Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Flick?” he said hoarsely, grabbing her hand hard enough to bruise.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Meeting that glassy stare, she realized that the dream still gripped him.

  Instinctively, although physical contact between them had always been rare, she smoothed the damp strands of hair back from his high forehead. Beneath her touch, his skin was clammy. At least the dream hadn’t heralded a return of his fever.

  “It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep.” How incongruous to speak to this huge, virile man the way she would to a child. But for all his potency and power, she was achingly aware of his vulnerability at this moment.

  She’d bitterly regretted that their short honeymoon hadn’t resulted in a child for her to cherish during his long absence. Warmth flooded her, when she realized that now Canforth was home, children might lie in their future. How wonderful that would be.

  “Flick, you’re here,” he said again, although she remained unsure that he was awake. At least the horrors receded from his gray eyes, and his deathly grip on her hand eased.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she said, still combing her fingers through his hair with a languorous pleasure that felt wicked. She’d itched to touch him like this since he’d returned.

  His hold tightened. “Stay with me.”

  Her heart somersaulted with a giddy mixture of excitement and nerves, as she stared into eyes clouded with sleep and the ghost of his dreams. She tugged her hand free and bent to straighten the bed, pulling up the blankets. With a deep sigh, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.

  After stoking the fire, she blew out the candle and slid in beside him. Unsure how to proceed, she, too, lay on her back, clinging to the edge of the mattress and shivering with cold. Canforth had dropped back to sleep. He lay mere inches away, breathing deeply and steadily. Whatever cruel memories had disturbed his slumber, they seemed to have receded now.

  She’d felt so bold joining him. Now her courage deserted her. A braver woman might cuddle into his side or wake him with kisses. Felicity remained where she was, her heart racing. Surely she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  ***

  This dream had tormented Canforth a thousand times before. He woke in a soft, warm bed that smelled of Otway, a million miles from the rough, cold ground of the Pyrenees. It was dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. His wife slept, trusting and relaxed, in his arms. He was naked, and hard and ready for her. The sweet scents of home and Flick tinged the air. He was safe, and free to spend as long as he wanted in bed with the woman he loved.

  He lay on his side, his chest pressed against Flick’s back. She was tucked against him in perfect peace, her head resting on his outstretched arm. His other arm curved around her, one hand cupping her breast.

  For a delicious interval, he basked in this imaginary paradise. Soon enough, there would be orders and maneuvers, and later, the likelihood of violent, bloody mayhem. But right now, he could give himself up to the fantasy that he was back at Otway, and all was well with the world.

  As nobody yet seemed to be clamoring for his presence, he let the dream spin toward its end. Usually some interfering blockhead dragged him back to brutal reality before he got too far.

  Drowsily he bumped his hips against the perfect curve of Flick’s rump. He buried his nose in the fragrant mass of her hair and breathed in her rich scent.

  Today’s dream was particularly vivid. Most times, Flick was naked, but on this occasion, his imagination taunted him with a flannel nightgown between him and her skin. The breast in his hand had the weight and feel of reality, and when his thumb flicked her nipple, it hardened with gratifying swiftness. She made a sleepy sound of encouragement and nestled closer.

  Dreading the inevitable awakening, he shifted and rolled her toward him. He reached down to lift the plain nightdress—next time he had this dream, he’d dress her in silk. Or nothing at all.

  She made another of those damned suggestive murmurs and arched against him. He slid his hand between her legs, seeking her hot, silky core. She wriggled in welcome, and he kissed her neck until she quivered with eagerness. He didn’t dare open his eyes. Not now. Not when, even if only in his mind, rapture hovered so close.

  His lips drifted lazily over her face until they met hers. So soft. So full. The kiss’s sultry sweetness shuddered through him.

  “Canforth,” she breathed in ardent invitation.

  Odd. In his fantasies, she always called him Edmund.

  He stroked her cleft until she was slippery and ready, and slid one finger inside her, to find the slick honey of her arousal. As sleek heat coated his finger, he leaned in and kissed his wife with a carnal hunger he’d always leashed when he’d had her, virginal and fragile, as his bride.

  Dream Flick responded as she always did.

  Well, not quite. She opened her mouth and put her arms around him to bring him closer. But her endearingly clumsy kisses were an enchanting reminder of the girl he’d left so long ago.

  Canforth rose and positioned himself between her thighs, desperate to claim her. By God, this was the best dream he’d ever had. If his tomfool sergeant interrupted him now, he’d shove the fellow in front of the nearest firing squad.

  In wordless welcome, she tilted toward him. He groaned into the warm curve of her neck, the scent of her sleep-warmed skin the sweetest fragrance in the world. He bit down on the sensitive nerve and heard her gasp with rising excitement.

  He lifted his head and opened his eyes.

  Damn it.

  Astonishment gripped him, banished disappointment. Instead of a rough tent pitched on an Iberian mountainside, he saw a familiar bedroom, shadowy with a dying fire. And the woman beneath him was no figment of his imagination, but his beautiful, fastidious wife.

  “For pity’s sake, Flick, why didn’t you stop me?” So close to possession, it was sheer agony to pull back. But he managed it, over the howling, excruciating protest of every muscle in his body.

  She bit lips swollen and red with his kisses and stared up at him. “I…”

  Before she could go on to call him a beast and a brute, and every other name he deserved, he rushed into speech. “What the deuce are you doing here?”

  She flinched at his belligerent tone and wrenched her hands from around his neck. He rose on his arms above her and struggled to settle down. But with her lying so close, it was impossible. His restraint balanced on a knife edge.

  “You had a nightmare,” she stammered. “You were calling out.”

  “Hell, I’m sorry.” Vaguely he remembered the old horrors visiting him last night. He hadn’t had that dream in months. Returning home had stirred up too many strong emotions. Returning home, and seeing Flick.

  He always woke from his nightmares, sweating and gasping and unable to go back to sleep. Flick’s presence must have calmed him, allowing other, much more appealing dreams to take over.

  She looked hurt. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “Yes, I do. I hoped to give you time to get used to me again, before I resumed my husbandly rights.”

  The light wasn’t bright enough for him to see her blush, but he was sure she did. He waited for her to express relief, but she stared up at him as if nothing made sense. Then her delicate jaw firmed. “We’ve already waited more than seven years, Canforth.”

  “Believe me, I’ve counted every day.” It was his turn to demur. “But I’m not sure I can be careful with you tonight, Flick. It’s been too long.”

  Unambiguous annoyance crossed her face. “I don’t want you to be careful. I’m your wife, not a Meissen shepherdess you keep on the mantelpiece.”

  “But what I just did—”

  “Was wonderful. For once, I thought that you really wanted me.”

  He gave a snort of disbelief. “Want you? I die of desire for you.”

  Her eyes widened. “You do?”

  “Yes. And I can’t bear to think I might hurt you because I can’t control myself.”

  “I’m
not made of glass, Canforth.” This time her frown was thoughtful, rather than displeased. “And anyway, I want you, too.”

  “You do?” He remembered those unpracticed but enthusiastic kisses. They hadn’t been the product of his imagination. They’d come from a woman discovering sexual pleasure and frantic to experience more of it. “You do,” he said more slowly.

  Tentatively she hooked her hands over his shoulders. Even such a light touch shuddered through him like an earthquake.

  Flick’s voice emerged as a strangled whisper. “I’ve been lonely for so long, Canforth. I don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

  MISTLETOE AND THE MAJOR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In an agony of suspense, Felicity waited to hear Canforth’s response to her plea. Had she pushed too far? Broken their unspoken truce? Proven she was no lady, but a brazen trollop?

  But he said he wanted her. And even in her inexperience, she’d recognized his hunger when he’d turned to her in his dream. And there was no mistaking the hot male weight pressing against her stomach. Whatever his mind or his conscience might say, his body showed unequivocal interest in taking things further.

  When he started to pull away, her heart plummeted into her stomach. Failure tasted rank on her tongue. God forgive her, she’d made a mistake. Been too forward, too needy, too…real.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, lifting her hands from his shoulders.

  “What are you sorry for?” he asked, rolling off her and sitting up. The fire didn’t provide much light, but she made out the powerful outline of his chest and shoulders against the shadows. Even too thin, he remained an impressive figure of a man.

  “For…for asking…” Her voice faded to nothing, as she sat up and faced him.

  “Silly goose.” White teeth flashed as he smiled. “You have nothing to apologize for. Believe me.”

  He caught her hand and carried it to his lips. The kiss he brushed across her knuckles made her tremble—and hope. “Canforth?” she asked uncertainly.

  He kept hold of her hand, and his eyes glittered as they focused on her. “After all this time, do you think you could bear to call me Edmund?”

  Ridiculous to balk at such an intimacy when not long ago, his finger had penetrated her body with astonishing and arousing effect. The memory of those sizzling caresses still heated her blood. “Are you sure?”

  “Only if you feel comfortable. But you’re my wife. I’d feel privileged if you used my Christian name.”

  She nodded. “In that case, I feel privileged, too. Edmund.”

  Those straight shoulders eased, and he released a long breath. She couldn’t imagine why he cared what she called him, but it was apparent that he did. “You do an old military man’s heart good.”

  “You’re not old,” she said quickly. “You’re in the prime of life.”

  “I’ve come back to you a physical wreck.”

  Despite the darkness, her hand unerringly found the scar on his cheek. With an aching tenderness that she hoped he felt, she traced the line of the cicatrice. “I told you—as long as you’ve come back to me, I don’t care.”

  “Ah, Flick,” he said, her name a soft exhalation. “You never told me why your parents called you Flick.”

  “When I was a toddler, I couldn’t pronounce Felicity. Flick was as close as I got.”

  “Would you rather I called you Felicity?”

  She shook her head. Did he know he continued to hold her hand? It was odd—nice—sitting in the darkness on Christmas morning and swapping confidences. “No. I…like the way you say Flick.”

  “I like that I have a special name for you.”

  “So do I.” Her fingers tightened on his, and she said a silent prayer for him to stay. Now and forever.

  But it seemed heaven wasn’t listening, because he released her and rose from the bed.

  Despite her resolution to be brave and make no demands, when he was so newly returned home, a hum of distress escaped her.

  “What is it?” Edmund turned and studied her through the winter gloom.

  She wanted to lie, but the unadorned truth emerged. “Don’t go.”

  His laugh was a rumbling undertone. “My dear wife, wild horses wouldn’t drag me away.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  He shifted toward the fire, presenting a breathtaking view of his naked back and buttocks. Despite favoring his left leg, he moved more freely than he had yesterday. He’d blamed last night’s pain on the long ride in the cold. She hadn’t been sure whether to believe him, or whether he tried to protect her from learning the full extent of his injuries.

  “Because I want to do this right.” Edmund stoked the glowing embers in the hearth, then gave Digby a pat and a murmured word, before placing a couple of logs on the fire.

  The revitalized flames illuminated his noble profile, with its high forehead and arrogant nose and defined jaw. He looked at ease in a way she’d never seen. As if he’d worn a mask of politeness and carefully maintained consideration, but now the mask fell away to reveal the real man.

  Silently, Felicity watched the everyday movements, while her heart crashed into an excited gallop. Beyond those unsatisfying encounters in her bed, they’d never enjoyed the quiet intimacy of sharing a room. Tonight a fragile thread twined them together. She felt married to this man she loved in a way she never had before.

  The air quivered with the promise of pleasure. A rich tide of anticipation washed through her, and she stretched against the rumpled sheets like a cat in the sunlight. She’d never felt like this. So full of love that she was likely to explode into a volley of stars.

  Edmund lit a couple of candles and placed them on the mantel, setting the room aglow. He turned to face her as she pushed upright against the pillows. A man’s body remained in many ways a mystery, although she gloried in the changes from the sleeping Edmund to this awake, fully aroused version. Her fingers clenched in the sheets. She itched to touch him, to explore those hard planes of muscle and bone so different from her soft curves.

  “Shall I fetch my robe?”

  The old, shy Felicity would have hidden her head under the covers by now. Tonight she took her time assessing this man she’d married so long ago. “No.”

  A faint, pleased smile curved his mouth as he returned to lighting candles.

  The frankness of her desire surprised her. She’d always loved Edmund, but never before had her love felt so earthy. A hot weight settled in the base of her belly, craving for his skin against hers, the heated meeting of bodies.

  He paused in his preparations, and their eyes conducted a simmering but silent conversation. Invitation and acceptance. She wanted what was to come more than she wanted to take her next breath. Pray God she wasn’t mistaken, but what she saw in his face told her that he felt the same.

  “Take down your hair,” he said quietly.

  With unsteady hands, she loosened her plait until her hair cloaked her shoulders. Edmund gave another of those heavy exhalations, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours.

  “This is what I dreamed about.” He stepped forward and gripped the carved base of the bed. The candlelight shone on the cruel burns across the back of his hands. “Now take off your nightdress.”

  Felicity swallowed to moisten a dry mouth, even as she moved to obey. With a bit of maneuvering, she tugged the thick flannel nightdress over her head.

  She was blushing. Of course she was. But her eyes were steady as they met his. She rested against the piled pillows and let her hands fall open at her sides.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “You beggar my fantasies.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “You’ll think me a satyr, but so often in the hell of the Peninsula, I pictured you just like this. Army life provides no sweetness, just incessant brute masculinity. But in the few quiet moments, I’d close my eyes and think of the woman waiting for me at home.”

  “I don’t think you’re a satyr at all.” Her heart cramped
with love, and stabbing compassion for all he’d sacrificed in the name of duty. “I wish I’d known you thought of me. It would have been a comfort.”

  “Of course I thought of you. Constantly.” His eyes sharpened. “Did you think of me?”

  She didn’t try to hide her surprise and pleasure at his confession. “All the time.”

  “And did you wait?”

  She took a second to understand what he asked; it was so far from the reality of her solitary life these last years. “I’ve had no man but you in my bed, Edmund.” She paused before admitting the dangerous, awkward truth. “I’ve wanted no man but you in my bed.”

  Triumph turned his gray eyes silver. “I hoped. I guessed.”

  He was glad. That must mean something. She linked her hands over her bare stomach in an attempt to calm her nerves. She was painfully conscious of her nakedness. How she wished he’d touch her, so she didn’t feel quite so on display. But this might be her only chance to ask the question that had troubled her since he left.

  Her voice emerged as a husky murmur. “I know I really have no right to ask this. The world views a man’s needs as so much more urgent than a woman’s, after all. And it’s so many years. And you made no promises of fidelity before you went away…”

  Edmund’s expression was unreadable. “Yes, I did. When we stood before the altar, I vowed to be faithful.”

  She frowned, trying to make sense of what he said. She couldn’t have heard him right. If she had, surely it must be too good to be true. “You mean—”

  His gaze remained unwavering. “I mean I’ve had no woman in my bed since I left your side.”

  She struggled to contain her relief and happiness. Her husband wasn’t a liar. She knew that. But still his claim pushed the limits of belief. “That must have been difficult.”

  A sardonic grunt of laughter escaped. “Not that difficult. I married you because you’re the only woman I want. I don’t need a substitute.”

  Wide-eyed, she stared at him. However unlikely his story, she found she believed him. Even the part about him wanting her. Every line of his body radiated sincerity. Joy surged, strong enough to wash away old doubts. “I had no idea.”