Wake Me With a Kiss: A Fairy Tale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 1)

by Samantha Holt

  Though the rain had soaked through her spencer and gown, the instant warmth of the thick material and the scent of Hamish washed over her. She huddled deeper into the heavy, large garment.

  He offered her a hand as large puddles developed on the ground. Droplets hung from her lashes and the skies were utterly steel grey. Ahead the castle looked tantalizingly close, but the sodden ground clung onto her slippers like a deadly sea creature trying to drag her to her doom. Her satin slippers were ruined and next to useless in this weather. How she longed for her half-boots.

  Her next step forward saw her ankle deep in a puddle. She let out a groan. Hamish put an arm about her waist and hauled her out. There went her slipper. She eyed the pale pink satin before it vanished under the boggy ground.

  “I fear it is gone.”

  Rose nodded, glanced up at him, and giggled. Droplets hung from his brim and trailed down his nose. He looked exceedingly handsome. The rain had only darkened his hair, curling the locks at the base of his neck. His skin somehow suited being damp. The entire event merely added an air of attractiveness to him.

  Whilst she…Rose peered down at herself…had fallen victim to the weather most horribly. Mud trailed up her white gown. Splatters of it had reached as far as her bodice. She was now missing a shoe and her hair clung close to her head. Any semblance of attractiveness or beauty was gone.

  He eyed her for a moment, shook his head with a grin, and tugged her close. They continued up toward the castle, Hamish aiding her across the boggy grass.

  He paused not far from the castle. “Bloody dog.”

  The curse came suddenly, and Rose paused with him. When she looked in the direction of the keep, she saw why.

  “Oh goodness.”

  Rupert sat on the steps to the castle, tucked under the eaves so that he was perfectly dry. Rose put a hand to her mouth to smother a giggle.

  “Do not be angry at him.”

  Hamish gave a huff. “Bloody, bloody dog.” But she saw the smile that quirked his lips.

  They made their way to the steps, and Hamish dropped down onto one next to Rupert. The dog jumped in excitement, licking Hamish’s face. He laughed and ruffled the dog’s head.

  “Yer a bad boy,” he scolded. “Look what ye’ve done to Rose.”

  Rose sat herself next to Rupert and gave him a fuss. “I am not sure Rupert can be held accountable for the weather.”

  Hamish looked at her. His gaze locked onto hers. The steady pitter-patter of the rain vanished. Her heavy breathing became the only sound in existence. His gaze fell to her lips, and she could not help do the same. Every fiber of her being willed him to her, to close the gap, to hold her close.

  He reached out, a finger flicking away a wet curl that clung to her face. That finger trailed down and urged up her chin. She was powerless to break away—not that she wanted to. This braw Scotsman had some hold over her, and she liked it too much.

  He swept his lips across hers, and a groan rumbled from him. He tasted wet mostly, then warm with a hint of brandy. He pressed his lips harder to hers and she latched her hands around his neck, for fear he might end the kiss too soon. His mouth moved carefully over hers, making her stomach whirl and dance.

  When he finally broke away, he kept her close, the dog between them and watching them with interest. In spite of her wet garments, heat suffused her from head to toe. Rupert gave them both a lick for their troubles and they laughed.

  “I have been wanting to do that all evening.” Hamish’s voice was rough and gritty.

  “I have been wanting you to do that all evening,” she confessed.

  His gaze searched her face. “I must away to town for a week or so tomorrow.”

  She hoped her disappointment did not reveal itself on her face but apparently it must have, as he cupped her chin and smiled into her eyes.

  “It shall pass quickly, I promise. And when I return…”

  His gaze fell to her lips once more and Rose knew what was coming. He pressed a swift kiss to her mouth.

  “When I return, I shall speak to yer aunt.”

  “Yes,” she said breathily.

  “I shall court ye, Rose, in the manner ye deserve.” His smile was soft, almost wistful. “I want ye for myself, lass. I want ye as mine.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rose eyed the overgrown bush. “You need a good trim,” she told the plant, brandishing her shears. It seemed to tremble a little at the threat. “I’ll be gentle,” she promised.

  The previous week’s rain had vanished, leaving the past few days dry, if a little windy. Wind, she could manage and it did not prevent her from going out, so she didn’t mind.

  If it had rained, she was not sure how she would have coped. The thought of Hamish travelling on sodden roads made her stomach twist, not to mention she was entirely unable to keep still while he was gone. Goodness, she hoped he returned soon.

  “Impatient girl,” she scolded herself.

  “I think when you talk to plants, you’re meant to be nice to them.”

  Rose twisted to view Miss Taylor, who held a basket of vegetables from the garden.

  “This plant does not deserve niceness. See how it has taken over half of the bed.”

  “Well, you had better teach it a lesson, I suppose.” Miss Taylor peered up at the clouds that prevented the sun from escaping. “You watch you do not get wet. You’re lucky you did not catch a cold after the ball.”

  She glanced up. When they had returned from the ball, with Rose in quite a state, the three women had fussed terribly over her. It was not that she did not appreciate their care but, goodness, she was hardly some wilting flower. Ever since, they had been a little more protective of her.

  “It will stay dry,” Rose said, confidently.

  “As long as you do not go chasing anymore dogs. We have had our fill of them.”

  “Rupert went with Hamish to Edinburgh.”

  Miss Taylor smiled, and Rose suspected she caught the wistfulness in her tone.

  “They will be back before long, and I’ve no doubt he will have little desire to leave Baleith again. Not when he enjoys it so much here.”

  Heat touched her cheeks at the housekeeper’s knowing look. She had not said a word of Hamish’s promises. How could she? He had to speak with Aunt May first. But the women knew her so well, it was hard to hide her appreciation of him.

  Miss Taylor frowned. “Did I hear the bell? I’ll be but a moment.”

  Rose turned her attention back to the plant. The wild stems wound about many of the other plants, and she propped her hands on her hips while she decided where exactly to start. She heard the front door shut but there were no voices. They never had visitors so it was likely some post or a delivery.

  Grasping a branch, she gave it a snip and cast it aside. Miss Taylor stepped out into the garden, brandishing a letter. Her wide smile made Rose pause.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter from Baleith Castle.”

  Even if she had tried, Rose could not have prevented the wild skip in her heart as she took the letter. “I did not think he was due back yet.”

  “No one said he had returned whilst I was in town, but perhaps he has only just come home.” Miss Taylor peered non-too-subtly over the edge of the paper as Rose unbound it and unfolded the parchment.

  She frowned. Hamish had never written her any letters during their acquaintance, but somehow she would not have expected such a feminine hand. She skimmed down to the name at the bottom of the letter.

  “Miss Marianne Andrews?”

  The housekeeper’s expression darkened. “What in the devil does she want?”

  “That was the laird’s mistress, was it not?”

  “Yes. I thought she had left after his death.”

  Rose opened her mouth then closed it. She had never met Miss Andrews formally, only seen her occasionally in town, but her reputation was well known. Many thought her a seductress, while others muttered such horrible things as a witch. As far as Rose
was concerned, she had never met the woman so could say nothing. The laird had kept her as his mistress for nearly a year before his death and no one thought he intended to marry her.

  “At the castle…” she muttered to herself.

  “Pardon?”

  Rose smiled. “Nothing, Miss Taylor.” She peered over the writing. “She wishes for me to visit with her. She said the laird is intending to return a day early and it would be a nice surprise.” Rose frowned. “I suppose…”

  “I suppose he might have told her of his feelings for you.”

  That blasted blush travelled up her face again. “Perhaps.”

  “I’m surprised Miss Marianne Andrews is still in Scotland. The woman should have been long gone by now.”

  “Maybe Laird Malcolm willed her something here. Hamish did say he had business to attend with regards to Malcolm. Perhaps it was that.”

  “That would certainly make sense. If I were him, I would want rid of her with haste. I never trusted her.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Once or twice in town. Your aunt rightly shielded you from her. A woman of such repute could not be allowed near you.”

  The tiniest pang of sympathy struck Rose. In stories she had read, there had been women who had made choices—choices they did not wish to make but needed to. For all they knew, Marianne did what she did to survive, and yet she was never allowed to make friends with anyone and everyone avoided her.

  “I think I shall accept the invitation.”

  “I shall come with you,” Miss Taylor declared.

  “There is no need. You are far too busy, and if Miss Andrews is there, it will not be improper.”

  The housekeeper huffed. “Miss Marianne Andrews is entirely improper. Your aunt will not want you near her.”

  “Well, you need not say anything. I shall go out for a little stroll and be back before supper.”

  “Rose…” Miss Taylor warned.

  “All shall be well,” she promised. “You would not wish to deny me a chance to see Hamish, would you, Miss Taylor?”

  The housekeeper laughed. “No, I would not.”

  ***

  Rose eyed the skies and secretly begged them to withhold the threatening rain. She flicked a long strand of grass aside. So much for the weather drying up. She really did not wish to look as though she had just emerged from a muddy pond yet again.

  Not that Hamish had seemed to mind. She pressed a fingertip to her lips. It might have been just over a week but she could recall the feel of his warm, tender mouth upon hers.

  Kicking aside the long grass as she went, she made her way up to the castle. She sucked in a breath and held it. Rose knew little of Miss Andrews, only what the gossips said. Though she could well understand why her Aunt May kept her away from a woman with such loose morals, she could not help think how similar their situations were. She was kept away from society by the overprotectiveness of her aunt, and Miss Andrews was forced out of it because of her situation.

  The butler opened the door of the castle before she could pull the bell. Ever stern-faced, he glowered at her.

  “I-I am here to see Miss Andrews.”

  Before the butler could move his tightly pressed lips, the woman she had seen the other night approached. Her elegant green silk gown made Rose feel dowdy in her white muslin. A thin sheath covered the bodice of Miss Andrew’s dress, delicately painted with golden flowers. Her hair was artfully curled and several feathers in matching green were tucked into it. She was either extremely talented at doing her own hair or she kept a maid.

  Rose did not return Marianne’s smile. Not yet. She could not fathom why the woman had been hiding during the ball, or why she had let the dog out, for she was sure she had been the one behind the chaos.

  “Miss Merriweather, I am glad ye accepted my invitation.” She dropped into a curtsey.

  Rose followed suit, taking in the woman’s elegance. Though her clothes were no doubt expensive, they could not hide the slightly strained appearance to her expression. Miss Andrews was a good twelve or fifteen years her senior she had been told, and a few lines creased her eyes and her forehead. The youthful luster was leaving her but, sadly, it had not been replaced with aged elegance as it often did in great beauties. Or at least that was what she had been told.

  “Will ye no’ come through to the drawing room?” She indicated to the right.

  Rose nodded and forced a smile. As much as she wanted to extend a hand of friendship, there was something about the woman that set her on edge.

  They moved into the drawing room, not far from where Hamish had tucked her into the alcove and told her how much he had been dying to be with her all evening. In the light of day, the tall ceilings appeared grander and she felt that much smaller. Several worn chairs occupied the space, and a large Persian rug covered the creaky wooden floorboards. A gilded table sat in front of the huge fireplace that had been carved out of stone, likely in the medieval era. Upon the table was tea, coffee, and delicate cakes. Miss Andrews must have been quite certain she would visit.

  “Will Hamish return soon?” she asked as the woman indicated to one of the seats.

  Miss Andrews waited until Rose sat before sitting opposite and pouring the tea. “Any moment now,” she assured.

  “I had thought he would be a little longer in town.”

  “I received a letter yesterday, declaring his intention to be returned by today. I thought it would be an excellent surprise if ye were here.”

  Rose took a cup and held it close for a moment. She eyed the woman but could not fathom anything in her expression.

  “Of course, some female company is always pleasant.”

  Rose nodded. Perhaps she had been right. Miss Andrews was lonely. Was this her extension of the hand of friendship?

  “I did not see you at the ball.”

  The words came out abruptly, and a dash of silence swept through the room. Rose turned her gaze to the shield carved into the fireplace and silently cursed her loose tongue.

  Miss Marianne took a sip of tea before clearing her throat. “Hamish thought it inappropriate. Unfortunately, there would have been those who would not have appreciated my company.”

  “I see.”

  “It has been a hard year, losing my Malcolm. Had he remained alive, we would have been wed by now and hosting endless balls but, alas, fate had different ideas.”

  “I am sorry.”

  A strained smile stretched across the woman’s red lips. “I have long been a resourceful woman. I will make the best of this situation as I can.”

  “I admire your fortitude,” Rose replied with genuine admiration. How hard it must have been to lose the man she loved. She could hardly imagine how she would feel if she lost Hamish.

  “Aye, well, enough about me. Let us talk about ye.”

  “I am not sure what there is to say.”

  “I am right, am I not?”

  “Right about what?”

  Miss Andrews gave a tinkling laugh. “That Hamish is sweet on ye.”

  Rose lowered her gaze.

  “I am. I could tell at the ball. And, of course, he has spoken of little else but ye for the past few weeks.”

  A smile worked its way across Rose’s lips. “He has?”

  “Of course.” Miss Andrews leaned forward. “Tell me, is he courting ye?”

  Fingering the fragile handle of the cup, she traced the delicate curl. Should she really be admitting these things to Marianne before her aunt even knew?

  “Well?”

  Rose looked up and nodded. “Well he will be, once he has permission from my aunt.”

  Miss Andrews laughed. “Goodness, I wouldnae have imagined that highlander doing things so properly.”

  “He is more than a highlander. He is a gentleman.”

  Miss Marianne tilted her head, sending dark curls brushing against the pale skin of her shoulder. “Is he indeed?” The way her dark eyes fired made Rose’s gut twist. “Well, let us distract oursel
ves with cakes before he returns. No doubt yer eager to see him and every minute must seem like an eternity.”

  “I—” Rose was saved from a response as Marianne offered forward the cakes. Rose took a small sponge cake, filled with cream and strawberries. Under Miss Andrew’s watchful gaze, she took a bite. For want of anything to say, she finished it quickly, aware of the woman studying her every move.

  “There. Cake solves everything, does it not?”

  Rose frowned at her gleeful tone. She noted Marianne had not yet taken a bite. “Do you…” Her stomach gave a little lurch and she took up her cup of tea again to take a sip. “You must care for Hamish very much to be so interested in…” She took another gulp of tea. A strange bitter tang lingered in her mouth that made bile rise in the back of her throat.

  “Interested in who he is courting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aye,” Miss Marianne said, her lips pressed into a tight smile. “I care for him very much. I only want the best for him.” She lifted the plate. “Another cake?”

  Rose shook her head. The burning in her throat had travelled down to her stomach and a severe pain spread through her. The cup dropped from her hand and spilled across the carpet.

  “Oh dear,” she said weakly before collapsing to the floor. Her skin felt clammy, her limbs trembled. She peered absently at the wild patterns on the carpet as Miss Andrews came to stand in front of her.

  “Miss Rose, I do believe you are sick. We should get you home.” Her tone was oddly calm.

  Dots spiraled in front of Rose’s vision. She tried to lift an arm but was unable to. It felt as though the castle had crumbled down on top of her and she could not budge. Wearily, she closed her eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hamish pushed a hand through his hair and grimaced. The journey from Edinburgh had left him achy and tired, and some of his old scars felt as though they were on fire. Why sitting in a carriage bothered him more than trekking across France and Spain on horseback, he did not know, but he supposed he was not used to travelling in relative luxury.

  Easing his stiff body out of the carriage, he stepped down and peered up at the castle. He had not thought of it as home until now.