by Cheryl Bolen
He stared pointedly at her breasts before sweeping a finger across the top of the mounds. He dipped lower, softly scraping a fingernail across a turgid nipple.
She gasped again, unprepared for the hot desire flooding her. She seized his wandering finger and eyed him, afraid to say anything to disrupt his happiness.
“Come on, love. Out with it.” He gave her a playful prod in the ribs.
Ivonne rested against his hard chest.
“You know I love you? No matter what?” She angled her head to peek at him.
His gorgeous mouth slid into one of his stunning smiles. “I know. And I love you. Tell me, what has you worried?”
“I don’t mind that we cannot have children.” She touched the scar on his cheek.
Falcon stilled and made an inarticulate sound in his throat. His eyes rounded, and his jaw sagged. He stared at her with such intensity, she squirmed on his lap and dropped her gaze to her hands.
He tilted her chin upward with a finger until their eyes met. “Pray tell me, why do you think we cannot have children?”
“Well, because you ...” Ivonne gazed at him warily. Her focus sank to his cravat as she whispered, “You lost your manhood in India.”
He threw back his head, exposing the strong column of his throat and laughed, a rich unrestrained guffaw.
“Well, I certainly do not think it’s a laughing matter,” she huffed, nonplussed by his reaction.
His chest shaking from amusement, Falcon wiped at his eyes.
“Darling, let me assure you, my manhood is in perfect working order.” He gripped her hips, holding her firmly to his lap, and shifted his hips upward.
Something hard flexed against her bottom.
“Oh. Oh!” A little yelp of surprise escaped her. “Is that your ...?”
“Indeed.” He waggled his eyebrows, a wolfish grin on his mouth.
“It works properly?”
He pressed his rigid length against her buttocks once more. “Most assuredly, madam.”
Melting into his arms, Ivonne sighed and raised her lips in invitation.
“Then everything is absolutely perfect.”
The End
ABOUT COLLETTE CAMERON
Award winning, Amazon best-selling author, Collette Cameron, has a BS in Liberal Studies and a Master's in Teaching. Author of the Castle Brides Series and Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series, Collette writes Regency and Scottish historicals and makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and five mini dachshunds. Mother to three and a self-proclaimed Cadbury Chocolate chocoholic, Collette loves a good joke, inspirational quotes, flowers, trivia, and all things shabby chic. You'll always find dogs, birds, quirky—sometimes naughty—humor, and a dash of inspiration in her novels. Her motto for life? You can’t have too much chocolate, too many hugs, or too many flowers. She’s thinking about adding shoes to that list.
CHRISTMAS WISHES
Past experiences have taught Miss Hero Appleby to distrust noblemen, especially self-indulgent rakes like Lord Caruthers. However she was desperate for money to support the orphans in her care this Christmas, so it is to him she must go. Perhaps it had been wrong of her to point out his many faults so boldly, but the man had reeked of last nights over indulgences, and that coupled with his indolent lifestyle, drove her to distraction and all thoughts of lady-like behaviour disappeared in his infuriating presence.
Max didn't remember much of his first meeting with the annoying Miss Appleby, thanks to the after effects of one good drink too many. But he vaguely recalled he'd promised her something, just to get her out of his house so he could suffer in peace. Unfortunately peaceful was the last word to describe her as he found out the next day. She was unlike any woman he knew - opinionated and rude certainly, but she worked selflessly to provide for children that were not even of her blood. Max had believed himself incapable of emotion yet Hero was making him feel things that he had believed were long dead. Could his long forgotten Christmas wish really come true?
Copyright © 2013 Wendy Vella
CHAPTER ONE
“Miss Appleby has called, my lord.”
Max didn’t lift his head from the back of the chair as the butler approached.
“Who?”
“Miss Appleby, my lord,” he said again in what Max felt was an unnaturally loud voice.
“Yes, I heard that, but who is Miss Appleby, Freddy?” he whispered, not wanting to antagonize the small orchestra tuning their instruments inside his head. An over indulgence of cognac had given him a ripping headache.
“I believe she is the late Lord Appleby’s daughter, my lord.”
“And what is the late Lord Appleby’s daughter doing out in this weather?”
“As to that, my lord, she did not tell me.”
“The snow must be up to her knees. Did she walk here?” Max rasped.
“She brought a sturdy horse and cart, my lord.”
“Why is she in a horse and cart and not a carriage?” Max tried to lift his head but with a pitiful moan, he slumped back into his seat.
“I’m sure it’s not my place to comment, my lord.”
Max prised open one bloodshot eye and directed it at his butler. “Yes it is, you old gossip.”
Rather than be offended, the butler relaxed his rigid stance, eager to impart what he knew.
“As I understand it, Lord Appleby passed, leaving a male relative everything. However, the daughter was bequeathed Bratton House by her late grandmother, my lord.”
God, his head hurt. Max tried to open the other eye but the task was beyond him. “Bratton House? No one’s lived there for years. In fact, if my now pickled memory serves me correctly, the Appleby family have never lived there or in Neathern.”
“Miss Appleby lives there now with her children.”
“How many bloody children does she have?” Max said and then regretted the loud tone. “She can’t be more than twenty-five years old!”
“They’re orphans, my lord, and she wishes to discuss them with you.”
He couldn’t do it—not today, Max thought, shuddering. Actually, given his reputation, she was a fool for even standing on his doorstep, let alone asking to see him. He knew that seeing such a woman would test his fortitude any day. However, today, in all likelihood, it would kill him. She was one of those do-gooders and would expect him to hand out coins for every orphan and widow from here to London. She'd be dressed in black, her lips would be clamped together in a prim line and she'd give him that condescending look that suggested he was only a day away from residing in hell.
“Freddy, do anything you can to remove her from the house and I shall quadruple your salary.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“And, Freddy,” Max added. “As Lord Radley is responsible for my condition this morning, find the biggest pot you can from the kitchens and the accompanying lid, then take them to his door and bang them as loudly as you can. Then stop for a few minutes whilst he tries to fall back into the blessed relief of slumber, then redouble your efforts.”
“Shall I bring you another powder, my lord?”
Max sighed. His butler had never taken orders well. In fact, the old reprobate was enjoying his discomfort, he was sure of it.
“Yes, damn you!”
His entire body shuddered as his butler shut the door loudly, the sound echoing inside his head.
“I’ll kill you when you rise, Radley, just see if I don’t,” Max croaked as he struggled to ease himself into a more upright position. He should have stayed in bed but had foolishly thought moving to this parlor would clear his head and not remind him of the minutes he had spent emptying the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot.
Lord Dominic Radley had arrived shortly before Max was due to sit down for his evening meal last night. Frozen to his blue toes, he had stomped inside, shaking snow everywhere, demanding to be fed and watered. He had wanted to know why Max had secreted himself away in his country house and was not going to at
tend the Christmas house party he was on his way to. They had consumed three bottles of cognac during the evening and Max had stumbled to bed just before sunrise.
“But I must see Lord Caruthers, sir. My business is of the utmost importance!”
Max's eyes shot open to stare at the door from behind which that voice had come.
“Miss Appleby, I insist you leave at once. Lord Caruthers is a busy man.”
Freddy’s voice held a touch of desperation, to Max’s mind and he watched in horror as the door handle moved. Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he forced his back into the cushions so he would at least give the appearance of being vertical.
“I shall not leave until I have seen Lord Caruthers. He will not evade me again!”
Max could do nothing to stop the unmanly groan as the shrill voice reached him. The owner then sailed into the room with his butler on her heels. He watched the woman walk a few paces, her eyes looking for him. She didn't wear black; she wore a dull grey bonnet, thick scarf and equally dull grey cloak. Max saw rosy cheeks but not much more, as she was still some distance away and focusing on anything was causing him a great deal of pain.
*
Hero Appleby glared at the man sitting unnaturally still in the seat before her. His face was pale and sickly and sweat dampened the dark curls of his forehead. Hero had seen Viscount Caruthers from a distance once before but she had never been this close to him. Not that she’d ever wanted to be, of course. He was an arrogant sod who had a reputation for sin.
His big, broad shoulders almost spanned the chair back, and his large hands clenched the wooden arms. Dark brows were lowered over eyes that were the color of the moss that grew on the banks of the river when it wasn’t iced over, as it was today. They were, however, bloodshot. He was dressed in beige breeches and a loose white shirt that was unbuttoned to reveal a significant amount of dark chest hair. His feet were bare and he should have been cold, yet there was a sheen of sweat on his face.
The ladies of Neathern constantly tittered about what a rake he was and clucked over the antics that reached their ears from London, but secretly Hero knew they would be pleased if he ever looked their way. If they saw him as she was seeing him now, in a state of near total undress, they would have gossip fodder for weeks. Hero, however had no time for such nonsense. He was a wealthy nobleman who didn’t care a fig about anyone but himself. He had not answered one of the ten letters she had written to him. Despite her feelings about him, she had to force herself to ignore a distinct flutter in her chest because there was no denying he was fiendishly handsome.
“My lord, you will pardon the intrusion,” she said, sinking into a curtsey, “but it is most imperative that I speak with you.” Hero thought he winced but she forged on. “I care for children who are without support at Bratton House and we are desperately in need of funding or I fear the children will freeze to death in this weather.” Yes, definitely a wince.
“Are you unwell, Lord Caruthers?” Hero took a cautious step closer and then she smelt it—liquor—and realized instantly that he was a man who was suffering the effects of a night spent overindulging. He obviously had a pounding headache and Hero felt no sympathy for him. Having seen her father and his friends in just such a condition many times, she knew the signs and had no tolerance for such behavior.
“Is this a life or death matter, Miss Appleby?”
Hero nodded as he ground out the words and felt her fury rise. How dare he drink himself into a stupor when her children were frozen and starving with a leaky roof above their heads. Horrid, indulgent creature. She had a good mind to start singing loudly, off key.
“But will the matter hold until tomorrow, Miss Appleby?”
“I-”
“I beg of you, Miss Appleby, please just answer the question.”
He was looking a bit green now, Hero thought. His hands opened and shut on the wood as he tried to breathe through his nose. She almost felt sorry for him—almost—but after waking to see yet another of her children with a fever, she had known there was not a moment to lose. She had been told Lord Caruthers was in residence and had decided to confront him. Her children needed help and he was just the man to provide it. His coffers were filled to the brim and he owned estates and if her sources were correct, he had made many savvy investments with profitable yields.
“My children's health is a very serious matter, my Lord, and one I have no wish to put on hold.” Hero's voice had risen towards the end and she took perverse pleasure in seeing him swallow several times.
“Will one more day make a difference to them? Is it a life or death matter?”
His words were spoken softly and through clenched teeth.
“Well, as to that, my lord, perhaps you could define life or death? On the way here, I stopped in to see old Mr Tadbolt, who was having his boils lanced, and to him, that is a matter of life or death, especially considering one had festered. You should have seen the weeping, oozing sore.” You are a wicked woman, Hero Appleby, she thought, watching Lord Caruthers press a hand to his mouth.
“I…I shall be grateful if you leave, Miss Appleby…at once,” he rasped.
“I will not leave until I have said what I need to say, Lord Caruthers,” Hero said, determined. “These children have no one to defend them and their situation is dire!” Hero pitched her voice so it sounded shrill and was once again rewarded with a wince. “They are falling sick and shivering in their beds, plus, I do not have enough food for them.”
Suddenly he was standing before her, glaring down at her, although the effect was spoilt by bloodshot eyes. He was large; in fact, she had never met a man bigger. Perhaps it had not been wise to provoke him, she thought, looking at his wide chest.
“If you leave now, I will call upon you tomorrow.”
That surprised her. Narrowing her eyes, Hero looked up at him. Could she trust him? “How do I know you’ll come?”
“Are you saying my word is not good enough for you, Miss Appleby?”
Suddenly, he didn’t look sick and instead, seemed every inch the Fifth Viscount of Caruthers with a long and illustrious list of ancestors at his back.
“Well, as to that-”
“If you wish to gain my support in something, Miss Appleby, I would not continue with that sentence.”
And then, suddenly, he was gone, having walked around her and out the door without a backward glance.
“I shall see you out now, Miss Appleby,” the butler said and she could hear the censure in his words.
Hero found herself on the front step minutes later with the door firmly shut behind her. A gust of wind nearly knocked her off her feet as she looked up the stone façade to the windows three storeys above. Would she be forced to return here tomorrow, or would the viscount be true to his word? Hero didn’t hold much faith in noblemen, having been raised by one. With a final glare, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and walked to the cart that still waited. Climbing in, she promised Simon an extra bucket of feed for making him stand and wait for her in the cold and then she turned the cart and headed down the long driveway to the road that would take her home.
CHAPTER TWO
Max woke the following morning and opened one eye slowly and then the other. Relieved when the room stayed still, he stretched, happy that his head was once again firmly on his shoulders. Having slept the best part of the day and night away, he was now in need of a shave, bath and large meal. A sudden vision of a pair of fierce brown eyes filled his head and following that was the memory of the shrill Miss Appleby’s visit yesterday whilst he was endeavouring to hold the contents of his stomach down. Witch. She had stomped into his parlor as if she owned it and demanded he listen to what she had to say. She had spoken of boils and festering sores and that had been enough for his stomach to revolt. He had a vague memory of a grey cape and matching bonnet tied in a prim bow beneath her pale chin. She had questioned his word, he remembered that, and seemed to doubt he would actually present himself at her h
ome today, as he had stated he would. She'd muttered something about letters she'd sent him that he had not received, too. Max just knew she was the kind of meddlesome woman who poked her nose into everyone’s business. Sighing loudly, he climbed from his warm, comfortable bed and rang for his bath. He would visit her because he had given his word and more importantly, because if he didn’t, he was fairly sure she would just appear on his doorstep again.
It was bloody freezing when he rode towards Neathern two hours later, armed with instructions from his butler as to where he would locate Bratton House and more importantly, Miss Appleby.
He had said farewell to Dominic, who had not suffered a sore head, much to Max's fury, and had again, refused his friend’s urgings to attend the house party he was journeying to. He had an estate to set to rights, one he’d neglected far too long, and in all honesty, he’d grown bored with the constant partying and drinking that took place at the house parties. Life had become monotonous for Max. Nothing challenged him anymore, other than his investments. He'd had enough of waking at midday, usually after a night spent with friends gambling or attending some gathering or other. He was rich, passably good looking, or so he'd been told, and had his pick of woman, both with or without morals. Suddenly, at thirty years old he needed more. What that more was, he had no idea, but he needed it.
The snow had eased after a large dumping last night and it was one of those crisp, clear days you actually appreciated, once you started moving. Neathern looked appealing, with its shop windows filled with Christmas goods and awnings and rooftops covered with snow. People scurried about wrapped in mufflers and coats, their heads covered with an array of interesting hats.