Mistletoe Wishes

by Anna Campbell

  She wanted to object to his language—and to his brazen mention of undressing—but standing here holding his hands, his salty vocabulary was the last of her worries. After all, a pirate would express himself strongly. And he was wrong. Whatever the temperature of the air, she felt ready to go up in flames.

  “The deal is one kiss,” she reminded him.

  “If I put my arm around your waist, are you likely to take fright and run away?”

  Suddenly he stood much closer. She’d never been so aware of anyone’s height and strength.

  “N-no.”

  “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “I made a bargain, my lord.”

  “I commend your principles, Miss Farrar.” He drew her into his body.

  To her mortification, she squeaked like a frightened kitten as every sense opened to his nearness. The air smelled cold and clean, with a hint of autumn leaves. Lord Channing smelled warm and clean, with a hint of salt. Perhaps during all those years of buccaneering, the sea had soaked into his skin.

  Before she could stop herself, she closed her eyes and inhaled that splendid essence. A hum of pleasure escaped her, and her backbone curved until she settled against him with the most perfect fit.

  Radiant heat surrounded her. Extraordinary how agreeable it felt to stand in a man’s arms on a wintry day.

  With an aplomb that melted her bones to honey, he tilted up her chin. “Prepare for boarding, Miss Farrar.”

  Lord Channing’s lips skimmed across hers. Warmth trickled through her.

  For a moment, he didn’t do anything alarming, and through the onslaught of sensation, she admitted this was all quite pleasant. She’d definitely survive the experience. His hold tightened, and he adjusted his stance until she was closer than ever.

  Then his lips moved more purposefully, and the world lurched off its axis to go dancing among the stars.

  She’d had no idea her lips were so sensitive. Every nerve in her body focused on the coaxing pressure. Not trusting her legs to hold her up, she lifted her hands to his shoulders. His soft sound of approval sizzled through her like lightning.

  She drowned in heat—and yearning. This kiss made her yearn. She’d been right to fear him.

  Bess gasped when he flicked his tongue against the seam of her mouth. What an odd thing to do.

  He did it again, taking advantage of her parted lips. Shock turned to a rush of irresistible response. She stiffened as surprised pleasure turned to uncertainty. This was wickedly carnal and beyond those tentative experiments when she’d imagined herself in love at eighteen.

  Her hands flattened on his powerful chest to push him away, but to her shame, Lord Channing was the one to bring the heady interval to a close. He stepped back and released her.

  Without his support, she stumbled. He caught her hands to stop her collapsing in a humiliating heap. Her blood raced like a raging torrent, and her lips burned. With a mere word from him, she’d step back into his arms and beg him to do it all again.

  She’d had no idea a kiss could turn her so silly. How utterly irritating.

  Lord Channing’s expression was searching and almost tender. The lids lay heavy over those deep-set eyes. He was breathing unsteadily, but his grip was firm.

  Helplessly—and Bess wasn’t a woman used to feeling helpless—she stared up at him, wanting to say something clever and dismissive. But that kiss had stolen all capacity for speech. She trembled to recall those blazing seconds when the silky tip of his tongue invaded her mouth. That should have revolted her. It would have, if he’d told her what he intended. Instead the wanton exploration had melted all defenses. Made her hot. Made her curious.

  Made her want…more.

  At her faint sound of distress, he frowned. “Are you all right?”

  No, she wasn’t, but pride came to her rescue. Bess straightened and tugged her hands free. She could stand on her own two feet, curse him. Swallowing to ease her dry throat, she told herself she could talk, and walk away, and go on with her life, and absolutely nothing had changed. One kiss from a pirate didn’t turn her into a different person. She was still competent, managing, independent Bess Farrar.

  Competent, managing, independent, lonely Bess Farrar.

  She swallowed again and forced her voice to work. It sounded scratchy and out of practice. “Perfectly.”

  That expressive eyebrow tilted when she couldn’t control the hitch in her answer, although she was grateful that he didn’t contradict her. She told herself to move away, but she seemed to be planted where she stood.

  He brushed his lips over hers. Unable to resist, she closed her eyes and kissed him back.

  Something soft and cold brushed her cheek. She opened dazed eyes to see snow drifting from the heavy gray sky.

  As he shifted away with unconcealed reluctance, she licked her lips and muffled a groan. She could taste snow—and Lord Channing. How…disturbing.

  “The…the arrangement was one kiss.”

  A twist of that fascinating mouth, even more fascinating now he’d kissed her. “Just something on account.” He glanced up at the sky. “I think we need to get Daisy into the barn, don’t you?”

  The abrupt shift from forbidden enchantment to prosaic reality left her struggling to adjust. “I’ll take her back to the vicarage. We’ve got a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.”

  “She can stay in the Abbey stables. Once you start on the house, I imagine you’ll be there most of the time, getting things ready. It’s only a week until Christmas, my dear Miss Farrar. No time to be lost.”

  The lingering glow ebbed as practical considerations became paramount. But the soft fall of snow reminded her that only moments ago she’d been lost in his arms. She struggled to sound as if she hadn’t just been kissing his lordship with an enthusiasm that made her blush. “You’re very highhanded.”

  He laughed softly. “It comes with the title. I was a perfect lamb when I captained my ship.”

  It was her turn to laugh. She didn’t believe that for a second. “You meant it about holding a Christmas dinner for the village?”

  “Of course. You must know by now I’m a man of my word.”

  One kiss. He’d stuck to his word there, too. With just a little extra in the final moments.

  The sting wasn’t that he’d kissed her. The sting was that she’d enjoyed it so very much. Too much.

  Still, she’d paid the price he asked, and now she got what she wanted. Even if she counted out the price not in pennies, but in sighs of breathless wonder. “I have your permission to staff the house, and provision it, and decorate it for the party?”

  “I’ll expect you to tell me what you’re up to.”

  That was fair, given he was funding everything. “And you’ll come to the church at four tomorrow and play Joseph?”

  “I said I would.” He paused. “And I’ll bring Daisy.”

  “I warn you that the house will be noisy and messy until I’ve finished.”

  He cast her a mocking glance. “Are you trying to talk me out of this?”

  She was convinced that entering into this arrangement was a mistake. But she’d look like a capricious fool if she backed out now, when he agreed to everything she asked.

  If only she wasn’t so sure that Lord Channing had his own agenda, and that agenda included more kisses at the very least.

  “No.”

  When sly satisfaction flashed in his eyes, the clamor of misgivings swelled to a shriek. “Excellent. After breakfast, then?”

  Chapter 4

  Rory didn’t sleep well. The memory of holding Bess in his arms wasn’t so much a torment as a promise of more to come. He felt as excited and on edge as an inexperienced midshipman facing his first battle at sea.

  Bess, too, had been inexperienced. Whatever scoundrel had kissed her had made a rum job of it. She must be in her mid-twenties, but she’d kissed like a sweet young girl, all closed lips and caution. Her innocence had touched him, bolstered his wavering resolution not to take her
too far.

  Although any man of principle would say he’d already taken everything too far, stealing that chaste kiss. She was a virtuous lady, a vicar’s daughter, no less. And they’d only just met.

  But he couldn’t let her go without one small taste. And that taste had been glorious.

  If fate was kind, he wouldn’t wait long to taste her again.

  The next morning, his lecherous plans hit a snag. When he emerged from his bedroom—he’d slept later than usual after his restless night—people of all ages milled about in the great hall below. The villagers, he assumed, under the command of the woman he intended to marry.

  Ned White joined him at the top of the stairs. “You didn’t tell me it was all hands on deck this morning, Rory.”

  Rory shot his friend an amused glance. “I surrendered to a superior force, laddie.”

  Ned’s attention settled on Bess, all business in her plain gray dress and sensible apron. An impression undercut by the color in her cheeks and the flyaway strands of golden hair. “A fine-looking woman, Miss Farrar.”

  “Aye.”

  “An ideal wife for a new earl with local ways to learn and ties to build with his neighbors.”

  Damn it, Ned knew him too well. That was what came of sailing together for the last twenty years. “She’s a lassie with her own ideas. Anyone who took her on would say goodbye to a quiet life and any hope of a meek wee wife to smooth his brow and jump to his orders.”

  “Yes, well, some might say after a man has crossed the world’s oceans, a meek wee wife would seem dull in comparison.”

  “Aye, some might.”

  “Your tenants appear to have a lot of respect for her.”

  It was true. Rory had served with enough captains, good and bad, to mark the notice they paid Bess. Not to mention the affection. Hard to match this capable leader with the bedazzled girl he’d kissed in the snow.

  Rory changed the subject. “Did you know there’s a rumor abroad that I’m a pirate?”

  Ned snorted with laughter. “You?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, shiver my timbers. When you’re not ravaging the Spanish Main, will you hoist the Jolly Roger on the Abbey’s flagpole to tell the world the master’s home from marauding?”

  “You’re not funny,” Rory said, trying not to smile.

  “I think I am.”

  “You always do.” He paused. “How in Hades do daft tales like this start?”

  Ned shrugged. “Someone’s cousin heard something from someone else’s cousin, who heard something from someone passing through on the London coach. You know how these things work.”

  “Should I say something? Or will that just add fuel to the fire?”

  “I suspect it will die down of its own accord when you don’t wallpaper the house with maps marked with an X.”

  “Very droll. And not helpful.”

  “Oh, you wound me. With your cutlass. Just don’t make me walk the plank.”

  “I can’t take much more hilarity, laddie. Shall we make our presence known?”

  Ned managed an ironic bow. “After you, my lord.”

  Rory cast his oldest friend a wry glance and stepped up to the balustrade. “Good morning, everyone.”

  He was used to addressing his crew through the bluster of wind, wave and sail, so his voice easily cut across the chatter. Silence fell, and as one, thirty faces turned upward.

  The expressions were as he expected. Given the outlandish gossip about his exploits before coming to Penton Wyck, wariness was inevitable. But outright hostility was thankfully absent. Instead he read curiosity and interest.

  Automatically he sought out Bess. Her expression was harder to interpret. Had she found sleep elusive, too? Perhaps she’d spent the hours since they parted reliving his kiss. He bloody well hoped so.

  She dipped into a curtsy and as if her movement released the crowd from a spell, the other women bobbed into curtsies and the men bowed. Rory supposed he’d have to become accustomed to these homages to his rank.

  “Thank you for coming through the snow to prepare Penton Abbey for my first Christmas here. It’s a grand old house and needs bringing to life.” Call him a Frenchman if that wasn’t approval in Bess’s steady blue gaze. “You don’t know me yet, and I don’t know you. But working together for a common cause is the best way to discover a man’s mettle. I hope by the time we’re drinking a toast to the season and the Yule log is blazing in the hearth, you’ll consider me one of you and a worthy successor to my late, respected brother.” He gestured toward Bess. “Miss Farrar knows where to stow everything, so defer to her. This salty old sea dog has no idea how to rig a landlubber’s berth.”

  As he’d hoped, the self-deprecating end to his speech lightened the solemnity that resulted from mentioning his brother. It even elicited a few chuckles.

  Ned stood beside him. “Do you mean to leave them to it?”

  “Don’t be a fool, lad.” Rory sent him a devil-may-care grin. “I’ve got a vicar’s daughter to catch. I’m not letting the comely Miss Farrar out of my sight.”

  Ned smiled back. “She hasn’t got a chance.”

  Rory remained preternaturally aware of Bess’s location. Right now she stood under one of the windows, speaking to an elderly gentleman in black who seemed to hold some authority. “I hope to God you’re right.”

  Ned regarded him in shock. “Well, that takes the biscuit.”

  “What does?” Rory asked, without shifting his attention from Bess.

  “You must be in love with her.”

  Unfamiliar heat pricked his cheeks. Damn it, Rory hadn’t blushed since his first voyage. A boy grew up fast belowdecks.

  “I only met the lassie yesterday.” Gossip was right about one thing at least—he had more experience with the fair sex than was good for him. But love? That was uncharted territory.

  Ned looked smug. “I never thought to see the day.”

  “She’s a lovely creature.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And clever and capable.”

  “Inarguably.”

  “A man of property needs a wife. He can’t stay the same reckless, self-centered bastard he was in his youth.”

  “Especially when he falls in love. In all our years together, I’ve never seen you less than confident of your chances with a woman. It’s been deuced irritating. If you’re unsure about this lady, it’s because she’s not just a woman, she’s the woman.”

  “White, you try my patience,” he snapped. “Come and put that vivid imagination to work moving furniture.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Ned had the temerity to salute before he ran lightly downstairs to join a party heading out of the hall.

  Rory didn’t immediately follow. Ned White knew him better than any other soul on earth. Better than the family in Edinburgh he’d left at eleven and had rarely seen since. So while he’d dearly love to dismiss the fellow’s ramblings as sentimental claptrap, somewhere deep in his soul, they struck true.

  Instead of joining his tenants, he stood staring broodingly at Bess who continued to pass out instructions. Her blithe disregard for his presence rankled. And the fact that it rankled rankled even worse.

  ***

  The day sped by in a welter of physical activity that reminded Rory of his days in the lower ranks, toiling like a slave on a warship. Of course, he could retreat to his library and let them get on with it, but where was the fun in that?

  He only snatched rare seconds alone with Bess, but he had the privilege of observing her in action. By heaven, she was a fascinating creature. He could happily watch her all day.

  If the wind set fair, he’d watch her for the rest of his life.

  He didn’t realize other people had remarked his interest in the vicar’s bonnie daughter until he found himself in the library with the black-clad cove he’d noticed earlier. However the house ended up, Rory appreciated this chance to get to know his tenants. Obadiah Simpson was a retired doctor who had traveled the length o
f the country. A man of unusual sophistication for this backwater.

  “She’s a fine lass, Miss Bess,” the old man said, stacking leather-bound volumes on the newly dusted shelves. Rory had just brought in another box of books from the barns.

  “She is,” he said, curious where Simpson went with this. Casually he brushed cobwebs and dust off his sleeves. He’d thought the house was dirty, until he started grubbing around in the outbuildings.

  “She’s very well liked in the village.”

  Rory had seen that for himself. “Are you trying to warn me off, Dr. Simpson?”

  The old man turned, a book clutched in his veined hand. “Not at all. I’m merely making conversation.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “Well, perhaps not entirely.” He fastened piercing gray eyes on Rory. “Are you of a mind to woo the jewel of our small community?”

  “That would be a rash decision when I only met the lassie yesterday.”

  Simpson eyed him steadily. “You strike me as a fellow who makes up his mind without dillydallying.”

  Simpson had that right. “I don’t even know if Miss Farrar likes me.”

  “She does.”

  The gratification that flooded Rory made him feel like a schoolboy mooning after a pretty girl. “Are you matchmaking?”

  Simpson’s smile was knowing. “I doubt I need to exert myself much to put you two together.”

  “We’ve hardly spoken all day,” Rory protested.

  It was regrettably true. He’d imagined that with Bess under his roof, opportunities for dalliance would abound. He hadn’t counted on the crowds swarming through the house or Bess’s diligent attention to duty. She was too busy organizing cleaning and repairs and the placement of furniture to flirt.

  “But you’ve looked.” Simpson paused. “So has she.”

  “That’s good news.”

  Simpson frowned. “Now, don’t go thinking she’s one of your London light skirts. Unless your intentions are honorable, you can set your sights elsewhere.”

  Rory laughed again, unsure whether to be annoyed or touched at the old man’s interference. “Does it occur to you that you’re trespassing beyond your rights?”