Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  He’d made certain she’d reached the rapturous release most women only dream of before allowing himself to reach his own deliverance. In that moment she loved him even more.

  Maeve rose up to meet Charles as he raced toward his own ecstasy. She smiled as she felt the shudder that rocked his body. Listened with joy to his soft groan before he eased his body down onto hers and buried his face in her hair.

  “Dear God,” he said, when at last he lifted his head. “How could I have not had memory of this?”

  Charles wasn’t as priggish as she’d first thought. Perhaps she could bring out the Charlie in him.

  * * * *

  The morning sun blazed through the window; the fire had gone out but the woman in Charles’s arms warmed him. And for a moment, he mused upon the eerie sense of déjà vu.

  His own stamina amazed him. His desire for Maeve astonished him. Instead of being satiated by making love to her once, he immediately had craved more.

  His little wife excited him as no other woman ever had. If possible, she was even more beautiful with her skin aglow with the soft pink flush from making love. He could not run his hands over her silky, opalescent skin enough. He could not tear his gaze from Maeve’s dark, dewy eyes that held him mesmerized. He could not live without the lilting laughter that made his heart thump.

  He came alive under her spell.

  Unable to let Maeve go, Charles made love to her for hours. He thought his heart would burst when she made love to him, tentatively at first, sweetly, and then a little wildly. She indulged him, explored him, cradled him, and when he thought he would burst into flame, Maeve settled herself upon him and brought Charles to a body-shattering, blinding summit he’d never reached before, never known existed. He’d roared like a jungle cat. His heart thundered. When at last he could catch his breath, he reached up to bring Maeve’s sweet lips down on his, to taste once again the delicious peppermint taste of her.

  When they were too spent to move, she nestled against him and he fell asleep holding the woman he’d promised to love and to hold until “death do us part.” A vow he could not remember making.

  Charles hated to wake Maeve but had no choice. He nibbled at her ear, enjoying the salty sweet morning taste of her.

  Maeve groaned and moved her head.

  “It’s time to wake up, Little Bit. The sun is shining.” He nuzzled her throat for good measure.

  She whimpered. Her sweeping dark lashes curled against her cheeks, a slightly giddy smile teased her luscious lips.

  But no. He could not begin making love to her again or he might not be able to start.

  “The blizzard is over and there are people in Boston worried about us no doubt,” he said in a firmer tone.

  She shook her head, wiggling in his arms to face him. “I don’t want to go. Please, can’t we stay here?”

  Charles found it difficult to deny the tousled, charming woman sharing his bed. Maeve’s moist, swollen lips invited his and the haze of passion lingering in her eyes beckoned him. “No, we cannot stay,” he said, summoning resolve. “Life waits for us in Boston.”

  “Isn’t this life?” she teased.

  The luster of her ebony curls as they brushed against her gleaming ivory shoulders just about took his breath away. Charles bent to kiss a lock of her hair.

  “This is paradise,” he agreed hoarsely.

  “All the more reason to stay.”

  “I wish we could.” He could feel his resolve weakening as he bent to kiss one rosy nipple. “I could make love to you all day.”

  “Oh, do!”

  And then the other.

  “Ooooh. Do.”

  Charles lifted his head and braced himself beside his astonishing bride. “Maeve, you are breaking my heart.” And tempting him unbearably.

  “I want to be your Lhiannon Sidhe.”

  “What is that?” he asked warily.

  “Lhiannon Sidhe is a powerful fairy mistress who seeks the love of mortal men. If a man refuses her, she becomes his slave, if he consents, he becomes hers for all time. The Lhiannon Sidhe creates such desire in her mortal man he will overcome all obstacles just to embrace her.”

  “I would just as soon not dally with a fairy who enslaves men, Maeve.” Lying beside him, Charles could easily envision Maeve as his faerie mistress. Not that he would admit to such fantasies.

  “Every woman, mortal or not, yearns to be so loved by a man.”

  He wasn’t surprised. And he wished she didn’t believe in fairy tales. Clinging to Irish legends could not be healthy.

  “From what I have observed, but only in Boston, mind you, such a love is extremely rare.”

  Plainly, Charles had disappointed her. A flicker of sadness clouded the sprite’s eyes. Damn. He didn’t mean to do it, felt badly about it. But talk of love, obstacles, fairies and slaves made him nervous. He moved to leave the bed. “I shall get a fire started now and have Hilda bring you your clothes. They should be dry.”

  One small hand reached out to him. “Were you happy last night? Truly happy?”

  “A man could not be any happier than I...even now. But we still must return to Boston. We’ll start immediately after breakfast.”

  “Could one more day in the country make a difference?”

  “Maeve, the publishing firm needs my attention and I must keep after the private investigator I’ve hired to find Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick.”

  “I see.”

  Leaving the warmth and temptation of his bed for the icy room, Charles snatched up his dressing gown draped on a nearby chair. “Besides, I expect you have much to do with Christmas a few weeks away.”

  “Aye.” She nodded her head. “I have a dance lesson with Mr. Raymond.”

  Glancing down at her, Maeve’s small body looked lost and waiflike in a sea of white silk sheets and the thick down quilt. Someone as lovely and delicate as Maeve deserved a man to protect her from the ills and evils of the world.

  Charles suddenly wondered how he could divorce her. Although she had her saucy moments, they made his little Irish wife more interesting than most women of his acquaintance. But for the most part Maeve was sweet and smart, and she made his body soar without wings. She freed his spirit...if only for a time. He felt different this morning. The edgy, restless feeling haunting him of late seemingly had slipped away as he slept

  Maeve made Charles feel alive. There was a new lightness in his step.

  If he was not the heir to Rycroft Publishing, Charles might be persuaded to follow his present inclination and remain married to the sprite. But Beatrice insisted on Charles acquiring a thoroughbred wife, just as his father would have. His father’s rule drummed in his head: A Rycroft always does the right thing.

  To further complicate matters, his cousin Martin’s wife was already pregnant. A Rycroft heir would be produced shortly.

  For a fleeting moment, Charles wondered if Maeve would settle for being his mistress after being his wife. Divorcing her now after their splendid night at Ashton Pond would be more difficult than before.

  Instead of dwelling on that dim future, Charles decided to make the most of the time they had left together. He meant to make this the best Christmas Maeve ever had. A holiday to remember for all time. One the Lhiannon Sidhe would approve.

  An unexpected pall overtook Charles as he helped Maeve into the sleigh later that morning. Smiling, she waved to Hilda and George before sitting down. George would be bringing the Christmas tree they’d selected to Boston the next day.

  Charles tucked the carriage blanket securely around Maeve’s lap to ward off the chill. He hadn’t planned to bring her to Sycamore Falls. Selfishly, he’d never brought anyone to the country house before. It was his secret harbor, a shelter when life became too stormy. He never expected anyone would appreciate it as much as he did, but Maeve had. And there was something more, more important.

  Here at Ashton Pond Charles and Maeve were equals. Alone together it did not matter where they were born, to whom they we
re born, or how they were raised. At Ashton Pond, Maeve and Charles existed in one world. Here they were simply a man and woman who took pleasure in each other.

  Yes, he had taken a great deal of pleasure in Maeve.

  With a snap of the reins, Charles signaled the horses and the sleigh glided forward.

  Maeve and Charles arrived back in Boston mid-afternoon. He immediately departed for his office, and Maeve did not miss a step of her dance lesson with Mr. Raymond.

  They met again at dinner. To their surprise and Maeve’s dismay, they were joined by Beatrice and Stella.

  “We canceled our previous plans,” Beatrice explained. “Poor Helen fell ill, so the séance was postponed until this evening. I am so pleased you didn’t miss the experience, Maeve.”

  A motion much like a somersault took hold in Maeve’s belly. She forced her reply through a tight smile. “I am pleased as well.”

  “I am certain that Conrad will have something to say to you.”

  Maeve’s worst fear was confirmed.

  “Father must be delighted knowing you wish a word with him, Mother.”

  Beatrice turned to her son. “Charles, I think perhaps you should not attend the séance. As much as this pains me to say it, dear, you often irritated your father.”

  “That’s true, Mother. My father held neither of us in great esteem.”

  Mrs. Rycroft reared back, eyes large, hand to throat. “My dear! Your father showed me every respect. He never denied me my slightest desire.”

  “Of course not. He wished you to be happy and well occupied at all times.”

  “Beneath his gruff exterior lay a generous heart,” Beatrice countered primly.

  Maeve just knew she would leave the table with indigestion.

  Charles could not resist goading his tradition-bound mother. Although he knew he should rein in his remarks, the short journey to Ashton Pond had invigorated him. He felt a bit devilish.

  “The devotion your mother and father shared cannot go unrewarded,” Stella offered in a placating manner. Her pointy-nosed dog snarled at Charles.

  He suppressed the urge to snarl back, turning his attention to Stella.

  The pale houseguest had rouged her lips to a bright crimson, apparently to match her dress. The daring, low-cut neckline did not claim Charles’s attention as much as her lips. They stood out, bowed and pouty in fishlike fashion.

  On the other hand, he could barely keep his eyes off Maeve. Dressed in another of Ilona Pom’s confections of deep blue velvet and lace, she looked delicious. With only a slight effort and long reach, he could pull the pearl combs from her hair and watch the magnificent midnight locks tumble.

  “Conrad will give me a sign tonight,” Beatrice declared. She was relentless.

  “Perhaps he’ll be home for Christmas,” Charles replied in droll tones.

  “To mock your own mother is unforgivable. I must attribute it to the influence of that woman!”

  “What woman?” he demanded, feeling an unusual and swift burst of anger. To have his mother insult the only person in the room who had given him an ounce of happiness irritated Charles immensely. “The woman seated opposite you? Maeve O’Malley? That woman?”

  His mother appeared momentarily paralyzed. She paled.

  Maeve’s cheeks burned, but she did not cry or flee the room. She lifted her chin in a most regal manner. “I would be so pleased, Mrs. Rycroft, if you did not speak of me as if I were not present.”

  ‘‘Indeed.’’ The blood began to flow through his mother’s veins again as she recovered herself with a stilted apology. “Forgive me. I can only blame my son for my lack of manners. His behavior of late puzzles me. I do not know what has overcome him since I last visited Boston.”

  “Charles is a good man,” Maeve said. “You are to be praised for raising a fine, intelligent, honest son.”

  Smiling prettily, Stella hastily added, “I must agree with Maeve.”

  Beatrice looked utterly confused. The lines in her forehead doubled in depth. One hand fluttered over her heart. “Yes, quite. But I cannot approve of last evening’s episode. If word gets out, such an escapade will ruin Maeve. Imagine! Spending the night at Ashton Pond, just the two of you without a chaperone.”

  “But Charles is my husband.”

  “Had you forgotten, Mother?” Charles asked with a quirk of his lips.

  His pride in how Maeve was handling this difficult encounter knew no bounds.

  “Oh, dear. You haven’t done —” Beatrice stopped mid-sentence, her cheeks and neck flushed.

  Charles arched an eyebrow. “Mother.”

  “No one, no one knows you are married,” she stammered.

  “And no one knows we were snowbound at Ashton Pond. No one but you and Stella.”

  And Stella appeared quite appalled. Her dog bared his teeth.

  “Is our secret safe?”

  “Your father won’t like this at all.”

  “Then don’t tell him.” Charles pushed back his chair.

  “Where are you going?” Beatrice asked with alarm. “Helen isn’t scheduled to arrive for another thirty minutes or so. I thought we might adjourn to the parlor and discuss...the future.”

  “Please convey my good wishes to both Helen and Father,” he said, crossing with two purposeful strides to his Irish bride. “But Maeve has a terrible headache and I have an important manuscript to read.”

  Maeve’s eyes widened in surprise, but she did not object

  “I’ll help you to your room.” Placing his hand in the small of her back he guided her to the hall. Once they were out of earshot, he whispered, “I’ll come to you tonight as soon as the house is asleep.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The flickering mass of candles cast a fanciful dancing light tripping across the cabbage rose wall covering. A warming fire crackled and burned in the fireplace.

  Maeve donned one of her beautiful new silk and lace negligees. The pale blue fabric was like the shifting shade of a late summer sky. Its silky softness caressed her flesh, making her feel like a femme fatale.

  But where was Charles?

  To put an end to her fidgeting, Maeve sat down at the rosewood dressing table and brushed her hair to a coal-black sheen. She hummed as she brushed, a Christmas carol she especially liked, one she found comforting in both melody and lyric, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Sometimes she hummed it slowly and sometimes she gave the carol a more spirited rendition.

  Tonight humming did not help to soothe her nervousness. With each moment that passed, Maeve’s excitement and anticipation doubled. She sprinkled violet water behind her ears, at her pulse points and beneath her breasts. And waited.

  She checked her appearance in the mirror. And waited.

  Charles promised to come to Maeve’s rooms after everyone was asleep. Inherent in his promise was the thrill of being in his arms before the clock struck midnight. Charles wanted her! He might even be falling in love with her. Maeve’s heart beat a feathery tattoo. Expectation bubbled up within her like a warm, foamy surf. She could barely contain herself, was completely unaware as the volume of her humming increased.

  If Charles did not care for her, he would not have saved her from attending the séance, a sentence just short of death. Further, if he had no feelings for Maeve, why would he risk his mother’s wrath by sneaking to her rooms?

  Winning Charles’s heart meant everything to Maeve. With the support of his love, she could brave whatever insults came her way from a society which frowned on their marriage. Every lesson she took, every rule of etiquette she learned, every move Maeve made, was directed to becoming a part of her husband’s world. Ultimately, she sought to become accepted by Boston society.

  Maeve lived for the day when she would hear Charles say I love you.

  Tonight, a fire of hope burned brightly within her, along with another, smoldering fire. ‘Twas the heated passion Charles stirred and drew from the very depths of her being.

  Since she had heard Stella’s door cl
ose nearly an hour ago. Maeve felt safe in opening hers a crack, leaving it ajar for Charles in welcoming invitation. She wondered how his afternoon had passed, if he thought of her as much as she thought of him.

  Maeve could hardly wait to stroke her fingertips through the crisp dark curls of his chest and feel the steady, strong beat of his heart. She craved the taste of him, the pressure of his lips on hers. She yearned to dive into the enveloping warmth of his smoky gray gaze. A rocking shudder swept Maeve’s body. The humming stopped. Gasping for breath, she bolted up from the dressing table.

  A sound in the corridor sent Maeve rushing to the opening of her door. She peered through. Across the hall, Stella’s door opened. Holding a fully lit, blazing candelabra high above her head, the New York widow stepped out into the corridor. Close behind, yapping ferociously at her heels, Stella’s wee imitation of a dog jumped up and down like a marionette on a string. Not much bigger than a rat, Stella’s pet could not defend her mistress from a tomcat.

  Maeve regarded the pale woman with growing irritation. Why wasn’t she asleep? Although she hated to admit it, Stella looked quite lovely. Her blond hair tumbled beyond her shoulders in thick sausage curls. Locks gone astray fell clear to her cleavage and brushed against her soft green satin dressing gown. A gown trimmed with feathers. Feathers enough to cover three grown peacocks edged the collar, cuff, and hem of Stella’s gown.

  Stella’s large doe eyes widened. “Charles, is it you?”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, it is I, Stella.”

  Maeve watched through the crack as Charles sauntered toward Stella. Elegantly dressed in a burgundy-and-gold dressing grown, he carried a wooden bowl filled with grapes. He must have dropped the bowl. Where had he found grapes? And what did he intend to do with them? Maeve’s heart raced faster than hummingbird wings.

  “May I ask what you are doing on the guest floor?” Stella asked in a soft, singsong tone. Before he could answer, she gasped as if the answer quite suddenly had come to her. She wrinkled her nose. “You came to see me, did you not? We haven’t had the opportunity to speak alone, to be alone, for that matter.”