden her voice broke and she seized his arm with both hands.

“Yes, I do as well,” he murmured near her ear and pulled her closer. She rested her head on his chest and in a ragged gasp inhaled his scent.

Tears overspilled her lashes. “Things should have been different for us—”

“Yes, they should have been.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

The words unlocked a floodgate inside her heart. As she should have done those months before after losing their baby, she sobbed against her husband’s chest, taking comfort in him as he held her, murmuring soothing words until his shirt was soaked through.

She drew back, wiping at her eyes with the handkerchief he’d given her. “Claxton, who are the Branigans?”

“We had a lot of time to talk while we were waiting,” he answered. “They came from London, having both lost their employment there. Hers because her employer realized she was with child. And him not long after, when the cooperage in which he worked burned down.”

She gasped, remembering. “Yes, the cooperage on Sagemont Lane. I remember last month when the warehouse burned. The fire lit up the entire night sky.”

Claxton nodded and smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It being November and a slow time to find work, they soon became destitute. Refusing to have their child born at the poorhouse, they spent their last shillings to pay for the ferry crossing over, where they hoped to throw themselves on the mercy of a distant relation. Only when they arrived, they discovered the old woman had died.”

She tucked the sodden handkerchief in her pocket. “To be so helpless, with no one to turn to, while others such as ourselves enjoy such privilege.” Sophia’s heart broke for the young couple. “Why, it’s unfair. They had nowhere else to go but here.”

“But here’s the deuced thing. I know Mr. Branigan, or at least I used to.”

Sophia reacted in shock. “No!”

He nodded with a smile. “My mother employed his father and mother one summer for a brief period of perhaps two weeks to assist Mr. Kettle with the gardens and the stable. I remember, it was an expense the house accounts could ill afford, and she hated sending them away.”

“And they had a son.”

“Yes. I had little dealings with the parents. To be honest, I didn’t even recall their family name, but their boy’s name was Adam and sometimes he played with Haden and me. We ran all over this place and the village and the woods, causing all sorts of trouble.”

“So he knew about the huntsman’s cottage from playing there with you. And I’d venture to say you showed him how to get inside the house through the Evil Dark Spirit Room, didn’t you?”

His lips gave a little twitch. “Yes, we did—I had forgotten all about it—and we were both sent to bed with no supper for doing so. We’d been warned by my mother countless times to keep the secret entrance to the house—well, secret. Living here very much alone and unprotected sometimes weighed on her mind, and if there’d been any sort of threat, we could have safely hidden there or escaped the house. Despite her generosity, the Branigans were little more than strangers.”

“She didn’t appreciate that you’d essentially given them a key to the house.” She squeezed his arm.

He covered her hand with his. “He’d always remembered this place with fondness and came here. They slept several nights upstairs, going about during the day looking for work. They built only the smallest fire, and only at night, afraid someone would see the smoke from the chimney.”

“Then we arrived,” said Sophia.

He nodded. “They hid in the attic until the day before yesterday but feared discovery. When we left for the village, they took refuge in the huntsman’s cottage, only to realize in their haste they’d left a small box containing their personal papers. Necessary letters of reference and whatnot.”

“Mr. Branigan came back for it, and I surprised him. I’m certain that given the situation, he was too embarrassed to introduce himself as an old acquaintance.”

“That’s what happened.”

“We can’t just turn them out, Claxton. Even if there is now room at the village inn, I can’t see sending them there, not with a newborn. Not at Christmas.”

He nodded. “In the morning we’ll set them up in the old stable master’s quarters. They can stay there until the storm passes and Mrs. Branigan has recovered enough for them to move on.”

The remainder of the evening passed quickly. Only periodically did the silence break with the sound of a newborn’s cry. When that occurred, Mrs. Kettle went to offer her assistance. Without specifically gaining permission, Lord and Lady Meltenbourne set up in one of the spare bedrooms. Mr. and Mrs. Kettle took their old quarters. Sophia produced keys to the storage rooms and closets, and soon all the necessary beds were made up and everyone had their place.

At last, late that night, Sophia and Claxton retired together to their room.

Claxton leaned against the inside of the door, his arms crossed behind his back. He watched her remove the pins from her hair, admiring the exposed curve of her neck, the pale skin there—

But, oh yes, her hair down was paradise. He swallowed hard, wanting nothing more than to drag her into bed.

“Mr. Kettle predicts that the frost will break tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to leave Lacenfleet?”

“I pray he’s right. Oh, to be home for Christmas.” Sophia smiled. “But we haven’t finished the final quest. We can’t leave until we do.”

Relief crashed through him, knowing that she would not abandon him at the first opportunity. Though he felt they’d at last come to terms with the loss of their baby, a troublesome distance lingered behind her gaze and in her hesitant manner. Guilt struck him through. He ought to be grateful for all they’d achieved this past day. But he wanted more. He demanded more.

“We’ll return to the cottage in the morning. The final quest shouldn’t take long, being that all the duels and babies are out of the way.”

Sophia turned to him. “To think that four days ago I imagined us snowbound, hopelessly cut off from the rest of the world. Since that time I have never in my life encountered so many memorable people, or been witness to so many uncommon events.”

“Memorable people? Uncommon events?” He chuckled. “That’s a very diplomatic way of describing things as I saw them.”

Sophia brushed out her hair. “Looking back, I believe these have been four of the most entertaining days of my life. But I suppose it can’t last forever. It is almost Christmas.”

He went to the bed and lay back on the pillows, his booted legs extended to the side. “Your family will allow me in the door, I hope?”

“Of course they will. Just like last year, we’ll spend Christmas Eve at my grandfather’s. We’ll burn the Yule log, light the Christmas candle, and decorate the tree.”

“What else?” He closed his eyes and listened to her talk, thinking no other sound had ever been so soothing.

“There’ll be a roast goose and Cook’s special plum pudding. Grandfather always does the honors, lighting it ablaze, and we always send half to the servants’ quarters, where they are having their own happy celebration. We’ll play ridiculous games like bob apple and snap dragon and sing songs.”

“Sounds divine,” he murmured, watching her through slitted eyes as she removed her spencer. “As long as I’m not required to sing. I’d hurt everyone’s ears.”

Sophia glanced over her shoulder to find him watching her intently. Turning back to the cabinet behind the screen of the door, she removed the folded square of paper from her corset and slid the list underneath her folded stockings. The list was the one thing that kept her from being swept away by a crushing wave of new and overwhelming feelings for Claxton. The list was her rock. Her anchor. The only thing that kept her grounded in reality.

But being present for the birth of the Branigans’ child made her only more determined to have a baby of her own. Which meant making love, again and again, as many times as they could manage in these times spent alone.

Just the thought of him naked quickened the pace of her blood, dizzying her.

With yesterday’s ludicrous theory that they should proceed without kissing or romance having been thoroughly blasted to bits, her way of thinking had altered. Wasn’t it her right as a wife to enjoy the act of lovemaking for as long as life allowed and to embrace these memories in the making with enthusiasm?

She’d not brought any of her prettier sleeping gowns. When she’d packed for her stay at Camellia House, she’d expected to spend three days alone moping, crying, and writing a letter, all in dull gray flannel. She would have to make do.