Mischief and Mistletoe

by Jo Beverley; Mary Jo Putney; Patricia Rice; Nicola Cornick; Anne Gracie; Joanna Bourne; Susan Fraser King; Cara Elliott

  She’d surprised him when they’d met. She was younger than he’d expected, and with the kind of quiet assurance and unobtrusive manners that indicated she was gently born and raised. She was frail-looking and thin, but not obviously ill, which was a relief. For all Adams’s talk of money easing the way for a dying woman, it still didn’t sit square with Ronan’s conscience.

  Until she’d appeared in the breakfast parlor, he hadn’t really thought about her as a person, not someone with thoughts and feelings and a history. But when she’d looked at him with those pretty gray eyes, and spoken in her soft English accent, he’d wondered what sort of a person she was, and what had brought her to this desperate pass—to be marrying a stranger for money in a country not her own.

  Ronan glanced into the chapel to check that all was in order. It was a stark little building, plain stone, whitewashed inside and furnished with simple timber pews. Somebody had filled a couple of large vases with greenery—holly, juniper branches and mistletoe—and placed them on either side of the altar.

  Ronan smiled. He had no objection to a bit of greenery, but it was nearing Christmas and he was sure Reverend Gillespie would have something to say about pagan customs being out of place in a good Scottish kirk.

  Ronan pulled out his watch and checked the time. Half past ten. He hurried away to dress for his wedding.

  She was late.

  Had she taken the money and run?

  Ronan paced back and forth before the altar, aware that his every twitch was under close observation. He’d informed his household that this was to be the simplest of ceremonies with no fuss and only a few requisite witnesses, but word had spread and the small chapel was filled. Apart from his servants, which he’d expected, half the village had turned out.

  He tried not to mind. Adams had stressed that it should look like a normal wedding, and to that end, Ronan had dressed in the same clothes he’d worn for his first wedding—the same outfit he’d be buried in, no doubt—the McAllister kilt, lace jabot and a short black coat with silver buttons.

  He was absurdly nervous; why, he had no idea. He was marrying on his own terms, and in a month or so she’d be gone from his life. The ceremony was just a formality.

  There was a stir in the church, then a sudden silence. He turned and there she stood, pale and still against the stark, whitewashed stone of the kirk; a slender gray candle wrapped in flame. The brilliant scarlet shawl was the brightest thing in the cold little chapel.

  She walked slowly down the aisle, the hushed silence of the congregation broken by the silvery sound of tiny bells that jingled with each step she took. What on earth . . . ?

  As she drew closer he saw the source of the sound, an intricate and exotic silver headdress that framed her brow with tiny silver bells.

  Ronan glanced at the entranced congregation, and his lips twitched. So much for his bride-in-mourning. Behind him he heard the minister give a huff of disapproval, and Ronan’s smile widened. The pagan vases of mistletoe, holly and juniper would pale before this foreign pagan display.

  She reached his side and he took her hand. It was shaking. He held it firmly and gave Reverend Gillespie a nod.

  The minister gave a loud sniff, then commenced. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the presence of this company, to unite Ronan James McAllister and Peggy Smith—”

  Marguerite took a deep breath. “Marguerite Elizabeth Blackett-Smith.”

  The minister stopped in midword, his mouth hanging open.

  Ronan’s black brows snapped together. “What?”

  In a voice that shook only a little, she said, “Not Peggy Smith—Marguerite Elizabeth Blackett-Smith.”

  The summer blue eyes bored into her. “You mean you wish to be married as Marguerite, not Peggy?”

  “Yes.” Her palms were damp and her heart pounded as she prepared to explain the mix-up and offer herself in Peggy Smith’s place. “You see—”

  Ronan shrugged and turned to the minister. “Whether she calls herself Peggy or Marguerite, it makes no difference. Continue the ceremony.”

  “Yes, but—” Marguerite began.

  “Dearly beloved . . .”

  Marguerite hesitated, then decided to let it go. It was cowardly, she knew, but she wanted this wedding, wanted the money and the chance of a new life it offered her and those two little girls.

  She listened to the drone of the minister, stunned by the ease with which Ronan James McAllister had accepted the substitution. He hadn’t asked a single question or even let her explain. He really didn’t care who he married.

  Numbly she felt him remove her glove and slide a gold band onto her finger. He stood so close she could smell him—soap and cologne and a faint trace of woodsmoke. He must have bathed. He was freshly shaved, and his hair was damp and combed severely into place. No farm laborer now; he was an exotic mix of gentleman and . . . barbarian.

  Bare knees. Strong, brawny legs clad in dark woolen stockings to the knee. A bright tartan kilt anchored with a hairy leather sporran slung low around his hips. It rested just . . . below his stomach.

  Was it true that Scotsmen wore nothing under the kilt? She didn’t know why the idea seemed so shocking, when she herself wore no drawers. Neither Papa nor Cousin Ida approved of the new fashion of ladies wearing drawers under their petticoats.

  But it was different for a man. His skirts were so short. One good breeze and . . .

  She felt her cheeks warm. It was not seemly to be thinking such things in church. Especially while she was getting married. She was getting married.

  Dumbly she heard him promise to have and to hold her in sickness and in health . . .

  As he spoke the words in a crisp, matter-of-fact voice, she couldn’t help but think of poor Peggy Smith, whose life had been cut off so short and who should have been standing here, being joined to this man.

  “. . . and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  Five hundred pounds, Marguerite thought. With five hundred pounds I thee endow.

  She spoke her own vows parrot fashion. It felt quite unreal, like a pantomime or a play. And then . . .

  “You may kiss the bride.”

  He turned her toward him and bent to kiss her, just as she put her face up to be kissed, a little anxious, self-conscious about kissing him with everyone watching, and in a hurry to get it over. Their noses bumped, she jumped, and his kiss missed, landing off-center, on the side of her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, agonizingly aware of the watching congregation.

  He looked down at her a long moment, then gave her a slow smile. “I think we can do a little better than that.” The sweetness of his smile dazzled her. Up to now he’d seemed so stern, but that smile . . .

  His big hands cupped her face and he bent and kissed her, his mouth warm and possessive.

  He smelled clean, like the scent of the moors, and at the first touch his lips had been cool. But when he came back the second time his mouth was hot and hungry. The taste of him was dark, masculine and enticing, like spiced port wine and gingerbread. It warmed her clear through to the pit of her stomach, and she surrendered herself wholly to the sensations that coursed through her, the hunger in him calling to something deep inside her.

  The kiss drove every thought from Marguerite’s mind, and when he released her, she staggered and might even have fallen had he not slipped an arm around her waist and steadied her.

  She stared up at him. What had happened? She’d been kissed before and had never . . .

  He bent and picked up the Kashmiri shawl, which had unaccountably slipped off her and lay in a pool at her feet. He settled it around her shoulders, saying, “I’ve never seen such a bold splash of color in the kirk. What, with that and the bells, the good Reverend is, no doubt, in shock.”

  She gave his red and green kilt a pointed glance. “You’re not exactly drab yourself, sir.”

  He gave her a surprised look, and chuckled. He tucked her hand into the crook
of his arm. “Now, Mrs. McAllister, we walk back down the aisle.”

  Mrs. McAllister? She suddenly realized the congregation was clapping and everyone was smiling.

  She was married.

  They walked back to the house. “So, Peggy—”

  “I’d rather you didn’t call me Peggy.”

  He gave her a dry look. “What then? Marguerite-Elizabeth-Blackett-Smith-McAllister? It’s a bit of a mouthful.”

  She bit her lip. She wanted to explain, but there were guests close behind, their footsteps crunching the gravel of the path, and she was worried her confession would cause a scene. And she did not want to give up that fat roll of banknotes tucked away in her bag upstairs.

  “Call me Meg.” A new name for a new life.

  “And Peggy Smith was what? Some kind of alias, in case you decided to change your mind?”

  “Something like that,” she mumbled guiltily.

  “It makes no difference—the document you signed is still legal. As is the marriage.”

  “I know.” The wedding might be a sham, but it was legal, all the same. And she’d added another layer of deception to it. Ronan McAllister still thought he’d married Peggy Smith.

  They walked on. “I’ve arranged a wedding breakfast,” he told her. “I couldn’t really get out of one, but it’ll be just a small gathering. I told people you were in mourning.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “According to Cousin Ida, I still should be.”

  He raised an eyebrow and she explained. “My father died in India just over a year ago.” She gestured to her dress. “Cousin Ida decreed that only gray dresses are proper.”

  “You don’t like gray?”

  She hugged her shawl to her. “I’ve had a year in black. I would have preferred some cheerful colors. I like color, but Cousin Ida was paying.”

  “So I see.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “But the gray suits you. It matches your eyes.”

  She sighed. “Dull.”

  “Not at all. Your eyes are the color of the morning mist on the moors.”

  Marguerite darted him a sideways glance. Was he flirting? Or making fun of her? But he was looking ahead with a pensive expression and a slight frown.

  They walked on in silence. Behind them crunched the footsteps of the wedding guests. Marguerite tried to think of something to say. “Is the mare all right? The one who was sick?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, she’s recovering nicely, thank you. So your father died in India. How long had he lived there?”

  “We went there when I was fifteen.”

  He looked at her with interest. “You lived there? What was it like?”

  “I loved it. I loved the heat, the people, the richness of the culture, the colors, the food . . .”

  “And yet you came back.” There was a question in his voice.

  “I loved India. Unfortunately India did not love me. I was ill almost constantly and in the end I had no alternative but to return to England.”

  “So that was it. I’m sorry.” His voice was somber, and his big, warm hand closed over hers.

  Only a dozen or so people attended the wedding breakfast, mostly neighbors from the district, but in a way the small numbers made it worse. Marguerite was the center of attention. Everyone was so kind, asking her about herself, making laughing but curious comments about how Ronan had kept her a secret.

  Marguerite wanted to shrivel up and disappear.

  The women exclaimed over the softness and beauty of her bright shawl, and made delicate inquiries about her mourning. She told them about Papa and the silver headdress, and when they probed her about how she and Ronan had met, she blushed and muttered something about having been brought together by a mutual acquaintance. And correspondence.

  It was mortifying, receiving their kindness and welcome, knowing it was all deception, but finally the ordeal came to an end. Ronan declared he and his bride were leaving on a short bride trip. That prompted a bit of good-natured teasing and a few ribald jokes. Marguerite’s cheeks were hot, but Ronan bore it with good humor and equanimity.

  An open carriage was brought around. Ronan lifted Marguerite up into the seat and climbed nimbly up to sit beside her. He picked up the reins. “We’re just going for a drive,” he murmured. “As soon as this lot has gone, we’ll come back.”

  They drove off to cheers and waves and well wishes drifting on the air.

  “That went off all right,” he said when they were alone. “You did well, Meg. You made it seem like a real marriage.”

  “It is a real marriage, isn’t it?”

  “A legal one, yes.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Or it will be after tonight.”

  She swallowed. So it was to be consummated.

  She looked at the strong, bare hands holding the reins, at the bare knees just visible beneath the line of the kilt. The strong column of lightly tanned neck was made somehow more masculine by the frilly lace jabot. She looked at the stern mouth that could smile so unexpectedly, and thought about those summer blue eyes. And she shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Chapter 4

  Marguerite had little appetite at dinner. She’d eaten her fill at the wedding breakfast, but more than that, the tension in her had been growing all evening.

  What did he expect of her?

  The evening dragged on. After dinner Ronan excused himself—he had some important paperwork to complete. Ronan worked at the table on his papers while Marguerite sat on the sofa and pretended to read a book. It would have been quite domestic, except for the rising tension in the room.

  Marguerite flipped pages, unseeing, aware of every small movement he made.

  If only she knew.

  Finally he blotted the last paper, closed the ledger, cleaned the pen, stoppered the ink bottle and tidied the table. “Time for bed.”

  The butterflies in her stomach turned into birds.

  He escorted her to the door of her bedchamber, opened it and with a bow said, “Fifteen minutes?”

  She nodded and closed the door behind her. Fifteen minutes. She flew around the room, stripping off her clothes and pulling out her best nightdress. Another of Cousin Ida’s gifts, it was thick and warm, shapeless and plain—perfect for a poor relation going to live in Scotland, but not exactly what a woman would want for her wedding night.

  She pulled it on, shivering despite the fire that was already burning merrily in the grate. In a way she was grateful for the plainness of the garment. Dressed like this, there could be no pretense that this was anything other than a legal arrangement.

  His soft knock almost made her jump out of her skin with fright. She flew into bed—the sheets were so chilly—lay down and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “Come in.”

  He was dressed the same as when he’d left her. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not. She’d expected him to be in a dressing gown and nightshirt, not his kilt. She lay quietly, trying not to watch him, but it was impossible.

  He shrugged off his short coat and hung it on the back of a chair. He removed his waistcoat and the jabot and then pulled his shirt over his head and laid it over his coat. Bare chested, he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and stockings. He set them neatly beside the chair.

  Bare legged, bare chested. Marguerite’s mouth was dry.

  He stood, his back to her in the dim light of the fire and one bedside candle, and unfastened the buckle at his waist. There was a slither of fabric, and Marguerite swallowed. It was true what they said about what one Scotsman, at least, wore under his kilt.

  Nothing.

  She watched furtively as, nude and unembarrassed, he folded the kilt and laid it on the chair with the rest of his clothes. He turned, and she knew she should have shut her eyes, but . . .

  She’d never seen a naked man before. He was bare, barbaric. . . and beautiful.

  She couldn’t help but stare, and then recalling she was supposed to be a lady—and ladies did not s
tare—turned her head away. But she could still see him out of the corner of her eye.

  He paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I always sleep like this. You’re not offended by a man’s body, are you? I thought, you being a widow and all . . .”

  Oh, Lord, she’d forgotten she was supposed to be a widow. She made some sort of squeaking agreement noise and tried to look as though the sight of him had not near driven the breath from her body.

  “I could fetch a nightshirt if you prefer.”

  “No, no, it’s . . . It doesn’t worry me.” Worry wasn’t the word. The bed creaked and she felt a brief draft as he lifted the bedclothes. “ ’Tis just, there must be the appearance of consummation, at least,” he said as he slid in beside her.

  “A-appearance?”

  “Aye, I assume you’ll not be wishing to . . .”

  Was there a hint of a question in that? She didn’t respond. Her mind was a blank.

  “That’s right, isn’t it? In your condition, I thought you’d not want to . . . But if you did . . .” He waited.

  Marguerite had no idea what to say. Her condition?

  “No, of course not,” he said. “Well, it’s been a long day and I had little enough sleep last night, so . . .” The bedclothes surged, and suddenly his naked body was looming over her. She stiffened, but all he did was reach across her to nip out her bedside candle between his finger and thumb.

  He lay back down. “Good night, Meg.”

  “Good night,” she whispered.

  In a few minutes his breathing slowed to a deep, even rhythm. He was asleep. Marguerite lay wide awake, shivering, partly with cold, partly with . . . reaction? She was in bed with a large, naked, sleeping Scotsman whom she’d known less than a day.

  He’d made it clear that he was willing to consummate the marriage, but he’d left the decision up to her. And he hadn’t pressed her.

  Did she want to consummate it? She thought about it. Her body tingled in strange places. She suspected she might. It was just . . . a bit too soon to be sure.