Julie Garwood - The Gift

Yet while Lawrence thoroughly disliked the earl, he couldn't help but like Nathan. He'd been in the boy's company several times, noticed on each occasion that Nathan listened to the views the others had to give, and then did what he felt was best. He was just fourteen, yes, but he had already become his own man. Lawrence respected him. He felt a little sorry for him, too, for in all their visits together Lawrence had never once seen him smile. He thought that was a pity.

The St. James clan never called the marquess by his given name, though. They referred to him simply as "boy," for in their eyes he had still to prove his worth to them. There were tests he would have to conquer first. The relatives didn't doubt the lad's eventual success. They believed he was a natural leader, knew from his size that he would be a giant of a man, and hoped, above all other considerations, that he would develop a streak as mean as their own. He was family, after all, and there were certain responsibilities that would fall on his shoulders.

The marquess kept his gaze directed on the king of England as he made his way over to stand in front of him. The baron watched him closely. He knew Nathan had been instructed by his uncles not to kneel before his king unless commanded to do so.

Nathan ignored their instructions. He knelt on one knee, bowed his head, and stated his pledge of loyalty in a firm voice. When the king asked him if he was his patriot king, a hint of a smile softened the boy's expression.

"Aye, my lord," Nathan answered. "You are my patriot king."

The baron's admiration for the marquess increased tenfold. He could see from the king's smile that he was also pleased. Nathan's relatives weren't. Their scowls were hot enough to set fires. The Winchesters couldn't have been happier. They snickered in glee.

Nathan suddenly bounded to his feet in one fluid motion. He turned to stare at the Winchesters for a long, silent moment, and the look on his face, as cold as frost, seemed to chill the insolence right out of the men. The marquess didn't turn back to the king until most of the Winchesters were intently staring at the floor. The St. James men couldn't help but grunt their approval.

The lad wasn't paying any attention to his relatives. He stood with his legs braced apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and stared straight ahead. His expression showed only boredom.

Lawrence walked directly in front of Nathan so that he could nod to him. He wanted Nathan to know how much his conduct had pleased him.

Nathan responded by giving the baron a quick nod of his own. Lawrence hid his smile. The boy's arrogance warmed his heart. He had stood up to his relatives, ignoring the dire consequences that were sure to come, and had done the right thing. Lawrence felt very like a proud father-an odd reaction to be sure, for the baron had never married and had no children to call his own.

He wondered if Nathan's mask of boredom would hold up throughout the long ceremony. With that question lurking in the back of his mind he went to fetch the bride.

He could hear her wailing when he reached the second story. The sound was interrupted by a man's angry shout. The baron knocked on the door twice before the earl of Winchester, the bride's father, pulled it open. The earl's face was as red as a sunburn.

"It's about time," the earl bellowed.

"The king was delayed," the baron answered.

The earl abruptly nodded. "Come inside, Lawrence. Help me get her down the stairs, man. She's being a mite stubborn."

There was such surprise in the earl's voice, Lawrence almost smiled. "I've heard that stubbornness can be expected of such tender-aged daughters."

"I never heard such," the earl muttered. " 'Tis the truth this is the first time I've ever been alone with Sara. I'm not certain she knows exactly who I am," he added. "I did tell her, of course, but you will see she isn't in the mood to listen to anything. I had no idea she could be so difficult."

Lawrence couldn't hide his astonishment over the earl's outrageous remarks. "Harold," he answered, using the earl's given name, "you have two other daughters, as I recall, and both of them older than Sara. I don't understand how you can be so-"

The earl didn't let him finish. "I haven't ever had to be with any of them before," he muttered.

Lawrence thought that confession was appalling. He shook his head and followed the earl into the chamber. He spotted the bride right away. She was sitting on the edge of the window seat, staring out the window.

She quit crying as soon as she saw him. Lawrence thought she was the most enchanting bride he'd ever seen. A mop of golden curls framed an angelic face. There was a crown of spring flowers on her head, a cluster of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her brown eyes were cloudy with more.

She wore a long white dress with lace borders around the hem and wrists. When she stood up the embroidered sash around her waist fell to the floor.

Her father let out a loud blasphemy.

She repeated it.

"It's time for us to go downstairs, Sara," her father ordered, his voice as sour as the taste of soap.

"No."

The earl's outraged gasp filled the room. "When I get you home I'm going to make you very sorry you've put me through this ordeal, young lady. By God, I'm going to land on you, I am. Just you wait and see."

Since the baron didn't have the faintest idea what the earl meant by that absurd threat, he doubted Sara understood any better.

She was staring up at her father with a mutinous expression on her face. Then she let out a loud yawn and sat down again.

"Harold, shouting at your daughter isn't going to accomplish anything," the baron stated.

"Then I'll give her a good smack," the earl muttered. He took a threatening step toward his daughter, his hand raised to inflict the blow.

Lawrence stopped in front of the earl. "You aren't going to strike her," he said, his voice filled with anger.

"She's my daughter," the earl shouted. "I'll damn well do whatever it takes to gain her cooperation."

"You're a guest in my home now, Harold," the baron replied. He realized he was also shouting then and immediately lowered his voice. "Let me have a try."

Lawrence turned to the bride. Sara, he noticed, didn't seem to be at all worried by her father's anger. She let out another loud yawn.

"Sara, it will all be over and done with in just a little while," the baron said. He knelt down in front of her, gave her a quick smile, and then gently forced her to stand up. While he whispered words of praise to her he retied the sash around her waist. She yawned again.

The bride was in dire need of a nap. She let the baron tug her along to the door, then suddenly pulled out of his grasp, ran back to the window seat, and gathered up an old blanket that appeared to be three times her size.

She made a wide path around her father as she hurried back to the baron and took hold of his hand again. The blanket was draped over her shoulder and fell in a heap on the ground behind her. The edge was securely clasped under her nose.

Her father tried to take the blanket away.

Sara started screaming, her father started cursing, and the baron developed a pounding headache.

"For God's sake, Harold, let her have the thing."

"I'll not," the earl shouted. "It's an eyesore. I won't allow it."

"Let her keep it until we reach the hall," the baron commanded.

The earl finally conceded defeat. He gave his daughter a good glare, then took up his position in front of the pair and led the way down the stairs.

Lawrence found himself wishing Sara was his daughter. When she looked up at him and smiled so trustingly he wanted to take her into his arms and hug her. Her disposition underwent a radical change, however, when they reached the entrance to the hall and her father once again tried to take her blanket away.

Nathan turned when he heard the noise coming from the entrance. His eyes widened in astonishment. In truth, he was having difficulty believing what he was seeing. He hadn't been interested enough to ask any pertinent questions about his bride, for he was certain his father would have the documents overturned as soon as he returned to England, and for that reason he was all the more surprised by the sight of her.

His bride was a hellion. Nathan had trouble maintaining his bored expression. The earl of Winchester was doing more shouting than his daughter was. She, however, was far more determined. She had her arms wrapped around her father's leg and was diligently trying to take a fair chunk out of his knee.

Nathan smiled. His relatives weren't as reserved. Their laughter filled the hall. The Winchesters, on the other hand, were clearly appalled. The earl, their unspoken leader, had pulled his daughter away from his leg and was now involved in a tug of war over what resembled an old horse blanket. He wasn't winning the battle, either.

Baron Lawrence lost the last shreds of his composure. He grabbed hold of the bride, lifted her into his arms, snatched the blanket away from her father, and then marched over to Nathan. With little ceremony he shoved the bride and the blanket into the groom's arms.

It was either accept her or drop her. Nathan was in the process of making up his mind on the matter when Sara spotted her father limping toward her. She quickly threw her arms around Nathan's neck, wrapping both herself and her blanket around him.

Sara kept glancing over his shoulder to make certain her father wasn't going to grab her. When she was certain she was safe she turned her full attention to the stranger holding her. She stared at him for the longest while.

The groom stood as straight as a lance. A fine sweat broke out on his brow. He could feel her gaze on his face yet didn't dare turn to look at her. She just might decide to bite him, and he didn't know what he would do then. He made up his mind that he would just have to suffer through any embarrassment she forced on him. He was, after all, almost a man, and she was, after all, only a child.

Nathan kept his gaze directed on the king until Sara reached out to touch his cheek. He finally turned to look at her.

She had the brownest eyes he'd ever seen. "Papa's going to smack me," she announced with a grimace.

He didn't show any reaction to that statement. Sara soon tired of watching him. Her eyelids fell to half mast. He stiffened even more when she slumped against his shoulder. Her face was pressed up against the side of his neck.

"Don't let Papa smack me," she whispered.

"I won't," he answered.

He had suddenly become her protector. Nathan couldn't hold onto his bored expression any longer. He cradled his bride in his arms and relaxed his stance.

Sara, exhausted from the long ride and her strenuous tantrum, rubbed the edge of her blanket back and forth under her nose. Within bare minutes she was fast asleep.

She drooled on his neck.

The groom didn't find out her true age until the barrister began the reading of the conditions for the union.

His bride was four years old.

London, England, 1816

It was going to be a clean, uncomplicated kidnapping.

Ironically, the abduction would probably hold up in the courts as a completely legal undertaking, save for the niggling breaking and entering charges, of course, but that possibility wasn't the least significant. Nathanial Clayton Hawthorn Baker, the third marquess of St. James, was fully prepared to use whatever methods he deemed necessary to gain success. If luck was on his side, his victim would be sound asleep. If not, a simple gag would eliminate any sounds of protest.

One way or another, legal or nay, he would collect his bride. Nathan, as he was called by those few friends close to him, wasn't going to have to act like a gentleman-a blessing, that, considering the fact that such tender qualities were completely foreign to his nature anyway. Besides, time was running out. There were only six weeks left before he would be in true violation of the marriage contract.

Nathan hadn't seen his bride since the day the contracts were read fourteen years earlier, but the picture he'd painted in his mind wasn't fanciful. He didn't have any illusions about the chit, for he'd seen enough Winchester women to know there wasn't any such thing as a pick of the litter. They were all a sorry lot in both appearance and disposition. Most were pear-shaped, with big bones, bigger derrieres, and, if the stories weren't exaggerated, gigantic appetites.