Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  “What, what are your plans?” she asked as casually as possible. If Charles’s scheme sounded the least bit suspicious, she planned to leap from the carriage before losing sight of Boston.

  “I require your help to select our Christmas tree.

  “Mother has charged me with this grave responsibility. And you know what a difficult woman she is to please.”

  “Charles, you make momentous decisions every day at business. Why do you need my help to select a Christmas tree?”

  “There are a great many trees on the farm. I require a woman’s opinion.”

  Maeve’s pulse spurted into an unsettling beat even as her heart swelled to twice its normal size. Charles valued her opinion — over Stella’s, the merry widow. How silly Maeve had been to think for one moment Charles would harm her. She couldn’t have wished for anything better. Alone with Charles, she would have the opportunity to win his heart.

  The journey took over an hour through winding country roads lined by thick evergreen forests dusted with snow. Maeve worried as the sky grew darker, threatening a storm. Would they have time to find the perfect tree and return to Beacon Hill before nightfall? They certainly couldn’t traverse dark country roads during a blizzard. As Charles did not appear worried, Maeve took heart

  She huddled beside her laconic husband, content to bask in the warmth of his solid heat. To stave off boredom, she launched into a rousing, slightly off-key rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. To Maeve’s surprise, Charles soon joined in, adding his deep baritone voice. When the song ended he started another, Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

  Maeve and Charles sang in unison to the hoary sky, to the majestic snow-tipped trees and to the winding road. Charles sang out loudly, with twinkling eyes and a wide happy grin. He was Charlie again, at ease and content. She kept their duet alive with one song after another until at last the sleigh passed through the gates of Ashton Pond.

  On either side of the long, curving drive, the branches of pine and elm dipped with the weight of snow. The snowy sentinels appeared to be bowing as the carriage passed. They passed a fair-sized pond iced over and empty. Ashton Pond sprawled in the front acre of Charles’s country house.

  At first sight of the spacious gingerbread house, Maeve caught her breath. Icicles resembling long, knobby fingers dripped from beneath the eaves. With its dark green shutters and gabled second floor windows, the charming home on Ashton Pond appeared to be a storybook illustration. Snow drifted against the porch steps and the welcoming glow of candlelight shone in every window. Here was a real home, a haven that instantly captured Maeve’s heart.

  “Do you see the wooded area behind the house?” Charles asked. “It’s the Rycrofts’ own Christmas tree farm.”

  “It’s lovely,” she replied, marveling.

  “Let’s choose our tree first and then we’ll head for the house and get warm.”

  “Sure’n we’ll find a grand tree,” she said as Charles helped her from the carriage.

  Maeve took in her surroundings with lightheaded wonder. This was another whole new world, one promising comfort, one where she might feel a sense of belonging.

  The snow-encrusted ground crunched beneath their feet as Charles took Maeve’s gloved hand and led her out into the woods. In order to keep up with her tall, long-legged husband, she took three steps for every one of his.

  A soft snowfall began as they reached the edge of the woods. But Maeve didn’t mind. Nothing could dampen her spirits. She breathed deeply, inhaling with relish the thick fir scent of the small forest. Her body buzzed with anticipation. A vague sense of unbridled joy washed through her. With only the slightest encouragement, Maeve would have danced a jig right then and there in the snow.

  She meant to treasure each moment alone with Charles in this glorious place. He seemed less intense, even playful. Somewhere along the way, Charles had undergone a transformation. He’d truly become Charlie again, the man she had married. The man she loved with all her heart.

  He led Maeve deeper into the copse. Fragrant pine and fir trees shared space with ancient oak, sycamore, old maples, and elm. There were any number of trees to choose from, for almost any purpose.

  Pursing his lips and studying several candidates, Charles made a great show of the tree selection. “Remember, we must bring the perfect tree back to Boston.”

  Maeve shook the snow from a branch on a large fir to her right. “This one is full and green.”

  “Too short”

  “This one?”

  “Too tall. But what do you think of this?” he asked, gesturing to the tree just ahead.

  Listing precariously and misshapen about its bottom, the pine stood well over twelve feet. Maeve had never seen Charles dwarfed before. But no tree could diminish her husband’s towering form, the striking silver gleam in his eye. His strong, broad shoulders were wide enough to carry the entire Emerald Isle. Sheer masculine power shimmered from his compelling figure.

  A hard, hot shudder swept through Maeve.

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she shook her head. “Much too skinny.”

  “Are you an expert?’’ he asked. His normally unreadable silver gray eyes shone with amusement.

  “I’ve had but one Christmas tree and Shea found it,” she laughed. “The poor scrawny fir had been discarded.”

  “If you’ve had but only one tree, we must make this year’s tree the largest possible.”

  “Like this?” she asked. Maeve stared up at the fullest, greenest, tallest tree in the forest.

  “Perfect.”

  “Then let it stay. We can not chop down such a beautiful tree.”

  “What?” he winced.

  “We’ll take the skinny, misshapen one back to Boston and tell Beatrice it was the best of the lot. We shall claim that it’s a very bad year for trees. How will she know?”

  A grin spread slowly across his face. “She won’t.”

  “We’ll cover the tree’s — slight imperfections — with decorations.”

  “You are an extremely clever woman. Has anyone ever told you so before?”

  “Yes, many times,” she teased. “But never by you.”

  Standing not three feet away, Charles’s gaze fixed on hers. He cast a spell Maeve could not readily break free from. She felt certain his smoky eyes carried a silent message meant for her heart. What Charles could not put into words was reflected in his eyes. Was it love?

  Here in the woods where their voices echoed, they were the only two people in the world. This beautiful wintery snowscape was their very own faerie land, their own Tir Nan Og. Beyond the snow, Maeve envisioned an ice castle where she and Charles could live without the interference of his world or hers.

  Abruptly, Charles’s gaze fell to the rope in his hand. “We should go inside before we freeze to death,” he said, turning to wrap the rope around the tree as a tag.

  The spell had been broken.

  The snow fell faster. “If you freeze to death, your mother will put the blame on me as your dreadfully unsuitable wife.”

  Charles chuckled and gave Maeve a lopsided grin that caused her heart to fly.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Our caretaker, George, will chop the tree down for us.”

  “Shouldn’t the country house have a Christmas tree as well?” Maeve asked, hugging herself to ward off the cold seeping through her once again. “This would be the most wonderful place to spend Christmas.”

  Charles agreed. “I’ve only spent one Christmas at Ashton Pond but it was a memorable one.”

  “Aye. I’m certain.”

  Perhaps the best, he thought.

  “My mother came to Boston especially for the Christmas socializing,” Charles interrupted quickly, anticipating Maeve’s question. “Beatrice would not miss the Cabots’ Snow Ball for the world and I’m afraid she will not allow me to miss it. In other words, Christmas at Ashton Pond is impossible.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment showed in the fleeting shadow that fell across
her eyes, the quick press of her full cherry lips.

  “But before we go in, I think you should pick one more tree, for the country house,” Charles said in an effort to ease Maeve’s disappointment. “George and Hilda won’t mind.”

  Casting him a heart-spinning grin, Maeve closed her eyes and twirled awkwardly around until she was dizzy. “I choose...this one.” After pointing, she opened her eyes.

  It was a small, bushy tree not over four feet. Charles let Maeve tag it with a short loop of rope before grasping her hand and hurrying back toward the house.

  “Wait!” She stopped suddenly, jerked her hand free from his, and bent low to the ground.

  Charles watched in bewilderment as she scooped up the snow. Before he realized what Maeve was doing, she’d made a snowball, tossed it and hit him on the shoulder. A grown woman hurling snowballs, playing as if she were a girl again.

  When Charles reached out for her, Maeve scampered away, grinning mischievously. He stopped to make a snowball of his own but as he righted himself she tossed another that landed in his midsection. He hadn’t thrown a snowball in years, not since he was a boy. Charles threw his ball badly and it missed its mark, sending Maeve into peals of laughter.

  Once again, Charles gave chase and just as he was about to reach her, his snowball opponent stumbled in the snow and fell flat on her face.

  “Maeve!” He ran to her, falling on his knees beside her. “Maeve, are you all right?”

  She was making some sort of gurgling sound.

  Dear God. He’d killed her.

  But in the next moment, with only a little help from Charles, Maeve pushed herself to her knees. Wiping the snow from her face, she began to laugh once more.

  She was obviously delirious.

  Framing her face with one hand, Charles helped her wipe the snow from her cheek and from her lips. And then all he could see were her lips, blue and wet with snow. He gently covered Maeve’s wet, cold lips with his.

  Soon she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and he held her close, drinking the laughter from her full, sweet mouth. The snow whirled around them, kicked up by a sudden breeze, but Charles was warm, very warm. Very alive. Utterly unable to tear his lips from Maeve’s.

  She moaned, a soft and passionate sound that caused an unnatural spurt of his pulse. A powerful white heat sparked deep in his loins.

  He could take her on this blanket of snow. Right here. Right now. He wanted her that desperately.

  The realization of what he was willing to do to have Maeve brought Charles up short. The fire within him died. He’d lost his mind. For the past weeks one unexpected event had followed another, apparently taking a toll on him. Why else would he consider making love in a blizzard to a woman who would not be his wife for long? Those were not the thoughts of a rational man.

  Charles dragged his mouth from Maeve’s. Carefully regaining his footing, he pulled Maeve up. “Forgive me. If you suffer frostbite, I will be to blame.”

  “Is it cold? I hadn’t noticed,” she said and dissolved into laughter.

  Caught up in the infectious music of Maeve’s laughter, Charles found himself laughing as well. He didn’t know himself any longer.

  Shaking his head, he scooped Maeve’s beguiling body into his arms and carried her into the house. She weighed no more than a snowflake. She felt light and right in his arms. A rocking, searing desire swept through him. Despite the cold he grew hot and hard, aroused beyond endurance. Charles groaned inwardly as Maeve settled snugly into his embrace as if she was meant to be there.

  “Hilda! My wife needs a warm bath immediately,” he shouted as he marched through the front door.

  What made him say that? He’d said the word aloud again — wife. He hadn’t been thinking.

  “And so do you!” Maeve exclaimed.

  Ignoring her impudence, Charles continued delivering cheerful orders to the unseen Hilda. “And then we shall require supper and a warm fire in the parlor.”

  Maeve started to protest. “But…”

  “I’m afraid there’s no going back to Boston now. It’s a bad northeaster blowing out there.”

  “We’re snowbound?”

  “We’ll have to make the best of it.”

  She grinned up at him. “I can do that.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t be too... distressed.”

  Her smile belied her sigh. “I shall overcome the inconvenience.”

  Charles chuckled. “You are an uncommon woman, Maeve O’Malley.”

  “But my clothes are soaked through.”

  “Since mother never comes to Ashton Pond, I’m afraid there are no women’s clothes about. You shall have to wear something of mine. Do you think you can find something for this little woman, Hilda?”

  The broad-hipped caretaker’s wife shot him a strange little smile. “That I will, sir.”

  “Did I say something humorous?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that except for Mr. Wellington, you’ve never brought anyone to the country before. And now, here you come all smiles and fit to burst with a wife. It’s a miracle.”

  “A miracle?” Charles repeated, feeling a bit wounded.

  Maeve giggled.

  “Yes, sir. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “I didn’t mean to shock you. And I understand it’s an imposition arriving without notice and requesting food and clothes —”

  “Mr. Rycroft, the mister and me wish you would spend more time with us. I’ll get the baths now.” With that, Hilda gave a no-nonsense nod and waddled from the room.

  None of the ornate furnishings and luxurious fabrics of the Beacon Hill house were in evidence at Ashton Pond. No modern bathroom had been installed as yet. Simplicity and warmth reigned within the cozy, rambling structure.

  Hilda quickly prepared adjoining rooms on the second floor and Maeve settled into a bath by the fireplace in her cozy chamber. The furnishings were old but comfortable, crafted of sturdy maple by New England furniture makers. A bright blue-and-yellow quilt covered the four-poster bed and lace curtains graced the windows.

  During her bath, Maeve pondered the significance of Charles bringing her to Ashton Pond when, according to Hilda, he’d not brought anyone else to this house. She took their visit as a positive sign.

  The clothes Hilda appropriated for Maeve consisted of a pair of dark trousers that Maeve rolled up to her ankles and a white linen shirt with full sleeves. Several other petite persons could have helped Maeve fill Charles’s trousers and she felt swamped by the hopelessly large shirt. She made do by rolling up the sleeves and leaving the top buttons undone. The caretaker’s wife supplied one of her own magenta scarves for Maeve to wrap around her waist as a means to hold up the trousers. The scarf succeeded and a pair of Charles’s dark socks completed her outlandish costume.

  Maeve unleashed her hair from its pins and brushed the blue-black mane until it gleamed. Still, a quick glance in the mirror told her she looked misbegotten, a little woman drowning in a man’s clothes. She tilted her head, pressing the side of her face against the shirtsleeve. The musky, masculine scent of Charles clung to the fabric. A warm tingle of pleasure trickled down Maeve’s spine.

  Curious to see if her husband had gone downstairs, she opened the connecting door and peeked into his room. He sat in the copper tub, long legs bent awkwardly at the knee. He appeared uncomfortable, nevertheless, Maeve thought he looked magnificent. The dark curls peppering Charles’s broad chest and muscular legs glistened with beads of water and sparkled like jewels. With his wet, dark hair slicked back, his handsome features became more prominent, even more appealing.

  Temporarily immobilized by the lusty allure of her husband, Maeve could not imagine even the great faerie lord, Fin Bheara, looking quite so splendid. She could not tear her eyes away. She could not catch a complete breath of air. Actually, she felt quite feverish.

  “Maeve!”

  Saints above, she’d shocked him again. He must think her a brazen hussy. “Please, I did not mea
n to disturb you.”

  Frowning, Charles hurriedly pulled his knees almost up to his chin and wrapped his arms about his legs.

  Although she admired his attempt at modesty, Maeve bit her lip in order not to smile. “If you recall, I’ve seen you...like this before.”

  “Oh?” A disconcerted scowl flickered across his face. “Oh.”

  And if she dared breathe the truth to Charles, which she didn’t, Maeve looked forward to seeing her husband buck naked again soon. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  Flashing a distracted smile, she spun on her heel and, humming happily, sailed from the room.

  The sight of Charles in all his naked glory filled her with longing. She yearned for the days when he had been a man with no memory of what was proper and what was not. The man she married would have invited her into his bath.

  Those were the days. Too few and too brief.

  Maeve entered the parlor in a wistful mood. Hilda had set a lovely candlelit table by the fireplace. The ragged, unadorned Christmas tree Maeve had selected earlier sat on a nearby table. Its heady pine fragrance mingled with the scent of cinnamon and apple already perfuming the air.

  Hilda carried a tray to the table piled high with cheese and apples, steaming barley soup, hot bread, and chocolate cake. Maeve declined the wine.

  “Thank you, Hilda. Your timing is impeccable,” Charles said as he strode into the room refreshed and feeling in especially good humor.

  He sat across from Maeve at the small table. While he felt the heat of the fireplace, Charles knew another fire simmered within him. A fire that intensified as he met Maeve’s upturned eyes. “Are you comfortable in my trousers, Maeve?”

  She tilted her chin and gave him a sassy smile. “I have never been so comfortable, Charles. A woman should always wear pants.”

  Enveloped in his country clothes, Maeve resembled a small waif. When she moved, the gaping neck of Charles’s open shirt revealed her creamy shoulders and the deep, sweet valley of her cleavage.

  The ache in his loins neared the point of pain. Charles raised his gaze to Maeve’s sloe-black hair tumbling in a glossy mass of curls cascading past her shoulders. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, searching for calm and strength of will. He required the will to overcome an involuntary, but overwhelming, need to bury his fingers in her silky mane.