CHAPTER TWO
Felicity was pleased to see Canforth moving more easily, now he was out of the cold. Her silly, worried self wanted to fuss and question, help him with the stairs. But she made herself precede him slowly up to the great hall, so he wouldn’t be too self-conscious about his limping progress. Digby struggled after them even more slowly. It was clear he had no intention of parting from his master. Doggy panting accompanied them all the way. Felicity couldn’t help contrasting the easy conversation downstairs with the silence that now descended.
“Shall we go into the drawing room? Joe lights a fire in there each evening.”
When Canforth didn’t answer, she glanced back. He leaned on the doorway cut through the carved screen, and if she hadn’t known better, she’d imagine him unchanged from the man she’d married. The gathering dusk hid that vicious scar, and his casual posture belied the way he favored his leg.
His expression wasn’t casual at all. Avidly his eyes took in every detail of this vast room, the heart of the medieval building around which the rest of the manor had grown. She read such a range of powerful feelings in his face. Love. Sadness. Joy. Relief. Curiosity.
“It’s just the same,” he said in disbelief.
“Of course it is.” Poignant emotion threatened to choke her once more. She’d better gain control of her reactions soon, or abandon any pretense that she and Canforth shared a dispassionate marriage.
“It’s mad, I know.” He paused, and she knew he battled for composure. “But through all the bloodshed and destruction, I’d think back to this house as a site of perfect happiness, until I was convinced it couldn’t possibly be as I recalled it.”
His intense tone made Digby whine and bump his grizzled head against his master’s hip. Canforth laid one elegant, scarred hand on the dog’s neck and looked around. “You’ve even put up the kissing bough. Did you guess that I was coming home?”
Stupidly Felicity blushed. During her honeymoon, kisses had been infrequent. In fact, she and Canforth hadn’t acted much like a honeymoon couple at all. He’d treated her with respect and kindness. And she, so young and inexperienced, hadn’t known how to ask for more. Especially once she reached the conclusion that Canforth had no argument with a temperate marriage.
“I held a party for the staff before I sent them off to their families for Christmas.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “So did you kiss a handsome footman or two?”
She affected an airy tone. “Oh, these days, the grooms are prettier than the footmen.”
He laughed and stepped fully into the room, Digby at his side. “You’re warning me about the competition?” He stopped under the colorful ball suspended from the ceiling. “Shall we, wife?”
Puzzled she looked at him. “Shall we what?”
He pointed up at the woven ribbons and mistletoe and holly. “After nearly eight years, a kiss doesn’t seem too much to ask.”
Heavens, she hadn’t blushed this much since she was a new bride. “You want to kiss me?” she asked shakily.
He rolled his eyes. “Flick, you’re my wife, and it’s been a long, cold road since last I saw your pretty face. For charity’s sake, give me a kiss. On my honor, I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”
“I’m sadly out of practice.”
“I should hope so.” He stretched out his hand. “But I think we’ll manage the basics.”
With hesitant steps, she approached Canforth and took his hand. The shock of contact zapped through her like lightning.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured in surprise, as he drew her closer.
“I told you it’s been a long time.”
He positioned her under the mistletoe bough and placed his hands on her slender shoulders. “There’s no need to be frightened.”
Except it wasn’t exactly fear she felt. She was nervous and keyed up, but not scared. She avoided his eyes, not wanting him to see her tumultuous reaction. Logic had told her that the end of hostilities in Europe meant her husband’s return. But as the months went by, with Canforth posted from one capital to another, she’d started to think he might stay in the army. True to the impersonal tenor of their letters, he’d never mentioned his long-term plans.
When nothing happened, Felicity made herself look at him. That sight of that vile sword cut made her want to scream and rage.
He winced under her stare. “The surgeon who sewed it up said it will fade with time. Give me another twenty years or so, and I’ll be back to the dashing devil you married.”
Self-disgust ripped through her. He made a joke of it, but she saw that he’d interpreted her anger and compassion as revulsion. “Oh, Canforth, you mistake me,” she cried, daring to move closer. “I hate to think of you being in pain.”
The flash of uncertainty in those deep-set gray eyes told her that he didn’t quite believe her. “I got out pretty lightly.”
“But I can’t bear it when someone I…” Love. “..care for suffers.” Her hand hovered over the raised flesh. “Does it hurt to touch?”
He watched her with a strange fascination. “No. Not now.”
She bit her lip, hoping she wasn’t breaking the unspoken truce they’d always operated under. But she couldn’t let him think she found his appearance repulsive. “Will you trust me?”
“Only if you can bear it.”
She saw the bone-deep weariness beneath his happiness to be home. The years had been hard for her. How much harder must they have been for him, far from everything he loved? She didn’t count herself in that list. Love had never been part of their marriage, even if she’d loved him from the first moment she saw him, tall and commanding in his scarlet uniform, across a crowded ballroom.
“Oh, Canforth,” she said, her heart breaking anew. Gently, she laid the tip of her index finger at the top of the scar.
At the contact, he recoiled, then stood still and tense beneath the mistletoe. She blinked away more tears and slowly traced the slashing arc. For some reason, she expected the scar to be cold, but the puckered, shiny skin was warm. Just as much part of him as the rest of his face.
He closed his eyes, thick russet lashes fluttering on his prominent cheekbones. She’d always loved this hint of softness in such an overtly masculine being. Under her fingers, he remained as taut as a violin string. How could a man who had withstood cannon fire fear a woman’s touch?
“If he’d cut an inch higher…” she whispered.
“I was lucky.”
“So was I.”
His eyes flashed open, the enlarged pupils turning the gray irises smoky. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course I do.” She frowned in bewilderment as she lifted her hand away. “How could you think otherwise?”
Her brain advised resisting the impulse, but her heart made her lean in and place a fleeting kiss where the saber had sliced deepest. The clean outdoors scent of his skin invaded her senses and made her heart skip a beat.
“I haven’t been much of a husband,” he muttered, as she drew away.
“You did your duty to your king and your country.” She swallowed to shift the painful emotion jammed in her chest. “You’ve made me proud.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Her voice was husky. “You’re a brave man, Lord Canforth. And if you don’t think I’m overjoyed that you’ve come back safe…”
“If a trifle battered.”
She managed a twisted smile. “If a trifle battered. Then that saber cut has affected your mind.”
She was close enough to hear his long exhalation of relief. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel.”
“That’s natural.” Fighting the urge to fling her arms around him and tell him that she loved him, she stepped back. She’d already ventured too close to revealing her feelings. Such a kind man would hate to know that she suffered, loving him when he didn’t love her. And her pride revolted at the idea of his pity. In that, they were alike. “After so long apart, we need to rebuild our friendship. You’ve on
ly been home an hour.”
His lips quirked. “At least give me until dinnertime to feel like I’m back to stay.”
She made herself smile again, although she remained closer to weeping than laughter. “Before you know it, you’ll be ordering me around and demanding your claret and tobacco and slippers like a real lord of the manor.”
“First, we have unfinished business here under the mistletoe. I’ve waited a devil of a long time to kiss my wife.”
The sudden purpose in his expression sent a ripple of sensual awareness down her spine. Her lips burned from the brief kiss, however chaste, she’d given him. She was blushing again. Blast this odd situation. She was both wife of eight years and bride of a couple of weeks. There was no solid ground beneath her feet.
When gentle fingers tilted her chin up, she caught her breath. He brushed his lips across hers in a kiss that was over almost before it began. She’d braced for something more passionate, which was absurd when he’d never shown her anything but the most delicate handling. The few times he’d used her body, he’d treated her as if the slightest roughness would damage her.
It hadn’t been enough then. It certainly wouldn’t be enough now. She was eight years older than that naïve girl. And while Canforth was gone, she’d learned the meaning of longing.
The kiss was like a whisper. But even such brief contact turned her knees to water. Instinctively she reached toward him, to bring him closer, but before she could touch him, he stepped away, leaving her floundering.
“That was a fine welcome,” he murmured and gave her a brief bow, as if they’d only just met.
She remained poised under the mistletoe, lips tingling, although it was clear there would be no more kisses. “I’m so glad you’re home, Canforth.”
Her sincerity seemed to surprise him. He subjected her to a searching inspection, before giving her the rare, sweet smile that always turned her blood to honey.
“I’m glad, too.” Then just as powerful currents threatened to crack the veneer of politeness, he looked around. “Will you excuse me? I’m covered in travel dirt, and I’d like to change into some clean clothes before dinner.”
The change to practicality jarred after that vibrant instant, when she felt they’d hovered on the brink of some profound revelation. “Everything is just as you left it when you went away. Is there luggage coming?”
“I left a few things in London. I’m sure I can make do with whatever’s here.”
Over the years, Felicity had learned to put away deep and painful emotion and play the efficient chatelaine. “I’ll have hot water sent up. Do you mind if dinner is early?”
“Not at all. I’m famished. Shall I see you in the drawing room in an hour?”
“That will be lovely.”
She needed to go downstairs and make arrangements for the evening with Biddy and Joe. A different man and a different woman might rush from greeting to bed. Passion long denied would find quick and furious release.
But she and Canforth had never been wild for one another. More was the pity. Her bed had been a cold and lonely place since he left. Apparently after doing his duty on their honeymoon with no particular urgency, he’d returned from the wars no hungrier for her body. Her husband was back, and she felt lonelier than ever.
Felicity watched Canforth limp toward the stairs—standing so long under the mistletoe hadn’t been good for his leg—and told herself she had so much to be grateful for. The husband she loved was home and safe. He seemed pleased to see her. He remained the kind, considerate man she remembered.
A little too considerate, she thought, before she told herself to behave.
Anything more was a romantic dream that she must relinquish if she hoped to find a scrap of happiness in this marriage.
But as he turned out of sight around the bend of the staircase, she looked up at that absurd kissing bough with its promise of easy, light-hearted pleasure. Disappointment settled heavy and sour in her stomach.
MISTLETOE AND THE MAJOR
CHAPTER THREE
Canforth felt as nervous as a cadet on his first parade, instead of like a seasoned soldier of thirty-two, when he fronted at the drawing room on Christmas Eve.
His exquisite wife always made him feel like a bull at a tea party. She was so slight and graceful and perfect. The first time he saw her, he’d known Flick was the one for him. But he’d never quite conquered his shyness in her company. It was ridiculous, when he was capable of playing the rake with any other woman.
But then no other woman had ever mattered.
When they met, Flick had been sweetly innocent and unsure of herself. He’d wooed her gently, and that gentleness had continued into their honeymoon. They’d never quite fallen into being at ease with one other. Perhaps with more time, they’d have found their way. But he’d received his orders a fortnight after the wedding, and he’d had to leave her, still closer to a stranger than a wife.
That constraint remained as a gulf between them. She’d been shaking like a leaf when he kissed her under the mistletoe. While he’d been away, her image had fueled a thousand fantasies. But faced with the real Flick, any hope of a passionate reunion evaporated.
Ah, well, he was home now, and this time he’d do his damnedest to build a real marriage.
He’d feared that she’d find him repulsive, scarred and injured as he was. But there had been no mistaking the care in her touch when she’d traced his scar.
His Flick had a gallant heart. He’d never doubted that. The doubt was whether she’d grant that heart to him, the way that he’d granted her his, the first time he saw her.
When he came through the door, Digby at his heels, his wife sat sewing by the fire. Gratitude soothed the strife in his soul. Over the years, he’d dreamed about more than bed sport when he thought of his beloved wife. He’d also longed for sweet domesticity. The comforts of home. A woman’s gentle voice to greet him. The promise of quiet happiness, stretching ahead like a golden road.
He sucked in a breath of air that didn’t stink of unwashed humanity, gunpowder, and blood. And felt his heart settle into a steady rhythm of hope.
He loved Flick. In time, she might come to love him. Once she’d recovered from her surprise, she’d been glad to see him. He’d wager eight years of a major’s salary on that. And she’d accepted his kiss, after conquering her bashfulness.
It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.
He smiled as he watched her over her embroidery. She attacked the stitching with the fierce concentration she devoted to everything that caught her attention. He recalled her searching stare the night they met, as if she already knew their first dance would change both their lives forever.
This evening, she wore an elegant pink gown. What a contrast to the charming ragamuffin he’d discovered when he arrived. Now her shining mahogany hair was arranged in a loose knot that set off the pure oval of her face. He had a sudden fantasy of seeing her hair cascading around her shoulders when he came to her bed. Sexual hunger thundered through him and shattered the peaceful mood. When they’d married, he’d wanted her like the very devil. Controlling his lustful urges had been a constant battle. All these years without her only fed his endless craving.
Something of his agitation disturbed the air, and she looked up, her sewing falling disregarded into her lap. Her coffee-colored eyes widened, and for one sizzling moment, he wondered if she longed, too.
Then she put aside her embroidery hoop and stood up and smiled as she would at a casual acquaintance, and he knew wishful thinking had caught him out again.
“Canforth, let me get you some wine.”
He walked into the room, trying not to limp. He loathed returning to her in such a mess. “Thank you.”
She stepped across to the decanters, arrayed on a Sheraton table. He observed her confident air with interest. The self-assurance was new. His shy bride had been so unsure of everything. But of course, she’d been chatelaine here the whole time he’d been away, and done an excel
lent job running the estate and his other business interests.
“Or would you rather have brandy?”
“Wine is fine.” He subsided into the seat opposite hers. An involuntary groan of pleasure escaped him as his weary body sank into the cushions. He’d spent a deuce of a long time on horseback this last week. Digby pressed against Canforth’s thigh, fortunately the good one. His hand dropped to fondle the dog’s ears. “Come in to sit by the fire, you pudding-headed mutt?”
A low laugh escaped Flick as she poured the wine. “He’s made do with me all these years. But I always knew I was second best.”
Canforth stared hard at the woman he’d married. She’d been an enchanting girl, but this more mature version fascinated him. “You’re second best in nothing.”
He’d loved how his new bride had blushed, although her modesty left him feeling perpetually guilty about his lascivious thoughts. He was pleased that he could still make her go pink. And over the years, the lascivious thoughts had only intensified.
“Thank you. Is it good to get off your leg?”
“After four days in the saddle, I’m looking forward to staying in one place.” He accepted the glass she passed him. Digby settled down, propping his nose on Canforth’s ankle. “But most of all, it’s good to be home.”
She returned to her seat, and the glass of wine she’d poured before he appeared. “You’re looking better already.”
He rubbed one hand over his now smooth chin. He’d arrived looking like a vagabond. A wash and a shave, and changing out of his uniform made him feel like a new man. Or more likely, the sight of his lovely wife made the difference. Which reminded him…
“We’ll have to visit London, or at a pinch Shrewsbury once Christmas is over. None of my clothes damn well fit anymore.”
“You’ve grown sadly thin on army rations.” The hint of fondness in her smile made his foolish heart leap. “Perhaps Biddy and I should just do our best to feed you up in the next week or so.”
“I’ve returned to you much reduced. I suffered a fever after Waterloo. It left me close to a skeleton.”
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 25