Letters at Christmas by Amber Lin Page B

poured exactly the right amount of cream that she liked, though he scooped too much sugar in the cup. She opened her mouth to mention it—graciously, of course—but he held up a hand to stop her.
    “You need something to warm you up. It’s either a heap of sugar or a splash of brandy.”
    Sighing, she accepted the tea. “I don’t know why you’re here.” Her voice came out cross, but after all, she was clearly no longer in a tree. Nor was she injured. Or pining.
    Definitely not pining.
    “I told you I’d come back for you.”
    Alarm jolted her. Tea sloshed from her cup. She hadn’t been asking about that . Had she…?
    “What are you talking about?” she asked innocently.
    He took the teacup from her and set it on the table. He placed a knit blanket over her lap and tucked it around her legs. She distracted herself by counting the layers of fabric between his skin and hers— blanket, skirt, petticoats, stockings . Not nearly enough.
    “A change of clothes would be better, but I want to make sure you’re well before I lose sight of you. I have a sneaking suspicion you plan to avoid me.”
    “Of course I plan to avoid you,” she blurted out. Then wanted to slap herself. Really, must she give away her strategy to the enemy? Because this not-Hale was most definitely the enemy. Her mental stability fell under severe attack when he was near. For example, when he smoothed the hair from her forehead. Or when he stroked a finger along her wrist.
    She jerked back. “Stop that.”
    Agreeably, he sat in the armchair beside her. He poured himself a cup of tea, this with a more favorable tea-to-sugar ratio, and stared into the fire. Startled, she realized this was how she remembered him. He looked younger in his old favored chair, one leg slung over the other in a casual slouch.
    That was the old Hale. The one who’d made promises before he left.
    The one who’d broken them.
    “I’m not going to marry you,” she told not-Hale.
    Her declaration didn’t seem to surprise him. “I thought you might be angry.”
    “Yes, I am. I mean, no, I’m not. To be angry, I’d have to care. Which I most certainly do not.”
    “Please, don’t hold back on account of my feelings,” he said drily.
    She huffed a breath, flustered and off-center. “I don’t see how you can come back after three years and expect everything to be the same.”
    “You aren’t betrothed to anyone else,” he pointed out.
    How do you know that? she wanted to ask. And why do you care? Even though she knew he didn’t care. Even though the truth of that haunted her. She had waited for him, desperate for a letter, or a dashed-off message. She’d turned down suitors, sure he would send notice. Something. Anything .
    Nothing. Three Christmases had passed without a single letter.
    She now knew he’d been promoted to captain. Had he decided a wayward, unruly sister of a squire was no longer good enough for him? Or were her country ways too backward for him? Her looks too unpolished?
    Well, whatever the reason, her tears had long since dried up.
    “Hale Martin, you are the absolute last man I would ever marry,” she said coolly.
    “Want to make it a wager?”
    She frowned at the familiar words. They had always made bets with each other, to the chagrin of her brother. How far his cat could jump. How many books she could stack on her head. They were always about the stupidest things they could think of. That was the point.
    “You want to wager on who I’ll marry?”
    “Me. By Christmas. You’ll agree to marry me before Christmas.”
    “In three days,” she said, dazed by his audacity.
    How little he must think of her to be swayed so easily. How little he must think of their potential marriage to hinge it on a game. Years’ worth of tinder went up like smoke, charring her from the inside out. He was making fun of her .
    She wasn’t cold anymore. She was angry.
    “Fine,” she said icily. “We will make your wager. Three days. But if I