The door to Papa’s study was ajar. Thomasina hovered behind it, her heart thudding. Why had James made such absurd promises to her father? He couldn’t stay nearby forever. That made no sense at all.

He cared for her? She was turning this stunning notion over in her mind when her father’s snarl interrupted her reverie.

“In other words, you mean to make my daughter your whore.”

James broke the ensuing silence in a voice so icy she almost didn’t recognize it. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re worse than Sam,” Papa said. “At least he offers to marry her. Get out of my house, you misbegotten cur!”

Rage swirled up within Thomasina. She stormed into her father’s study. James, tight-lipped and pale, faced her father across the desk.

The purple blotches on Papa’s face deepened. “What the devil do you want, girl?

She set the decanter of brandy on the desk and stared him down. “Don’t you dare ask Mr. Blakely to leave!”

“I’m not asking, I’m ordering, and as for you, Thomasina—”

Thomasina had never been so enraged in her life. “If Mr. Blakely leaves, I shall go with him.”

Papa gaped at her, aghast.

“He will take me to stay with Colin and Bridget.” Thomasina turned to James. “Correct?”

“Of course, Miss Warren.” He smiled faintly. “Your wish is my command.”

Her father wheezed. “Hear me, girl. You may not leave!”

She strove to speak calmly. “Papa, it’s no use ordering me about.”

“Why you, you…” He ran out of breath and shrank, gasping, into his chair. Her heart sank. He was so ill, and—

But she mustn’t give in. If she didn’t stand up for herself now, she never would.

“I’m not a child any longer. I shall leave if I wish.” She pulled the bell to summon his valet.

Her father’s chest fluttered and heaved. He looked so helpless that her heart ached. “But truly, I don’t wish to.” She offered a smile. “Come now, Papa. Think what Mama would have said, if you’d tried to toss someone out on Christmas Eve. If you’re really not long for this world—not that I believe that, mind you—then you’d best be careful, or Mama will make trouble for you at the pearly gates.”

He gave a weak chuckle, but recovered quickly with a glower. “Very well, Blakely may stay—but only till Christmas is over.”

Which was as it should be, she thought sadly. James should leave as soon as possible. Papa might try again to coerce him to marry her.

And yet…he had said he cared for her.

Maybe James had meant exactly what he’d said—that he wouldn’t ask her to marry him, not because he didn’t love her, but because he refused to force her. To insult her. To assume that he knew better.

No. Much as she wished James loved her, she dared not draw such a conclusion. He liked her, and they shared a mutual attraction. He had promised to go to bed with her, whether out of kindness or to fulfill his own desire, or both. Now, he was doing his best to reassure a dying man. If Papa passed away, he would take her to Colin or another married male relative, just as she had asked—for he would put her wishes ahead of a promise to a dead man. It was an honorable way to help her out of an unwanted situation.

Except that what she wanted had changed.

“You’re here on sufferance, young man,” Mr. Warren said. “I expect you to do your best to get rid of the ghost. No more nonsense about deadly peril.”

“No nonsense at all,” James equivocated.

Mr. Warren narrowed his eyes, but suddenly a sly expression replaced the suspicion. His valet toddled in, and the old man said, “Be off with you. Both of you.”

Thomasina clenched her teeth, turned on her heel and left.

James followed. “Thank you for rescuing me. I feared I might have to find lodgings in the village, but that would have made it difficult to protect you.”

She flapped a hand at him and headed through the Great Hall toward the passageway to the kitchen.

He caught up with her. “Or I could have bedded down with Romulus in the stable. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found myself unexpectedly without shelter—but that wouldn’t do over the long term.”

“The long term won’t be necessary. Once Sam is gone, I shall be perfectly fine.”

He ignored that. “Although come to think of it, I daresay I could have hidden myself in your priest’s hole. You do have one, I assume?”

Her voice trembled. “No, we have not.”

“A hermit’s cell in the home wood, perhaps? It might be a bit chilly in this weather, but—”

“Please don’t make me laugh.” Briefly, her eyes met his. “I have to think, and I can’t when—”

Good God, were those tears? She dabbed at her eyes and once again left him behind.

If he read her father aright, the old curmudgeon still had hopes of forcing a marriage between them. Unfortunately, any attempt by Mr. Warren would likely make matters worse—perhaps had done so already. Did that explain Thomasina’s extreme uneasiness now?

“You will leave in a few days,” she said, “and in the meantime, we must avoid each other.”

Damnation. On the other hand, she’d said she had to think…about what?

Darkness had fallen, and the ghost was making his rounds to the tune of an obscene marching song. James chuckled, opening his mouth to share the jest with her—and shut it again. This wasn’t the right time. Maybe later, in bed, he would soften her up, wear down her resistance, and make her realize how perfect they were for one another.

“Max will protect me,” she said.

In her own way, she was as stubborn as the old man. “He can’t protect you from Sam Furbelow anymore,” James said. “Nor from your father’s machinations. Regardless of what he orders, I’m not going anywhere.”

“So very kind of you, but truly, you needn’t—”

A cry, followed by a series of thuds, came from the Great Hall.

Thomasina lifted her skirts and dashed past James, thankful for a reason to escape this conversation. She scurried into the Great Hall. Brother Antoine lay at the bottom of the staircase, groaning. Max appeared next to him, shouting in Latin, pointing up the stairs. James came into the room, followed by Joey.

“Are you hurt?” she asked the monk.

“It is nothing.” The monk tried raising himself on hands and knees, but crumpled with a yelp of pain.

“It’s not nothing,” she said. “You’ve broken something.”

He rolled onto his side, cradling his left wrist. “It is only a sprain.” He caught her eyes, a plea in his own. “It was the ghost. He pushed me!”

“Surely not.” James frowned and said something softly to Max. The ghost responded with a stream of furious Latin. Once again, James spoke calmly. The ghost vanished, and James put out a hand and helped the monk to stand. “Max says he didn’t do it, and I believe him. Ghosts don’t push people down the stairs.”

Papa came tottering out of his study in time to hear this. “So speaks the world’s greatest expert on the behavior of ghosts.”

A crack of nasty laughter came from the head of the stairs. Cousin Sam leaned over the balustrade. “The ghost was right here, making a racket, when you came into the room. Isn’t that so, Tommie-love?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t prove anything,” she retorted.

“He dropped a stone on me last night,” Sam said. “Since Brother Antoine is planning to exorcise him, it makes perfect sense that he pushed him. He wants to get rid of us both.”

He’s not the only one. “Perhaps he startled you, Brother Antoine, and you slipped.”

“He pushed me,” the monk insisted with a convincing shudder—and the same imploring expression in his eyes. “I felt a cold wind, and then a hand on my back.”

“The wind, perhaps. The hand on your back, impossible,” James said.

“What the deuce do you know about it, Blakely?” Papa said. “If you ask me, you’re nothing but a fraud.”

Thomasina had had enough. “If he is a fraud, I am too.” The instant the words were out, she regretted them. A gleam of hope entered Papa’s eyes. She should have kept her mouth shut; she needed to distance herself from James.

And yet how could she help but defend him?

“You’re a fool, girl. Not an ounce of commonsense in you,” Papa said.

She took hold of herself. She had refused every other attempt to marry her off, and she would do the same now. “Joey, please help Brother Antoine up to bed.”

“Aye, that’s a good notion.” Papa jabbed a finger at the monk. “Get better quickly, or else. The exorcism must take place as soon as Christmas is over.”

“Have no fear, I shall be perfectly well.” The monk moved slowly up the stairs, cradling his injured wrist.

Papa stomped away, and Sam vanished chortling along the passage toward his bedchamber.

“I’ll get some arnica and bandages.” Thomasina hastened up the stairs, and James followed. “Don’t come with me,” she snapped.

“I must. I intend to ask Brother Antoine for the truth.”

“Didn’t Max see what happened?”

“No, if you recall, he was outdoors marching.”

“Oh, very well.” She stopped at a cabinet in the corridor to look for rags and a pot of arnica paste. “Wait for me.” A wave of misery swept over her; she deserved no consideration at all. “Please.”

“Of course.”

Why must he be so patient and kind, when she’d done her best to push him away? It made it so hard to repulse him…but what choice did she have?

They found Joey helping Brother Antoine remove his coat. The monk was clearly in great pain. “I’ll help Miss Thomasina bandage him,” James told Joey. “Make sure no one else has a chance to accuse Max of pushing them down the stairs.”

Brother Antoine blanched, as if he wasn’t already white as his shirt, poor man. Thomasina spread arnica ointment on the monk’s wrist, and James held it while she bandaged it firmly with the rags. “That should do for now. If you would like some laudanum for the pain, let me know.”

“You are most forgiving, Miss Warren,” Antoine said. “I think you know that the ghost did not push me.”

“Did Furbelow order you to fall?” James demanded. “Or did he push you?”

The unhappy monk let out a sigh. “Both. I told him it was too dangerous, and he said it was up to me—risk breaking my neck on the stairs or have it done for me on the gallows. When I hesitated, he pushed me.”

“I never liked Sam, but how could he?” she cried. “He might have killed you!”

“And then, like a fool, I lied,” the monk said, “for fear that he would accuse me anyway.”

“I already told you that I would not allow Furbelow’s accusation to harm you,” James said.

The monk drooped, and Thomasina said, “Leave him be. He is in a most difficult situation, and in pain, too.”

“Very well,” James said. “Let’s go.”

In the corridor, she glanced up and down, but no one was nearby. Nevertheless, she spoke in a whisper. “I wish I knew why Sam is doing this.”

“So that a sudden death will be blamed on the ghost,” James said.

James regretted having to put it in so many words, but she deserved to know. At least she wasn’t avoiding him for the moment.

“Papa,” she breathed. “Oh, no!”

“I suggested as much to your father, but he wouldn’t even consider the possibility.”

“No, of course he wouldn’t,” and then, as it occurred to her, “You suspected this earlier. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you,” he admitted.

“Thank you, but I’m better off knowing the truth,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

“Protect your father as best we can. He won’t go outdoors in this weather, so we needn’t fear another falling stone. We’ll make sure he’s escorted up and down stairs. Remind me—what other methods has Max supposedly used in the past?”

“He chased the border reiver, who was gored by a bull.”

“Your father can’t run anymore, even if there were a bull close by, so that’s out. And there’s the well, but again, he won’t go outdoors, and even if he did, he couldn’t possibly stumble into it.”

“Maybe Sam will use another method that can be blamed on poor Max.”

“I’ll keep an eye on your father,” James said.

“Thank you. I shall do my best to avoid Sam, which will make it easier for you to avoid me.”

“My dear, sweet girl, I—”

“Please. I simply could not bear it.”

James threw up his hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you’d rather leave straightaway, I understand.”

He shook his head. She scurried down the corridor into her bedchamber and shut the door. Several seconds later, he heard the key turn in the lock.

Had she expected him to try to follow her, and only locked it when she realized he wouldn’t? Or had she merely had to hunt for the key?

Set it aside, James told himself. Once he’d rid the household of the would-be murderer, he would get on with courting…no, befriending Thomasina. He pondered several more agreeable alternatives to hovering in the neighborhood. His preference, he decided, was to abduct her, depositing her with one of her various relatives, who, although they would approve of James, would never dream of coercing her to marry him.

In the meantime, he was obliged to protect her father. And the ghost.

He found Joey stationed at the head of the stairs and took him to one side, where they could carry on a quiet conversation. “I don’t know if you overheard my discussion with Miss Warren just now?”

“No, sir. It ain’t proper to eavesdrop.” He reddened. “And I won’t never listen in on you and Miss Tommie, not even if Mr. Warren were to offer me a guinea to do so.”

“That’s kind of you,” James said. The old curmudgeon had already asked Joey to spy on them! “I fear Mr. Furbelow hopes to bring about Mr. Warren’s death in a manner that can be blamed on the ghost.”

“No!” Joey’s appalled expression testified to his innocence of eavesdropping.

“He pushed Brother Antoine down the stairs,” James said.

Joey frowned. “So why did that there monk say it were the ghost what done it?”

“To make a long story short, he’s afraid of Mr. Furbelow. In any event, it is now up to you and me to make sure Furbelow doesn’t succeed in harming Mr. Warren.”

Joey’s lips thinned with determination. “Right you are, sir.”

Leaving the footman in charge indoors, James put on his greatcoat and went into the garden. He found Max striding along the Wall by the orchard. The ghost glowered down at him. “It’s just like before. They’re all against me.”

“Not everyone. I know you are innocent, and so does Miss Thomasina, and so do Joey and Mick. So does the monk from Gaul.” That was the best description he could manage of Brother Antoine.

“He accused me,” Max said.

“You understood what he said?” James suspected that the ghost caught a great deal of English, even though he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—speak it.

“I do not need words to understand,” Max said huffily. “He is afraid of the Evil One.”

“Yes, he accused you to save his own skin. Look on the bright side, Max. As you told me yesterday, they can’t execute you again.”

“It is my duty to kill the Evil One.” He groaned. “But I cannot.”

“Precisely. You have no power over him, because he is not afraid. But he has power over you, because you allow him to anger you. Instead, you must save your strength for a true emergency. I am obliged to guard the old man, so—”

“Forget the old man. He will die soon anyway. The maiden is in deadly peril. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“I know she’s in danger, but I promised her that I would guard her father.”

“Why do you not heed my warnings?” Max cried.

“I am heeding them. I need you to keep watch over Miss Thomasina.”

“But I am no use!” the ghost wailed.

“Nonsense! You are precisely what is needed. You can remain silent and invisible. The Evil One will not know you are watching. If he seeks to harm her, indeed, if you see anything amiss, do not allow yourself to become enraged, or you will be accused once again. You may even lose your strength just when she needs you most. Remain calm and quiet and find me.”

The ghost flung up his arms in a gesture of hopelessness, and then he was gone.

The moment she turned the key in the lock, Thomasina regretted it. She’d just shut out the one person who stood up for her. Who cared about what happened to her.

And why had she done this? Out of fear.

Fear that her father would force James to marry her—when he could do no such thing. All she had to do was refuse. And refuse. And refuse. She’d stood up for herself once today, and it had felt so wonderful. Not for long, admittedly, but she’d managed to get what she wanted without harming Papa.

And fear of suffering—for she couldn’t imagine anything more painful than steadfastly refusing to marry the man she loved. How childish of her to say she couldn’t bear it—for bear it she could. And would.

To start, she had best stop thinking of herself. Worse than her fears was the horrid fact that she’d hurt James’s feelings. He’d looked so downcast, and it was all her fault. He was doing his level best to help her, and even to help her difficult father, who didn’t deserve it.

No, James was the deserving one here, and she mustn’t let fear drive her to unkindness. She would apologize for her rudeness, and afterwards remain cordial with him but continue to refuse marriage.

That decision made, she chose a festive gown and rang for Martha to help her dress for dinner. The only guests were the vicar, Mr. Willis, his wife, and their daughter Pauline. Later, the whole village would stop by for lamb’s wool and Christmas pie.

She arrived in the drawing room to find James already in conversation with the vicar—in Latin! He seemed to be enjoying himself, so maybe she hadn’t hurt him quite as much as she’d feared.

He gave her a kind smile of acknowledgement, but after that he returned his attention to Mr. Willis, and Thomasina was perforce obliged to converse with Mrs. and Miss Willis. At dinner, Papa made sure she sat next to James, which was horridly uncomfortable. She couldn’t apologize in front of all these people! James addressed a polite remark to her from time to time, but spent most of the meal drawing out Pauline Willis, on his other side, and receiving grateful looks from her mother across the table.

Heavens, she was actually a little jealous of shy Pauline! Meanwhile, Papa scowled every time he caught Thomasina’s eye, but as long as he didn’t bring up Mr. Tilson’s defection, she didn’t care.

Worst of all was Sam Furbelow. Whenever she chanced to look his way, she found him appraising her with what she assumed must be lust. But it wasn’t the friendly sort of lust she’d experienced with James, nor even the odious kind Sam had shown in the past. Now, his expression frightened her.

Mrs. Willis maundered on and on about the parishioners, their families, their illnesses, their scandals, weddings, and so on. At last, the meal almost over, she broached the one topic Thomasina had hoped to avoid.

“Speaking of weddings, we had expected to see Mr. Tilson here,” she said.

“He found, at the last moment, that he couldn’t come.” Thomasina changed the subject in a hurry, hoping Papa hadn’t noticed. “By the way, Mrs. Willis, I meant to ask for the recipe for your asparagus pudding, which we enjoyed so very much.”

“I’d be happy to give it to you, dear, but it’s hardly the right season.” Comprehension lit her eyes. “Ah! You are thinking ahead, aren’t you, my dear? Mr. Tilson is particularly fond of asparagus pudding.”

“I had no idea,” Thomasina said stonily, “but that’s not why I want it. Mr. Tilson and I have decided we shall not suit.”

“Dear me!” Mrs. Willis clapped her hands to her mouth. “When all was in train for a wedding! Only yesterday, your papa told us he meant to announce your engagement this evening, and ask the vicar to post the banns!”

She shot a glare at her father. “If you must know, I never accepted Mr. Tilson’s offer, and I would have told Mr. Willis that it was no such thing.” Mrs. Willis would spread the story far and wide, and people could believe it or not—Thomasina didn’t care.

“What a dreadful pity,” Mrs. Willis said. “Surely you don’t wish to be left a spinster!”

Until two days ago, she’d longed for exactly that. “Definitely, if the alternative is Mr. Tilson.” That was the closest she could get to suggesting that she might be willing to consider someone else.

Pauline giggled, but her mother couldn’t leave it at that. “What a kind gentleman Mr. Blakely is.”

Drat! She wanted James to take the hint, not Mrs. Willis. For the first time, a hint about a gentleman she actually liked very much—and she had to fend it off right in front of him.

She muffled a huff of fury and stood. “Shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?”

Even if James did care for her—and that was a big if—she had already destroyed any chance of an offer from him. He was good and kind, and truly noble, and he had already promised not to ask her to marry him.

Which was her own stupid fault, but how could she have known that one day she would meet the right man and fall in love?

It couldn’t be too late. Surely there was something she could do.

After tea, everyone assembled in the Great Hall except the monk, who took a dose of laudanum and went to bed. A trestle table was set up to hold the cauldrons of lamb’s wool and dishes of Christmas pie. The villagers filed in for the holiday treat. Thomasina doled out cups of the hot, aromatic beverage, while Mrs. Day and Martha served the pie. Soon everyone was very merry indeed.

Except James, who was too busy being alert, and Thomasina, whose tired and worried expression he longed to kiss into a smile.

And Sam Furbelow, who prowled around the room, his eyes shifting from side to side, except when they settled on Thomasina with an expression so intent that it was all James could do to stop himself from punching the dastard in the face. Meanwhile, he had to keep an eye on Mr. Warren, who sat by the fire and accepted the good wishes of his tenants and neighbors.

Under these circumstances, what could Furbelow do to harm the old man? Nothing, as far as James could see.

Max appeared beside him, pointing at Thomasina’s elegant figure. He mimed pulling her into his arms and kissing her.

James muttered, “When the time is right.”

“Now is the time,” growled Max. “With all these people here to see, make her yours.”

James sighed. He couldn’t expect Max to understand proper behavior. “Later tonight, I shall.”

“That will be too late!” With a bloodcurdling wail that turned every head in the room, Max vanished.