Seven Rogues for Christmas: A Historical Romance Holiday Collection

by Dawn Brower

  “There is no need. I am not offended. A little surprised and confused as to what you mean but not offended.”

  He raised a hand, stroking the back of his knuckles down her cheek—that cheek. The one she had hated since she was old enough to understand the large red mark was not normal—that it set her apart from other little girls. She shuddered, unable to stop the reaction to his gentle caress. She was terribly attracted to this man and her body craved something that she did not understand, but she would not dare to believe he found her attractive despite the lovely words he spoke.

  She turned back to the jar of salve, intent on finishing her task and disappearing back to her own bedchamber before she acted on the desire to press her lips to that bruise forming below his sternum. What would the skin on his torso feel like against her lips? For that matter, did people even kiss parts of the body that were not the lips and hands? She licked her own lips. Nine more days and she would know.

  He was in agony, and not just in his knee, head and torso. The expressions fleeting across her face made him grow harder, and then her pink tongue peeked out from her mouth and moistened her lips. He was almost undone.

  Her mouth changed into a hard line as she set about completing her task of rubbing salve into his bruises. He had to admit that the chilli pepper concoction was helping, as was the view down her cleavage when she leaned down to rub the medicinal concoction around his hip which, until that moment, he had not realised was sore. Her hand worked, skimming the waistline of his breeches. He bit back a moan of pleasure as she unknowingly let her hand stray rather too near the part of his body that was most impressed by her touch.

  He placed his hand over his straining erection. Better that she nudge his arm than anything else, both for his sake and hers.

  “Are you nearly finished?” he rasped, praying to God in heaven that this beautiful torment would be over soon.

  “Yes.” She placed the lid on the jar, wiped her hands on a linen, before leaning over him to check his wound. Devil take it. She was temptation incarnate and those breasts were dangerously close to his face again. As for her earlier comment about his mother and tying something… it had been the laces of her stays that had not been tied properly because those breasts were almost in their natural state and they were glorious.

  He closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

  “I’m going to bed now. Is there anything more you need before I retire? The bell cord is here by your side.”

  A kiss goodnight.

  Instead he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. She smiled shyly at him then pulled her hand away and moved to wake her maid.

  Nine more days and she would be his. He doubted he had anticipated bedding a woman like this since he had been a virgin.

  Chapter 9

  It had been a very long week. Nick had been frustrated by his knee, by the bruises around his ribcage, by the beautiful creature who had tended him in the first couple of days after his beating and by the slow passage of time until their wedding. He had hobbled into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office and attained the special licence so he and Lady Gabriella could marry on Christmas Eve. Now the organisation of the big day was out of the way, he was champing at the bit to have it out of the way so he and Gabriella could be together—properly.

  He had agreed to spend Christmas at Chetfern, despite his desire to take his new bride back to the Eastden Estate, twenty miles east of his family seat. His mother had conceded and allowed him to open up the dower house for their wedding night and for Christmas night so they could have proper privacy. When he made Gabriella scream in pleasure, he had no desire to be worrying whether his parents could hear her.

  He straightened his leg in front of the fire, pleased to note that instead of searing pain, there was just a dull ache at the movement. He glanced morosely at the book in his hands. It was a good enough book but he was bored.

  Where the devil was Gabriella?

  As if by magic, she appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, her eyes bright with excitement, her breathing laboured as if she had been hurrying.

  “Nick, does your knee still hurt terribly?” she asked, curling her fingers into her skirts, lifting them slightly and giving him a lovely view of her ankles. He raised his reluctant gaze to her face.

  “Not terribly. It still pains me a little and I am reliant on that damned cane.” She blanched at his curse. “I apologise. I wish to be outside instead of stuck in this armchair.”

  “The servants are going into the woods to find evergreens to decorate the house. I wondered…” She stopped and bit her lip. “Are you able to come and help?”

  A walk! It was just the thing. And he knew exactly which part of the woods to take her.

  “I would love to,” he said, pulling himself to his feet and grabbing his cane. Pain shot through his knee but he willed it away. It would ease as he walked. He stopped at the sideboard, poured himself small measure of brandy and threw it back. He was all for being manly, but a little alcohol to numb the pain never went amiss.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, placing a hand on his arm, a frown marring her brow.

  “I should love to accompany you and the walk shall do my knee good.”

  “I shall go and put on my pelisse, gloves and bonnet and meet you at the front door in a few minutes.” She turned and hurried up the stairs, her hips swaying the pink muslin of her day dress. He caught a glimpse of her ankles as she climbed the stairs. His blood heated.

  Two days.

  Nick stumbled slightly and Gabriella stuck out a hand to steady him. She was not entirely sure this had been a sensible idea. He was clearly still in some pain but he was a man and therefore he was stubborn.

  “We can go back,” she hissed, looking around her to check there were no servants to hear her concession to his painful knee. She knew he would rather die than appear weak. Why were men like that? It defied explanation.

  “No. I stumbled over a blasted tree root. I am fine. Only a short way until we find the mistletoe. I know where it is.”

  “Mistletoe.” It was not as cold today as it had been and heat flamed her cheeks. “Is it proper to have mistletoe in the house?”

  “We have always had mistletoe in the house at Christmas. I just never had anyone to kiss under it before… not properly.” His voice was low and husky and contained a wicked promise that seemed to cause a tension just below her belly. Over the past week, he had stolen the odd chaste kiss from her, but she could tell from the way his gaze lingered on her body that he wished for more. She may be innocent, but she was not stupid.

  “I see. We never had it. Well, I don’t think so. Certainly since mother and father died we have not really celebrated Christmas.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Oh well, Joseph usually gives me a book on animal husbandry or estate finance or crop rotation as a gift and we do have goose for dinner that day. But we never decorate the manor.”

  “Why does he give you such books?”

  “Because I run the estate, for the most part.”

  “Ah yes, you said as much the morning you were dealing with the thatcher.”

  “Yes. If I did not take charge, I doubt anything would be done. Joseph refuses to pay a man of business or a land steward.”

  “And what will happen when we marry?”

  She shrugged.

  “I must confess it is the one biggest fear and regret I have about marrying you. I like you very much and I believe you are right that we will deal well together. However, I worry about my friends at Thornwich and what will become of them. I would have suggested we ride over there sometime this week but I was worried about your bruising. I don’t imagine riding a horse would be particularly comfortable for you right now.”

  It was true. She was worried about the housekeeper and the butler and the tenants and the stable hands and everyone else associated with the estate. She suspected Joseph had no money whatsoever.

  “No, it would not. Though I suspect
in a few days it will be fine.”

  “Good. Perhaps we could…” She looked up at him, her eyes wide. He would have… expectations of her during the few days after their wedding. “Oh I apologise, my lord. Of course we shall be married, we cannot just…”

  He chuckled.

  “Gabriella, while the thought of keeping you nestled in my arms and in my bed for the foreseeable future is tempting, there are only so many times in a day a couple can make love. We shall be able to join my parents for Christmas dinner and possibly even cards afterwards. We may even make it to Christmas morning service if you desperately want to go. And we can visit your brother too.”

  “Oh!” In truth, she had not really considered what life was like for a newly married lady on the days just after her wedding.

  He stopped suddenly. “Ah, here we are.” He pointed to a branch just a bit higher than his head on which the parasitic plant had attached itself. “There is always a lot of mistletoe around here.” He reached up and pulled on the branch, broke off a few sprigs and handed them to her. She accepted them. “Gabriella, do you understand what will happen on the night of our wedding? Someone has explained, have they not?”

  “Your mother explained. She asked if I had any questions.”

  He turned from his task and raised an eyebrow. “And did you?”

  She looked at him, shame burning inside her. Of course she had questions, lots of them. How big was his ‘rod’—the word used by his mother to describe his anatomy? How could he hold himself up and move in her the way it had been described? The more she thought on the act the more confused she got. Would they be naked or would she still have her nightrail on?

  She nodded mutely.

  “Gabriella, I don’t want you coming to our marriage bed afraid and confused. I would rather we were both embarrassed now and we talk frankly. It may not be proper, but I care more for your ease than I do for propriety.”

  She looked into his hazel eyes and smiled. He really was the best of men and did have her interests at heart.

  “I may be a little confused, Nick, but I am not afraid. I trust you and I have faith that our first night together will be everything either of us would want it to be.”

  He let the branch of the old oak spring back into place then turned, one sprig in his hand which he raised aloft. As he advanced on her, she backed up against the tree trunk, slightly in awe of the wolfish gleam in his eye.

  She swallowed hard. He did not have the intention of just a chaste peck. Of that she had no doubt. Her heart beat faster. Inside her kidskin gloves her palms moistened.

  He moved closer still, dropping his cane and catching her around the waist.

  “Do you trust me enough to let me kiss you thoroughly, Lady Gabriella?”

  “I do, Lord Eastden.”

  He threw his hat to the ground then loosened the ribbons of her bonnet, tossing that atop the blanket of fallen leaves too. Then he pressed a kiss to her jawline, and she leaned her head back onto the bark of the tree. He kissed down the column of her neck and she sighed, easing her hips against him in a most wanton fashion. His lips met the fur collar of her pelisse. He moved them back up to her chin, then he captured her lips.

  That was the moment Gabriella surrendered.

  Emotion welled in him as he became aware of her surrender. No one had ever trusted him in this way before. Here they were alone in the woods and he could easily ravish her.

  Of course he knew he would never do that. It would be unconscionable. Ravishing an innocent in the woods in December two days before her wedding? It didn’t bear thinking about—even if he was her bridegroom. But she did not know that.

  Or did she?

  As he plunged his tongue into her mouth, she tweaked the buttons of his greatcoat and wrapped her arms around him inside the warmth of the woollen fabric. For all the layers of clothing between them, he felt closer to her as he explored her mouth, her tongue and her lips. She explored his mouth too. One of his hands tangled in her coif as the other moved lower to cup her pert bottom.

  With each stroke of his tongue, her hips moved and when she moaned into his mouth, he cared naught that she was an innocent. She was a passionate woman and she was going to make an excellent bed partner. And she seemed to have a curiosity about her own pleasure which he had never found among the innocents he had kissed in the past. She arched, rocked against him, explored him. Did she explore herself in the darkness of her bedchamber? Now there was a thought that made his hard length throb with excitement.

  Her hand was on his arse, kneading, drawing him closer still. Christ, there was every possibility this woman would kill him with her ardour. But he would die a happy man.

  He pulled up her skirts, just enough to ease her movements as he pressed his good knee between her thighs. She moaned again and he lifted her fully onto his thigh, very much aware that her hip was stroking his hard length through his breeches. It was heavenly.

  He continued to kiss her as their surroundings disappeared from his awareness. For now there was just her and him. Two lovers finding pleasure in each other.

  There was every chance he was going to disgrace himself, but somehow, he didn’t care. The woman he cared for was finding her own pleasure and he intended to help her. He deepened the kiss, stroking her tongue and the inside of her cheek as he fiddled with the buttons of her fur-lined pelisse. All the while she rubbed her hot, needy flesh up and down his buckskin-clad thigh, looking forward to the day when his fingers would dance though that flesh—when he could touch it for real. But not now.

  When he gained access, he cupped her breast. Three more layers of clothing lay between him and these treasures but he would not bare flesh. Not today. He would not have her half-dressed out in the cold. But he did find her pebbled nipple through her clothing and brushed his thumb firmly over it.

  Her groan was one of pleasure mixed with confusion and she ripped her mouth from his, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck, her hips still beating out their rhythm against his thigh and against his self-control.

  “Nick, what’s happening?” she gasped before an almost pained moan escaped her lips. He tightened his grip on her backside, urging her on, nearly delirious with the pleasure she was giving to him. He was so close.

  “You’re nearly at oblivion, my love. It’s completely natural and beautiful. Keep going.”

  “I… I don’t want to stop. But it seems…” she ground out.

  “Don’t stop,” he urged, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. He couldn’t bear it if she stopped now through panic at the strange sensations.

  Her hip movements had become more intent and he pressed his thigh harder against her. His injured knee was now screaming with pain but he would not let her stop. If he could give her this—the knowledge of her own body’s needs before their wedding night, then the pain of the consummation for her would hopefully be fleeting.

  He felt his own body tighten as she changed her stroke, determined, needy and desperate.

  He gritted his teeth as he spilled into his breeches, trying to mask his grunt of satisfaction. This was about Gabriella, not him and his pleasure. But it was a welcome release nonetheless and probably the only accident of this sort in his life that held no shame… only joy and desire.

  And then it happened.

  A high keening sound, the tightening of her muscles, the painful gripping of her thighs around his and then a slow shuddering as she gasped for breath. He moved his hands up, one on her shoulders to steady her and one on the small of her back, soothing in small circles as her climax peaked then faded.

  They stood for long moments as they caught their breaths. He had a sticky mess inside his breeches and he could not have been happier about it. She gasped against his waistcoat, her face buried under two layers of wool.

  Gabriella drew in a deep breath and lifted her head, her brown eyes meeting his gaze.

  “Do you think me very wanton?” she asked, confusion, pleasure and concern warring in their chocola
te depths. Something sparkled on her cheek. Oh God, it must be a tear. She was crying and he was the scoundrel who had caused it.

  “No, my love. I encouraged it. I wanted to see you come apart in my arms. I wanted you to know at least some of the pleasure that can happen in the marriage bed without you having your innocence taken before your wedding day. Please don’t cry.”

  She blinked then scowled. Her gaze moved to his shoulders and up to the sky.

  “It’s snowing!” she cried out, her voice full of wonder and childish glee—a marked contrast to the siren who had come apart in his arms a few moments before.

  He grinned at her. “That is all you have to say?”

  She turned her attention back to him and returned his grin. “If you do not think me a wanton, what else is there to say? Except thank you, of course.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  “Will that happen every time we are intimate?” She bit her lip shyly. He wanted to laugh. Her skirts were hitched up to her knee, her most intimate part was still pressed against his muscular thigh and she was still flushed from what he presumed was her first ever orgasm. But she had become shy all of a sudden.

  “If I am a good husband, you should.”

  She climbed off his thigh, adjusted her skirts and rebuttoned her pelisse. “Then I shall expect it.”

  He bit his own lip to stop the bark of laughter. He loved this damned chit.

  Loved?

  As he picked up his walking cane, she gathered the discarded mistletoe before they re-donned their headwear and linked arms. Their embrace had left his knee stiff and sore and he hobbled slightly.

  “Have you hurt your knee?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I heard you grunt in pain just before I…” She made a motion with her hand showing she was not sure how to express what had happened to her.