A Renwick House Christmas Boxed Set Read online

  A Renwick House Christmas Box Set

  With stories from

  Leah Sanders & Rachel Van Dyken

  Copyright © 2019 LEAH SANDERS and RACHEL VAN DYKEN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  A RENWICK HOUSE CHRISTMAS BOX SET

  TWO TURTLEDOVES

  Copyright © 2015 LEAH SANDERS

  THE DEVIL DUKE TAKES A BRIDE

  Copyright © 2015 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

  Cover Art by P.S. Cover Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Two Turtledoves

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About The Author

  Books By Leah Sanders

  The Devil Duke Takes A Bride

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Also By Rachel Van Dyken

  Two Turtledoves

  Two Turtledoves

  by Leah Sanders

  Copyright © 2015 LEAH SANDERS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  TWO TURTLEDOVES

  Copyright © 2015 LEAH SANDERS

  Cover Art by P.S. Cover Design

  For my sisters:

  Sarahlee, Rebekah, Liz, Amy, and Ann — for all the times you wanted me to kiss and tell but I refused…

  I love you guys!

  Prologue

  The mourning call of the turtledove echoed across the field, muffled only by the rustling of the nearby trees in the mild summer breeze. From the far side, a lone figure, a boy no older than one and six, carried a musket at the ready, wading through the tall field grass with a slow, deliberate gait. His gaze scoured the land all around him. The crack of a twig brought him swinging around to take aim at the disturbance, but his sudden movement startled the prey, sending it scurrying back into the cover of the nearby thicket.

  He shook his head and turned in the opposite direction, following his original path. His bright copper hair danced in the light gust sweeping the field as he traipsed forward once again, musket at the ready.

  A piercing scream mingled with the call of the turtledoves, startling the hunter and the wildlife. There was an instant rush in the trees as birds took to wing. The boy craned his neck in the direction of the unearthly wail. It seemed to come from beyond the line of trees.

  Somewhere in the blur of thick foliage, he seemed to catch sight of something he wasn’t expecting. Patches of bright blue interspersed among the leaves high in a tree glittered in the sunlight.

  Tiptoeing forward, he made his way through the field to stand directly under the giant oak. He slung his musket over his shoulder, crossed his arms, and gazed up into the branches at the offending apparition.

  “Young Miss Trent, I presume?”

  Her only response was a pitiful whimper. She gazed down on him with wide brown eyes which glistened with fresh tears.

  “Are you stuck?” he asked.

  After a moment of hesitation, she answered with a loud sniffle. “Yes.”

  “Then I shall rescue you, fair damsel,” he announced, sweeping low into a grand bow. He removed his musket sling and game satchel and leaned them against the base of a nearby elm. Without further ado, he reached for the lowest branch and hoisted himself up, crawling higher and higher until he reached her side.

  “Alas, fair lady, your knight has arrived.” His most dazzling smile comforted the frightened girl. “However did you come to be imprisoned here in this tower, Princess?”

  “My foot is stuck.”

  “I see. This is a grave situation indeed. May I?” He gestured to her slipper. Her mousy brown pigtails bounced when she nodded her assent.

  With a gentle twist, the boy freed her foot from its confinement. He lifted her into his arms and started back down the tree.

  Once safe on the ground, he set the little girl on her feet and knelt on one knee to examine her face‑to-face.

  “Are you well, Princess?”

  She bobbed her head again and threw her arms around his neck.

  “There now, Princess,” he said, patting her gently on the back. “All is well.”

  As if she remembered her part in the farce, she released him and stepped back with a coy smile and a sweet curtsy. “Thank you, Sir Knight, for rescuing me.”

  “At your service, my lady,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing at the waist. “‘Tis my sworn duty to protect a lady of the realm.”

  She giggled. Her eyes shone bright with joy in their little game.

  “Are you hungry, Princess?” He picked up his hunting satchel and reached inside it, fishing out a shiny red apple and a hard biscuit.

  The little girl smiled wide, showing a gap where her two front teeth used to be.

  “Oh, dear. I suppose the apple is out of the question then,” the boy said with a wink. “Unless…” he paused thoughtfully, then reached a hand into his bag once more, retrieving a small hunting knife with triumphant flair. “Ta-da!”

  She clapped and shrieked with laughter.

  “Apple, Princess?”

  Her enthusiastic nod sent him straight to work peeling and slicing the fruit into crisp slivers.

  They sat under the tree together. He handed the juicy slices to her one at a time, and she munched on them happily. “Thank you, Sir Knight!”

  “You, my dear princess, may call me Baldwyn.”

  “Baldwyn,” she tried it out, chasing it with a
short burst of bubbly little girl laughter.

  “There now. Isn’t this much better than being stuck up in that old tree?”

  “Yes!”

  “Whatever were you doing up there anyway?”

  “I was looking for the nest.”

  “The nest?”

  “The turtledoves. Papa says they make their nests out here in the spring and fly away in the fall.”

  “That’s true. They do like it out here in the fields.”

  “I heard them crying. I thought maybe they needed help.”

  “Ah, yes. They do sound terribly sad, don’t they?”

  “Yes. Like they’ve lost their true love.”

  The boy chuckled. “I suppose that’s exactly how they sound.” He handed her another sliver of apple. “That sad cry is the sound they make when they call to their mates. Turtledove pairs don’t like to be apart. So they call to each other, reminding each other where they truly belong.”

  She sat silent for a moment, staring at the piece of apple in her hand. “Sometimes I awaken at night and hear that sound.” Her voice lowered to a confidential whisper. “Once I followed it to my father’s chamber door.” Her big brown eyes lifted to meet his sparkling blue gaze. “Do you think he cries like that because Mama was his turtledove?”

  The boy’s eyes glistened as he blinked back at her. “That might be,” he whispered finally. They held their peace for a moment, listening to the mournful cry of the turtledoves dodging through the canopy of branches overhead.

  Finally, the boy stood and brushed off his breeches. He reached for his musket and satchel and slung them each over his shoulders. He offered a hand to the child who still sat at the base of the giant oak. When she grasped it, he helped her to her feet, then proffered his elbow. “May I see you home, Princess?”

  “I’d be delighted, Sir Knight.” Her smile was cheery and bright once more as she rested her tiny fingers on his forearm like the perfect little medieval lady, and the two of them made their way back across the field to the estate house, laughing and joking as they went.

  Chapter One

  Twelve years later

  Baldwyn Sinclair, the Duke of Paisley, gazed out the window, blinking his heavy eyelids, and watched the snow-covered landscape slip by. As rare as it was for the present time of year, the sun was shining, casting a blinding reflection off the pristine white ground, causing him to blink and turn away from the window.

  The wind was quiet. It was an eerily calm winter day, far from normal in that part of the country. The calm before the storm was more like it.

  His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin, had summoned him back from Scotland. For what, he did not know, but one did not ignore a request from her grace.

  It was only a matter of hours now until his impending arrival at her London home. She never retired to the country for the winter anymore. The old woman much preferred to stay ensconced in her townhouse, wreaking havoc on the lives of any relative foolish enough to reside within the city limits.

  Bile choked his throat in direct proportion to his anxiety as he considered one more time what the old crone could possibly want with him.

  Baldwyn should have been safe in Scotland. After all, his cousin, the Duke of Banbury, was well within her reach and could surely keep her meddlesome hands occupied for several months.

  Why hadn’t he accepted that commission when he had the chance? He could have been away on the Continent fighting against the evils of the French rather than the evils of her grace’s machinations. Staring down the barrel of Napoleon’s cannon would have been preferable.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall of the coach. It would be wise to rest now. No doubt his grandmother had already arranged for him to attend a winter event that evening and would have him racing to ready for it the moment he set foot in her front door. Taking a slow, deep breath, he soothed his frazzled nerves and allowed himself to drift into a fitful sleep, propped against the blue satin-lined wall.

  “Your grace.” The voice of his valet broke through his haze of sleep. “We have arrived.”

  Baldwyn groaned with anguish as he opened first one eye and then the other.

  “Munro,” he muttered in disgust, “I have told you of my feelings on being awakened with bad news, have I not?”

  “Yes, your grace,” Munro offered. “However, in matters such as these, I believe your wrath is less daunting than that of the dowager’s.”

  Baldwyn sighed. One couldn’t argue with that logic.

  The massive stone structure rose ominously above him, as he stepped down from the carriage and squared his shoulders in preparation for the onslaught he knew he was about to endure.

  His Hessian boots suddenly felt like they were encased in the stone path as he endeavored to move toward the stairs leading to the front entry. Dread weighed in the pit of his stomach. Where was Napoleon’s cannon when he needed it?

  At the door, his grandmother’s loyal old butler answered Baldwyn’s hesitant knock almost immediately, as if he had been stationed there with the express purpose of tethering the duke the second he laid eyes on him.

  “Good afternoon, Perkins,” Baldwyn managed to grunt.

  “Your grace.” Perkins bowed and held out the tray for his hat and gloves. “Her grace awaits you in the blue salon.”

  “May I not refresh myself before the torture commences?” Perkins’ emotionless expression was fixed firmly in place.

  “Her grace wishes to begin the moment you arrive.”

  Petulant little man.

  Baldwyn directed an ironic smirk at the smug butler. He knew, of course, it wouldn’t have any effect. Perkins would be far more concerned with what his mistress would do to him if she discovered her instructions had been ignored than anything the Duke of Paisley might threaten to do.

  He turned to the blue salon, and with one last deep breath of free air, he threw the doors open and strode in with Scottish bravado.

  “Guid efternuin, Grandmother! Ye ur lookin’ brammer as ever!” He knew the native brogue would infuriate her; nevertheless, he raised his voice to a ridiculous volume as well, knowing full well she would take it as a direct insult to the condition of her hearing.

  “Bite your tongue, boy. We are not deaf. Nor are we in the presence of the wild Scottish savages you spend your time with these days.” Her icy steel blue glare bore into his face. Oh, yes, he had succeeded in incurring her wrath in less time than it would take to seduce a whore.

  Inwardly, he winced but showed no sign of contrition as he drifted to her and planted a light kiss on her pale cheek as though he was as innocent as the driven snow.

  She waved him off.

  “Oh, posh!” A bemused grin tainted one corner of her mouth.

  For all her fearsomeness, Baldwyn knew she adored him.

  However, all the adoration in Europe would do nothing to shield him from her matrimonial schemes. Which, no doubt, was the only thing short of Napoleon laying siege to Mayfair that would incite her to send for him in the dead of winter. Cursed ducal obligations to propagate the family name. He groaned and shook his head.

  “You shall cease those unearthly sighings, young man, and sit down. We have important family matters to discuss. And there is no time to waste. The Montmouth Winter Ball is this evening. Word has already been sent that you shall be in attendance.”

  Baldwyn slumped into the royal blue wingback chair and eyed her with suspicion.

  “What are these important family matters, Grandmother?

  Please. I wish to be enlightened.”

  “Your tone says otherwise, Baldwyn. Remember to whom you are speaking.” She was seething now. He had pressed her too far.

  “Of course, Grandmother. I apologize. Please, continue.”

  The dowager lifted her head and glowered down her aristocratic nose at him. Again her steel blue gaze sliced right through him, sending a sudden chill stampeding down his spine. He took the cup of tea offered by the maid and sipped, h
oping to cover his momentary lapse in ducal composure.

  “I have wonderful news for you.”

  That is debatable.

  “I have arranged a betrothal.”

  The tea turned to sludge in his throat and he choked, spewing the mouthful he had just drawn from the cup all over the table before him. He glanced up in time to see the fresh brew dripping from the dowager duchess’s chin.

  Her stoic glower told him all he needed to know. Death awaited him.

  The maid was at the old woman’s side in an instant, fear radiating from her crisp green eyes as she dabbed at the duchess’s tea-bathed face. Baldwyn rose to offer his aid, but his grandmother’s hand shot up, freezing him in place.

  “Sit down, Baldwyn. We shall complete the business at hand.” She wrenched the linen cloth from the maid’s hands and swatted her away. As she continued, she patted her forehead, cheeks, chin, and neck with the cloth.

  “As I was saying, I have arranged a betrothal contract between you and the daughter of Lord Marks.”

  Baldwyn’s blood curdled in his veins. Shock held him prisoner where he was, tying his tongue until finally he forced out, “Betrothal! You’ve gone mad!”

  “I said sit down.” Her gaze leveled on him once more, compelling him to his seat.

  “How did you—? What makes you think—? You have no right!” he stammered like a fool.

  “I have every right. Lord Marks and I have come to an agreement. You shall marry the girl. You shall produce an heir. And you shall conduct yourself as the duke you are expected to be.”

  “Lord Marks’ daughter is a child, Grandmother. A child with mousy brown hair and braids. And straight as an—” He stopped mid-sentence. It was humiliating enough without divulging his preferences to his grandmother.

  She arched a malevolent eyebrow.

  The last time he had seen the child had been five years previous upon a visit to Lord Marks’ country estate to discuss a business venture. She had loitered about underfoot the entire afternoon, vying for his attention. Her father had indulged her every whim and seemed to view everything she said or did as an enchantment of sorts. Baldwyn had simply rolled his eyes, concluded his business, and took his leave at the first opportunity.