A RIVENLOCH
CHRISTMAS
A Wee Holiday Tale
by
A RIVENLOCH CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2018 by Glynnis Campbell
Glynnis Campbell – Publisher
P.O. Box 341144
Arleta, California 91331
Contact: [email protected]
ISBN-13: 978-1-63480-044-0
Cover design by Richard Campbell
Formatting by Author E.M.S.
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net
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A RIVENLOCH CHRISTMAS
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Deirdre
Deirdre blamed the mistletoe. If her incorrigible husband hadn’t scattered the wicked plant all over Rivenloch in the spirit of his Norman Noël, none of what happened would have happened.
It wasn’t as if they’d never had Christmas at the castle before. Deirdre’s Viking father had built a chapel in the courtyard for her Christian mother so she could celebrate her holy days. When Deirdre’s mother passed away, the clan continued to mark Christmas in her memory—with a few sprigs of holly, a sizable feast, and a word or two of thanksgiving. But that was all.
This year, however, Deirdre’s husband Pagan had decided that wasn’t enough. When Deirdre’s two sisters, Helena and Miriel, announced they were bringing their families to Rivenloch to spend the holiday season together for the first time in three years, Pagan had insisted on decking the castle halls in full Christmas splendor.
Deirdre couldn’t tell him nay. She’d never been able to resist her husband. Especially when he gazed at her with such childlike enthusiasm. So she indulged him, even though she knew her practical sisters would never appreciate his efforts.
True to form, warlike Helena muttered that the festive boughs of holly were hiding all the glorious shields of defeated enemies hung on the walls.
Thrifty Miriel confided that the beeswax candles lighting every inch of the great hall seemed a great waste of coin.
The sisters’ father, Laird Gellir, grumbled into his white beard, irked by anything at odds with his Viking Jul.
Her sisters’ husbands, however, were quite impressed. Like Pagan, they had Norman blood in their veins. The décor likely reminded Colin and Rand of home.
But it was their collective children’s wide-eyed wonder at the colorful mummers Pagan had hired to reenact the birth of Jesus that convinced Deirdre she’d been right to let him bring Christmas to Rivenloch.
An enormous log, large enough to burn for twelve days, was hauled in from the forest and placed on the fire.
The entire clan crowded into the hall for a giant feast—the first of twelve, featuring roast boar with all the trimmings.
Wassail flowed freely.
Carolers and a consort filled the hall with song.
That was when the cursed mistletoe began to wreak havoc in the household.
Pagan had hung it in every corner.
Above every doorway.
And from every beam of Rivenloch’s great hall.
The irksome sprigs were everywhere.
And when Deirdre innocently asked what the mistletoe was for, Pagan had been only too glad to show her.
Of course, when they arrived, Colin and Rand had to demonstrate its use to their wives as well.
Thus began the trouble…
Currently, Deirdre watched the mummers from the foot of the corner stairs of the great hall. She had to smile at the way her four children were gazing at the spectacle in slack-jawed amazement.
She absently rubbed a hand across her belly. Nothing showed yet. But soon there would be a fifth to add to their brood. She planned to tell Pagan tonight, after the performance.
Of course, the announcement of one’s fifth child wasn’t terribly surprising or newsworthy. Still, she knew Pagan would be pleased. He was a doting father who took great pride in their growing army of warrior lads and lasses.
Her gaze again slipped sideways to observe her children—Hallie, Gellir, Brand, and Julian. There was her devoted husband now, crouched between the two lasses. He was pointing out the bright star painted on a screen behind the players.
Sometime after the mummers’ Mary and Joseph had secured lodging at a stable, and before the three kings arrived with gifts, Pagan left the children. He sidled up to Deirdre, wrapping an arm around her waist.
She sighed in pleasure and snuggled closer. Even after all this time, she never tired of his affection.
Then he cleared his throat.
She glanced at him.
He was giving her that look. The smoky, sparkling, gray-green gaze that always made her heart beat faster.
The knave. He knew very well what that look did to her. And when his eyes lifted to indicate the branch of mistletoe dangling from the archway, it didn’t matter that they’d been wed for seven years. Her heart fluttered like a windblown pennon.
Thankfully, he pulled her into the shadows of the stairwell to claim the kiss she owed him. After all, one lavish spectacle in the great hall was enough.
Pagan tasted like sweet mulled wassail. Apple and cinnamon and ginger. She drank his desire with eager thirst.
He cradled her jaw with one battle-callused hand, sweeping the pad of his thumb across her cheek.
The fingers of his other hand traced the upper edge of her gown, toying with the silver Thor’s hammer she always wore around her neck. Then they dipped dangerously low beneath the linen of her shift. He stroked the top of her breast with a feather-light touch.
When the rogue delved farther to graze her nipple, she gasped and pressed closer. Beneath his belt, against her abdomen, she could feel firm evidence that he had more in mind than just kissing.
She moaned with anticipation, weaving her fingers through his thick, freshly washed curls.
Curls that wound loosely around her knuckles like a fond caress.
Curls as warm and golden as the blaze burning on the fire.
Curls he’d passed on to two of their children and…
She let out a sigh of regret.
A tiny frown settled between her brows as she pulled away.
“Ah, Pagan, we can’t,” she whispered. “The children.”
“What children?” he murmured, easing forward for another kiss.
But Deirdre, as the eldest daughter, had always been the responsible one. That was why her father had entrusted her with the lairdship of Rivenloch. As much as she longed to continue their play, she placed a restraining palm on Pagan’s chest.
“We can’t just leave them…” she trailed off. Leave them what?
“Leave them what?” Pagan said, echoing her thoughts with a sly grin. “Completely enthralled by the Christmas play? Happy as a litter of pups? Safe in the company of the entire clan?”
He was right, of course. The children
were safe. They’d never miss their parents. In fact, everyone in the hall was so well entertained, Pagan and Deirdre probably wouldn’t be missed by a soul.
She answered his smile. Lord, he was irresistible. Especially when his eyes smoldered like that.
He tilted his head to trail kisses down the side of her neck. Delicious shivers coursed through her. Like sword iron in a hot crucible, her knees melted beneath her.
After that, she had no willpower whatsoever.
Somehow she managed to stagger up the stairs to their chamber.
When he closed the door behind them, Deirdre wasted no time. Breathing heavily, she backed toward the bed and slipped the dark blue velvet kirtle from her shoulders.
He advanced, sliding her sleeves ever lower to nibble at her exposed flesh.
Meanwhile, she seized his leather belt, unbuckling it with practiced haste and casting it aside. It slithered across the oak floor like Eden’s tempting serpent.
He swept the gold mesh coif from her hair, and her long tresses tumbled over her bare shoulders.
Hungry to taste his warm flesh, Deirdre wrenched his indigo surcoat down. It lodged across his broad shoulders. She went for her dagger, intent on slicing through the laces.
But Pagan seized her wrist and halted her with a sensual chuckle. “Patience, wench. You know, they untie.”
She didn’t want to wait that long. Then again, she didn’t want to have to explain the severed laces to their guests. She dropped the blade.
With a wicked twinkle in his eyes, Pagan slowly spread the laces and drew the surcoat over his head. He tossed the garment onto the chest at the foot of the bed. Then he hooked his thumbs expectantly in the waist of his trews, perusing her from head to toe.
“Well, m’lady?” he asked. “I believe it’s your turn.”
She unbuckled her own belt and dropped it to the floor. She kicked off her soft leather shoes. Finally, with her eyes fixed on her husband’s cocky mouth—the mouth she wanted to feel over every inch of her skin—she lifted the kirtle off over her head.
Pagan’s nostrils flared. He wasted no time, leaning back against the plaster wall to pull off his boots and stockings. He untied and yanked down his trews. His undershirt unfurled halfway to his knees. But there was no mistaking the state of his arousal when he freed the beast beneath the linen.
Deirdre gave him a knowing smile. She perched on the edge of the bed, peeling back her stockings, inch by inch, to expose her long legs.
His gaze darkened. He groaned in appreciation. Hauling his undershirt over his head, he pushed off the wall, anxious to join her.
She made quick work of her shift. The cloud of linen had barely floated to the floor when Pagan collided with her in a hot, demanding embrace.
With fevered gasps and in a tangle of limbs, they clambered onto the bed.
After enduring a chaste week full of holiday preparations, their hunger erupted in a gluttonous rush.
With the desperation of a starving waif, Deirdre fed on Pagan’s supple shoulder, his corded neck, his succulent mouth.
While Pagan’s hands boldly claimed her body, he pelted her face with kisses as soft as snowflakes. He stroked her with practiced skill, knowing all her most vulnerable places.
The spot behind her knee.
The tender inside of her thigh.
The sensitive space beneath her ear.
Then he clasped his fingers through hers and turned until his weight pinned her to the bed.
At one time, she would have fought him. When she’d first met Pagan, she believed that making love was akin to waging battle. One warrior always emerged the victor, one the vanquished.
But now she knew better. If love was war, it was a war fought between equals, full of surrender and triumph all at once. Pagan might have the upper hand now. But she would conquer him before the night was over. Deirdre might feel victorious in the throes of passion. But he would master her in the end.
Lovemaking was an amazing, exhilarating, glorious alliance that never failed to awe and inspire her. She would never tire of it.
While he held her hands captive, his tongue made lazy designs down her throat. Delight shivered through her every nerve. He grazed her collarbone, moving her Thor’s hammer aside with his teeth. Then he teased along the top of her bosom until she arched up, willing him to do more.
“So impatient,” he teased in a whisper.
She growled in response.
Then he released one of her hands and retrieved something from beneath the pillow on the bed.
With a mischievous grin, he showed her what it was.
He’d hidden a sprig of mistletoe under her pillow.
“Knave,” she scolded.
He swept the tiny plant along her eyebrows, kissing each eyelid in turn. Then he traced the bridge of her nose. When she wrinkled it in protest, he soothed the tickle with a kiss. He brushed her lips with the white berries and lowered his mouth to bestow a kiss there.
With her free hand, she seized the back of his neck and drew him closer to deepen the kiss. He obliged her for only a moment before removing her hand and chiding her with a shake of the mistletoe.
“We have time,” he murmured. “I’m certain the three kings haven’t even arrived yet.”
In truth, she’d forgotten all about the mummers. And Christmas. And their guests. She was only eager to engage her husband…who seemed intent on making her wait.
She held her breath as he circled her breast with the mistletoe, spiraling closer and closer to the aching center. Finally, with a low groan of pleasure, he cast the plant aside and lowered his mouth to enclose her.
Every nerve awakened like bright lightning illuminating a dark sky. Her hands tightened into fists. Her eyes closed in sensual joy. The divine throbbing of her nipple echoed deep in her womb, intensifying into an urgent need.
He moved to suckle at her other breast. Desire struck her like another bolt of lightning, shooting current through her body to the swelling bud between her thighs. She squeezed his hand in hers, trying to convey the power of her lust for him.
While she squirmed in impatience, with the back of his knuckles, he smoothed the hollow of her abdomen and flirted with the curve of her hip. He trailed wet kisses along her arm and lapped at the inside of her elbow. He opened their joined hands and pressed a devoted kiss into her palm.
Finally, she could endure no more delay.
Patting across the pallet with her free hand, she found and closed her fingers around the discarded sprig of mistletoe. She wrested loose her trapped hand and pushed against Pagan’s chest, forcing him up off of her. Then she slipped the mistletoe between their bodies, brazenly setting it atop the nest of curls where she most wanted a kiss.
His face blossomed in a devilish grin. Emerald flames leaped in his eyes.
What followed was a sensuous blur of wanton delight.
He feasted upon her.
She feasted upon him.
At last, they joined in unadulterated bliss.
And when they ultimately exploded together, it was in a searing blaze of fireworks to rival those they’d witnessed years ago during the famous siege of Rivenloch.
The mistletoe was crushed in their coupling.
Christmas was forgotten.
And in the soothing music of their subsiding passion and slowing breath, they drifted into a slumber that was long, deep, complacent.
Hours later, before she even opened her eyes, Deirdre smiled, feeling the heat of Pagan’s backside against her belly. She snuggled closer, basking in the recollection of their lovemaking.
Then her brow creased. She’d forgotten to tell him about the babe.
“Pagan,” she sleepily murmured.
He didn’t respond.
She ruffled his hair.
Still he didn’t respond.
When she finally pried open her eyelids, the glow of rare winter sunlight was already seeping through the shutters.
She gasped in panic and blinked against the
light. Bloody hell. Where had the night gone?
“Pagan,” she whispered urgently, shaking him.
The children…their guests…the clan…
She may have enjoyed a night of wanton, well-deserved pleasure. But it had been at the price of abandoning her duties as laird. She cursed under her breath, sweeping a dried mistletoe twig from the sheets.
Lucifer’s ballocks. How could she have been so careless?
Pagan
Pagan thought Deirdre should bear at least part of the blame for what happened. After all, if she weren’t so damned stunning and desirable and tempting, he wouldn’t have spirited her away to their bedchamber in the first place.
Still half-asleep, he felt Deirdre jostling him.
But he didn’t want to wake up.
If he woke up, he’d have to leave the bliss of his wife’s bed. He’d have to walk away from her silky skin. The compelling fragrance of her hair. The warmth of the long, lithe limbs wrapped around him. And he wasn’t ready to do that yet.
As much as he’d wanted to celebrate Christmas at Rivenloch, to share the traditions of his Norman Noël with his half-Scots children, at the moment all he could think about was the irresistible angel tucked under the bed linens with him.
After their delicious night together, he wanted to spend all day here with his beautiful wife.
Of course, he knew that was out of the question. Deirdre was laird, and he was the host of the festivities.
But surely they could linger here just a bit longer. Indeed, if his delectable wife continued to press those soft, supple breasts against his back like that, he wouldn’t be fit to appear before company anyway.
Already he was rousing to the thought of coupling with her this morn.
He stretched, feigning a yawn. Then he turned to her with a cunning grin.
A knock at the door dashed his lusty mood.
“Shite!” Deirdre hissed, echoing Pagan’s exact sentiments.
A Rivenloch Christmas: A Wee Holiday Tale (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch Book 0) Page 1