Comfort and Joy (16 page)

“That’s the state house to the right.”

“I do so favor Gothic architecture. Don’t you, Maeve?”

Maeve giggled. “No.”

Charles experienced a sinking feeling in his gut.

“What do you like then?” Stella pressed.

“I like...no, I love the wide blue sky above my head. I want to feel the green, green shamrocks beneath my feet. I loathe walls!” she cried passionately. “I love the sea and the mountains and ...” Maeve’s voice trailed off and she simply stared into space.

The sleigh bells jangled crisply in the sudden silence.

Dear God, Charles thought, she was tipsy!

She’d gone from seething to silence to snickering in less than thirty minutes. Clearly, Maeve had sipped too much wine at dinner. The idea of an inebriated Irish woman beside him gave Charles an anxious pang in his mid-section and a keen desire to end this sleigh ride. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

“May we ride to the Common, Charles?” Stella asked as if nothing uncommon had passed. The New York socialite obviously did not concern herself with anything Maeve did or said. There could be no doubt, the two women did not circulate on the same plane.

Charles had little choice but to direct Stuart to drive to the Common.

“Once around, Stuart. Quickly.”

Boston Common offered fifty acres of open space and during the winter became a popular spot for sleigh rides, ice skating, and sledding.

Charles looked upon the passing sleighs with a certain asperity. Courting couples who had escaped from prying eyes were wrapped in each other’s arms. Their laughter floated with the snowflakes on the frigid evening air. He felt an unaccustomed envy spiraling through him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, a taste similar to kerosene.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Stella exclaimed. “Nature in all of her beauty! Are you not enraptured, Maeve?”

Charles looked to Maeve. Busy catching snowflakes on her tongue, she hadn’t heard Stella.

His heart gave a strange lurch and he smiled down at her. Maeve amused him. She was a woman-child, a complex combination of intelligence and superstition, of unfailing kindness and uncomely frankness. Quite suddenly Charles realized that he came alive when he was with her.

If possible, Maeve was even more beautiful with cheeks glowing from the cold. Her blue eyes twinkled and her delicious cherry lips were parted to catch the falling snowflakes on the tip of her tongue. His gaze fastened on her tongue, pink and sweet.

A powerful need to gather Maeve into his arms assailed Charles. All he could think of, all he wanted was to cover her lips with his and feel her cold tongue grow warm in his mouth. His need sparked an alarming heat in his loins.

If only Stella wasn’t with them.

“Look at the skaters, Charles!” the oblivious widow exclaimed. “We must go ice skating. Do you like to skate, Maeve?”

She shook her head in an exaggerated motion. “No.”

“What a shame.” Stella actually tsked like an old woman.

“Going around in circles holds no interest for me,” Maeve remarked.

“Then you wouldn’t mind terribly if I asked Charles to take me skating?”

“Nooooo.” Her head continued to wag slowly back and forth.

“Don’t you think you should give skating a try, Maeve?” Charles asked gently. “You might like it.”

“Sure’n if the good Lord meant for us to skate, we would have been born with wee blades instead of toes.”

Stella arched a scornful brow. “Do you even own skates?”

“No.”

“I will purchase skates for you tomorrow,” Charles said to Maeve.

“An’ how do ye plan to keep me upright?”

“Surely you’re not afraid,” Stella taunted with a hard-edged smile.

“Aye and I’m not afraid! It’s just that I’d rather be dancing a jig by a warm fire than circling a frozen pond on cold feet.”

Charles laughed aloud.

Stella shot him a tight little smile. “Good. Then it’s settled. We’ll plan a skating party.”

Apparently, the only way he could be alone with Maeve lay in kidnapping her. But not tonight. On the way home from the Common she fell asleep or, more likely, passed out.

Charles carried Maeve from the carriage into the house.

In the foyer, Stella stopped him with a hand pressed to his back. “Would you join me for a glass of mulled wine after you’ve deposited your sleeping bride?”

“I’m afraid not. I must tuck the ah, the little woman into bed.”

What little color remained in Stella’s cheeks, drained.

Although Charles felt shameless for using Maeve as a shield to thwart the widow’s advances, he also felt grateful at the moment to be married.

Slightly astonished by how little his wife weighed, how light she felt in his arms, Charles carried Maeve to her bed, lowering her carefully.

With painstaking patience and no small amount of imagination, he managed to remove Maeve’s coat, shoes, and hat. He’d never undressed a sleeping woman before; she felt like a limp rag doll who moaned occasionally.

Dolly bustled in just as Charles was removing the pins from Maeve’s hair, a task he’d looked forward to completing.

After the housekeeper had recovered from her initial shock, Dolly had taken a shine to Maeve. “I’ll take care of the miss now, sir. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

But Charles wasn’t sorry. He’d enjoyed the intimate moments with Maeve. “Call me when you’ve finished. I’ll wait in the sitting room.”

He heard Maeve groan in her sleeping state several times but mostly silence prevailed until Dolly reported she’d finished. Dismissing his housekeeper, Charles returned to Maeve’s bedchamber.

Her dark hair fanned the pillow like waves of a shining ebony sea. She possessed an enchanting, ethereal beauty. For a long moment Charles could only stare, breathing in her loveliness. Dressed in a white silk shift trimmed with yards of lace at collar and cuff, she resembled sleeping royalty.

But it wasn’t Maeve.

After a hasty search Charles found her red nightshirt folded neatly in the back of a bottom drawer. Slowly and with great care, he removed the silk and lace shift Afraid to wake and startle her with an untoward touch, he could only allow himself a lingering gaze. He contemplated Maeve as he would a precious work of art. But even Barnabas in his best hour could not have captured her beauty. From her long, graceful neck to her full breasts and creamy thighs, she was perfection. His blood grew hot.

Dear God, he wanted her.

He studied his wife’s small body, a gentle swirl of curves and pastels that made his heart roar like a wild beast. Maeve was a gift of nature, as much as the warm whisper of the wind or the haunting song of a lark.

Summoning his willpower, Charles moved stiffly as he re-dressed the ravishing woman in his arms. Holding one arm around her back to brace the sleeping beauty, he slipped the red nightshirt over her head.

Her head slumped. She groaned.

Tenderly, he eased Maeve’s limp body down and smoothed the flaming red nightshirt down around her. The ache in his loins became a pulsating pain.

Charles pulled the comforter up to Maeve’s chin. If she hadn’t passed out tonight he might have been tempted to make love to her. The desire to remember how it felt making love to Maeve had become an urgent need, a need a man contemplating divorce from her should not act upon.

Charles had no one but himself to blame for Maeve’s current condition. He knew she had been anxious. If he’d been paying closer attention he would have noticed she’d turned to the wine to ease her anxieties. He just hoped she wouldn’t feel too badly in the morning.

He bent to blow out the candle but caught himself. Although she hadn’t admitted it, Maeve feared the dark. Why, he wondered? He wanted to know. He left the candle burning for her.

Gazing down at the petite woman who had no right to be his wife, Charles’s heart thumped heavily against his chest. His dry throat scraped when he swallowed. Leaning down, he brushed his lips against her forehead.

“Good night, little bit,” he whispered. And then, in a husky voice, he promised, “I will hold you again.”

Chapter Nine

Maeve woke the next day with a dull, throbbing headache and the awful feeling that on the previous evening she might have drunk more wine than recommended by any etiquette book ever written. She fervently hoped she’d said or done nothing to humiliate Charles or herself during their sleigh ride with Stella. But if she had said anything untoward, Maeve hoped at least she’d spoken in soft, dulcet tones. She was full of hope.

Maeve’s stomach tossed as she regarded the hot cocoa and biscuits brought to her rooms by Dolly. Unwilling to test her churning stomach, she hurriedly dressed and stole away from the house, anxious to avoid Beatrice and Stella. While her headache had eased, she wasn’t quite up to dealing with either one of the widowed ladies this morning.

Braving the blustery weather, she hurried to the docks in search of Shea. Her search proved futile and confirmed Maeve’s fears that her brother was secretly preparing for another boxing bout. She had made no secret of her distaste for the sport. Risking his life for a few dollars seemed a horrid gamble. In the past, Maeve’s pain was greater than Shea’s when she tended his bloodied and battered body. Even when he emerged victorious, as he did after the last match of twenty-two rounds, the extent of his bruises caused her to weep.

Although it was frowned upon for a woman to be on the docks, it was a truly grievous breach for a female to cross the portals of the A Street Boxing Hall. Maeve had visited both places often. The men did tease her and carry on, but save for a blush or two she’d never come to harm. However, as Charles Rycroft’s wife, Maeve knew she should behave in a manner beyond reproach which did not include paying calls on the docks or in the boxing hall.

But Charles was the very reason she wished to find her brother. She rationalized that her desire to help Charles forced her to places where proper ladies did not venture. If it was a boxer who had struck Charles down, Shea could help her find the man. And once she’d found the man, Maeve felt sure she could then recover the missing sketch of St. Nick.

She could only imagine the surprise on Charles’s face when he opened her Christmas gift. He owned everything a man could want. All he lacked was what had been taken from him, the one thing he cherished most of all — the sketch of St. Nick. It was the only gift she was certain would please him. Even though she wasn’t certain why he thought so highly of the drawing, it did not matter. The reason was not important. All that mattered to Maeve was Charles’s happiness.

A light snow fell as she made her way through the narrow cobblestone streets of Boston, melting as it touched the ground and turning to a murky, slate-colored slush.

Maeve planned to walk through the Common back to Beacon Hill and the Rycroft residence as she had no money to hire a coach or sleigh. ‘Twas a silly oversight. Even when working she’d sometimes forgot to keep a few coins in her pocket.

The cold air nipped at her cheeks and nose. The snowflakes melted on her lips and weighed on her eyelashes for a fleeting moment. She seemed to recall catching snowflakes on her tongue riding through the park last night. No. She could not have done that. She wouldn’t have done such a childish thing, not in front of Stella. Not in front of her intractable husband. But a niggling voice inside her head whispered she had indeed.

When she groaned aloud, the passing gentleman turned her way.

Maeve smiled and hurried along, stopping on the corner of Tremont Street to let several coaches pass by. Before she could cross, a familiar-looking carriage veered from the center of the street, pulling up to where she stood.

“Maeve?”

“Charles?”

Charles opened the door and jumped from his coach. Wearing a long cloak with a full beaver cape, he cut an imposing figure. His shoulders appeared twice as broad and his top hat added a good foot to his height. He smiled as if he hesitated to reveal his pleasure in meeting her, but was unable to contain his delight. Despite the cold, Maeve felt her heart melt like butter on a hot potato.

“What a fortuitous meeting,” he said. “We at last have the opportunity to be alone.” Clasping her arm, Charles guided Maeve through the doors of the Parker House. “There’s an excellent tearoom here,” he explained.

While Maeve had passed the magnificent hotel many times and had on two occasions pressed her face against the glass, she had never been inside. The aroma of fresh-baked bread and pastries filled the air. She inhaled deeply, savoring the delicious yeasty scent and welcoming the return of her sense of smell, temporarily numbed by the frigid outside air.

Trusting Charles to steer her in the proper direction, Maeve took in the lobby with undisguised awe. They were soon seated by a window in the intimate tearoom and warmed by a roaring fire. Charles ordered tea and cakes while Maeve silently admired the dark mahogany paneling and crown molding, the plush upholstered chairs, crystal chandeliers, and gaslight sconces. She wondered if she would ever become accustomed to such luxurious surroundings, if she would ever fit into this wonderful world.

Because humming softly comforted her, she began to hum. She hummed so faintly only a powerful faerie could hear her. And perhaps Charles.

He’d angled his head, regarding her with a puzzled frown. She stopped.

“Why are you out walking by yourself on a day like this?’’ he asked.

“I, I was on an errand. And you, are you on the way to your office?”

“Not exactly. I also had an errand. There are ice skates for you in the carriage.”

“Skates?”

“Do you not remember our conversation last evening?”

“Oh, yes!” She did not. Her mind spun frantically for something safe to say. “Thank you. Thank you!” she repeated with added enthusiasm. “You are too kind.”

Charles frowned. His dark brows met at the bridge of his nose in a suspicious angle. “You did not answer me. Why did you not hire a coach or sleigh?”

She refused to confess she’d spent most of what little money she had when Charles whisked her from her dad’s flat. And those few dollars were tucked safely forgotten under her mattress in her bedchamber.