Mistletoe Wishes

by Anna Campbell

  Felicity watched Canforth limp toward the stairs—standing so long under the mistletoe hadn’t been good for his leg—and told herself she had so much to be grateful for. The husband she loved was home and safe. He seemed pleased to see her. He remained the kind, considerate man she remembered.

  A little too considerate, she thought, before she told herself to behave.

  Anything more was a romantic dream that she must relinquish if she hoped to find a scrap of happiness in this marriage.

  But as he turned out of sight around the bend of the staircase, she glanced up at that absurd kissing bough with its promise of easy, light-hearted pleasure. Disappointment settled heavy and sour in her stomach.

  Chapter 3

  Canforth felt as nervous as a cadet on his first parade, instead of like a seasoned soldier of thirty-two, when he fronted at the drawing room on Christmas Eve.

  His exquisite wife always made him feel like a bull at a tea party. She was so slight and graceful and perfect. The first time he saw her, he’d known Flick was the one for him. But he’d never quite conquered his shyness in her company. It was ridiculous, when he was capable of playing the rake with any other woman.

  But then no other woman had ever mattered.

  When they met, Flick had been sweetly innocent and unsure of herself. He’d wooed her gently, and that gentleness had continued into their honeymoon. They’d never quite fallen into being at ease with one other. Perhaps with more time, they’d have found their way. But he’d received his orders a fortnight after the wedding, and he’d had to leave her, still closer to a stranger than a wife.

  That constraint remained as a gulf between them. She’d been shaking like a leaf when he kissed her under the mistletoe. While he’d been away, her image had fueled a thousand fantasies. But faced with the real Flick, any hope of a passionate reunion evaporated.

  Ah, well, he was home now, and this time he’d do his damnedest to build a real marriage.

  He’d feared that she’d find him repulsive, scarred and injured as he was. But there had been no mistaking the care in her touch when she’d traced his scar.

  His Flick had a gallant heart. He’d never doubted that. The doubt was whether she’d grant that heart to him, the way that he’d granted her his, the first time he saw her.

  When he came through the door, Digby at his heels, his wife sat sewing by the fire. Gratitude soothed the strife in his soul. Over the years, he’d dreamed about more than bed sport. He’d also longed for sweet domesticity. The comforts of home. A woman’s gentle voice to greet him. The promise of quiet happiness, stretching ahead like a golden road.

  He sucked in a breath of air that didn’t stink of unwashed humanity, gunpowder, and blood. And felt his heart settle into a steady rhythm of hope.

  He loved Flick. In time, she might come to love him. Once she’d recovered from her surprise, she’d been glad to see him. He’d wager eight years of a major’s salary on that. And she’d accepted his kiss, after conquering her bashfulness.

  It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.

  He smiled as he watched her over her embroidery. She attacked the stitching with the fierce concentration she devoted to everything that caught her attention. He recalled her searching stare the night they met, as if she already knew their first dance would change their lives forever.

  This evening, she wore an elegant pink gown. What a contrast to the charming ragamuffin he’d discovered when he arrived. Now her shining mahogany hair was arranged in a loose knot that set off the pure oval of her face. He had a sudden fantasy of seeing her hair cascading around her shoulders when he came to her bed. Sexual hunger thundered through him and shattered the peaceful mood. When they’d married, he’d wanted her like the very devil. Controlling his lustful urges had been a constant battle. All these years without her only fed his endless craving.

  Something of his agitation disturbed the air, and she looked up, her sewing falling disregarded into her lap. Her coffee-colored eyes widened, and for one sizzling moment, he wondered if she longed, too.

  Then she put aside her embroidery hoop and stood up and smiled as she would at a casual acquaintance, and he knew wishful thinking had caught him out again.

  “Canforth, let me get you some wine.”

  He walked into the room, trying not to limp. He loathed returning to her in such a mess. “Thank you.”

  She stepped across to the decanters, arrayed on a Sheraton table. He observed her confident air with interest. The self-assurance was new. His shy bride had been so unsure of everything. But of course, she’d been chatelaine here the whole time he’d been away, and done an excellent job running the estate and his other business interests.

  “Or would you rather have brandy?”

  “Claret is fine.” He subsided into the seat opposite hers. An involuntary groan of pleasure escaped him as his weary body sank into the cushions. He’d spent a deuce of a long time on horseback this last week. Digby pressed heavily against Canforth’s thigh, fortunately the good one. His hand dropped to fondle the dog’s ears. “Come in to sit by the fire, you pudding-headed mutt?”

  A low laugh escaped Flick as she poured the wine. “He’s made do with me all these years. But I always knew I was second best.”

  Canforth stared hard at the woman he’d married. She’d been an enchanting girl, but this more mature version fascinated him. “You’re second best in nothing.”

  He’d loved how his new bride had blushed, although her modesty left him feeling perpetually guilty about his lascivious thoughts. He was pleased that he could still make her go pink. And over the years, the lascivious thoughts had only intensified.

  “Thank you. Is it good to get off your leg?”

  “After four days in the saddle, I’m looking forward to staying in one place.” He accepted the glass she passed him. Digby settled down, propping his nose on Canforth’s ankle. “But most of all, it’s good to be home.”

  She returned to her seat, and the glass of wine she’d poured before he appeared. “You’re looking better already.”

  He rubbed one hand over his now smooth chin. He’d arrived looking like a vagabond. A wash and a shave, and changing out of his uniform made him feel like a new man. Or more likely, the sight of his lovely wife made the difference. Which reminded him…

  “We’ll have to visit London, or at a pinch Shrewsbury once Christmas is over. None of my clothes damn well fit anymore.”

  “You’ve grown sadly thin on army rations.” The hint of fondness in her smile made his foolish heart leap. “Perhaps Biddy and I should just do our best to feed you up in the next week or so.”

  “I’ve returned to you much reduced. I suffered a fever after Waterloo. It left me close to a skeleton.”

  Distress darkened her coffee-colored eyes, and he cursed himself for mentioning his wound. Especially on this first night, when he edged toward establishing a rapport with his wife. He was surprised and delighted that she didn’t feel nearly as much a stranger as he’d expected.

  “You never told me. Even after you recovered and started your secret missions to secure the peace.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  She frowned. “Yet you must have known I’d worry anyway.”

  “Did you? I’m sorry. I always tried my best to protect you from the worst of what happened.”

  “I know, and I appreciate your consideration.” Irony twisted her lips. “But even someone as sheltered as I’ve been understood that fighting the French across Spain and Portugal was more than a carefree picnic in the hills.”

  He took a mouthful of wine, savoring the excellent vintage. He’d shoot himself before he drank another drop of sour Spanish red. “When we wrote, we didn’t venture beyond trivialities. You didn’t give me any bad news from here either.”

  “You didn’t need the added burden of hearing about troubles at home—especially when we always managed.”

  “You never spoke of your feelings. I found myself wonder
ing whether you were happy or sad, lonely or fulfilled, busy or bored.”

  Her expression turned somber. Once more, he noted how the girl he’d married had changed into a strong and intriguing woman. “Right from the start, we never spoke about our feelings. And you never asked. I assumed you preferred to keep our communication on a superficial level.”

  “And in turn, I assumed that’s what you preferred,” he said softly. “We knew each other so little when I left to join my regiment.”

  “Now we’ve been blessed with a second chance,” she said, equally softly. Unspoken lay the words, “when so many others didn’t survive to pick up the threads of family life.” She sent him a straight look. “Let’s not waste it, Canforth.”

  “No, let’s not.”

  Flick’s wry smile shifted the heavy silence. “My tales of the household and snippets of village gossip must have struck you as frightfully flimsy.”

  With a grunt of amusement, he bent to rub his wounded thigh. His leg felt better with every hour he spent away from his horse, but it still ached. “I won’t countenance anyone speaking ill of those letters. They saved my life.”

  Doubt and gratification vied in her expression. “You exaggerate.”

  “Perhaps a little. But not if I say sanity rather than life. So many times, you gave me a smile when things were at their grimmest. And your letters reminded me what I was fighting for.”

  She mightn’t have discussed her feelings or her worries in the letters that arrived so faithfully over their long separation. But that didn’t mean they’d revealed nothing about his bride. Her courage and steadfastness in his cause had been impressive, if no surprise. But what a beguiling discovery her quirky humor had been.

  She blinked, and he caught the shimmer of tears in her pretty eyes. Then to his regret, she looked toward the fire, although her voice trembled with feeling. “That’s a beautiful thing to say. I’m sure those silly letters are unworthy of such praise.”

  “There was general rejoicing in the camp when mail from Otway arrived. We eased many an icy night in the Pyrenees with news of Miss Kelso’s pursuit of the vicar, or the antics of Mr. Brown’s delinquent pig.”

  She took a sip of her wine. “Miss Kelso caught Mr. Harvey in the end, you know.”

  “We toasted her success with the worst rotgut swill I’ve ever had the misfortune to swallow.”

  Flick’s eyes held a trace of her early shyness as she glanced back at him. “It’s true that you read those frivolous stories out to a hardened band of soldiers?”

  Canforth raised his hand as if taking an oath. “On my honor. Never underestimate the power of a bit of whimsy and a few jokes to cast light into impenetrable darkness. You were a heroine to my entire troop, Flick.”

  Her eyes glowed with pleasure. “Oh, I’m glad. When I started to write, I had no idea what might interest you. I’m afraid I was much less generous with your letters. I hoarded them all to myself.”

  His letters had been shorter and considerably less prolific. But every time he wrote, he felt like he made a promise to himself that one day, he’d return to the woman and the life he loved. “I like that.”

  “Now I’m really pleased I didn’t pour my girlish heart out to you.”

  He shrugged. “I’d have liked that, too.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” she said in a dry tone. “And your men certainly wouldn’t have.”

  With a brief laugh, he relaxed back in his chair and let the half-empty glass dangle from his fingers. “Perhaps not.”

  He’d soon learned to read between the lines in her letters. Lack of discussion of feelings didn’t mean a lack of feelings altogether. For either of them.

  Before he’d left her, he’d never found the right time to speak his love. Whenever he set out to tell her, uncertainty about her feelings put a padlock on his tongue. The act of sitting down to write, even in the midst of ruin and chaos, had been a way of offering his wife his deepest devotion. And while Flick’s letters might not have declared her love, they proved that she thought of him and cared enough to write.

  “Canforth, I know your life has been grueling and dangerous, and there are things you will never wish to speak about. Or at least not on the night you return home.” She paused, her grip on her wineglass tightening. “But some day, when you feel at ease, and you’re truly back in the world you left behind so long ago, will you tell me?”

  He flinched, before he realized how his reaction betrayed the numberless horrors he’d witnessed. “Flick, it’s not pretty.”

  Her lips tightened, but her brown gaze remained steady. “Nevertheless I want to know.”

  As he stared at her, his instinctive objections faded. The girl he’d married couldn’t have coped, couldn’t even have comprehended. But the woman of twenty-six who had fought her own battles, she perhaps might understand.

  “In that case, then, yes. One day. One day when I’m ready, I’ll tell you a little of what it was like.”

  “Thank you.” Her lips turned down in a self-derisive smile. “And I owe you an apology. That was a poor welcome I gave you. An empty house, and a wife stinking of the stables.”

  Actually when he’d first touched her, he’d caught the scent of crushed flowers and something that was Flick alone. He’d remembered that fragrance immediately—it would always be the aroma of heaven. There might have been a hint of horse and hay, too, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been too busy fighting the urge to bury his face in her hair and tell her how much he’d missed her. Which would have ruined things between them forever. If he leaped on her like a starving wolf the minute he came home, she’d run for the hills.

  “It’s still my home, empty or not, and I gave you no warning I was coming. But you haven’t told me why you’re spending Christmas alone.”

  She took another sip of wine. “I didn’t feel like going through all the hullabaloo this year. It…it seemed easier to miss you here at Otway than in a noisy, happy crowd of people, however much I love them.”

  Shock made him sit up straight and stare at her. “You missed me?”

  The question surprised her. “Of course.”

  “But I’ve been away for ages.”

  She gave a grim laugh. “I know.”

  By Jove, that was dashed nice to hear. Dashed nice. To think, she’d missed him. Perhaps his case wasn’t quite as hopeless as he thought. He leaned back and stretched his legs toward the fire, making Digby grumble at the interruption to his snooze. “Well.”

  A smile lit her eyes to burned caramel. “Well, indeed.”

  She set aside her wine and picked up her sewing, as if she hadn’t changed his world in the space of a second. “It means a plain Christmas dinner, I’m afraid. A returning hero deserves to have all the stops pulled out.”

  Another silence fell, this one more comfortable than the last. Canforth finished his wine and let its warmth fortify the warmth seeping into his blood with every moment in his wife’s presence. For years, he’d been cold and lonely. Was his exile finally at an end?

  He’d had no idea what welcome awaited him at Otway Hall. But this hadn’t been it.

  Although so far, he had no complaints. He and Flick had never managed a proper conversation before. He prayed this was only the first of many to come.

  “Compared to some of the places I’ve been since I left you, this is luxury indeed,” he said, as if there had been no break in the conversation. She’d been brave enough to admit she’d missed him. He could be brave, too. “And having you to myself for a few days without worrying about an army of servants or an influx of guests is perfect.”

  She looked up quickly. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She drank from her wineglass to hide another blush. And he still found it charming. “Would you like to go to the midnight service?”

  He shook his head. “I’d rather keep my head down for a couple of days, before the villagers discover I’m back. Is that too ungodly?”

  “No, it makes perfect sense.
If you’d come back to a house full of servants, keeping your arrival quiet would be impossible. But Biddy and Joe won’t gossip, and this gives you a chance to settle in without anyone bothering you.”

  Not quite true. His wife bothered him a great deal. “Will you go?”

  “Oh, yes. I have so many reasons to be thankful.”

  She smiled, and his lingering misgivings about the future faded to a distant rumble. He was home. He had time to make everything the way he wanted it.

  “So have I. But I’ll say my prayers in private. I doubt the Lord will mind.”

  Biddy bustled in. “Dinner’s ready, and I hope you both enjoy it, as it’s a night for celebration. This Christmas Eve is full of miracles, when we’ve got the master home at last. Her ladyship has had a dire lonely time of it since you went away, my lord.”

  He caught another faint blush on his wife’s cheeks, but to his surprise, Flick didn’t deny it. “It is wonderful, isn’t it, Biddy? We don’t need any other Christmas present. Nothing could be as good as knowing my lord is safe and well, and back where he belongs.”

  Moved, Canforth stood, stumbling as he put his weight on his injured leg. He appreciated his wife’s tact in not offering to help, although he knew she watched over him with care. By nature, he was independent, but he was infernally pleased that Flick concerned herself with his welfare.

  He extended his arm as Digby struggled to his feet with not much more grace than his master. “Shall we go through to dinner, my lady?”

  Chapter 4

  When Felicity returned from the midnight service in Otway’s small stone church, her heart still brimmed with gratitude. Joe and Biddy had accompanied her, and if only the three of them knew the special cause for rejoicing this Christmas, that was good in the Lord’s eyes, she was sure.

  Now she stood in the countess’s bedroom, separated from the earl’s bedroom by a narrow dressing room, and tried not to resent sleeping alone yet again. She’d slept alone for the vast majority of her marriage. What was one more night?