How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by Tessa Dare

  He rolled her to the bed then, fitting himself against her, cradling her in his arms, desperate to feel her everywhere. Holding her face in his palms, willing her to hear him. To understand. “I’ve lived in the past for twelve years.”

  Her eyes—her beautiful eyes—went wet with tears, and she whispered, “As have I. So full of memories, there wasn’t room to make new ones.”

  “Forgive me.” He leaned down and kissed her. She understood. And she’d come back to him. “Please, love. Please, forgive me.”

  She lifted her hips to his and he hissed his pleasure. “Shall we make a new memory, now?”

  Goddammit. Yes.

  He began to move, memory taking hold. Yes.

  “Eben . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “Deeper . . .”

  Yes. “My love.”

  “Harder . . .”

  Yes.

  “Eben . . .”

  He gave her everything she asked, leaning down to her ear, telling her his truth—all the things he’d wished he’d said before she’d left. “It’s always been you. Everything has always been for you.” And then, like a prayer, “I love you.”

  She cried out at the words, clenching him tight and bringing him with her. He groaned, thrusting deep, moving against her, wringing every bit of pleasure from her.

  Jack. Past, present, and future.

  Then she whispered her own truth, like a gift. “It was always you, Eben. It was always this.”

  Yes.

  He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in, taking her lips in a long, lingering kiss—putting all of himself into the touch, wishing he could erase the past and begin again, from here. From this single, perfect moment.

  Wishing he could start again, the man she deserved.

  She clung to him like breath, sighing her dismay when he lifted himself from her. Not that he would leave her. Ever. He pulled the blankets over them in the cold room, and she moved into his arms, laying her head on his chest, tucking herself into the place that had been empty since she’d left. The place he had saved for her.

  He trailed his fingers along her impossibly soft skin. She lifted her head and pressed a kiss to his chest. “Your heart is pounding.”

  Eben rubbed a hand over it. “It’s been stopped for so long—it learns to beat again.”

  She watched him for a long moment before capturing his hand in hers and pressing it to her chest. “They shall relearn it together.”

  His gaze went to where their fingers entwined, marveling at the touch—at her presence—before sliding to the golden locket, inlaid with finely scrolled vines. He reached for the pendant.

  Where had it come from? He traced the scroll with one finger. Had her perfect fiancé given it to her? A thread of resistance coursed through him at the idea that a gift from another man might find a home against her warm skin—that it had been here, against them both as they’d reveled in each other.

  She recognized his focus and reached for the locket, taking it in hand, holding it tight in her clasp. He met her eyes, finding them wide and full of emotion. “I bought it the day we left London,” she whispered. “A present.”

  Shame coursed through him. The gift he hadn’t thought to give her. It was almost worse than discovering it was a gift from another man. “To begin your future,” he said, the words coming on a low, harsh breath. A future without him.

  A future he might have had, as well, if he weren’t such a prat.

  “No, Eben,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears again. “No. To mourn my past.”

  She fiddled with the pendant then, opening the latch and then the locket itself, to reveal the treasure she kept hidden inside, against her heart. He narrowed his gaze on the little compartment, considering the circle of parchment, small and yellowed.

  A snowflake.

  His heart began to thunder.

  “I suppose I don’t need it anymore,” she said quietly.

  What? She couldn’t possibly think she was leaving him. Not now. She couldn’t possibly think he would let her go. Not when he had a chance to win her again.

  And he was going to win her, dammit.

  He took the locket in his hand and closed it, protecting the small paper circle before setting it back to her chest and leaning down to kiss her before moving away from her, loath to release her even as he leaned over the edge of the bed and fetched his discarded waistcoat, working to disconnect the long golden chain at the pocket. He rolled back to face her and dangled the golden pocket watch from his fingers. Surprise leapt into her gaze as she focused on the pendulum—surprise chased by happiness, bright and welcome and making him feel like a king.

  She looked to him. “Your watch.”

  “Not a watch. A talisman.” He opened the back, revealing the truth of his words, showing her the place where the inscription had once been, where he had rubbed it smooth. And there, tucked inside, another yellowed snowflake. A match to hers. She caught her breath and reached for it, stroking the paper with a soft touch, as though it was as fragile as a real snowflake.

  “It was all I had left of you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “After chasing you away.”

  A tear streaked down her cheek, and he let the watch drop, reaching for her, his chest tight with emotion. He could bear so much—twelve years without her—but not her tears. “No, my love. No. Don’t cry. Not for me. I am not worth it. I was never worth your tears.”

  Her hands came into his hair, holding him to her as more tears came and, finally, she pushed him away, far enough to meet his eyes, and for him to recognize her emotion.

  Anger.

  “You have always made that decision for me. What you are worth. And I am tired of it.” He reached for her again, but she brushed off his touch, rising like Venus, strong and beautiful, pulling a blanket from the bed as she stood beside it. “You decided we should wait to marry. You decided you had to be rich. You decided the estate had to be settled. You decided that I could not stand beside you while you worked. You decided that I could not love you while you were poor. You decided that you—” Her breath hitched, and he sat up, again reaching for her, again being rebuffed. “No—” He lowered his hand instantly, even as he ached to touch her, to erase the pain in the words that followed. “You painted me perfection. Set me high on a pedestal and told yourself I was too fragile to be yours.”

  The words destroyed him. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “What? No. It was never that.” He’d always wanted her with him. He’d just—“I wanted it to be good enough for you. I wanted it all to be worthy of you.”

  “What proper bollocks,” she replied. “I could have built it with you. We could have stood together. Built it together.”

  He stilled. How many times had he dreamed of just that? Went to bed hungry and tired and certain he could smell her and feel her against him?

  But it had been too late. He’d run her off with his misplaced duty and his obsession with what he might one day give her—forgetting all the while what he could give her every day. Rich or poor. In sickness and in health.

  As long as they both should live.

  “Why didn’t you come for me? After I left?”

  He met her eyes. “I wanted to.”

  More than he’d wanted to breathe.

  “You promised me you would.”

  “I wanted to,” he said again. “But Jack—you were seeing the world. What could I give you here? A small life, mired in the past.”

  She gave a little exasperated sigh. “You could have given me the future with the man I loved, you dunderhead. Which was all I ever wanted.”

  The truth of the words rioted through him and he was through not touching her. He’d spent twelve years not touching her. He reached for her, snaking one hand around her, her bare skin against his arm like silk. He pulled her forward and she came, her hands coming to his head as he pressed his face to her midriff, breathing her in.

  She whispered, “You could have given me everythin
g.”

  He still could. “I bollocksed it up.”

  “You did, rather.”

  “From the start.”

  “No. Only from the middle.”

  It didn’t feel like the middle, however. It felt like forever.

  No. It felt like the past.

  He lifted his head and looked up at her. “You can’t marry your idiot Scot.”

  She canted her head. “Why not?”

  “Because he’ll never love you like I love you.”

  Something softened in her gaze, and pleasure pooled deep within him, like ice cracking open on the first warm day of spring. “He never made me ache with sadness like you did, either.”

  Eben stood then, reaching for her, cradling her face in his hands. “I am sorry. Christ. Let me fix it. Tell me how to fix it.”

  “I only ever wanted you to choose me,” she said. “I only ever wanted you to love me.”

  “I do,” he said, taking her lips in a long, lush kiss, desperate for the touch of her. The feel of her. “Dammit, Jack. Everything . . . everything I have . . . everything I am . . . It’s all yours.”

  “I don’t want it,” she whispered. “I just want you.”

  “You have always had me,” he whispered. “Halfway around the world, with a decade between us, you had me.” They kissed again, long and lingering until she shivered in his arms.

  He went instantly to the hearth, turning his back on her as he crouched to strike flint and stoke flame. Once the fire was burning, he turned back, expecting her to be far from the bed, somewhere where they could talk—revisit the past—begin anew.

  Except she was already where she belonged, in his bed once more, the covers pulled up to her chin as she watched him, the orange glow of the fire reflected in her eyes.

  “Come back to bed,” she said, soft and warm and delicious.

  He shook his head, detouring to the desk at the far end of the room, where he’d left his violin earlier in the evening. Lifting it, he turned back to her. “I owe you a debt.”

  Her eyes went wide and she sat up, holding the sheets to her chest as a smile spread across her face.

  “I have regretted not playing for you every night since that one,” he said softly. “I used to lie in that bed and stare into the darkness and wonder if you would have stayed, if only . . .”

  He let the words trail off as he lifted the instrument to his chin, set the bow to the strings, and played for the woman he loved. He closed his eyes the moment the music began, infusing it with his regret and his desire and his love for Jack, who had, by some miracle, returned to him. He played as though it was his only chance to convince her to stay, his only opportunity to win her back—his only hope.

  And when the final strains of music faded into silence around them, he opened his eyes, immediately finding hers, seeing the tears staining her cheeks. “Eben.” She whispered his name like a prayer, warming him from within. “I missed that so much.”

  He lowered the violin. “Happy Christmas, Jack.”

  A fat tear rolled down her cheek, and she whispered, “I love you.”

  Eben was already moving, dropping the instrument to the carpet and coming for her, climbing into the bed beside her, collecting her to him, kissing her.

  She squeaked at his touch. “You’re cold!”

  “You’re sunshine,” he replied, pulling her close, loving her warmth.

  Loving her.

  She smiled, tucking her head to his chest, the weight of her warm and wonderful against him. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s snowing on Christmas.”

  She yawned, eyes already sliding closed. “A miracle.”

  He held her like that for what felt like an age, until her breathing went even and deep, and she was asleep in his arms in their warm cocoon, far from everything in the world beyond.

  He lay awake for hours in the darkness, afraid to sleep. Afraid she wouldn’t be there when he woke.

  Afraid this miracle would not linger.

  Chapter Nine

  The Island of Naxos, two months earlier

  Jack had been standing in the Portara, staring out at the Aegean Sea, unable to see the sapphire water or the gleam of the setting sun, when Fergus MacBride spoke from behind her. “Gold or lead?”

  Startled from her thoughts, Jack turned to find the Scot leaning against the massive stone doorjamb, arms crossed and a curious smile on his handsome young face. She shook her head. “I don’t—”

  “Gold or lead?” he repeated. “Eros’s arrows.”

  “Neither.”

  “Liar.”

  She huffed a little surprised laugh at the accusation. “I beg your pardon, it isn’t a lie.”

  “A pity. I was hoping ye’d be shot straight in love wi’ me, lass.”

  She couldn’t help matching his wide, winning smile. “You’re six-and-twenty and handsome enough to make a girl think the devil came direct from Scotland. You could have any woman you wished.”

  He winked at her. “Perhaps I’ve been looking for an older woman to take me in hand.”

  She waved toward the town in the distance, where she and Aunt Jane had lingered for the last month. “My aunt is reading on the veranda.”

  His laugh faded into the sea and silence until, finally, Fergus said, “Would you?”

  She met his warm brown eyes. “Would I what?”

  “Take me in hand.”

  Confusion flared. Fergus had been traveling with Jack and Aunt Jane for three months. Lady Danton was famous for collecting hangers-on, but what had begun in Constantinople as one of Aunt Jane’s whims had ended with Fergus and Jack becoming friends. But never, in all the time they’d traveled together, had it occurred to Jack that Fergus might consider their friendship . . . more.

  “Are you . . .” She trailed off.

  He smiled, the expression more than a little sheepish. “You said you were growing tired of your aunt’s travels.”

  It was true. Aunt Jane could easily spend the rest of her days living out of her well-packed trunks, never returning to London. But twelve years had been a long time for Jack—long enough that she found herself longing for home.

  Longing for the man she’d once considered home.

  The thought had her meeting Fergus’s gaze. “I am, but . . .” Again, she lost her words.

  “You’re growing tired of being a lady’s companion, and I canna travel around the world forever. I’ve a home in Scotland that calls me back—and I shall need a wife wi’ me eventually.”

  “Eventually.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a carefree shrug. “No need to wait when I’ve found such a good friend.”

  “Friend.”

  He grinned. “Are ye having trouble hearing me, Lady Jacqueline?”

  “No,” she replied. “Just understanding you.”

  He straightened, coming to his full height, his too-long red hair falling low over his brow. “Let me make it more plain. I’ve need of a wife. And I think you’ve need of a husband. What say you we make a go of it?”

  And there it was. Jack’s first marriage proposal, spoken as the wind curled around them from the Aegean Sea, the gleam of the golden sunset turning the moment into paradise. Except, it wasn’t paradise. Because it wasn’t the proposal she wanted.

  It never would be.

  “It’s a lovely offer.”

  He inclined his head. “But not one you’re willing to accept.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t marry you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t love me.”

  He nodded in agreement, and something like relief chased through Jack. “I like ye plenty, lass. And fine marriages have been based on less than that, I’ll tell you.”

  It was a good offer. Fergus was a good friend. Handsome and kind, and with seemingly endless funds and an estate in Scotland to boot.

  “Why not admit the truth?” he said, pulling her from her thoughts.

  She watched him for a long mo
ment. And then, “All right. I don’t love you.”

  The words held no sting. Neither did they deliver one, if the flash of Fergus’s white teeth was any indication. “But you like me plenty.”

  She smiled. “When you’re not behaving like a madman, certainly.”

  “Tell me this. How many times have you thought of returning to him?”

  The question came from nowhere. Fergus shouldn’t have known there was a him to ask about. There wasn’t a him to ask about, was there? It had been twelve years, and surely all the wide world had moved on.

  It wasn’t like she’d asked to remain in love with Eben.

  But she had. She had, and there was no man she would ever want like him—the boy who had held storms at bay, and given her snow, and made her believe in love. And like that, the tears came. The memory of Eben’s arms, of his wide smiles, of his beautiful eyes and his broad shoulders and his soft kisses. The longing for him.

  And she told her friend the truth. “I’ve thought of returning to him every day since I left.”

  There was no surprise in Fergus’s response—only kind understanding. “And why haven’t you done it?”

  She looked to the sea, her words whispered to the wind. “Because . . . he never came to fetch me.”

  Fergus heard them nonetheless. “Well, he’s a bawbag, clearly.”

  She gave a surprised laugh at the foul Scottish word. “He is, rather.”

  “But you’ve got a mind full of fluff,” Fergus added.

  Jack turned on him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes. I love him.”

  “Still.”

  She took a deep breath, letting the sun and salt spread through her, her thoughts far away in London, where it was already turning cold with the crisp autumn air. She missed the cold, when the nights would grow longer, and she could creep about the house unnoticed. To the library.

  To Eben.

  “Always.”

  “Then why leave him?”

  She watched the waves break and roll into shore for an age. Then, finally, “Because I could not stay and let him leave me first.”