Mischief and Mistletoe
Page 29
How could she possibly sleep? It was all so strange. She was cold. Last night they’d warmed the bed and given her a hot brick wrapped in flannel. Tonight all she had to warm her was a big naked man.
She was married. How peculiar.
Slowly his body heat permeated the bedclothes. His breathing was deep and even, and the rhythm soothed her skittering pulse. Slowly Marguerite relaxed . . .
Ronan woke at dawn rock hard with aching desire. A soft, sweet-smelling female body lay curled up against him. It took him a moment to recall who she was.
Peggy—no, Meg Smith. Meg McAllister now. Her silky brown hair was spread across the pillow.
His wife. But not his wife.
He breathed in her fragrance. Soap, a hint of cologne and warm, enticing female.
Thin, vulnerable female, he reminded himself. Too thin, too pale. And for a damn good reason. A man should feel ashamed of himself, lusting after a dying woman.
How long did she have to live? She had to be desperate to do this. What was she going to do with the money?
Not his business.
He lay in the warm bed, reluctant to leave it, leave the silent, sleeping woman. Five years since he’d last shared a bed like this.
Though it was never like this, never so quiet and peaceful and somehow . . . companionable.
Lenore had never been a peaceful wife. Nor companionable. Lenore was always wanting to be elsewhere, doing something different, with someone else, someone interesting. Someone exciting. Anywhere other than here. Anyone other than him.
He listened to Meg’s gentle breathing. He should have felt lonely waking up next to a relative stranger, but the truth was, he’d never felt so lonely as those mornings when he’d woken up with Lenore, waiting for her eyes to open, only to see reflected in them her deep unhappiness with the husband she’d chosen.
There was nothing lonelier than the coldness of a failed marriage.
It was nobody’s fault, Ronan told himself for the umpteenth time. They’d met in Edinburgh. He thought she was the love of his life. She thought he was . . . someone else. She’d imagined he’d be like his father, a rich sophisticate, an ornament of Edinburgh and Paris society.
When she’d learned Ronan’s inheritance had all been spent, and that in any case Ronan was, at heart, a farmer with a deep and powerful love of his land, the disappointment had embittered her.
Looking back, he could see the signs were obvious even before he and Lenore had married—if he’d only bothered to look for them. But Lenore had dazzled him and he—well, he was blind to her faults. And stupid with lust.
The entire county had pitied Ronan when his wife ran off with another man, but Ronan had been quietly grateful. And, God help him, two years later, when he heard she’d died giving birth to that man’s child, he’d felt some grief, but it was mostly relief, that she was never coming back.
The county would pity him again when this second wife ran off, but it wouldn’t hurt him. Not this time. That was the thing about marriage—it was all about expectations.
This time he had no expectations at all.
Apart from a bad case of inappropriate and misplaced lust, he thought, as the woman beside him stirred gently in sleep and his body responded.
He slid out of the bed, removing his lust from the object of its desire. He gathered his clothes and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
They met again at breakfast a few hours later. He’d had two hours of hard physical work in the stables to work the lust out of him.
She greeted him with a quiet “Good morning” and a shy smile that recalled him instantly to her flustered and not-quite-concealed blushes when she’d seen his nakedness.
She asked him about his plans for the day, and he’d responded with “Work,” and then wondered if he’d sounded churlish. He hadn’t meant to—it was the literal truth.
“What would you like me to do?” she asked.
“Whatever you want. You’re a guest here.”
She said no more for the rest of breakfast, but as he folded his napkin and prepared to leave she said, “What if I decorated the house for Christmas?”
“Christmas?” he repeated blankly. He’d never bothered much with Christmas. It was more of an English thing, the decorations, the celebrations. His English mother had celebrated it with gusto, but she’d died when he was a boy, and since then, Christmas was more of a solemn church occasion. New Year—Hogmanay—was the Scottish time for celebrations.
“I’d love to do it,” she said eagerly. “I’ve never experienced a white Christmas. When I was a child in England we always lived in the south, and then we were in India. You’ve no idea how peculiar it is to have hot, sunny weather at Christmas. One of the things I’ve most looked forward to about returning to England is to have a proper English Christmas—well, a proper Scottish one—and now I’m here, and it might even snow for Christmas.” Her face glowed at the prospect.
He didn’t have the heart to tell her what a proper Scottish Christmas was like, particularly a Christmas of the sort that the Reverend Gillespie thought appropriate—all sermons and solemnity.
“Christmas decorations would be grand,” he told her.
“Could I have a servant to help me gather the greenery?”
“I’ll help you,” Ronan found himself saying. He had mountains of work waiting for him, but this would probably be her last Christmas on earth, so why not make it the kind of occasion she’d dreamed of? She seemed a sweet little thing, and it was little enough to ask.
They donned their winter coats—Ronan saw how thin hers was and sent a servant up to find something warm from his late wife’s clothing—he hadn’t gone near her room since she’d left, and it was all still there. The maid brought down a coat in bright cherry red wool, a green and white scarf and a fur hat. Meg exclaimed delightedly over them, seeming not to mind that she was wearing cast-offs.
As for footwear, Meg wore the same sturdy black boots she’d worn to her wedding, perfectly suitable for tramping around in the cold and muddy outdoors. He wondered if they were the only shoes she had. They set off for the wood to the west of the estate, and Ronan found himself telling her about the estate and pointing out things of interest.
Lenore would have been bored rigid, but Meg asked him all sorts of questions as if she found the subject interesting. The brisk walk in the crisp, frigid air brought roses to her cheeks and a sparkle to those pretty grey eyes, and he found himself telling her more than he’d planned, explaining the vision he had for the rebuilding of the estate, something he’d never confided in to anyone.
Luckily they arrived at the edge of the wood before he’d spilled to her the reason for their marriage, Great Aunt Agatha’s damnable will.
They gathered greenery by the armful—fragrant juniper and spruce, long strands of ivy, prickly holly and mistletoe—Meg doing most of the selecting and Ronan doing the climbing and cutting. She was very choosy, directing him in a bossy, feminine manner that amused him.
“No, not that one, the other one, higher up. The branch above your head to the left—it’s much more handsome, don’t you think?”
“All I know is, it’s higher up. Do you want me to break my neck?”
“No, of course not! Is it that dangerous?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Fearfully dangerous. But I’m a brave lad. I’ll risk it.”
She laughed. “What a hero you are, to be sure. And it’s worth the risk. It’s a much shapelier branch. You will see when I have it all arranged. It will look beautiful.”
“It’s all just green stuff to me,” he grumbled, but he was enjoying himself, and they both knew it. And as they staggered homeward, half buried in greenery, she told him about Christmas in India, and Ronan reflected that he hadn’t had so much simple fun in ages.
They dumped the greenery in the hallway and washed for luncheon. And after luncheon he left her to her decorating, telling her to call servants if she needed help.
It wou
ld have been fun to stay and help, but Ronan recognized the danger. She’d be gone in a month. And he was lonelier than he’d realized.
Besides, he had a mountain of work waiting.
When Ronan went to enter the back door that evening he found his way blocked by a maidservant. “Excuse me, sir, but we think you ought to go in by the front door.”
Ronan raised his brows. This was the closest entrance to the stables at the back of the house. “We think?”
The maid blushed but held her ground. “Yes, sir.” Her eyes were dancing. Something was afoot.
“Verra well, then.” Ronan tramped around to the front door. As he expected there was a wreath of holly and ivy fastened above the knocker and tied with red and white ribbons. He knocked, feeling a little foolish. His own front door.
A footman opened it and stepped back smartly to let him in. The entrance hall was a riot of fragrant greenery and crimson ribbons. Meg was just tidying up the last of the offcuts. “What do you think?” she asked, brushing off her fingers. She was flushed and her eyes were shining.
“Very nice, very er, green.”
She laughed. “Doesn’t the smell make you think of Christmas?”
Ronan sniffed. The smell made him think of cold, muddy forests and splinters, but she was smiling with such a look on her face, he found himself saying heartily, “Indeed it does. Very, um, Christmassy. Well done. Now, I’ll just wash up and change for dinner.” He was cold, his clothes were damp and he was dying for a drink.
“Yes, of course. I must wash and tidy up, too,” Meg agreed, and turned to leave. Two maids stepped into her path, smiling. Ronan frowned.
“Ahem!” The footman cleared his throat.
Ronan glanced at him, and the footman’s gaze turned meaningfully upward. Ronan followed the man’s gaze to a circle of greenery that hung suspended over the center of the hall. Mistletoe. And beneath it, though quite unaware, stood Meg. His new bride.
Suddenly Ronan knew why he’d been maneuvered there, and why half his staff were unaccountably loitering around the entrance hall, smothering grins.
“I believe there’s an old tradition we must honor,” he told Meg, and pointed upward.
“Oh.” She laughed a little, blushing, and lifted her face for the kiss.
He framed her face with his hands, feeling the delicate bones, the warm, silky skin. He intended to make it a brief, light kiss, but her eyes were shining and her soft lips parted in anticipation, and without thinking he covered her mouth with his and found himself tasting her deeply.
She tasted as sweet and potent as fresh bread and honey mead. He tightened his grip on her, moving closer, molding her body to his, and she pressed against him, her fingers spearing through his hair, her mouth warm and welcoming. The taste of her streamed along his veins like fire, igniting a response he wasn’t prepared for. His hands dropped, running over her small body, marveling at the lightness of her, the delicacy, fine boned and dainty like a little bird—no!
Not delicate—ill. Dying. And he was mauling her in his own hallway in front of his servants.
He broke off the kiss, glanced around and found they were alone. His servants had melted silently away like wax. Or perhaps not. If a herd of elephants had thundered through, Ronan doubted he would have noticed.
He looked down at her and realized he was still holding her tightly. Her fragile shoulder bones were a silent reproach. He released her carefully and stepped back. He was breathing hard. So was she, but those gray eyes of hers were shining like polished silver and she was looking up at him as if he were . . .
No, he wasn’t any kind of hero. He was an insensitive brute lusting after a dying woman.
He tried to think of something to say, but staring down into those wide gray eyes, and seeing the softly parted pink mouth, still damp from his kiss, all he could come up with was, “Time to wash up for dinner, then.”
Dammit, how the hell was he going to get through another night in her bed?
Let alone the twenty-eight nights that would follow after that.
Chapter 5
Ronan arrived in his wife’s bedchamber that night, dressed in a stiff new nightshirt and a brocade dressing gown. Meg looked at him in surprise and he said self-consciously, “I thought you might prefer this.” Her gaze ran over him and, fool that he was, he felt it like a caress.
“I don’t mind.” She gave him a shy smile.
What did that mean? She wanted him to sleep naked? Or she didn’t care what he wore to bed? Probably the latter. He shrugged off the dressing gown and slipped into bed beside her.
It took him forever to fall asleep. He was agonizingly aware of her, every breath and small movement she made. And the fragrance of her, the same sweetness as before with a faint added tang of juniper, spruce and mistletoe.
Now he’d think of her each time he went into the forest.
They were both being very careful not to touch. Once her foot grazed his calf. He must have made a small sound, for she said, “Sorry,” in the darkness, sounding breathless.
“Your feet are cold. If you like you can warm them against me,” he invited quietly, but she said nothing, pretending to be asleep. Wanting nothing to do with him.
Ronan turned over and tried to sleep.
He woke at dawn with the nightshirt twisted around his middle, bare from the waist down. Cuddled into the curve of his body, her backside pressed against his aching groin, was his wife, sound asleep and also naked from the waist down judging by the silky skin pressed against him. He wanted to lift the covers and check, but he was a gentleman. Nothing to do with the knowledge that the rush of cold air would waken her if he lifted the covers, he told himself. Liar.
He eased down his nightshirt and slipped out of bed, tucking the bedclothes around her so she wouldn’t get cold. Two nights down, twenty-eight to go.
Marguerite kept her eyes closed as her husband of two nights slipped from the bed then tucked the bedclothes around her, carefully, sweetly man-clumsy, then left the room.
Why had she ever imagined this would be simple?
She snuggled into the warm space he’d left behind. Two days and two nights and she was already more than half in love with the man. How was she ever going to leave him?
But that was the deal.
Twenty-eight days was all she had. And twenty-eight nights. It wasn’t much for a lifetime. She would waste no more of them. He desired her, she was sure of it. Every kiss, every touch, she felt the hunger in him.
He awakened an answering hunger in her.
The last two nights he’d been a gentleman, holding back, waiting for a sign from her. Tonight she would give him that sign. Tonight she would become Mrs. Ronan James McAllister in truth.
If only for twenty-eight more days.
The servants were conspiring against him, Ronan decided halfway through the next day. Sprigs of mistletoe kept sprouting in unexpected places. And every time there was some blasted maid or a footman silently prompting him to his duty to tradition and his bride.
He tried to pretend disapproval toward his servants—until recently they’d performed their duties with invisible efficiency—but he couldn’t blame them. They thought they were welcoming a new bride to HighTowers, and romance was in the air.
But when that night he slid into bed with her and lay back on his pillow, he looked upward and groaned. She followed his gaze and exclaimed, “How did that get there?” She sent him an apologetic look. “I promise you, I had nothing to do with this. I don’t know—”
“It’s all right. I’ll talk to the servants.” He shook his head. “They mean well. The thing is, they like you and all this”—he gestured to the bunch of mistletoe hanging over their bed—“is because they want you to be happy here.”
“I have been,” she said quietly. “You cannot know how much.”
Ronan contemplated the bunch of mistletoe. Servants usually knew all their master’s secrets, but it seemed his hadn’t yet realized his marriage was a sham. He si
ghed. When she left in the new year it was going to be a gloomy house.
What kind of a situation would Meg be returning to? None of his business, he knew, but still, he couldn’t help wondering. And worrying. But she’d made it clear she didn’t want to discuss her private affairs, and he had to respect that.
“Well, it’s bad luck to ignore the tradition.” Marshaling every shred of self-control he possessed, he leaned across to give her a light kiss.
She surprised him by pulling him closer, holding him tight and kissing him with an enthusiasm that dissolved all his good intentions.
Did she know what she was doing to him? “Meg? Are you saying . . . ?”
She blushed sweetly and nodded. “I’m saying yes. Please.” She pulled at his nightshirt, dragging it up and over his head. It shattered the last remnants of his control.
Kissing her, he smoothed his palm along her body, bringing the hem of her nightgown with it. He drew it slowly up her body. She raised her arms to assist him, and he pulled it off her and tossed it aside, feasting his eyes on the sight of her, slender and silky gold in the light of a single candle and the glowing embers of the fire.
She was thin and small, but her breasts were high and firm and very, very sweet. He bent to taste them and she arched against him, murmuring with pleasure.
She ran her hands over his chest, along his arms, down his back, raining haphazard kisses over him, returning caress for caress. He ran his palm slowly down her stomach and felt her quiver, deep inside. He slipped his fingers between her legs and found her warm and wet and inviting, her thighs trembling and parting at his touch.
He lifted himself over her, braced at the juncture of her thighs. This is what he’d ached for every night and every morning, and each time he’d kissed her under the mistletoe.
In one slow, sure movement he entered her. She arched and cried out. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and in the firelight what he saw on her face was a grimace of pain, not of ecstasy.