Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  Three long strides and he was across the drawing room to her. “It’s what I would prefer, as it is.” He needed something to steady his hands against touching her—he’d not but minutes ago promised her control inside the house, so now he had to deliver.

  He took the glasses from her grip and set them down on the side table next to the settee in front of the fire.

  She moved next to him, filling both tumblers half full with the brandy from the decanter.

  She handed him one, then motioned to the fire. “Come, sit?”

  His brow furrowed. “You are encouraging us to be in the same room?”

  “I am. Just being apart from you for a few minutes has given me time to breathe. Time to regain my equilibrium.” Her hand wrapped around her glass. “And now that I have my senses back about me, I realize I’m being rude if I demand that you return to the abbey post-haste. For I am grateful that you appeared when you did. I do not have quite the same capability that you do for clearing that snow.” She lifted her glass to him. “And I believe that the mare I borrowed is the most thankful of all.”

  The side of his mouth quirked upward. “I didn’t imagine you would be thanking me for following you. You are thanking me, are you not?”

  She nodded, a wry smile crossing her lips as she moved to sit on the settee “Yes, I am. And why would I not?”

  “You’re stubborn.”

  A guffaw left her mouth. “Yes, but I’m also older and wiser than I once was and my fingers were about to crack off of my hands out there, so I’m not so stubborn I cannot thank you.”

  He couldn’t hide a smile as he went to the fire. He turned the top log and then moved to sit on the opposite end of the settee.

  Taking a sip of the brandy, he studied her profile. She was as beautiful as the day he had first seen her—more so, even, as she had the look of the world about her. The confidence that only times of sorrow can bring a person—confidence in the quiet acceptance that the world is not all sunshine and rainbows. Her gaze was decidedly set forward, her fingertips tapping on the glass.

  “Ye know it’s Christmas the day after tomorrow,” he said.

  She glanced at him, then quickly shifted her stare back to the fire as a shiver shook her body. “Yes. And I thought to be alone. Well, alone with Maggie.”

  “Why alone? You did not think to travel back to your father’s home?”

  She shook her head. “No. Certainly not back to father. Christmastide hasn’t been happy there since my grandmother died. And the sadness of that is most poignant there.”

  “Your grandmother—you never truly told me about her, just that she raised ye after your mother died in childbirth.”

  Her right cheek lifted in a mischievous smile. “Well, there was never any time for long conversations between you and me when we were alone together. The short walks. The moments stolen in the stables.” She took a sip of her brandy, her brown eyes warm honey as she looked at him. “It was hard to think of much else besides wanting to touch you.”

  He chuckled, a grin taking over his face. “There was that.”

  “There was.” She nodded.

  “Take off that blasted cloak you’re hiding in and come here.”

  “Why?” Her look went from gaiety to trapped rabbit.

  “You’re still shivering. Your cloak is clearly damp and just keeping the chill to your body instead of warming ye. I, on the other hand, am very toasty.”

  She gave him an incredulous look, her fingers flipping between them. “You realize this would do nothing to improve the control we lack over what happens between us when we are too close.”

  “Or it will prove how much restraint we can have.”

  Her eyebrows cocked.

  “I wouldn’t take advantage of a shivering cold lass, Karta. Ye know that.”

  Her head tilted to the side and she sighed. “I do.” She handed him her glass. “Fine.”

  She unhooked the clasp on the front of her wool cloak and peeled it away from her body, then draped it off the side arm of the settee. Hesitating for a moment, a shiver racked her body. It set her into motion and she scooted along the rose damask upholstery until she was next to him.

  Close, only barely touching him. The edge of her thigh was the one point on her body that slightly grazed him.

  She wasn’t going to get warm like that.

  He handed her glass back to her and wrapped his left arm around her shoulders.

  A second of stiff resistance and then she slightly relaxed, letting him tug her tight along his torso. She pulled her feet up from the floor, quickly untying her boots with her free hand and then slipping them and her stockings off. She tucked her toes under her skirts along the back of the settee.

  Still slightly stiff, she snuggled into his chest, the cold blanket of her taking over his warmth. She was far colder than he’d guessed. He should have demanded this earlier. Just as he settled his arm down along her side, she flattened her body as much as she could against his mass, expanding the amount of warmth she could suck from him.

  Extraordinary pride flooded him. For all he could never give her, he could give her this. Heat.

  Her shivers ceasing, her body went limp along him.

  “You were talking of your grandmother—tell me of her.”

  Though her arms were folded and curled tight to her chest, she managed to lift her glass that was wedged between them and take a sip of the brandy. She had to clear her throat before talking. “She died…maybe ten years before I met you. She was everything to me. It was the two of us, always together. Women of grand purpose, she would call us—so silly to the little girl I was. But she was so intelligent.”

  A soft smile came to her lips. “And she created these marvelous marzipan candies that were shaped like tiny animals at Christmastide every year. Rabbits, and dogs, and cats, and birds. And then she would hide them throughout the estate. Half of them—the best ones—she would tie strings to that weaved throughout the rooms, and I would follow the strings to find them. It would take days to discover them all and father hated the mess of it all.”

  Her head shook, her eyes glazed over. “But grandmother, she loved it. Her face when I found one—she was almost in tears she was so happy, because I was so happy—like it hurt her physically to see me laughing and so joyous. I loved each and every one of those candies, those odd little marzipan masterpieces. They were perfect times—those days on Christmas.”

  “But then she passed?

  Karta nodded, her head rubbing against his chest. “She did, quietly in her sleep. It wasn’t dramatic. She just slipped away. And with it, my whole world just slipped away.” She paused, taking another sip of her brandy. “And then it was just father and I. And you know how he is.”

  Domnall stared down at her dark brown hair, almost black, were it not for the strands that caught amber streaks in the light of the fire.

  He did know. He knew too intimately what a bastard her father could be. How he’d told Domnall not to touch his daughter. How he’d sworne he would tear Domnall down if he kept up his inane pursuit of Karta. How he’d threatened to have Domnall removed from Scotland for good.

  But Domnall had never listened to him.

  Maybe he should have.

  Falling in love with Karta had brought him nothing but grief—not that he could have resisted the indomitable draw between the two of them.

  “Your father.” Domnall jerked upright away from the cushions, the shout echoing about the room as brandy splashed wide from both of their glasses.

  “What?” Karta twisted upright, flicking off splatters of brandy from her dark blue skirt. “What about my father?”

  Domnall stared at the fire, working it in his brain for several seconds—making sure he remembered the whole of it correctly.

  He had it right.

  His gaze lifted to Karta, his words slow, low. “It wasn’t an errand on the lands I was doing for the marquess—it was, but it wasn’t.”

  Wrinkles creased her brow.
“What are you talking about, Dom?”

  “I’m talking about the night of the ball. Where I was.”

  Her voice went cold. “And just where were you?”

  “It was your father—how did I never put it together? Of course, I never knew why you left me. But your bloody father planned the whole blasted thing—he was the one that delayed me from the ball.” He shook his head, his lip curling into a sneer. “He was the one that sent word to the marquess that one of the Vinehill’s sheep flocks on the northern border by his land had been driven into a gully that they couldn’t get out of. They needed the strongest men to get them out. And of course that meant me.”

  Her head snapped back, her eyes wide. “No…no…he couldn’t have.”

  “He did. He knew exactly what he was putting into motion.”

  Her body deflated, collapsing back against the settee, her hands in her lap, clutching the tumbler in her hand. “No…but we made a deal.”

  “You of all people know what sort of a man your father is, Karta. You honored the deal your way—with integrity. He honored it in his way—with manipulation.”

  “But—”

  “Has your father ever made a deal where he didn’t get exactly what he wanted?”

  She stared at him, disgust quickly taking over the confusion in her brown eyes. With an exhale, she shook her head.

  “Exactly.”

  Her eyes closed to him, her unsteady breath lifting her chest. A blow to her just the same as it was to him—probably worse, because there would always be a part of Karta that wanted to believe in her father, wanted to believe that there was good in him.

  Good that Domnall had never seen in the man.

  Her eyes flew open. “But you.”

  “Me what?” he asked, his voice wary.

  “No matter what my father machinated. It was your choice. You didn’t need to go. You didn’t need to help. The marquess would have just sent other men in your stead. It comes down to the fact that you didn’t appear.” Her voice cracked, her lips pulling inward. “Why didn’t you come for me, Dom?”

  Hell.

  Why didn’t he come for her?

  He hadn’t known what was at stake, yes.

  But that was no excuse.

  He’d told her he’d be there, and he wasn’t. His work at Vinehill had been too important. Too important to set aside for the woman he loved. A choice that had seemed so inconsequential at the time had steered their lives so vastly apart.

  And he’d been paying for that decision ever since. For there was no explanation. Not a good enough one.

  He turned fully to her, bearing the weight of the tormented look on her face. How his actions so long ago wounded her so deeply. He set his gaze directly on hers. “I don’t know that I even chose what my life was long ago—I just lived it. I owed Vinehill—the marquess—everything. Everything I had, everything I was. It was because of him. I was an orphan. He took me into his home. Raised me as one of his own. So why would I ever question what was asked of me?”

  Her lips pursed, but she didn’t argue. She was listening.

  He would take it.

  “All I can tell you, Karta, is that I would change the past if I could. It was never because I didn’t love you. I would have moved mountains for you. I still would.”

  He paused, shaking his head. “But I can’t change the past. I know that.” He reached out, setting his hand gently on her knee. “I can only speak to now. To this moment. And now—now I am beholden to no one. Not the marquess. Not Vinehill. I’m only beholden to that pile of stones across the glen that I inherited.”

  Her look had dropped to his hand on her knee.

  He wasn’t sure if she was about to flick it off of its perch or grab it.

  A long moment passed.

  She grabbed it.

  “It’s not exactly a pile of stones, Dom.” Her brown eyes lifted, meeting his gaze. “The structure is actually quite beautiful—I’ve always admired it.”

  A change in subject. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it wasn’t continued vilification. Progress.

  With a shrug, his hand flipped over under her fingers, setting his palm flat against hers. “The abbey is crumbling in areas. It’s going to take much work to right it. To right the estate after the neglect it has suffered the last several years.”

  “I didn’t know the last Lord Kirkmere had neglected it so. Though I’ve heard very little gossip about the area. The staff here is tight-lipped about everything around me. They regard me as a suspicious lowlander.” She shivered. “Maggie at least has traces of her Highland accent, so she has gotten on well enough with them.”

  He slipped his hand out from under hers and set his arm around her shoulders, tugging her back onto him. She didn’t fight him, flattening her cold body against his chest once more.

  “The last Kirkmere was quite addled at the end, from what I’ve been told. He apparently became quite confused about what age he was living in—the poor old chap thought the war in America had just begun. Just before the war ended, his only son was drunk in Stirling when he was pressed onto a warship and then died before it even reached America. So that’s the time he wanted to live in—when his son was still alive.”

  Her head shook. “Tragic. I can imagine going back in time like that in the end—especially to happier times.”

  He looked down at the top of her head. “When would you live?”

  She angled her head to look up at him, a grin playing about her lips. “I think I’ll refuse to answer that for fear the control we are exhibiting would be ruined.”

  She took the last sip of her brandy, then tucked the back of her fingers holding the glass against the center divot of his chest. “Well, if anyone can right the estate, it is you, Dom. You’ve been holding Vinehill together for ages—doing the hard work of running an estate like that—so taking over Kirkmere Abbey should be an easy task for you.” Her words slowed, thick, and she nuzzled her head along his shoulder, finding just the right spot to settle it.

  “Your confidence in me is odd.”

  “Why?” The sleepy word was whispered with a deep breath.

  “That you still have it in me. Even after I failed you.”

  Silence.

  He waited, his breath held for seconds that dragged on far too long, before he realized she’d fallen asleep. Too much brandy. Too much whisky. Her fingers had gone limp on her glass, and he tugged the tumbler from her grasp. He set it on the side table to his right, clinking it next to his own glass.

  This he would also take. A thousand times over.

  Karta sleeping on him, the shivers that had held onto her body long since dissipated. Karta peaceful, not teetering on that constant nervous edge she’d balanced along ever since she had woken in the abbey to see him. Karta without harsh words of his devastating betrayal on her lips.

  This he would take.

  It wasn’t all of her. But he had time for that now.

  As much time as she needed.

  Chapter 9

  She was slow to wake. Not like she usually did, with her eyes popping open, alert, the moment the slightest semblance of lucidness hit her.

  No, she stayed in the state between sleep and awake, reveling in the warm comfort she was encased in.

  Warm, safe comfort. Where she was always meant to be. Home. Home in a cocoon of strength.

  Strength.

  Damn.

  Domnall. Domnall’s arms were about her. His cocoon. His strength.

  And yet still, she fought opening her eyes. She wanted this as long as possible, selfish though it may be. For once he found out the truth of her, she’d never have a moment like this again.

  He moved beneath her and she realized how fully she was on top of him. Somewhere during the night he’d shifted them, leaning back in the corner of the settee for support with a leg long on the cushion. She’d draped herself fully along his body.

  So fully she could feel a rather large, rather stiff reminder jutting into her abdomen of
how intimately their bodies were entwined.

  Yet still, she couldn’t let go of the moment. Of the warmth.

  Domnall cleared his throat, his hand moving along her back.

  Karta refused to look up at him, keeping her face buried in his lawn shirt just above the cut of his waistcoat, her voice a whisper just in case he was still asleep. “Dom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I lied.”

  “About what?”

  “I did think of you.”

  He didn’t answer for a torturous moment. Maybe he was talking in his sleep.

  Then his chest lifted in a heavy breath.

  “When?”

  “All the time.” She braved the tilt of her chin, her eyes upward to see his face. “Every day. In moments of happiness. In moments of sadness. In moments of nothingness. All the time. I wished you were by my side all the time.”

  Without a word, he dragged her body upward, his lips meeting hers in a brutal, searing kiss. A kiss that she’d imagined thousands of times over. A kiss that would break her. Destroy everything between them.

  She jerked away from him, her palms flat on his chest as she pushed herself upward.

  His hands were quick to her upper arms, stopping her motion. “Why do you flinch?”

  “I—I don’t flinch.”

  “You flinch when we are close. You want me—then you push away.”

  She stared down at him, at the confusion in his dark blue eyes.

  Confusion she couldn’t abate. She didn’t dare tell him that she pushed away because of what she’d become. That whatever they started would never be finished once he knew the truth.

  “I don’t pu—”

  A sharp knock on the door interrupted her words. A knock she was ridiculously grateful for.

  She scrambled upright as he released her arms, untangling her legs from his. Gaining her feet, she smoothed down the front of her rumpled dress as she left the drawing room to answer the door.

  With any luck, it was one of Domnall’s men and she could avoid conversation with Domnall for the rest of the morning. The entire day if she was even luckier.

  She opened the door with far too much haste, not even bothering to glance out the side windows that flanked the door.