Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada. Katie Oliver

      Her eyes narrowed. Colm. Of course! She’d told him about her desire to score an exclusive story on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding. She’d admitted how important it was to her, how badly she wanted to quit being a hack and become a real writer.

      She’d told him she wanted to look in the mirror without despising herself.

      And she thought he’d understood. She’d confided in him. She’d bared her innermost soul to him. She’d trusted him. And he’d betrayed her at the first opportunity.

      She exhaled a plume of smoke and crushed the cigarette out.

       The ginger-haired, conniving bastard.

      The next morning, snow greeted Colm as he got out of bed and cast a glance outside. Flakes still fell thickly; overnight, at least another half-foot had blanketed the sloping hills and frosted the roof and turrets of the castle.

      It’d be beautiful, he thought dourly, if it wasn’t so much of a bloody nuisance to clear away.

      He was about to turn aside when he saw a figure in a woollen cap and a puffa jacket sliding and slipping down the snow-covered drive.

      ‘Helen! What in God’s name?’ he muttered, and flung on some clothes and a coat and thundered downstairs. Was the woman touched in the head, going for a walk in weather like this?

      ‘What the devil are you doing?’ he shouted as he stormed outside and confronted her halfway up the drive. ‘Have ye lost your mind? It’s a proper blizzard out here! It’s nae a day to be out for a walk!’

      She catapulted herself at him, her face contorted with anger, arms cartwheeling as she pummelled him mercilessly with her fists. ‘You backstabbing bastard! How could you! After I trusted you, you couldn’t wait to run to the phone and call the news desk and – and screw me over!’

      Colm muttered an expletive as she kicked him – hard ‒ in the shins. Only the fact that her feet were encased in wellies saved him from significant pain. He reached out and grabbed her by the wrists, not easy to do given her whirling, flailing limbs, and dragged her towards him as he snapped, ‘What the hell are you on about, woman? Have you lost what little sense God gave you?’

      ‘I have sense enough to know you leaked my story to the Probe,’ she gasped, struggling furiously to free her hands from his.

      He stared at her. ‘What? What story? What are you talking about?’

      ‘You called and told them all about Dom and Gemma’s secret Christmas wedding, didn’t you? How could you do that, Colm? I trusted you! I trusted you enough to tell you,’ she let out a harsh sound between a laugh and a sob ‘everything about myself. I told you about David. About our baby. About our life...our life together, the life we n-never got to have, all because of a fucking lorry driver who f-fell asleep at the wheel...’

      She collapsed against him and wept.

      His arms came around her after a moment, circling her as she sobbed and pummelled her hands ineffectually against his chest.

      ‘It’s not fair,’ she railed. ‘I lost everything that mattered to me that night, and it was my own damned fault! If only I’d stayed home, if only I’d refused to go, David would still be here, and I’d be shouting at him for tracking mud over the kitchen f-floor yet again, and we’d have our l-little b-boy. He’d be nearly two by now.’

      Colm held her tightly and let her weep. He waited, patting her awkwardly now and then on the back as great, jagged sobs escaped from her, and he felt his own throat tighten.

      ‘I ken, lassie,’ he muttered into her woollen cap. ‘I ken more than you know.’

      She lifted her blotchy, tear-swollen face to stare at him. ‘Do you? How can you possibly understand?’ Scorn laced her words. ‘You’ve never had a child. You’re not even married.’

      ‘I was married, once. When I was younger.’

      Surprise stilled her tears, and Helen let out her breath with a hitch. ‘You were? Really?’ She wiped her nose with the back of a gloved hand. ‘What happened ‒ did your wife fail to measure up to your high standards? Did she talk too much? Or did she use all of the hot water?’

      ‘She died.’ His words were abrupt. ‘Her name was Alanna. She died giving birth to our son.’

      Helen blinked, shocked. ‘She? Oh, Colm...my God -‒I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know.’

      He shrugged and let her go, and his face closed. ‘How could you possibly know, when I never told you?’

      ‘So you have a son. What’s his name?’ she ventured after an awkward silence.

      ‘He didn’t make it. The midwife discovered the babe was in breech, with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. The doctors did everything they could, but I lost Alanna. And I lost my son. The two people I loved most in this world,’ he snapped his fingers ‘gone, like that.’

      Helen opened her mouth to offer him words of comfort, words of apology and understanding; but before she could find the words to speak, Colm turned on one booted heel and made his way through the snow and back to the cottage.

       Chapter 24

      Helen stared after Colm in consternation, then struck out after him. It wasn’t easy going, with two foot of snow on the ground and more coming down. But it was bloody cold, and she’d no intention of standing here and freezing to death on the grounds of Draemar castle.

      ‘Colm!’ she called out a moment later, out of breath as she struggled through the snow. ‘Wait, damn you.’

      He stopped and turned around, scowling. ‘Why in hell did you ever leave the castle? You should’ve stayed there. You’ll never get back up the hill now. You’ll lose your way in this whiteout, and they won’t find your body until spring.’

      ‘Then I suppose you’ll have to force yourself to be hospitable,’ she snapped, ‘if you can manage it, and invite me inside until the snow lets up, won’t you?’

      He didn’t answer, but turned away, still scowling, and made his way to the front door of the cottage. He disappeared inside, leaving the door open, and didn’t look back to see if she followed.

      Helen, half-frozen and teeth chattering, was nearly to the door when he reappeared.

      ‘Taking your time, aren’t you?’ he accused. ‘I just threw some logs on the fire, so if you’ll kindly stop dallying and get inside, I can close the bloody door.’

      She bit back a sharp retort – she really couldn’t speak, at any rate, her teeth were chattering too badly – and brushed past him into the cottage. True to his word, a fire burned in the fireplace and threw out a heavenly wall of heat. Helen pulled off her gloves. As she reached up and struggled to unbutton her jacket, her frozen fingers made her efforts clumsy.

      ‘Here, let me,’ he grumbled, and pushed her hands out of the way. ‘You’re useless.’ Swiftly, he unbuttoned her jacket and turned her around to tug it off, then removed her cap and tossed in atop her coat on a chair by the fire.

      ‘Th-thanks,’ she managed to say, clutching her elbows and hugging herself in an attempt to get warm. ‘I’m sure you’re quite g-good at removing women’s clothes.’

      ‘Expert,’ he agreed dourly. ‘I’ve so very much opportunity, living out here in the middle of nowhere.’ He eyed her. ‘Your clothes are damp, it’s no wonder you’re shivering. Take ’em off.’

      ‘No! I’m most certainly not taking my clothes off!’ Helen sputtered.

      ‘Suit yourself.’ He shrugged and turned away. ‘Then I’ll just go and run a hot bath for myself, instead.’

      He was halfway to the stairs