Christmas Wrapping

The rain came down in silver sheets across the moor, blurring the edge of the forest until the world seemed to shrink to the small stone lodge at the foot of the glen. Lady Jane stood by the leaded window, watching the storm trace paths down the glass, her thoughts far more turbulent than the Scottish sky.

A letter lay open on the writing desk behind her, its heavy wax seal broken like a promise. The ink was dry, yet the words felt hot, burning themselves into the quiet life she had fought so fiercely to build after the London season had collapsed in scandal.

Then, through the dark mist, came the sound of hooves. A single rider, hunched against the gale, turning up the gravel path. Jane's hand went to the lace at her throat. It was too late for a messenger, and far too dangerous for a friend.