Silent Night, Sinful Night

by Sharon Page

  When she moved back, his eyes were blazing. “There’s a bed in the adjoining room—”

  “After you’ve bathed. After I have cleaned your wounds and stitched you where necessary.” Supporting his right arm, Amelia helped him to the tub.

  “Yes, my dear,” he said on an obedient sigh. He climbed in and gave another sigh, a blissful one, as water engulfed him. Steam damped his hair, turning it to amber. It stuck to his face, and his green eyes looked up, filled with such hope, her heart ached. “You could join me. We could make love in the water. I could even call for seven swans to be brought in to join us.”

  “No! You need to be tended first.” In true governess fashion, she set to work. The change from vampire to mortal had left him playful. She had to keep slapping his hands away while she bathed him. He kept trying to kiss her. Or pull her into the tub with him. Finally he was done. The dirt and streaks of blood were gone. His skin, she noticed, had turned darker—a lightly tanned color. He stared at his arms. “It is the color it was before I was turned.” Then he tried to clasp her around the waist.

  “You are not pulling me in with you.”

  “Then I’d better dry off and come out there to you, love.” He gave a rueful smile. “I keep making a hash out of this wedding night business, don’t I? Our first attempt didn’t end with a wedding. And our actual wedding didn’t allow for a wedding night.”

  “We can have it now.” In his exhausted, battered state, she did not want him to try to make love. He needed rest. But she glanced down. Beneath the bathwater, he was incredibly erect.

  “I missed giving you your gifts, too,” he said. “Tomorrow is the Twelfth Day of Christmas, Epiphany. I owe you gifts for four days.”

  “Don’t worry about that now,” she soothed. She poured warm water onto his hair, swishing the wet locks to rinse out all the soap.

  “Very wifely.” He sighed. “I don’t think I ever dreamed you would bathe me and wash my hair. Now that you’ve shown me how heavenly it feels to have you massage my head, I may command you to wash my hair every time.”

  “Command? I think you’ve forgotten that I said I am not so obedient. This, for me, is a partnership. Now, if you were to ask me nicely, I would be happy to wash your hair. If you will do it for me.”

  “Mia, I will do anything you want.”

  “Then you should rest.”

  “No, love. This is to be our true wedding night.”

  And a few minutes later, they were in their bedroom. Amelia took off her shift, untied her garters, then peeled off her stockings. She turned to him. Naked. Despite a fire, goose bumps washed over her, and her nipples went hard with the cold.

  Dante lay under the sheets, his arms pillowed beneath his head. He snored softly. Frowning, she moved softly along the side of the bed. Dante’s eyes were shut, dark lashes lying along his cheeks.

  She stroked his cheek, smiling. “I love you, Dante. One day we will have our wedding night.” She was too cold to slip into bed naked. She pulled on her winter nightgown, climbed under the covers, and snuggled up to him.

  Next thing she knew, wintery sunlight was spilling into the room. Dante stood by the window, wearing a navy robe, blinking in the brilliant light.

  She sat up, the sheets sliding off her shoulders.

  “Good morning, my love,” he said. “Since I don’t remember anything about our wedding night, I assume I passed out before I was able to pleasure you.”

  Amelia shook her head. “I am more concerned about how you feel! You are standing in sunlight—you are definitely certain it will not harm you?”

  “I’ve basked in it for a half hour while you slept, Mia. If it was going to burn me to a crisp, it would already have done so.” He gazed at her softly. “I’m free. Thanks to you.”

  He left the window and walked to the bed—he walked with far more strength than last night. He scooped a square of white off the table and handed it to her. She stared at it, perplexed.

  “I was up at dawn today, too excited to sleep,” he explained. “So I wrote this for you.”

  Joy radiated from him—infectious joy that made her heart trip merrily in her chest. “You sound like a child on Christmas morning.”

  “That is how I feel.” He grinned.

  She flicked open his note and read:

  On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

  Twelve lords-a-leaping (magnificent cocks swaying in each

  other’s faces),

  Eleven ladies dancing (massive dildos secured in secret places),

  Ten pipers piping (then using long, slender pipes to pleasure

  me),

  Nine drummers drumming as . . .

  Eight buxom milkmaids lick my cunny, nipples, and bottom,

  and delight me most scandalously . . .

  Her face was blushing furiously, and Dante cupped her cheek—obviously he could see how scarlet she was.

  “I’m no poet, but that was what I wanted to give you today. Since we had to face my sire, the vampire queens, and Jones, I didn’t get you your gifts.” He winked. “I want very much to make your last day of Christmas scandalously erotic and have arranged with the proprietress of the House of Pleasure for you to enjoy all those delights today.”

  Amelia had to admit arousal bubbled inside her as she merely imagined some of those things. “You didn’t have anything naughty for the drumming drummers,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry, love, but I couldn’t think of anything to do with drumming. But I do intend to bestow a dozen wicked pleasures on you today.”

  She shook her head at her wicked husband. “I already have the most wonderful gift I could ever want. You. As for the drummers, my heart is drumming rather hard at the thought of making love with you. These things sound very naughty, but I don’t want any other gift but you in my bed. Though, I do have one more thing to ask . . .”

  His eyes glowed as he undid the belt of his robe. “What is it?”

  “Perhaps we could stay in bed all day?”

  Laughing, he jumped back onto the mattress and tossed off his robe. His beautiful, muscular naked body moved over her. He straddled her thighs. “Your wish, my dear wife, is my command. I have no intention of ever leaving your bed. Right now, we are going to have a wedding night, and nothing will stop us.”

  He levered up on one hand, pushing the covers down with the other. “This is my Christmas wish, love.” Then he bent and captured her right nipple in his mouth, suckling through her nightdress. He rolled them over so she tumbled on top of him while he vigorously sucked.

  Oh, it was so good. Each tug of his mouth tugged in her cunny, tugged so deeply it seemed to pull at her womb. She was dizzy with sensation. Whirling in joy and desire. She arched to him. “Oh, please, yes, this is so wonderful.”

  He licked her nipples, which stood up, as firm and thick as thimbles. Then he licked her collarbones, kissed her shoulders, nuzzled the hollows under her arms, which made her giggle until her throat hurt.

  While she was still giggling, he dove between her thighs and suckled her. An almost-instant climax hit her, and she coiled beneath him, gasping, crying out, shouting his name. She fell back to the bed, eyes shut. “Oh, goodness.”

  “It’s good to know I still please you, even though I’m mortal.”

  “Of course you do. You were mortal for our very first time, and you gave me the most heavenly pleasure.”

  Suddenly she was scooped into Dante’s arms, and he carried her, naked, to the window, where ice made swoops on the panes. “Goodness, it’s cold!”

  “I’ll keep you warm,” he vowed, and stood her in front of the window. Wintry sunlight poured over them both.

  He embraced her from behind, his arms warm and strong. She rubbed her derriere against his erection, smacking it back and forth. He groaned in agony, cupped her breasts, and thrust deeply inside.

  They rocked madly in the sunlight. Pleasure built and built, streaming through her like fire, like sunlight, like joy. When
she came, her hands flew forward and smacked against the glass. His hands slapped beside hers, he bucked against her rump, and his hot seed shot deeply inside her.

  He panted behind her. “Unfortunately, now that I’m mortal, I’ll be exhausted faster.”

  She wiggled, enjoying his fierce groan.

  “On the other hand . . .” She felt him go hard again inside her. He brought her to climax six more times, six wonderful times; then he whispered, “Could you manage twelve?”

  “No!” She sighed. “I always knew Christmas was magical,” Amelia whispered, and then giggled. And gasped. “Goodness, I’m so sensitive that giggle just made me come.”

  Dante had to agree. Christmas had provided a miracle, even for a man who was damned. He had been given the most precious gift of all—a future with Amelia.

  He led her to bed and lavishly licked her nipples. “If laughter makes you come, I intend to tickle you everywhere.”

  “Oh, you devil.” She sobered a minute, then squeaked as he flicked her nipple with his tongue. “No, I know you must be an angel—a wicked one. For you make me see heaven each time I come.”

  “I’m just a man, love. One blessed to have the most perfect wife.”

  Her hand slid between their bodies and wrapped around his hard shaft. All thought left his head, and all his blood rushed to his erection. He managed three words. “Love you, Mia,” he whispered.

  “I love you, Dante. Now, plunge deeply inside me and give me a very wicked gift.”

  He obeyed, sliding deep inside her. Their gazes locked, they laughed together. And this time, when he came, Amelia gave him a magnificent glimpse of heaven.

  Love and Amelia were miracles, indeed.

  She sighed blissfully. “I do love being wicked for Christmas.”

  Epilogue

  Two years later, on December 27, Matthew was born. In two more years, Lucinda arrived on December 28, and Madeline came three years after on the twenty-ninth.

  Dante began to wonder if they would be blessed with one child for each of the twelve days.

  “Would you be upset if that happened?” Amelia asked. She had just laid Madeline in the bassinet and carefully drew a lace coverlet over the slumbering baby.

  “No, love,” Dante said softly. “How could I be unhappy to have a large family with you? But what if, when we have twelve children, they all decide to start drumming?”

  His wife gave a patient smile. “I don’t know. Perhaps we shall have to cover our ears.”

  “Or hide in bed and start work on the next addition to our family.” He grinned. “What would we do with twelve children, love?”

  “I suppose we shall be kept very busy loving them.”

  She was right, of course. “Right now, I’d like to be kept very busy loving you,” Dante murmured. He swept her into his arms and kissed his clever, perfect, miraculous wife as her slipper kicked the bedchamber door closed.

  NAUGHTY OR NICE ?

  MELISSA MACNEAL

  1

  Late November, 1895

  “It came upon a midnight clear, That glorious song of old . . .”

  Tess Bennett left the vestibule before she burst into tears. It wasn’t Margaret’s fault the carolers outside put her in such a dreadful mood: Her housekeeper had been doing everything possible to bring Christmas cheer into their lives. But without Henry and little Claire, this place would never again feel like a home—much less a place to spend the holidays.

  “And ye, beneath life’s crushing load, Whose forms are bending low . . .”

  What a depressing image! But it reflected her attitude perfectly, didn’t it? If she had to spend another day stringing cranberries and popcorn for a tree she didn’t want, and watching Margaret and George fail so valiantly at lifting her spirits, she’d simply—

  “I’m so sorry, dear. The first year—the first holiday season—is the worst.” Margaret placed her warm hands on Tess’s drooping shoulders. “Do try to smile and enjoy tonight’s dinner, won’t you? Mr. Mahaffey will join us at—”

  “I don’t want to see him.” Society wives were expected to be genteel, but some occasions demanded calling a spade a spade—and Reed Mahaffey was digging. “I may have led a sheltered life, Margaret, but I’m fully aware of his motives. He wants to marry into Henry’s share of the firm—and mark my words, he’ll be buying my half of the company rather than screwing me out of it!”

  Tess immediately regretted her coarse language, while poor Margaret’s cheeks turned the color of the cherry cake she’d baked today. She sighed, fogging the dining room window with her breath. Clouds shrouded the afternoon, hanging over the Mississippi as though it might snow, although that rarely happened here in Memphis. “I’m sorry, Margaret,” she murmured. “I’m not myself.”

  “None of us are, after yellow fever has claimed so many we loved.”

  “But I cannot pretend to enjoy Reed’s company. Encouraging his attentions would be the ultimate insult to Henry’s memory.” Tess turned, detecting her butler’s presence in the hall. “George, please give Mr. Mahaffey my regrets before he leaves the office. No sense in his making the trip here for nothing.”

  “Yes, of course, Miss Tess.”

  Margaret sagged. “Begging your pardon, dear,” she began in a whimper, “but you can’t keep hiding yourself away—”

  “I’m sorry about your dinner, Margaret. You’ve made every effort—all my favorite dishes—but there’s just no pleasing me right now,” she replied quietly. “And I’m sorry about that, too.”

  Sorry, sorry, sorry, Tess mused as she headed for the stairway. Would she ever stop apologizing for her black mood? The Delaneys craved the company of someone more cheerful this evening: It wasn’t as though she was the only one who missed her husband and the fair-haired daughter who’d brightened all their lives.

  “Look now! For glad and golden hours

  Come swiftly on the wing.

  O rest beside the weary road

  And hear—”

  “The angels may sing,” Tess muttered, “but I’ll believe in those golden hours when I see them! And not a moment sooner!”

  Had the spirit of Ebenezer Scrooge overtaken her? Was she doomed to make everyone’s life as bleak and miserable as her own? Tess hurried up the sweeping staircase, unfazed by the bright paprika carpet runner she’d bought last week. If Henry’s money couldn’t bring her happiness, she had no use for Reed’s, either!

  She entered her room and slammed the door. Acting like a spoiled child, she was—like Claire, having one of her footstomping hissy fits.

  Images of her six-year-old daughter made her grip a post of her canopy bed as another wave of grief washed over her. Enough already!

  Tess inhaled deeply. She went to the window, hoping the view would lift her spirits . . . the boats on the river . . . the stately homes across the way . . . Why is that green carriage coming down the street? It’s only three o’clock!

  Tess cleared the fogged window. Yes, indeed, that could only be the Bennett-Mahaffey coach rolling smartly toward the house, with white-gloved Warren Coates gripping the reins.

  Panic seized her. Reed was arriving blatantly early, figuring to catch her off balance. And with George already gone . . .

  She hadn’t a moment to lose! Margaret would admit the dashing Mr. Mahaffey as a part of her own little scheme, and with more than three hours before dinner was to be served—

  Tess snatched up her reticule and a hooded cloak. She could not be here when her housekeeper announced Reed’s arrival! But where would she go?

  As her thoughts raced, Tess slipped out of her pumps and padded down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen. The sonorous door chime echoed in the front foyer . . . Margaret’s footsteps pitter-pattered to answer it . . . and as the housekeeper’s excited welcome rang out, Tess exited through the back pantry door, where they took delivery of their ice and milk. Heart pounding, she put on her pumps. Could the wild idea in her mind possibly work?

  Around the back o
f the house she rushed, waving her arms to catch Mr. Coates’s attention. Her husband had trusted this sturdy fellow to deliver bank deposits and investment checks. Would Warren play along with her now, or would he betray her?

  “Why, good afternoon, Mrs. Bennett! I—”

  “No time for chitchat, Warren!” she said, pointing toward the house. “You must get me away from here before Reed knows I’ve slipped away. I can’t endure an afternoon of that man’s romancing. We all know what he’s really after, don’t we?”

  For a heart-stopping moment, the driver gazed at her as though he might put her in her place: the widow of Memphis’s most esteemed cotton factor had no business playing cat and mouse like an impudent child. Tess gazed at him, clutching her cloak, imploring him with the blue-eyed smile that had derailed many a Memphis gentleman’s train of thought.

  Warren chuckled gruffly and hopped down to open the carriage door. “He’s not the most subtle Romeo, is he? When I suggested that such an early arrival wouldn’t impress either you or Mrs. Delaney, he told me to keep my opinions to myself.” Coates waited for her to settle on the soft leather seat. “Where shall I take you?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. But we’d better go before they realize I’ve escaped!”

  “Right you are, ma’am. Warren Coates at your service.”

  As the carriage lurched, the rapid clip-clop, clip-clop of the horses’ hooves made Tess’s heartbeat accelerate with a happiness she hadn’t known since . . . well, since before she’d lost her husband and child. She was running away. Having an adventure!

  And what’ll you do when they discover you’re gone? Reed won’t be happy when he learns the company driver was your accomplice .

  It suddenly didn’t matter what anyone thought—or what Mr. Mahaffey did. She was tired of following everyone else’s rules, and she was damn sick of feeling so useless, so alone in her own home. If she didn’t want to suffer through the holidays in this black dress, why should she? Surely there was a place she could celebrate Christmas—honor Henry and Claire’s memories in her heart—without Southern society looking down its nose at her. There had to be something more to life than matrons who smothered her in their honeyed pity and ambitious men who wanted what Henry Bennett had left behind.