LITMIR.BIZ

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and that would be his fault.

      They must marry. And he must somehow convince her to keep their union platonic.

      Amalie puffed out a breath of frustration. What was she to do about Napier and his dratted guilt? Mrs. MacTavish seemed determined to keep it at the forefront of his mind. For some reason, the woman had not yet poisoned his little son’s opinion of the father, though. One would think she would have done so at every opportunity.

      Her mother chose that moment to enter the parlor. She carried several swatches of fabric with her and sat down beside Amalie, plopping the samples in her lap. “Which do you think for your gown, my dear? Should it be the pale blue—a color that will surely enhance your eyes—or the yellow to highlight your hair?”

      The dress didn’t signify, Amalie thought impatiently. What did it matter whether she made a beautiful bride or not? Napier would probably not notice in any event. “It doesn’t matter, Mama. Whatever you think.”

      “I like the blue.” She glanced up from the swatches. “Are you afraid of him?”

      The question jerked Amalie from her musing about Napier’s regard. “Afraid? Why ever should I be afraid of him? He’s a perfectly nice man!”

      Her mother shrugged as she nervously fiddled with the fabrics. “For a Scot, I suppose. They are notorious for quick tempers. And Mrs. MacTavish has said he was overly…passionate. Before, you know, with her daughter. Your father and I shouldn’t like you to be exposed to such.”

      Amalie coughed a short laugh of disbelief that her mother would even broach such a subject. “You and Father discussed this?”

      “Of course we did! And he is not so set on the marriage as you suppose. Michael is adamant we go forth, however. I think he fair worships Captain Napier.”

      Amalie figured it was time she asserted herself. For months now, she had decided on nothing for herself, letting the winds of life blow her whatever way they would. She had become the very kind of woman she had always pitied before. No more of that. If her life was to be her own, she must direct it.

      “I will marry him, Mother, and you are not to worry.” She plucked one of the samples. “I choose the blue, a simple empire style, no embellishment, save a white lace frill at the neckline.”

      Her mother frowned. “You are certain? About Napier, I mean.”

      “I am certain. He is the one.”

      That drew a small gasp. “I should have a talk with you before you’re wed. Your father says I should.”

      Amalie patted her mother’s hand. “Unnecessary, I assure you.” Tempted as she was to see just how her mother would address the matters of the marriage bed, Amalie would spare her sensibilities. “I am well-read and observant, too.” She leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek. “And I will muddle through as all women do, I expect.”

      She noted her mother’s frowning glance at her immobile legs and the slight shake of her head. Mama said nothing, but she was very obviously wondering how…

      “Either we will manage or we won’t. As it stands now, Napier wishes our marriage to be in name only.”

      And when that changes, Mama, Amalie thought to herself, you need never know it.

      “In name only. My, what a relieving notion.” Satisfied, her mother kissed her cheek and left, humming a little tune. Amalie belatedly recognized it as the off-color song she had played as a poor jest to discombobulate them soon after her betrothal.

      Perhaps Mama knew her better than she thought.

      Well, Amalie realized if she meant to take charge of her life, there was no time like the present to begin. She envied Napier his mobility. She envied his determination. And she dearly wanted to prove him right about her own ability to walk.

      Could she have given up too soon? The truth was, she had never felt she deserved a normal life after the tragedy that was her fault. If only she had not been so set on riding Morgana, the mare Father had warned her not to attempt.

      She had made friends with the roan, had her taking sugar lumps and apples out of hand without biting. Amalie had even sat astride Morgana’s back without incident. It was only when she took her out of the enclosure that the poor thing had gone wild.

      Then Jem, the stable lad she had known since their infancy, was trampled to death trying to keep the mare from attacking Amalie after she’d been thrown. And Father had ordered the beautiful Morgana put down.

      Two needless deaths, Amalie thought with a sigh. Her fault entirely. Did she have the right to recover?

      On the other hand, did she have the right not to make the most of her life in recompense for the loss of Jem’s?

      She made her decision.

      Carefully, Amalie did a half turn, braced her hands firmly on the arm of the settee and pushed herself up. She balanced, stiff, tense, afraid to breathe. But she had barely straightened fully when the muscles in her legs trembled and then, as if her bones turned to liquid, gave way. She fell back to the cushions with a solid thunk.

      “So much for will and effort,” she grumbled under her breath. But in that all too brief second or two, she had felt almost whole again and she craved more.

      Chapter Six

      Plans marched forward for a wedding that would take place just after the holidays. The new year would mark the beginning of Amalie’s new life as a married lady. Mrs. MacTavish would stay on for the ceremony. Little David had been the deciding factor there. She would not leave without him and knew that Napier would not let him go.

      Whatever the reason, Amalie was delighted the boy would be there. She grew fonder of the child every day. He was noisy, overactive and into constant scrapes just as her younger brother had been at that age.

      It would be such a joy to have a little one about for the holidays. And afterward, too. Perhaps for good if she could convince Napier that they could manage him better than the grandmother.

      If only her secret attempts to stand on her own, to eventually walk again, were more successful. Then they could have some semblance of a normal family life to offer David. She knew she would keep trying.

      Each time she tried, she managed to balance upright for a few seconds longer. Almost a full minute now, though she couldn’t take a step to save her life. But one day she meant to go skipping about the meadows the way she used to, hopefully with a child or two in tow. The burgeoning hope certainly put her in a holiday mood.

      Amalie always considered herself fortunate to live in the country where they celebrated the holidays. City folk hardly ever did, so she heard.

      Thankfully, this house always spent the entire month of December festooned with greenery and berries. The mouthwatering smells of baking cakes and puddings filled each day as preparations got well under way.

      No one reveled more in the expectations of good things to come than the younger Napier. This evening they would exchange gifts to mark the season. David crouched eagerly beside the fire as Michael helped him roast chestnuts.

      “Do you think Grandmama will like these?” he asked her brother.

      Michael raked a few from the coals and set them into the pile that was cooling on the hearth. “When you sack them up in that silky pouch you helped Amie to stitch, your grandmama will love it. Marvelous idea you had there, mate!”

      David looked so serious as he gripped the bag they had made out of scraps and ribbon. His sooty little fingerprints only added to its charm as far as Amalie was concerned. Mrs. MacTavish had better think so, too.

      Amalie thought of the jaunty cap she had made for the boy from a length of wool Napier had snipped from his Blackwatch plaid. A braw bonnet, Napier had called it as he voiced his approval. She had of necessity asked his opinion as to whether it resembled enough the tams that Scotsmen wore. She had added a pom of red

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