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  Love was born at Christmas.

  —Christina Rossetti

  Chapter One

  Edinburgh, 1807

  Rylla Campbell had long ago prepared her escape from the house in the middle of the night, but she had never before had occasion to use her plan. Quietly she shut her door behind her and went on stocking feet to the stairs, her heart pounding all out of proportion to the risk she was taking.

  Truthfully, it would have been an easy matter if only her friend Eleanor had not been staying with them until Christmas. Her parents, at the back of the house, were unlikely to hear her above her father’s snoring. But Eleanor was a light sleeper and her room lay between Rylla’s and the stairs. Though Elly was a dear friend, she was depressingly inflexible in her standards. She was the daughter of a minister in a small town, and worse, she seemed to have little taste for adventure. If she caught Rylla sneaking out of the house dressed in her brother’s old clothes, Elly would feel duty-bound to stop her.

  Fortunately, Rylla made it to the bottom of the stairs without Eleanor popping out of her room. She eased open the front door and stepped into the dark night. Remnants of yesterday’s snow lingered near the base of the houses, but it was not falling tonight. Instead, fog hung in wisps and patches and the cobblestoned streets glistened wetly from the dampness in the cold air. Rylla shivered. It was just the cold, she thought. It was not because she was scared of being alone outside so late at night. She could not allow herself to be frightened. She had to find her brother. It was almost Christmas, and she had to bring him home.

  Rylla went down the steps and started up the street. It was a trifle strange to walk alone like this in the hushed night. Strange, too, not to feel the movement of skirts around her legs as she walked. But she rather liked it. There was a freedom in wearing masculine attire—not just the ability to stride along at a rapid pace in breeches but the knowledge that no one would expect her to be shy or soft-spoken or sweetly dependent. Besides, though it was odd, even a little scary, there was a tingle of excitement, too, at the risk she was taking.

  It would be a scandal if she were caught—and then there were the lurking dangers people whispered about. But Rylla was certain she could pull it off. As long as she convinced everyone she was a man, she need not worry about the horrors that awaited a lone female. In fact, she quite looked forward to entering the mysterious world that only men were allowed to know.

  She was proud of the costume she had scavenged from a trunk in the attic. One of her brother’s old suits had to be altered only a trifle to fit her. The bulk of shirt, waistcoat, and jacket were enough to conceal the curves underneath. Thanks to the addition of a warm greatcoat, a hat, and a pair of Daniel’s old shoes stuffed with a sock in each toe, no one would suspect that this slender gentleman of medium height was in reality a woman. Rylla did wish she had thought to bring a fashionable cane to complete her costume, but it was not worth going back for it.

  It was fortunate that they had cut off her hair this fall when she had caught a fever, so she did not have to wear a wig. Her froth of golden curls gave her a decidedly effeminate look, but she had managed to smooth her hair back and straighten it with pomade. That had had the added advantage of darkening the color. Her voice was naturally husky, so she need only lower her tone a bit more. She had practiced her gestures and walk in front of the mirror half the afternoon.

  Rylla made her way toward the area below the castle, where she knew several of the gambling clubs Daniel frequented were located. They were not the staid gentlemen’s clubs where her father and his friends might go, but neither were they gambling hells of the sort springing up around the Grassmarket. She would be all right as long as she kept to games she knew and avoided deep play. She and Daniel had played cards for matchsticks many a winter evening. Having saved a good amount of her pin money, she could afford to lose a little.

  She started at Faraday’s, standing behind the tables and idly watching the play. There was no sign of Daniel or any of his friends. Of course, she did not know many of his new friends—the ‘bad lot’ that had been the subject of that last terrible row between her brother and her father.

  “First time here?” a pleasant male voice inquired.

  Rylla turned, taken aback at being addressed by a stranger. She recovered quickly, adopting the careless, bored air of a fashionable young gentleman. “Yes. I’ve been told it’s deuced fine play.”

  “Quite right. Name’s Harry Lindsay.” Her newfound friend gave her a nod.

  “Rolly Campbell.” Rylla supplied the alias she had chosen for its similarity to her own name. “Perhaps you know my cousin, Daniel.”

  “Daniel Campbell?” Harry Lindsay shook his head regretfully. “No, can’t say as I do.”

  “He’s the chap who recommended it. Thought I might run into him.”

  “He may come in if you stay. Say, there’s a table opening up. Shall we join it?”

  Rylla strolled over to the table with him. She was hesitant to play, but she could hardly stand about all evening doing nothing. As they sat down, Harry made a joke that she did not understand, but since he and the man on her other side laughed, Rylla laughed as well.

  One of the players at the table beside theirs glanced around at the sound of their laughter, and his gaze fell on Rylla. A curious feeling flickered through her. She looked away quickly. However, a moment later her eyes returned to the man. Even though he was lounging carelessly in his chair, it was easy to see that he was tall and lithely built. A sconce on the wall directly behind him gleamed on his gold hair, warming it with tones of red.

  Rylla pulled her attention back to the game. Harry ordered a bottle of port, and “Rolly” could hardly refuse a convivial glass. She took a drink and struggled to conceal the fact that it burned all the way down to her stomach, where it exploded. She managed not to cough, though her eyes watered a bit. She turned aside to conceal her reaction and saw that the man at the other table was watching her again.

  Rylla had a sudden fear that he had seen through her disguise. One of the other men at his table said something to him and he turned, smiling, and answered. His smile, she realized, warmed her insides as much as the liquor had, though fortunately not so explosively. She glanced back at him from time to time as they began to play.

  She wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to look at him. He was attractive enough, though not astoundingly so. But there was something about his slightly tousled hair that made her want to reach out and smooth it into place. Her nerves danced when she looked at his long narrow fingers, adorned with a plain gold and onyx ring on one hand. Absently he turned the ring with his thumb now and then, and that, too, stirred an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  It was the liquor, she decided. She was doing her best to appear to drink it while only sipping, even going so far as to surreptitiously dump half a glass on the floor at her feet. Still, she could not avoid drinking entirely, especially since Harry filled up her glass every time it was low.

  She listened for any mention of her brother or his friends and tried to work Daniel’s name unobtrusively into the conversation. It soon became clear that none of these men were going to be of any help. She wondered what the etiquette was for leaving a game. At least she had not lost all her money; indeed, she was a trifle ahead.

  One of the men pulled out a cigar and offered her one from his case. She took it with wh
at she hoped was an appearance of ease, covertly watching the others and copying their actions. The cigar, she discovered, was even fouler tasting than the port. It also made her cough. She downed the remainder of her glass just to remove the taste of the tobacco. After a couple of puffs, she mostly held the thing and knocked off the ash periodically. Now and again she would raise it to her lips without pulling the smoke into her mouth.

  Rylla was beginning to wonder if men had any sense of taste, given the things they were willing to put in their mouths. It was time to move on, but when she made to leave, Harry protested and poured yet more port in her glass. She glanced over at the table where the man with the red-blonde hair had sat and felt some disappointment in seeing that he was gone. It took her a moment to find him standing against the wall, chatting. He used his hands as he talked, and his face lit up expressively. He smiled, and once again that odd buoyant sensation bloomed in her chest.

  Next to her, Harry puffed out a stream of smoke, clouding the air, and Rylla’s stomach lurched. She was, she realized, feeling rather queasy. She remembered once when Daniel had been ill, he had told her privately that it was only from drinking so much the night before. Surely she had not drunk that much. She felt a trifle muddleheaded, but it wasn’t as if she was inebriated.

  Suddenly the combination of liquor and cigar smoke was more than she could stand. It was far too warm in here, as well. She knew that if she did not leave immediately, she would embarrass herself by casting up her accounts in front of everyone. Rylla shoved back her chair and stood up. She sent her tablemates a smile that was more a grimace. Grabbing her hat and coat, she made for the door.

  A man stepped back, knocking into her, and she stumbled. A hand lashed out and caught her arm, keeping her upright. Rylla turned her head and found herself looking up into the face of the man at whom she had been sneaking glances all evening.

  “Steady on.” His teeth flashed in a smile, and she saw that his merry eyes were a bright blue. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes!” Her mind was a blank and her cheeks burned. She pasted on a bright smile. No, that was probably too girlish a thing to do. Rylla pulled away and rushed out the door.

  The night air cooled her cheeks, and her stomach quieted. She shoved the hat onto her head and strode away. To her dismay she wobbled. Oddly, her brain seemed foggier now—though at least her stomach was no longer rolling. She had planned to visit another club, but she thought perhaps she should go home.

  She started up the steep slope, her feet slipping on the damp cobblestones. The fog had grown thicker. Suddenly a figure stepped out of a doorway in front of her. He held something in his hand and he reached out, grabbing her wrist.

  “Give me your money. Now!”

  Chapter Two

  Gregory Rose frowned slightly as he watched the young man hurry toward the door. He had noticed the fellow earlier, when he had heard that odd throaty laugh that affected him like a fingernail running up his spine. Gregory had almost expected to see a woman. Instead, there was only a table of men, one of them a lad of medium height wearing a too-large greatcoat. His dark blond hair was slicked back, and he had the sort of large-eyed, pretty features that guaranteed he had been the victim of upper-form bullies.

  It was easy to see that the youngster was a lamb in the company of wolves. Gregory had kept an eye on the boy, suspecting that the young man’s companion was a sharp. There was something else about the lad that bothered him, though he could not determine what. Gregory had smothered a smile at the expression on the boy’s face when he downed his first drink. A cigar later had turned him a mite green, but at least his stack of coins hadn’t dropped.

  When he left the table, the young man had staggered and Gregory had had to catch him to keep him from falling. He had realized then that the boy was not only inebriated but even slighter than he’d thought.

  Back at the table, the boy’s former companion gave a sharp upward nod with his chin. Gregory turned and saw a rough-looking fellow lever away from the wall and walk out the door. Frowning, Gregory grabbed up his coat and followed.

  Outside, he spotted the slender young gentleman heading up the hill. The other man followed quickly. Both men disappeared into the fog. Gregory hurried after them. He heard a shout ahead of him and broke into a run.

  “Hey!” Two figures struggled in the fog. The larger man glanced back at Gregory’s shout. He shoved the smaller one to the cobblestones and took off running. Gregory reached the boy. “Are you all right?”

  The lad nodded, gasping for air, his hand to his stomach.

  “Can you stand?” Gregory took his arm, pulling him up. When he released him, the young man swayed. Gregory grabbed his arm again. “Here, don’t pass out on me now.”

  “No, no, I won’t. I’m all right.” His voice was breathless and high with fright, but it had the same throaty rasp Gregory had heard in his laugh earlier. The sound skittered across Gregory’s nerve endings in a decidedly unsettling way.

  Gregory started up the street, his hand under the young man’s arm, trying not to think about the effect the stranger’s voice had on him.

  “He hit me!” The young man sounded more indignant than frightened now, but his steps were unsteady. He sagged against Gregory’s supporting hand.

  “My rooms are just ahead.” Gregory tightened his grip. “You can rest there a bit.”

  “What? No! No, I cannot.” Despite his words, he leaned more heavily against Gregory. Gregory was beginning to wonder if the lad would be able to make it to his building.

  “It’s fine.” Gregory was not sure what he was reassuring the boy about. “What’s your name?”

  “My name?” His tone was vague.

  “Yes. I am Gregory Rose.” When his companion made no reply, Gregory said encouragingly, “And your name is . . .”

  “Oh! Rolly. My name is Rolly.” He perked up at this feat of memory, but soon he was sagging again.

  Gregory plowed up the hill, taking more and more of the other man’s weight, though the difference in their heights made it difficult. They were almost to his door when Rolly stopped.

  “I—I feel odd.”

  Gregory eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not about to be sick, are you?”

  “I’m—I’m—” Rolly’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp.

  “Bloody hell!” Gregory wrapped his arm around Rolly tightly, holding him up. What the hell was he supposed to do with him now? Half carrying, half dragging the boy the last few feet, Gregory opened the door to his building and pulled him inside.

  It would be easier to drape Rolly over one shoulder and haul him up the stairs that way. However, Gregory was afraid Rolly really would empty the contents of his stomach if he did that. With a sigh, Gregory picked him up in his arms as though he were a child and began to climb the stairs. Thank goodness the chap was small.

  He propped Rolly up with one arm as he unlocked the door, then propelled him inside and over to the sofa. Rolly’s head lolled back, his arms falling to his sides.

  “Rolly?” Gregory patted his cheek. “Wake up, lad.” He lit a lamp and closed the door. Returning to the sofa, he gave the boy a more stinging pat.

  Rolly’s eyes flew open. He started to stand, but flopped back against the sofa, blinking. “Who are you?”

  “Gregory Rose. Remember?”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “You look deuced uncomfortable. Here, let’s get your coat off.” Gregory tugged him forward, grappling with one arm to remove the greatcoat.

  Rolly managed to sit up and help pull off his coat before he sank back against the cushion. There was a tear across the front of his jacket.

  “Good God!” Gregory leaned forward. It was no rip, but a clean slash. “He stabbed you!”

  “What!” Rolly sat up and fumbled at his jacket.

  Gregory helped him remove it. The waistcoat beneath held a similar slash on the front right side. Gregory let out a curse. He knelt on the floor in front of the sofa to unbut
ton Rolly’s waistcoat.

  “No, wait.” The young man stirred and shoved feebly at Gregory’s hands. “I can—”

  “Hush. He cut right through your clothes. I don’t see any blood, but we have to take a look.”

  With the waistcoat open, Gregory unknotted the lad’s neckcloth and started on the ties of his shirt. Annoyingly, Rolly squirmed, pushing ineffectually at Gregory’s hands.

  “Holy hell, stop twitching about like a blushing virgin.” Ties undone, Gregory grasped the sides of both shirt and waistcoat and shoved them apart.

  He stopped short, gaping. “You have breasts!”

  “Ohhhh . . .” The girl moaned, covering her face with her hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Gregory grinned, sitting back on his heels. “They are lovely breasts.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Rylla had never in her life been so thoroughly embarrassed. She let out a mortified groan and jerked the sides of her shirt together. Gregory was watching her with an amused grin on his face. His long masculine form was suggestively positioned between her legs. To make the situation even more humiliating, the sight of him there set up a strange heavy heat low in her abdomen. Whatever was the matter with her?

  “So you were masquerading as a man tonight—or a lad, I should say,” Gregory said.

  “A lad! I am fully twenty-two years old.” It occurred to Rylla that out of all this, she had seized on a peculiar thing to be indignant about.

  “A very ripe old age, indeed.” His blue eyes twinkled. “You must admit, though, you are the size of a stripling.”

  “There are any number of men my height. It is simply that you are abnormally tall.”

  “Ah, of course.” Annoyingly, his grin grew even wider. “I stand corrected.”

  “You aren’t standing at all,” she pointed out sourly, and he laughed. “Really, sir, please move. This is not at all proper.”