“You? Arguing with a man?” Without shifting his gaze from her face, Kinvarra dropped to his knees before her. She guessed that he meant to help her remove her boots. It was an act familiar from their short intimacy, before everything went wrong. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Her lips curved upward in a reluctant smile, as she stared down into obsidian eyes alight with sardonic amusement.
Nobody else had ever teased her. Even Kinvarra when they’d lived together had been too intense at first, then too angry. To her surprise, she found she enjoyed his playfulness. He’d been angry with her earlier, but she sensed no rage in him now. Instead, beneath his humor, he seemed watchful, waiting. Another anticipatory shiver rippled through her.
He extended his glass, and she accepted it. His attention didn’t waver from her face when she raised it to her lips. Heat bloomed inside her. From the wine and from the unspoken intimacy of drinking from the place his lips had touched. It was almost like sharing a kiss.
Stop it, Alicia. You’re letting the situation go to your head.
“What were you quarreling about?” Kinvarra asked, with an idleness that his grave attention contradicted.
She returned the glass, her hand slightly unsteady. “I decided I’d been reckless to take up Lord Harold’s invitation to visit his hunting lodge. I was trying to get him to turn back to York.”
She braced for gloating, a repeat of his triumphant reaction downstairs when he discovered she was still chaste. Kinvarra mightn’t want her, but she’d always known he didn’t want her sharing her body with anyone else either.
Her husband’s regard held no smugness. How astonishing. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said quietly.
She tried to sit up and scowl at him, summon one of the sharp-tongued responses that had come so easily out in the snow, but the effort was beyond her. Instead she tilted her head back against the chair. She closed her eyes, partly from weariness, partly because she flinched from reading messages that couldn’t possibly be true in his dark, dark stare.
“He wasn’t worthy of you, Alicia.” Kinvarra’s soft voice echoed in her heart, as did his use of her Christian name. He hadn’t called her Alicia since the early days of their marriage, when they’d both still hoped to create something good from their union. “Why in God’s name choose him of all men?”
Shock held her unmoving, as Kinvarra’s bare hand slid over hers where it rested on the heavy arm of the chair. His palm was warm and slightly callused. Harold’s hand had been softer than a woman’s. She berated herself for making the comparison.
She opened her eyes and stared into her husband’s face. Into the black eyes that for once appeared sincere and kind.
And she chanced an honest answer.
“I chose him because he was everything you are not, my lord.”
Even more shocking than the touch of his hand, she watched him whiten under his tan. In all this time, she’d never realized that she had the power to hurt him. The knowledge pierced her like a blade, left her shaken.
He jerked back on his heels, removing his hand from hers. She tried not to miss that casual, comforting touch. The distance between them gaped like a chasm of ice.
“I…see.” His voice firmed. “At least I’d never leave a woman alone to face down an angry husband, with a blizzard about to start.”
Shamed heat stung her cheeks. She’d felt so strong and free and self-righteous when she’d arranged to go away with a lover. After ten barren years of thankless loyalty to a man who hardly cared she was alive.
But in retrospect, her behavior seemed shabby. Ill-advised. Despite her doubts, bravado and pride had kept her to her course until she’d reached York and that journey across the moors with no company but Harold and her howling conscience. She’d fought against feeling guilty about betraying Kinvarra, but it was no use. It seemed her marriage vows still held her fast, despite her long misery. With every mile they’d covered, she’d become more convinced that succumbing to Harold’s blandishments had been a horrible mistake.
Damn Kinvarra. He’d scarred her soul, and she’d never escape him.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she said with complete certainty.
“No, but Harold didn’t know that.”
She noted that he was upset enough to use Harold’s correct name. She tried to make light of the subject, but her voice emerged brittle and too high. “Anyway, no harm was done. I’m still the impossibly virtuous Countess of Kinvarra, who doesn’t even sleep with her husband. You may rest easy in your bed, my lord, sure that your wife’s reputation remains unblemished.”
An emotion too complex for mere anger crossed his face, but his voice remained steady. “Why now, Alicia? What changed?”
“I was lonely.” Her face still prickled with humiliation, and she knew from his expression that her shrug didn’t convince. “I needed to do something to mark my permanent break from you. It was, in a way, our ten-year anniversary.”
A muscle flickered in his cheek and his stare was uncompromising. “And you wanted to punish me.”
Did she? Even after all this time, turbulent emotion swirled beneath their interactions. What amazed her was that they seemed finally capable of holding a conversation that wasn’t composed entirely of spite and insults. Apparently they’d both changed in their years apart.
She spoke with difficulty, even as she wondered why she confided in her husband of all people. When they’d been married, he’d used any vulnerability as a weapon against her. “I haven’t touched a man since I left you. I’m twenty-eight years old. I thought…I thought it was time I tested the waters again.”
“With that cream puff?” He released a grunt of contemptuous laughter and made a slashing gesture with one hand. “If you’re kicking over the traces, my girl, at least pick a man with blood in his veins.”
“I’ve had a man with blood in his veins,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t like it.”
That couldn’t be regret in his face, could it? One thing she remembered about Kinvarra was that he never accepted he was in the wrong. But when he spoke, he confounded her expectations.
“You had a selfish, impulsive boy in your bed, Alicia. Never mistake that.”
Astonished, she stared at him kneeling before her. “When we parted, you blamed me for everything. You said touching me was…was like making love to a log of wood.”
This time it was his turn to flush and glance away. “I’m sorry you recall that.”
Even now, the snide remark made her flinch. Perhaps because there had been an element of truth in his sneer. “It was rather memorable.”
When he looked back at her, she read remorse in his eyes. “No wonder you hated me.”
She shrugged again, uncomfortable with the candid turn of the discussion. Because the agonizing truth was that she hadn’t always hated him. Far from it. During most of their year together, she’d believed she loved him. And every nasty word he’d spoken had slashed her youthful heart.
His unexpected honesty now forced her to recollect that she’d hardly been an angel in that particular argument. She’d called him a filthy, rutting animal and barred him from her bedroom.
Only now did she admit that he’d had provocation for his cruelty. And he’d been young, too. At the time, his four years seniority had seemed a lifetime. Now she realized he’d been a boy of twenty-one coping with a difficult wife, immature even for her seventeen years.
No wonder he’d been glad to see the back of her.
She struggled to swallow what felt like a boulder stuck in her throat. If they’d spoken like this after their marriage, perhaps they might have stayed together. But of course, neither of them had been capable of setting aside pride and vanity to face why their union failed. Now it was too late.
Too late—the saddest words in the language.
Her voice emerged as a husky whisper, and her hands tightened on the arms of the chair until they ached. “There’s no point revisiting all thi
s history. Really, tonight we’re just chance-met strangers.”
Kinvarra’s lips tilted in the half-smile that had made her seventeen-year-old heart somersault. To her dismay, her mature self found the smile just as beguiling.
“Surely more than that.” He raised his glass. “To my wife, the most beautiful woman I know.”
“Stop it.” Alicia turned away, blinking back hot tears. This excruciating weight of emotion in her chest was only weariness. She refused to recognize it as the knowledge that all those years ago she’d sacrificed something precious. “Tomorrow it will be as though this meeting never happened.”
Even in her own ears, the words sounded choked with regret. She’d thought when she finally accepted Harold’s advances that she was over her inconvenient yen for her husband. How tragically wrong she’d been. Tonight proved her as impressionable as ever.
In silent defiance, she straightened her back against the chair. Kinvarra might be kind now, he might be considerate. But after all the pain between them, she could never let herself trust him again.
Kinvarra studied her with a speculative light in his black eyes. A premonitory shiver chilled her. If she wasn’t careful, he’d have all her secrets. And she’d have no pride left.
She attempted a brighter tone. “Are you keeping that wine just for yourself?”
With a soft laugh, he raised his glass in another silent toast, as if awarding her a point in a contest. “Here.”
He passed her the glass and bent to tug at her boot. She took a sip, hoping the claret would bolster her fortitude. It didn’t.
Alicia hadn’t missed the way Kinvarra leaned toward her as he spoke and the burgeoning tenderness in his manner. Nerves and unwilling arousal coiled in her stomach. Did he mean to attempt a seduction? Although God knew why he’d be interested. If he’d wanted her any time, he could have sent for her. His long silence spoke volumes about his indifference.
His hands were brisk and efficient, almost impersonal, as he pulled her boots off. Automatically she stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes. A relieved sigh escaped her.
He looked up with a smile as he sat back. “Better?”
“Better,” she admitted, taking some more wine. The rich flavor filled her mouth and slipped down her throat, washing away a little more of her bitterness.
Whatever happened tonight, she was unexpectedly grateful she’d had this chance to share a few hours with her husband. Hatred and rancor had dogged her since she’d left Kinvarra. Only now as those reactions ebbed did she realize how they’d soured her life. She inhaled, feeling as though she breathed fully for the first time in ten years.
He laid one elegant hand on her ankle. Even through the stocking, his touch burned. “You always had cold feet.”
She closed her eyes. Imagine him remembering such a minor detail. Common sense dictated that she pull back, that she’d veered into dangerous territory. “I still do.”
“I’ll warm them up.
“Mmm.”
She was so tired, and the cozy room and surprisingly cordial atmosphere sapped her will. When Kinvarra began to rub her feet, gentle warmth stole up her legs. If his touch even hinted at encroaching further, she’d stop him. But all he did was buff her feet until she was ready to purr with pleasure.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, even when her feet glowed with heat, and he had to reach forward to rescue the empty wine glass from her loosening hand.
He laughed softly, and she struggled not to hear fondness in the sound. Kinvarra wasn’t fond of her. He’d never been fond of her. Family arrangement had foisted her on him, an English heiress to fill the coffers of his Scottish earldom. Her abominable behavior during their year together had only confirmed his suspicions that he’d married a brat.
“Let’s have our supper before it gets cold. You’re exhausted.”
She let him take her hand and raise her to her feet. Who would have thought so much touching was involved when they agreed to share this room? But she was in too much of a daze to protest, as he led her to the small table and slid a filled plate before her.
She was so tired that it hardly registered that Kinvarra acted the perfect companion. When she couldn’t eat much of the hearty but simple fare, he summoned the maids to clear the room. Without her having to ask, he granted her privacy to prepare for bed. Although she was too weary to do much more than a quick cat wash. When Kinvarra returned from the corridor, she was already in bed, still wearing her clothes.
What happened now? Surely after all this time, he wouldn’t demand his marital rights, whatever frail accord they’d established. Still, apprehension tightened her stomach, and she clutched the sheets to her chest like a nervous virgin.
He glanced across at her, black eyes enigmatic in the candlelight. Inevitably the moment reminded her of their wedding night. He’d been the perfect companion then, too. Her gentle knight, the beautiful earl her parents had chosen, the kind, smiling man who had made her laugh and blush and thrill with feelings she didn’t recognize. And who had taken her body with a painful urgency that had left her hurt and bewildered and crying.
After that, no matter what he did, she turned rigid with fear when he came to her bed. After a couple of weeks, he’d stopped approaching her. After a couple of months, he’d stopped speaking to her, except to quarrel. After a year, she’d suggested they live apart, and he’d agreed without demur. Probably relieved to have his pestilential wife off his hands.
He’d left England almost immediately on a four-year grand tour. When next she saw him, he’d become a worldly, supercilious stranger who barely spared her a word, and the pattern for their rare future encounters was set. She stayed in London while he mostly managed his Scottish estates, hundreds of miles to the north. When she’d left him, even that distance didn’t seem far enough. She’d never wanted to see him again.
Alicia had spent their separation convinced that she bore all the injury in their marriage. Now, tonight, she wasn’t so sure that she was blameless for the disaster of their union.
She lowered her eyes and pleated the sheets with unsteady fingers. “Are you coming to bed?”
One eyebrow arched in mocking amusement. “Why, Lady Kinvarra, is that an invitation?”
Her color rose. How lowering to be a woman of twenty-eight and still blush like an adolescent. “It’s a cold night. You’ve had a hard ride. I trust you.” Strangely, so quickly on top of her earlier uncertainty, it was true.
He released a short laugh and turned away. “More fool you.”
Confused, she watched him set the big carved chair nearer to the fire. He undressed down to breeches and a loose white shirt. “It’s only a few hours until dawn. I’ll do quite well here, thank you.”
She’d completely misunderstood him. Not for the first time, she thought with the stabbing regret that seemed her constant companion tonight. When he’d first insisted they share a room, she’d wondered if he had some darker purpose. Some plan to take the wife who so profligately offered herself to another man. To teach her who was her master.
His actions now proved her wrong.
What did she expect? That he’d suddenly want her after all this time? She was a fool. She’d always been a fool where Sebastian Sinclair was concerned.
The constriction returned to her throat, the constriction that felt alarmingly like tears. She lay back and forced herself to speak. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Alicia.”
He blew out the candles, leaving only the glow of the fire. On edge and preternaturally aware of his every move, she listened to him settle. He tugged off his boots and drew his greatcoat over him for warmth. There was an odd, familiar intimacy in hearing the creak of the chair and his soft sigh as he extended his legs toward the flames.
Alicia stretched out. The bed was warm and soft, and the sheets smelled fresh. She was weary to the bone, but no matter how she wriggled, she couldn’t find that one comfortable spot.
Recollections of the day tormented
her. Harold’s craven desertion, which should have been a considerably sharper blow than it was. If her original plans had eventuated, she’d now be lying in his arms. She should resent his weakness, his absence, but all she felt was vast relief. Her mind dwelled instead on Kinvarra’s unexpected gallantry. The fleeting moments of affinity in this room. The powerful memories of their life together, memories that tonight stirred poignant sadness, instead of turbulent resentment.
Kinvarra had turned the chair toward the hearth, and all she could see of him was a gold-limned black shape. He was so still, he could be asleep. But something told her he was as wide awake as she.
“My lord?” she whispered.
“Yes, Alicia?” he responded immediately. “Can’t you sleep?”
“No.”
Their voices were hushed, which was absurd as there was nobody to hear. The wind rattled the windowpanes, and a log cracked in the fireplace. He was right, the weather had worsened.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Hungry?”
“No.”
“What is it, then, lass?” He sounded tender, and his Scottish burr was more marked than usual. When his emotions were engaged, traces of his Highland childhood softened his speech. She remembered that from their year together.
That hint of vulnerability made her brave. “Come and lie down beside me. You can’t be comfortable in that chair.”
He didn’t shift. “No.”
“Oh.”
She huddled into the bed and drew the blankets about her neck as if they could fend off the brutal truth. Hurt seared her like a branding iron. Of course he wouldn’t share the bed. He hated her. How could she forget? Tonight he just played the gentleman to a lady in distress. He’d do the same for anyone. Just because Alicia was his wife didn’t make her special. Nothing between them had changed.
When they’d first married, she’d attempted to establish a rapport between them in the daylight hours, some trust that she could carry with her into the nights. But when she’d rebuffed him in bed, he’d rebuffed her during the day. He’d made it blatantly clear that he didn’t want her childish adoration. He wanted a woman who could satisfy him between the sheets, not a silly little girl who froze into a block of ice the instant her husband touched her.
Mistletoe Wishes Page 3