‘No. Will you come in, sir?’
He shouldn’t. Not at this hour. Not after dark when she was living quite alone.
Who on earth is going to know? Apart from Mrs Judd and she seems to like Polly...
He would know and he ought not to do this, but his feet were already over the threshold and she was closing the door behind them. The warmth of the little room enclosed them. Dancing firelight and the fragrance of her supper, her counterpane tossed over the back of the settle with a book propped in the folds.
Don’t think of her wrapped in bedclothes!
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.
Kneeling down to open the basket, she looked up as she lifted the kitten out. Her smile did odd things to him. ‘Yes. A woodcock from last night. It was lovely. Thank you again.’ She cuddled the kitten to her, murmuring to it as it batted her face with a tiny paw. It was a very small kitten, all black and gold patches laced with white.
‘You like cats, then?’ he got out. Lord! Her hands cradled the little creature so tenderly, touching a gentle fingertip to a ridiculous buff stripe on its nose... He shoved away the thought—the image, God help him!—of those hands touching him. He shouldn’t stay, but just being with her, here in the same room, was a joyous torment. Thank God she still had the lamp lit. The intimacy of firelight, with her bed there in the corner... His head spun.
‘Oh, yes. But cats made Mama sneeze, so we never had one. Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘Female,’ Alex got out. ‘Mrs Judd says tortoiseshell cats are always female.’
She rose and sat down on the settle beside him, the kitten in her lap. It was content there for a moment, but then, with a determined squeak, clambered down her skirts and began to explore the room.
‘Another independent female,’ he said.
There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Is that so very wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ he asked. In a cat? But, no, she was not speaking of the kitten. Something, someone, had upset her.
‘To want to be independent. Is it really so unnatural?’ Her voice was very quiet and full of an uncertainty he’d never heard in it before.
‘I can’t see that you had very much choice,’ he said. Who had hurt her? He was conscious of an aching need to reassure her, to pull her into his arms and just hold her. Perhaps rest his cheek on that tawny cloud and find out if it really was as silken as it looked. Just hold her. For comfort, of course. He groaned silently. Lord help him—he was even lying to himself now. His body, so well disciplined for so many years, was making up for lost time. Apparently he was not immune to the sins of the flesh after all.
‘My cousin Susan called.’
Ah. No doubt Miss Susan had expressed her mama’s opinion of Polly’s rebellion. ‘Is she well?’
‘Very well. We...we were talking about Christmas.’ She was bent down, detaching the kitten from where it was climbing her skirts, taking care with each tiny claw. Firelight glinted in the curls drifting around her temple, falling against her silken cheek so that his fingers ached to stroke them back, to tangle in them, tilt her face up to his and find out just how sweet her mouth was.
‘I can take the kitten to the rectory while you are with the Eliots,’ he forced out, closing his fingers to fists against the beat of temptation in his blood. What the deuce was wrong with him that he could scarcely get himself to act with disinterested chivalry?
She went very still. ‘Thank you, sir.’
There was something odd about her voice. As if she were close to tears. ‘Polly—Miss Woodrowe, is something wrong? Did Miss Eliot have bad news?’
Her chin lifted. ‘Bad news? Not at all. Quite the opposite. My cousin, Tom, is betrothed.’
That brittle voice splintered somewhere deep inside him and all that was left were the most useless, banal words in the language. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t pity me!’
The words exploded from her, and he bit back everything he would have liked to say. Pity? It was more like rage. Rage that there was nothing he could do to shield her from the pain she must be feeling. Rage that the Eliots, instead of protecting Polly, had cut her adrift. Rage that the world was like this at Christmas when such love was coming into the world that it could barely be contained.
‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Polly, still in that tight, controlled voice. ‘My aunt must be delighted. It’s Miss Creed, you know. A very eligible connection. She is an heiress.’
This time there really were no words. Instead, he reached out and took her small, cold, mittened hands, and just held them, contained them in the protection of his own. Sometimes words were inadequate things. Touch was better.
* * *
She thought if he had not done that, had not enveloped her cold hands in the warmth of his, she could have held herself together. As it was, the gentle strength shredded the threadbare cloak of pride, thawed the frozen place where she had interred all the pain, until her eyes burned and spilled over. She swallowed. Oh, damn! One powerful hand loosened and she wanted to cry out in protest, but his arm came around her and drew her close to rest against his shoulder.
Still he said nothing. No soothing words, no injunction not to cry. Just his solid strength to lean against for a moment, the sort of unspoken sympathy that made the wretched tears flow faster, and his arm about her. She knew he meant only to comfort, but her foolish, wanton body was dreaming of so much more than that. Dreaming of what it would be like if he truly took her in his arms, and not to comfort.
She must be a very wicked girl to entertain such thoughts. Wicked to feel this burn and dazzle in her blood at the gentle clasp of his hand. Wicked to wish that his arm might tighten, that his mouth... Well, it was a sheer miracle that a thunderbolt had not obliterated the schoolhouse with what she was thinking. But then it might have obliterated Alex and she supposed God would not want that.
I’m wicked to think such things.
He snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’
With a shock she realised that she had spoken aloud.
‘Wicked to be angry at injustice and hypocrisy?’ asked Alex. ‘Well, that makes two of us.’ He lifted their linked hands and the grey eyes smiled, full of understanding. ‘Linked in the heinous sin of disapproving of the social order.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Thank you, God, that he didn’t realise what I was really thinking.
The crooked half-smile—the one that turned her insides to jelly—twisted his mouth. ‘For what? Wanting to kick your cousins into the middle of next week for hurting you?’
He did? Her throat ached.
For being kind.
For understanding.
Her heart full, insensibly eased, she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said softly, and set one hand on his shoulder, feeling a flicker of muscle beneath the broadcloth. ‘For being you,’ she said and reached up to kiss his cheek.
* * *
For being you. As though he were a gift, when God knew he was nothing of the sort. His heart blazed, and his whole body tightened at her nearness, her fragrance—intoxication itself—and the light touch of her fingers through layers of cloth, the sweetest torment, a burning. The knowledge that she was going to kiss him—only on the cheek, but still the loveliest gift he’d ever been offered.
Then her lips were there, such peach-silk softness, a featherlight caress on his jaw that he should accept as it was meant—but somehow his head had turned—not at all what Christ had meant by turning the other cheek—and his lips had captured hers, his arms drawing her against the burning ache of his body.
Her startled gasp he took gently, even as for one soul-shattering moment she remained utterly still in his embrace. His conscience gave one last, feeble flicker. He must release her, apologise...but her lips moved hesitantly against his and he was lost.
Every nerve
, every sinew and muscle leapt to flame as his arms tightened of their own accord, as his mouth returned her shy kiss and took more. Shaken to his soul, he tasted the fullness of her mouth—sweet, so sweet—and her lips parted. His mind reeled, his tongue dipped, found milk and honey, and tasted again and again, while his resolution dissolved, mind and body awash with delight as her tongue met his in hesitant wonder.
This. Just this.
This delight of a woman’s body in his arms, her lips and mouth tender under his, and this burning, this singing in blood and bone that could steal a man’s senses as surely as any siren.
Desire. His body recognised it and responded, hardening, tightening his arms around Polly, drawing her in to the consuming heat, cradling her closer. And she came, soft and willing, body and mouth yielding, melting against him. One hand found the supple curve of her waist, drifted higher against the swell of her breast and he tasted the surprise in her soft gasp.
Desire. A maelstrom threatening to sweep everything away. Sense, honour, both gone, and reason fast fading. One floundering scrap of reason found a foothold, a touchstone.
Polly. This was Polly.
Somehow he broke the kiss, drew back a little, breathing hard. A little more reason surfaced. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he might remember why not...
You’re the rector, for goodness’ sake!
That hit him like a bucket of icy water. He stared down at Polly, dazed. She looked dazed, too. And her lips were damp and swollen. Pink and ripe. Because he’d kissed her. Even as he looked, all the reasons he shouldn’t be kissing her closed in, accusing.
Surely only a complete blackguard kissed a defenceless girl like that? When all she had offered was a sort of sisterly peck on the cheek.
‘I...I have to go,’ he managed. Because God only knew, if he didn’t, where this would end. His gaze fell on the alcove holding Polly’s bed and gave him back the lie. He knew perfectly well where it could have ended. That, right there, in that shadowed alcove, was the natural end for such a kiss.
Somehow he forced his hand to withdraw from the fall of her hair, now tumbled around her shoulders. Had he done that? His fingers shook at the silken caress. With even more difficulty he dragged the other hand from her waist.
‘Polly,’ he whispered. Lord, had he only just seen her? Seen what was in front of him. ‘I’m—’
‘No.’ The luminous golden eyes pleaded. ‘Don’t apologise. Please, just...just pretend there is a little bit of mistletoe above us.’
Mistletoe? God help them both if he’d had that pagan incentive above him!
He was the rector and Polly had confided in him, turned to him for comfort. He swallowed, brutally aware of aching need. Wanting to cast discretion and propriety, not to mention his vows, to the four winds.
He forced himself to release her and stand up, away from the warmth that was Polly. But his eyes—his eyes remained on her face, lost, and somehow found. Until her gaze fell and scarlet mantled her cheeks.
‘I’ll...I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’
Polly. Her name lay unspoken on his tongue like honey, as sweet and intimate as her mouth itself.
He swallowed. ‘Miss Woodrowe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll bar the door behind me?’ What the hell would he do if she said no? Refuse to leave until she did?
‘Yes.’
Thank God.
‘Well. Ah, goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Bonny bounded up from the hearth as he headed to the door. He made a mental note that dogs appeared to be very poor chaperons.
Chapter Five
As Polly secured the door, she heard his steps retreating, crunching on the frosty street. With a groan, she leaned back against the door, feeling the bar digging into her back. Her heart still raced and her hands trembled.
She hadn’t known a kiss could be like that. Full of wonder and need and delight. She had let Tom kiss her once years ago. He had seemed to enjoy it, but she had thought it horrid. All hot breath and pawing at her breast. This had been quite different. This had been something joyous and right.
Right? What was she thinking? She’d kissed the rector! No doubt there would be a letter dismissing her from her post in the morning. And this time she’d deserve it. Never mind that she’d meant it as a mere peck on the cheek, a...a kiss of gratitude. It somehow hadn’t ended up that way. How on earth had she missed his cheek?
Because you wanted to miss it?
Because some wanton part of her had wanted to kiss him, had wanted to feel his arms strong about her.
Her cheeks burnt. At best he’d think her shockingly forward, at worst a depraved hussy...although he had been kissing her back. With a great deal of enthusiasm. She pushed that aside. In these matters, from Eve’s temptation of Adam on, it was always the woman’s fault. But how did you explain to a man—let alone a man of God—that it had all been a mistake, that you hadn’t really meant to kiss him at all? Or at least not like that. Not like a wanton. Especially when your heart was still pounding and you could still taste him, wine-dark and gentle, in your mouth. When your breasts ached from being pressed against him and your body remembered exactly where those big, careful hands had touched.
* * *
God in heaven!
Was that what St Paul meant about better to marry than burn? He’d always assumed that referred to the fires of hell, of sin. Or perhaps St Paul had truly considered physical love to be sinful.
Alex’s steps crunched through the frost towards the rectory, as his mind spun dizzily. He hadn’t known. Simply hadn’t known that a kiss could be like that. Like...like an explosion, a beginning and ending all in one.
Better to marry than burn...
‘Evening, Rector.’
‘Good evening, Davey.’ He managed a smile for Davey Fletcher. Prayed the blacksmith hadn’t seen which cottage he’d come out of.
‘That Miss Woodrowe’s a right pretty lass,’ said Fletcher cheerfully, patting Bonny as she nudged up to him.
Yes, well. Not all prayers were answered quite as one might like. He knew that.
Fletcher continued. ‘My boy, Caleb, reckons she’s real nice too, the way she manages all them young ’uns. Teaching them their ABCs an’ all.’ He nodded. ‘Good thing for this village, an’ don’t you think we’re not grateful to you and his lordship for doing it.’ He doffed his cap and went on his way, whistling.
Of course, Fletcher probably thought he’d just been discussing the children’s progress with Polly. As he should have been.
Instead, he’d been kissing her. And there was only one possible remedy for that. At least, there was only one remedy for him in this situation.
He’d somehow always expected the decision to marry—and the choice of a bride—to be a rational, logical process, just like everything else he’d done in his life. Naturally his wife would be a woman he liked and esteemed, someone he could be comfortable with. But tumbling head over heels in love?
Oh, he knew people fell in love. He’d watched it happen to Dominic and Pippa. It had not looked logical at all. Although perhaps that was just their confusion. The actual result had been perfectly logical. He’d seen that before they had. But still, he’d never thought that it would happen to him. Not like that. But it had. Like a thunderbolt. He dragged in a breath, steadied his thinking, reaching for the calm inner peace he relied on. Just because he’d fallen in love didn’t mean it wasn’t necessary to at least behave as though he was thinking rationally. More importantly, he needed to behave with honour.
He groaned. Kissing Polly Woodrowe out of her wits was not the action of an honourable man. Not when she had no one to protect her, to guard her reputation, or to advise her.
Of course it would be different if they were betrothed.
Very differe
nt.
Kissing her would be quite unexceptionable. As long as he made sure it stopped at kissing. What worried him was that ensuring that it did stop at kissing looked like being a problem. He was a clergyman, for heaven’s sake!
Apparently he was a man before he was a clergyman. A man who wanted a woman. A woman he liked, cared for and respected. Logically, and thank God he was actually being logical again, that could mean only one thing: marriage.
* * *
The next day it was all Polly could do to keep her mind on her pupils and off Alex Martindale. No letter dismissing her had arrived during breakfast, the children all came to school on time and, apart from an awkward moment over Jemmy Willet’s arithmetic, the day passed uneventfully.
Until Alex arrived as the children were leaving.
They filed out, greeting him cheerfully as they passed. Polly listened as he greeted them by name, asking after parents, relatives, little brothers and sisters. He knew these people, she realised. Knew them and cared about them. They were indeed his flock.
And he was probably quite horrified to think that he had placed a wanton hussy in charge of the lambs.
She shut the door behind the children and faced him. ‘Mr Martindale, about last night, I’m—’
‘Yes. Last night. Miss Woodrowe—Polly—will you do me the honour of marrying me?’
Marriage. In the darkness last night, sleepless in her bed, she had allowed her dreams free rein. And had banished them in the chill light of morning. Alex Martindale could not marry a penniless schoolmistress, whose family did not want to know her.
Surely he knew that?
Apparently he didn’t.
* * *
He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but the mere thought of last night had scattered his carefully prepared speech.
‘Marry you?’ She stared at him as if he’d sprouted an extra head, or possibly horns and a tail.
He cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes. I’d like you to marry me.’ Rather understating the case, but—
‘Why?’
Dash it all! Wasn’t it obvious? ‘You can ask that? After yesterday?’
A Magical Regency Christmas Page 6