Christmas Belles Read Online Free PDF

kept must have somehow gotten out of her shed again
and wandered into the garden.
    Raising one hand to shield his eyes, he peered over the
hedge and saw that he was right. He could just make out a bulky brown form,
but---
    Sir Phineas's heart did a sudden leap. The animal appeared
to have fallen to its knees just as if it were paying homage. No? Phineas
placed his numbed fingers against his eyes and rubbed. What he thought was
absurd. He had been regaling Chloe with far too many old legends. He was
starting to believe them himself.
    Struggling past the hedge, he sought to drive the cow back
into her shed. When he reached her side, she was standing upright. Either the
beast had floundered in the white drifts and  then managed to right
herself, or the whole vision had been merely a trick of the blinding snow.
    As he closed the cow back up in her stall, he chuckled to
himself, imagining Chloe's reaction when he entertained her with his foolish
fancy in the morning.
    But in the bustle of Christmas and the preparations for his
imminent departure, the incident passed from Sir Phineas's mind, and he
entirely forgot to mention it.

 
    Chapter One
     
    December, 1807
    The HMS Gloriana rocked against her moorings in Plymouth
Harbor. Pale morning sunlight streamed through the stern windows into the
spacious cabin Captain William Trent shared with a twelve-pound cannon. The chamber
contained none of the luxuries most wealthy officers deemed necessary. Besides
the cannon, the furnishings consisted of no more than a cot dangling from the
deck beam, a sea chest, a chair, and the desk bolted to the wall.
    Seated hunched over the desk, Captain Trent dipped his quill
into the inkwell, trying to finish his report to the Admiralty and his request
for the material necessary to refit his ship for sea duty. Shadows from the
hanging lantern played across his crop of thick, dark hair and aristocratic
features set into lines even more formidable than usual. He was of medium
height, and his lean, hard body was as solid-iron as the ship's anchor, more
suited for action than desk work. Composing reports was not among Trent's more
favored activities, and he already felt a cramp in his hand.
    Even as he scratched his quill across the page, Trent
gritted his teeth, knowing that it was an exercise in futility. No matter how eloquent
his appeal, he would be lucky to get even half of the ordnance supplies,
provisions, and men that he requested.
    When his pen spluttered ink across the page, Trent swore
softly, his concentration further ham-pered by the presence of his steward in the
cabin. The burly seaman was cheerily going about the task of transferring some
of Trent's things from the sea chest to a smaller trunk in preparation for a
fortnight's shore leave.
    While he worked, Mr. Samuel Doughty persisted in whistling
some tuneless ditty, employing the gap between his front teeth to great
advantage. After enduring this for a few moments, Trent flung down his pen and
shifted around.
    "Mr. Doughty!" he snapped.
    "Cap'n?" The steward's head popped up from behind
the sea chest, his bristling side-whiskers giving him the appearance of a
startled walrus.
    Trent merely frowned, fixing the steward with his steely
gaze. His eyes were the hue of the sea at its coldest, a wintery gray. It took
Doughty a moment of soul-searching to realize the nature of his offense.
    "Oh! The whistling again. Sorry, Cap'n, I do try hard
to remember. That is, aye, aye, Cap'n. I won't do it again."
    When Trent arched his brow, Doughty took another pause for
reflection before brightening. "That is, I won't be doing it again,
sir," he said with a gap-toothed grin.
    "Thank you, Mr. Doughty." Trent turned back to his
desk in time to hide a smile. Doughty's grin was as infectious as the man was
incorrigible. Over a year under Trent's command had been insufficient to teach
the rogue the proper way to address his captain.
    A captured smuggler, Doughty had chosen the king's service
over the king's