How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by MacLean, Sarah

  He wound his way up the stairs, Miss Annis Ballister a dead weight in his arms. Her skin had a waxy appearance that did not bode well. Calder took the steps more quickly.

  The heavy scent of fir and pine filled his nose. The staff had wrapped the bannister in greenery to mark the holidays as they did every year. The entire castle was full of holly boughs and ribbons and greenery all in preparation for the Christmas Eve assembly Mrs. Benfiddy insisted they host annually. Everyone attended from the nearby villages. This year, however, with the recent robberies, there would be no such festivities. Mrs. Benfiddy was not happy with his decision, but it would present too grave a risk for his tenants to leave their homes unattended. He’d have none of his people victimized.

  He carried Annis into his chamber and settled her on the very same bed that his great-grandmother had brought over on a ship with her from France. It was an extravagant four-poster beast situated at the center of the room. Perhaps he should take pause at placing her in it, but it seemed the place for her. It was the nicest bed in the castle, and she deserved that.

  Leaving her side, he quickly moved to the fireplace. It was the largest in the keep, even greater than the one in the great hall. Several men could stand within it. He tossed several more logs into it, stirring the near dormant fire to a crackling roar.

  He turned back for the bed and started on her boots, but the laces were frozen stiff. They would take forever to unlace. With a grunt, he unsheathed his dagger and cut through them. He tossed them aside and stripped off her socks, gasping when he touched the cold blocks of her feet. And the lass had not uttered a complaint. “Ah, hell.” He chafed his hands over them, trying to chase away the blueness from her skin.

  “Och, make haste and let us rid her of all her wet clothes.” Mrs. Benfiddy’s efficient tones rang out as she strode inside the room with an armful of blankets. A maid followed fast, carrying ceramic hot water bottles. His housekeeper dropped the additional blankets on the foot of the bed and made short work of undressing Miss Ballister, snapping at him to turn away the moment before she and the maid slipped off the lass’s chemise. “Now hand me more blankets.”

  Turning, he observed that she was tucked under his bedcovers, only her bare shoulders peeping above the edge. He swallowed hard and cursed under his breath. Now was not the time to yearn for a glimpse of her body. He was not some letch. He shook loose a blanket and covered her with it. Mrs. Benfiddy added another and then moved to examine Miss Ballister’s head and the knot there she’d received when she tripped.

  “She fell and struck her head,” he explained anxiously.

  “Looks like a right nasty bump.” Sighing, she stepped back, her hands leaving Miss Ballister and falling to her sides.

  He looked at her expectantly. “What now?” His gaze darted from the female in his bed to his housekeeper, a woman he estimated to be as old as the stone walls sheltering them. She’d been here long before his birth and he suspected she’d be here several decades longer yet. She looked precisely as she had when he was a lad of five. White-haired, worn skin translucent-thin and pale as milk. She was the wisest person he knew and had delivered more babes than there were stars in the sky. She’d raised him after he lost his parents and there was no one in the world who put him more at ease. Only right now, she was falling short in that regard.

  Mrs. Benfiddy took several more steps from the bed and gave another shrug. “No telling if the knock tae her head did any real damage. If she wakes, she’s fine.” She waved a hand as if he were an overly fretful mother.

  Hardly the most heartening advice. “That’s it?”

  “Keep ’er warm. Pray. And wait.” That said, his housekeeper turned and shuffled from his bedchamber, shutting the door after her with no concern for propriety. As though her master brought strange unconscious Englishwomen home all the time and together they stripped them of their garments and tucked them into his bed. Just another day at Glencrainn.

  Calder looked down again at the alarmingly gray pallor of Miss Ballister. Wait and pray. He did not count himself to be very good at either of those tasks. He’d prayed and waited as his parents and little sister fell sick from the cholera pandemic nearly two decades ago. It had been Christmastime then, too. He’d sat before the small nativity set that his mother put on display in the drawing room and prayed to the tiny baby Jesus. Still, he had lost them.

  Every Christmas since was a gloomy stretch of days he simply endured. He permitted the usual festivities among his staff. He wasn’t so much of a grump that he would stop them from celebrating. He said nothing as they decorated the castle from top to bottom. They celebrated. He did not. Christmas was a joy for others, but reminded him only of pain and loss.

  He stared down at the lass in his bed, a strange thickness in his throat as he contemplated the possibility that she might die. Just as his family did.

  She tossed her head and let out a pained little whimper, shifting so that more of her throat and shoulders were exposed to his view. Her light brown hair tangled loose around her shoulders. Her lips were still blue-tinged, and he knew that wasn’t good.

  He’d lived through enough Highland winters to know the signs of someone on the brink of freezing.

  He touched her forehead. Still like ice. He glanced around his chamber. The fire was at full roar, but it wasn’t helping fast enough. The cold had its teeth in her and didn’t want to let go. Damn it. He glanced from her and down to himself, still fully clothed in his own snow-dampened garments.

  He supposed propriety had ceased to be a consideration the moment he fetched her from her castle and brought her to his. Not that he could have left her behind. Certainly taking off her clothes and placing her in his bed, no matter the urgent need or that his housekeeper had performed the bulk of the task, pushed him well over the edge of propriety.

  She looked tiny in his big bed. Small and very alone. He stared down at her wan face. Her body needed heat. She needed him.

  “Damnation.” With fierce movements he began yanking at his clothes. There was no time. He needed to act. Fabric ripped, but he didn’t care.

  He slid beneath the heavy coverlet and pulled her slim body against his. He hissed at the instant of contact. Her skin was like ice.

  There was nothing like shared body heat to chase out the cold. He ran his hands up and down her back, chafing briskly, training his gaze on her face, willing color back into her cheeks and lips. “Come, sweet lass. Stay with me.”

  She moaned at his ministrations and he paused at the long, throaty sound. A bolt of heat speared through him and arrowed directly for his cock.

  He muttered an epithet. He wasn’t depraved enough to take advantage of an injured woman . . . no matter the enticing sounds she made. Or the fact that both of them were naked and wrapped around each other.

  Determined to ignore her nudity and forget his arousal, he continued rubbing his palm up and down the slope of her back. God, had a woman’s skin ever felt more like silk? She whimpered and burrowed against him, seeking his warmth. He swallowed back a groan at the soft swell of breasts mashing into his chest.

  Bloody hell. This was punishment for all his many sins. He would endure it though. Her salvation would be his hell. She clung to him like he was a bit of driftwood at sea, the only thing keeping her from going under.

  He ignored all of his baser impulses that rose to the fore at her closeness.

  This was instinct. He’d respond to any naked female pressed against him.

  Closing his eyes, he blocked out the sight of her. And that only made him more aware of the shape of her. More miserable.

  He opened his eyes and stared at a spot on the wall and fixed his gaze there. I won’t look at her. Won’t peek.

  He would not take advantage of the situation. His hands continued to rub at the slant of her back, imbuing her with his own body heat. It was one thing to touch her for the purpose of saving her life and quite another to look at her, to want her – a lass he didn’t want to like. And yet he
feared that it was too late. He already did.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Oil-hungry hinges creaked loudly. Calder lifted his head as the heavy wood door thudded against the stone wall. He blinked awake, rubbing at his eyes, not feeling the least bit rested. Somehow he had managed to doze off even in his present circumstances.

  Fenella strode into the chamber, holding a plate aloft in her hands, clearly unmindful and uncaring that she might be interrupting anyone’s slumber. “Och, good.” She ran her gaze over the length of the bed, assessing first him and then the girl next to him. She nodded in satisfaction. “Just as I ’oped.”

  “Fenella.” He tightened his grip on the counterpane, making certain it hadn’t dipped past his waist.

  Her rheumy gaze slid over him again, noting the movement of his hands. “No need tae be so self-conscious, lad. I’ve seen yer bits before.”

  “When I was four,” he said wryly.

  She shook her head and snorted. “What’s the difference?”

  “I’d like tae think there’s a good amount of difference since then.”

  She stopped at the side of the bed and squinted at him. Not only him, of course. Her gaze skipped to Miss Ballister before flicking back to him. “Changed or no’, it appears ye made no progress with our lass ’ere.”

  Progress? He glanced at the deathly still Miss Ballister and back to the old woman. “She’s unconscious … and injured!” If he’d had any doubts regarding the soundness of Fenella’s mind, he no longer did. The woman was daft.

  She set her plate down on the side table with a clatter. “She’s fine. Hearty stock. She will give ye many babes.”

  Calder sighed and rubbed at the center of his forehead where it was beginning to ache. He did not bother to deny her charge that she would bear him many children. No point arguing with that bit of absurdity.

  He surveyed the sleeping female. She was still pale. He wished he could feel as confident as Fenella that Miss Ballister would be well. “Fenella, I’m no’ in the habit of taking advantage of unconscious females.”

  “Och, man. The lass is fine. She will rouse soon enough and then ye may begin wooing in earnest.” She tsked. “I’ve brought these tae help matters along. Eat a few . . . and once she wakes give ’er one, as well.”

  He glanced down at the plate. A dozen small biscuits scattered over the surface. No buttery shortbread. They more resembled clumps of rock than edible fare.

  “Fenella, are those your . . . biscuits?” One would think alleged love biscuits at least looked more appetizing.

  “Aye, and yer cook was most unaccommodating. I had tae threaten her with a rolling pin tae use the oven.” She shook her head ruefully. “She did no’ understand I’m about important work ’ere.”

  “Fenella,” he groaned. If Marie was unhappy, he would suffer charred food as a result. He predicted no fatted Christmas goose in his future. “Stop this nonsense.” He motioned at the lass next to him. “She and I do no’ suit—”

  “Ye’ve said that about every lass tae toss her bonnet at ye for the last decade. Yer no’ a lad anymore. Ye’ve a legacy tae provide. Ye owe it tae yer people and yer parents, rest their sweet souls.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in the bed.

  “My parents would want me tae be happy.”

  “Aye, happily wed. Now eat a biscuit, lad.”

  He looked in horror at the plate. “Be serious.”

  “Ye don’t believe they have magical properties, aye?” She shrugged one bony shoulder. “Verra well. Then it won’t matter if ye tae eat one, will it?”

  A valid point. Still, he hesitated.

  “Go on, then,” she prodded. “Do it and I’ll let ye get back tae sleep, warming up the lass there.”

  He winced. Why did her words sound debauched? He was merely attempting to warm her . . . to imbue life into her.

  “Fine,” he snapped, reaching for a biscuit. It felt as hard as it looked, but he bit into it anyway—and somehow managed not to break a tooth. “Omphgf,” he choked as the stone-hard pastry broke into smaller chunks of foul-tasting stone. “This . . . is . . . awful. Are you certain it’s no’ off in some way?”

  She stared at him in affront. “I made it this verra night. The ingredients came from yer kitchen and they were all fresh.”

  He worked the biscuit around in his mouth until he managed to break the chunks into bits small enough to swallow. He stared reproachfully at the rest of the biscuit in his hand and then looked defiantly at Fenella.

  “All of it,” she directed with a stab of her finger.

  “Fine,” he mumbled and stuffed the last mouthful of dry pastry into his mouth. “I’ll only eat one,” he choked, managing not to gag around the vile shortbread.

  She narrowed her eyes and considered the remaining biscuits for a moment. “Verra well.” She set the tray down on the side table. “But when ye wake I want ye tae ’ave another one.”

  He nodded. In that moment he would agree to anything to get her to leave him in peace.

  She dusted her hands. “I’ll see ye and the lass in the morn, then.”

  The moment the door shut behind her, he dropped his head back on the pillow. The woman was a menace. He wouldn’t feel safe until she and the Ballister chit were back in their own beds. Anywhere but here.

  Scowling, Calder arranged the blankets so that they had a barrier between them and weren’t skin to skin. Satisfied, he snuggled closer to Annis, so that his body heat reached her through the fabric.

  She woke toasty warm. A marked improvement considering her last memory was only of stinging cold.

  She felt snug, wrapped in a veritable cocoon. She opened her eyes and settled her gaze straight ahead. A great wall of firm skin yawned before her. A male chest. She could see little beyond it. She inhaled. If warmth was a scent, then this was it. It radiated from him. Salt on supple skin. She glanced up and stared at the face of the sleeping man. Sinclair.

  The back of her skull was tender. Yet even that dull ache couldn’t distract her from the virile body sharing a bed with her. A bed. She glanced down, pulling back the cover for a peek. She was naked. She shifted, enjoying the sensation of warm sheets against her nudity. She should be alarmed. Horrified. She touched her tender head again. Her last memory was riding with Sinclair. They’d spotted the brigands. She must have struck her head sometime after that. Had she fallen?

  Whatever the case, Sinclair had delivered her safely to his home . . . and his bed. But he hadn’t touched her. He slept on the other side of her blanket, a blanket of his own pulled up to his waist, the material functioning as barriers between them. That spoke to his honor. He hadn’t taken advantage of her. Not many men would have left a ready and available woman unmolested. He was a good man—even if grouchy.

  She studied him at her leisure, knowing it was quite untoward of her. In fact everything about this scenario was untoward. However, in this moment of unobserved freedom, she did not care.

  He was quite the most handsome man she’d ever seen, and for the moment he was hers to enjoy. Dark lashes formed crescent shadows on his cheeks. His chest lifted on a soft breath. Asleep and not speaking, he was quite the amenable fellow, unlike during their previous encounters. She stifled a giddy giggle, pressing her fingers against her lips. The action made her sore head throb, and she winced.

  Of course, she’d never shared a bed with a man before. She likely never would again. She wanted to absorb the momentous occasion for all it was worth. Years from now when she was at the convent she would have this secret memory. She hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder, willing herself not to shake . . . but needing more, needing to expand on this memory. She craved the sensation of his skin.

  She could imagine Mama instructing her to do just as she was doing. All the better to compromise herself and force his hand. For the sake of his title. For a dukedom.

  Except she could care less about that. She shoved out thoughts of Mama.

  This was about temptation. A
bout all she would miss when she entered the convent. The realization made her frown. Miss? She had never thought about taking vows in such terms before. Before it had been about escape, about claiming peace for herself. It had never felt like deprivation. Never like she would be cheating herself of something. Now, though, with her body humming and her heart racing . . . she felt that keenly. She felt the temptation. The need.

  So instead of hopping from the bed as she should, instead of disentangling her limbs from his heavier ones, she stayed put and let her hand meander over him. She sank a little deeper into the mattress and let herself have this. She let her gaze study the sweep of his long lashes. The nose that appeared to have been broken. The lips that in sleep looked too full, too vulnerable for any man. She looked and looked and looked.

  She relaxed and touched him at will. She would make a memory for herself because she could. Right now.

  Because tomorrow, next week, three months from now . . . she would not have the chance. A heavy weight settled on her chest, sinking, threatening to pull her down. This opportunity might never come again.

  Now was her chance. Now she would seize the moment.

  Calder came to slowly, bit by bit, his cock hard, aching, pushing against sweet feminine flesh, seeking release. Damnation. Somehow his barrier of blankets had failed him and twisted free.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d woken at full-mast—or with a woman in bed with him. He’d not lived out his days a monk, to be sure, but this was the first time he’d ever been in bed with a female with whom he was not at liberty to share intimacies.

  This was a scenario that called for restraint.

  His body was an inferno, burning beneath the blankets and his own scalding skin. He flung the covers off his shoulders and lifted up on his elbows, his gaze dropping to Miss Ballister, unprepared to find her so . . . awake.