Candle in the Snow
Page 8
“In steerage. It was the best I could afford.”
“Chelsea, love.” He touched her cheek. “You must have spent your life savings.”
She steeled herself against the tenderness shining in his eyes. “I took the early coach to Bristol because I wanted to give you something special for Christmas. I wanted to prove my commitment to our marriage. I wanted to give you what I believed you wanted with all your heart. Now I learn you could have bought the whole bloody steamship...” Tears burned in her eyes again, and she whirled away, biting down hard on her lip.
His arms embraced her from behind, drawing her against his solid length, holding her as if she were fragile porcelain. “Chelsea, darling. Don’t weep, please don’t. ‘Tis a wonderful gift... the most wonderful gift of m’ sorry life.”
“I’m not weeping,” she insisted, sniffling. “I wanted you to know I’d renounce my post, my friends, everything, and go off to America with you. I was willing to live in a shack so we could be together. Now I find out my gift means nothing.”
“Faith, it means everything. To think I agonized over you loving me for m’self. I bought this grand house to show you I was willing to live in England, to please m’ wife.”
He nuzzled her hair, but she denied any softening and held herself stiffly upright. “Kindly release me.”
His arms tightened. “Chelsea, look at me.”
“No.”
“Aye.” Without giving her a choice, he twisted her around. To her angry astonishment, he was smiling. “We’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” she snapped.
“Forgetting how we really feel. Letting the pride in our hot heads come before the love in our hearts.”
The absurdity of the circumstance struck a chord deep inside her. He was right; the impetuous couple from the past had matured. Gloom and doubt dwindled, banished by a bright ray of hope. A breath of wry laughter pushed past her lips.
“Oh, Sean. What a fix we’ve put ourselves in. I’ve finally decided to go to America and you’re determined to stay here.”
“Perhaps we should pray to Saint Brenden for guidance.”
His lopsided grin washed her in giddy longing. She smiled at Sean, her beloved Irish rogue, the dashing youth she’d married in haste and the steady man he’d become through years of hard work. The man she loved beyond reason.
Cuddling her head against his shoulder, she murmured, “I’ve already said my prayers this evening. They’ve been answered... or will be soon, my darling.” She slipped a finger inside his shirt.
His dark brows arched. “Why, Mrs. Devlin. ‘Tis shocked I am at your boldness.” He made a show of tucking the steamship tickets into his shirt pocket. “I shall keep these close to my heart forever, so I’ll always remember this moment.”
His eyes burned into hers. Then he lowered his head. Their mouths met in a kiss of fire and fantasy, of madness and miracles. She wrapped her arms around him, her hands luxuriating in the thickness of his hair, then trailing downward over the crisp starched shirt and the rippling muscles of his shoulders. The hard heat of his chest and thighs pressed into her, yet still she strained against him, unable to get close enough. The slide of his tongue promised the ultimate joining, the joy of becoming one with him and the anticipation of sating the hunger that licked like wildfire through her veins.
His lips moved over her face. Against her ear came the warm whisper of his breath. “Ah, wood sprite. Where we live can’t matter so long as we’re together.”
“Sean, I want to see all the places you love in America. I meant what I—”
He silenced her with a swift exciting kiss. “Hush, now. We can go to Timbuktu if you like. But before we go making any rash decisions, let me show you the rest of the house.”
Impatience coursed through her. “Can’t it wait until later?”
He chuckled. “If you wish, love. Though I did have a mind to show you the upstairs.. . unless you’ve no interest in viewing the master bedroom.”
“Oh!”
She straightened so quickly, he laughed again. “You look as keen as a forty-niner hankering after his first nugget of gold.”
“I’ve something more precious than gold,” she said softly, caressing the cleft in his chin, then the faint stubble of his cheek, “I fancy myself more like a bride, eager to know all of her husband.”
His eyes darkened to sapphire smoke. “More talk like that, wife, and you’ll get a fine long look at the ceiling.”
He scooped her into his arms and strode out the double doors. The foyer tilted; the lovely walls and high cornices rushed past in a dizzying blur. As he mounted the grand staircase, she clung to his neck and savored his masculine scent. Against her breast, his heart beat in wild rhythm with hers.
He carried her down a vast shadowed hall and shouldered open a gilt-framed door. She caught a glimpse of an intimate bower, aglow with candles, the four- poster bed swathed in midnight-blue brocade and yards of ivory lace. On a table before the hearth, a Christmas feast of cheeses and sweets and a bottle of wine awaited. But she had no interest in food or drink; neither did Sean. Even as he let her feet slide to the Persian carpet, he was kissing her again, his hands skimming her curves, stealing awareness of all but the magic of his touch.
“Years it’s been that I’ve dreamed of making love to you again,” he murmured, his lips gliding over her face and throat. “Many’s the night I’ve tossed and turned, tormented by memories of you... and feeling so lonely for m’ wife that I wanted to die.”
As he spoke, he unfastened the buttons down her back, and the bodice dropped to her waist. Her corset melted away as well; then he buried his face in the valley between her breasts. Wondrous sensations shivered through her, and she gasped, her knees weak.
Need flared into a reckless fever that swept through the both of them. Hands trembling, Chelsea unbuttoned his shirt and threaded her fingers through the wiry mat of chest hair, over the sleek warm curve of muscle. He left her clothing in a tangle on the floor and stripped off his trousers. Magnificently naked, he caught her up into his arms again and carried her to the bed. Laying her on the cool silken sheets, he braced his hands on either side of her, holding himself back.
“Chelsea, love,” he gasped, his features taut with restrained passion. “Help me... else I’ll lose control. I want to show you all the love I’ve carried in m’ heart.”
“My dearest Sean.” She moved her hips against his. “It’s been too long since I felt the miracle of my husband inside me. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
A shuddering groan tore from his throat. He melted atop her, his hand sliding toward the places that ached for him. Memory merged into the agonizing bliss of reality, and she cried out his name. He’d always known just how to touch her, how to stroke her until she knew naught but the drowning desire for a rapture only Sean could grant her.
“Please,” she moaned, reaching down to caress him.
He entered her in one powerful surge. “Sweet,” he muttered, his voice low with wonder. “You feel like a virgin again. Am I hurting you?”
“You’re pleasuring me.” Awed by the fullness of him, she feathered a kiss over his jaw. “I’ve loved only you, Sean.”
“And I intend to keep it that way, Chelsea, m’ darling.”
His fierce words accompanied the sudden forceful rhythm of his body. They shared another open- mouthed kiss, and more whispered words of a love that had withstood time and trials. She wrapped her legs around him until the muscles in her thighs tensed with urgency and the fire in her loins blazed out of control. The splendor broke over her in brilliant tremors. Holding her close, Sean stiffened, her name pouring from him in a husky groan.
For long moments, she savored the pleasurable weight of his body. Then he carefully rolled her over with him, so they lay facing each other. Still embedded within her, he pushed onto an elbow and gazed unabashedly at her breasts and thighs.
“Fancy,” he said, grinning. “No one would believe a wanton�
�s passion from a woman who once declared she hated me.”
Reaching up, she ruffled his already tousled black hair. “Nor would anyone believe the penniless youth who walked away from me would come back a successful and admirable man.”
“All I have belongs to you, m’ lady wife.” He paused, sobering. “Wouldn’t Lady Quincy be proud to see you mistress of a home that makes her London manor look like a carriage house?”
The bittersweet tug of nostalgia stayed Chelsea’s hand. “Perhaps we could visit her ladyship. I’d love to share our happiness with her.”
His eyes softened. Bending, he kissed her gently. “A grand notion, m’ love. We’ve the leisure to go anywhere, do anything you like. ‘Tis the season to lay old hurts to rest.”
“ ‘Tis the season for miracles,” she averred, embracing him. “Praise God you came back to me, Sean.”
“ ‘Twas the magic of the candle. You’ll call me superstitious, but for the past fortnight, I’ve kept one burning for us.” He nodded beyond her.
“Have you?” She wriggled up against the masses of pillows and followed his gaze to one of the windows. The blue draperies were drawn back with silver cords, and a gust of wind struck the night-darkened glass with a flurry of snowflakes. On the windowsill rested a tall white taper, the tiny yellow flame dancing in the draught.
Misty-eyed, Chelsea wrapped her arms around her husband. “Oh, Sean. Sean, we mustn’t ever let our flame go out again.”
“Aye, Mrs. Devlin,” he said, answering her impassioned hug. “I want naught else but to devote m’ life to tending the warmth and love between us.”
She drew back slightly. “Perhaps at tomorrow’s Christmas service, we could renew our wedding vows.”
He smiled in approval. “ ‘Twill be a fine lesson for the colleens to witness the undying love between a husband and his wife. But what I’ve in mind for tonight,” he added, cocking a wicked brow, “is not for the eyes of children... ‘tis more for the making of our own children.”
He drew her down on the bed and their lips melded in a kiss of passion, a kiss of promise. This time, without the frantic urgency of six lost years, they came together in a slow, sweet outpouring of love.
And through the long winter night, the candle in the window burned steadily against the snowy sky.
Also by Olivia Drake
Unlikely Duchesses Series
The Duke I Once Knew
* * *
Cinderella Sisterhood Series
If the Slipper Fits
Stroke of Midnight
Abducted by a Prince
Bella and the Beast
His Wicked Wish
The Scandalous Flirt
* * *
An Heiress in London Series
Seducing the Heiress
Never Trust a Rogue
Scandal of the Year
* * *
Single Title Romance
Dream Spinner
Silver Splendor
* * *
Writing as Barbara Dawson Smith
Fire on the Wind
Fire at Midnight
Never A Lady
A Glimpse of Heaven
Romancing the Rogue
Tempt Me Twice
With All My Heart
The Wedding Night
Countess Confidential
The Rogue Report
About the Author
Shortly after graduating from Michigan State University with a degree in journalism, Olivia Drake sold her first novel two weeks after sending it to a publisher. She now lives in Texas in a cozy cottage with a feisty cat, a loving husband, and two wonderful daughters who still come back whenever they want a home-cooked meal.
Many of you already know Olivia as Barbara Dawson Smith, author of 24 historical romance novels. She is a New York Times bestseller and winner of numerous honors, including the Golden Heart Award and the coveted Rita Award for excellence in the historical romance genre.