Mistletoe Magic (16 page)

Her words were no longer careful, the shout in them surprising them both.

It made no sense, but she was beyond caring, beyond even the measuring of right and wrong. If he had killed someone today, then the reckoning of his soul would come to him later. Right now she just had to get him better.

With the room warmed by a blazing fire and his sodden shirt removed, Lucas’s shivering finally stopped.

Mrs Poole brought steaming water and sharp scissors and all her movements gave the impression of a woman who had seen such things before.

‘I was with Wellington’s troops, my dear,’ she explained when Lillian asked her. ‘Marched with the drum, you see. It was how I met Mr Poole, for my first husband had been killed in Spain and widows did not stay that way for long.’

‘And you saw injuries such as this one?’

‘Many a time.’

‘And they lived…’ she whispered, ‘those who had this sort of injury?’

‘Of course they did. It’s only if they took the fever after I would worry, though it is a pity he will not allow himself a good swig of brandy, for the ache would be a lot lessened.’

She handed a needle and thread to Lillian. ‘Take little stitches and not too deep. Are you certain you would not like some brandy, my dear?’

Having already refused libation once, Lillian shook her head. She needed to be completely in control for the task in front of her and wished for the twentieth time that Mrs Poole’s eyesight had been better.

Still, with the long explanation as to what the housekeeper could and could not see behind them, Lillian thought it only right that it should be her doing the repair work.

‘I’ve had stitches before,’ Lucas said to her as she readied herself for the task, trying to put it off for as long as she could. ‘I don’t usually weep.’

The tilt of his lips told her that he was attempting to take some of the tension from the moment, though the
sweat on his upper lip gave a different story again. Not quite as indifferent as he would have her think! Her heart beat so violently she could visibly see the rise and fall of her bodice and it accelerated markedly again as she learnt that skin was a lot harder than cloth to push a needle through.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered as he winced, the quick spring of red blood from the wound blotted by Mrs Poole as he looked away. Following his glance, she saw that the night outside was still heavy with rain and further afield the bright glow of lightning silhouetted the land.

‘A storm is coming this way,’ he said and Mrs Poole interjected.

‘There is talk of snow, sir. Perhaps it will be a white Christmas after all.’

The weather was a benign topic as the needle sliced through flesh again and again, the stitches neat and tidy and his skin once jagged and open pulled together into a single light red line.

When it was done, Lillian put down her needle and stood, the magnitude of all that had happened washing over her in a flood of shock.

‘Thank you.’ In the soft light of flame his amber eyes were grateful, bleached in fatigue and something else, too.

Embarrassment.

When Mrs Poole bustled out of the room in search of a salve that was missing, Lillian also felt…shy. Wiping her hands against her skirt, the enormity of everything overcame her.

‘If you are in trouble, perhaps I can help. My father has money and influence. If I talked to him and asked—’

‘No, Lillian.’ He winced as he shifted his position on the bed, the pale hue of his face alarming her.

His use of the fullness of her name surprised her as did the tone he used, as serious as she had ever heard him, his accent almost English.

‘When I left you in the Billinghurst ballroom in London, I walked into a trap.’

‘A trap?’ She could not understand at all what he was telling her.

‘Three men jumped me as I made my way home from the ball and the next thing I knew I was on a ship as a prisoner heading for Lisbon. I think Davenport money was used to make me…disappear.’

Lillian put her hand across her mouth to try to stop the horror that was building. ‘I would never…’

‘Not you.’ His smile was gentle, relief showing over tenderness.

‘My father?’ The horror of his confession was just beginning to be felt. Lord, if it were her father…

‘Not him either.’

‘Daniel, then?’

‘And his mother. A woman paid the money and the Davenport coach was waiting at the end of the alley.’

‘Aunt Jean?’ Horror tripped over her question. ‘I cannot believe that my aunt would pay for something so…wrong.’

A flicker of a smile crossed his face, though there was
something he was not telling her, something that marked his eyes with carefulness even as he stayed silent.

‘When you did not come back, I thought perhaps you were in hiding, not wanting to be betrothed by force to me.’

He shook his head. ‘I had my lawyer offer marriage as soon as I heard of…of how things were for you.’ Lillian was glad he did not say ruined.

‘And when my father accepted, I could never understand just how it was you persuaded him.’

A shutter fell across amber, the secrets between them there again after a few brief moments of honesty. The thought made her sad as she tidied the sheets on his bed.

‘There are things we need to say to each other, Lilly, but not here like this. I need to at least be standing.’ The corners of his lips pulled up.

‘An explanation for your wounds, perhaps?’ She gestured to his arm and unexpectedly he reached out, the strength in his fingers belying the pain.

‘That, too,’ he added and the brush of his thumb traced the lines of blueness on her wrist. A small caress! Quietly given as the distant storm rolled closer and a single bolt of lightning lit the room with yellow, thunder rattling the panes of glass in a celestial reminder of the paltriness of human construction and endeavour.

When his fingers tightened she did not pull away, liking the warmth and closeness, watching the wind wild-tangled in the trees outside.

He was asleep before she realised it, his face in slumber so different from the watchful guardedness that
cloaked him when awake. The scar on his neck was easily seen, his head tipped sideways so that the full length of it was visible, his opened collar making it even more shocking.

A small boy who had left parentless for the new lands across the sea. What had happened to him between then and now? she wondered. What possible excuse could he give for the scraps he was so constantly in?

‘Please, God, don’t let him be…bad,’ she asked quietly of the omnipotent deity that she believed in, and then smiled at her own ridiculous description of Lucas’s character.

Bad?

From whose point of view?

The world she lived in skewered slightly. Never before had she questioned anything. Rules. Regulations. Beliefs. All had been adhered to in the way of one who feared that even the slightest of detours might lead to chaos.

Well it had, here and now, but the feel of his fingers against hers and the sound of his breathing did not feel like anarchy.

No, it felt warm and real and right, the world held at bay by a promise far greater than fear.

‘Love,’ she said quietly into the darkness, the word winding around truth with its own particular freedom as Mrs Poole bustled back with a tray full of salves.

L
ucas joined them for breakfast, the morning weather quieter than it had been in the night. Today, Lillian could almost feel the sun wanting to break through its binding mantle of cloud, though a thick blanket of twigs and leaves had been left on the part of the garden visible from the breakfast room.

Hope chattered beside her about the day and the night and the storm and the decorations that they had made yesterday. A never-ending array of topics and thoughts and so different from her sister, who sat in silence as she carefully spooned thick porridge to her lips.

‘If your governess could spare you one day around lunchtime, I thought we could go and collect pine cones and berries for the Christmas fireplace. I used to do the same when I was a little girl.’

‘At Fairley?’ Luc asked.

She nodded. ‘With my mother…’ Amazement claimed
her. She could not remember the last time she had ever spoken of her mother in company, but as the questioning gazes of the two children fell upon her she fought to appear calm. ‘She died when I was thirteen and I find it sad to think of her. Especially at Christmas.’

Unexpectedly Charity’s warm hand crept into hers, the small honesty of it endearing.
You are not alone,
it said.
I’m here.

Lillian looked at Luc, knowing that he had seen the gesture, and he tipped his head. This morning the whiteness of his shirt covered the generous bandage and his colour had returned to normal. A masculine virile man with more than just humour in his smile, for sensuality and appetite could be seen there, too. She knew by the responding lurch of her own body that it would not be long before pure desire ruled between them.

Looking away, she helped herself to scrambled egg and a piece of thick buttered toast. Scrambled like her thoughts, the rush of heat on her cheeks bringing her glance downwards so that her new husband might not see, might not know, might not understand that the resistance she had made such a show of was crumbling fast.

‘I have something in my room for you, Lilly. When you have finished your breakfast and the girls have gone up to their lessons I would like to give it to you.’

His room was tidier than she had seen it last time, all the clothes put away and the myriad of papers and books stacked on his desk into two neat piles.

A well-read man, she determined, and tried to align that with one who gambled and fought. Often.

She noticed there were many books on boats and shipping and on a shelf behind him was a single ship on a plinth, its riggings intricate and complete.

‘She’s the
Rainbow,’
he said when he saw her looking, ‘and one of the prettiest clippers ever built by Donald McKay. I saw her once in Massachusetts Bay before she made for the open sea with her long fine bow. She was designed to penetrate through the waves, you see, rather than ride over them.’

‘You bought this model here?’

He nodded. ‘In London. It will be shipped home to my uncle’s house in Richmond after Christmas.’

‘He likes ships as well?’

‘Liked. He is dead.’

‘Did your parents ever visit you in America?

‘No, thank God.’ When she frowned, he softened the criticism. ‘My parents were more interested in each other than in me. My father was almost forty when I was born and heavy-handed with a boy whom they never understood. It was a relief when they left my upbringing to Stuart.’

‘But you saw them again after you left England?’

He shook his head. ‘They died a few years after I left, of the influenza. In Italy.’

She saw no sorrow in his eyes. Just fact and distance, the ties that more usually held a boy to his parents broken by misunderstanding.

‘So you lived with your uncle.’

When he hesitated she knew that he had not. ‘I lived on his land on the James and farmed it.’

‘By yourself?’

‘There were a few mishaps but I soon got the way of it and Stuart helped me.’

‘Did one of the mishaps lead to the scarring on your neck?’

Before he could stop himself he pulled up his collar, the movement making Lillian place her hand upon his arm. ‘It was not meant as a censure,’ she said softly.

‘I have other scars as well,’ he returned and the air around them changed.

Other scars, other places. Where she could not see? Beneath his clothes and hidden. A singular vision of naked limbs entwined came to her, the thick burgundy cover on his bed loosely wrapped around them.

‘I am not untarnished, Lillian,’ he went on. ‘Not like you,’ he added, the husky American accent in his voice more pronounced than she had ever heard it. ‘And I cannot help but notice that you rarely wear my ring.’

He brought her hand up between them, the nakedness of her finger making her frown.

‘I took it off yesterday when I was painting with the girls…’

He leaned over and opened the drawer by his bed. ‘I know. Mrs Poole found it and had it cleaned.’ The large red ruby glinted at her, its familiar heaviness making it less…ugly, she thought, surprising herself. When he fitted it on to her finger she smiled.

In return he traced a line from her wrist to her elbow and then higher again when she did not pull away or turn.

‘I want this marriage to be more than just a sham, more than separate beds. You mentioned patience and limitations, but I am thinking that I have run out of both.’

‘I see.’ Her answer was given with a smile.

‘So if you thought to stop me, then I would say now is about the time…’

His fingers cupped the fullness of one breast through the layer of velvet, his burning glance holding her captive.

The feeling was exquisite. Thin want with need on the edge of it, and an answering spasm in her belly as the thrall of lust made her groan out aloud.

‘Lucas?’

She whispered his name amongst the riding waves of hunger and heat, his leg pushing against the mound of her femininity.

‘I would like to show you more than just a kiss under mistletoe, Lilly.’

His breath against her face was close. A locked door and as many hours as was needed.

She felt his fingers move across the cloth of her gown, bringing her to him. The length of their bodies fused into warmness, finding home, fitting perfectly.

When she tipped up her head he leant down, his mouth tasting hers, slanting across the small kiss she thought to offer and finding much, much more.

Heat. Hope. Thrall.

The pulse in her quickened, understanding what she knew only such a little of, yet wanting again what he had offered her once, the strength and core of his masculinity measured and fine.

And then hesitating.

‘Why?’ She shook her head, her breathing hoarse in the silence and the daylight bright. Not dark. Not hidden. No concealed and veiled mating.

‘If we go any further, Lillian, I cannot promise to cease.’

‘Cease?’ Even the thought of it made her shake.

‘It is not just a kiss I want this time.’

She felt her face flame, though his answering smile was tender.

‘I would never mean to hurt you.’

‘Hurt me?’ Her eyes widened, reality coming between fantasy.

She heard him take in breath and hold it. His heartbeat quickened under the pads of her fingers at his wrist.

‘When a man and a woman mate, the way of it is not always easy the first time.’

His words were whispered, the clock on his desk punctuating the passing seconds of silence. The caress of his breath on her cheeks made her turn towards him even as he began to speak again.

‘Do you know anything of what happens?’

Lillian swallowed. ‘A baby is made by the seed you place in my stomach.’ Anne Weatherby had told her that once after a particularly large glass of wine.

‘Well, not quite, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart?
The word turned in her mind. Not a small endearment from a man who looked as he did.

Lucas’s hands had now fallen lower, caressing her hips and her stomach and an ache of want made her press into him, unbidden. Asking for more even without the knowledge of what ‘more’ meant.

He began to move too, matching her rocking with his own. Give and take! The silent language of lovers through all the centuries of time. Faster and harder until her fingernails scraped down the skin of his arms, trying to understand what it was she asking for. Just this. Just them.

‘Luc?’ A question almost groaned. His fingers cupped her chin and he brought her face up so that his amber eyes burnt into hers as his other hand fell lower.

And lower as he lifted her skirt. The coolness of the winter air was strange against the heat of his fingers, and when he reached into what was hidden she tried to look away. He did not let her, holding his glance to her own as one finger gently found what it sought and eased in.

The rush of delight was elemental, uncomplicated and right. Opening her legs further, a thicker push followed, his fingers magic in what they engendered, a play of feeling and need and rapture.

The rising hardness against her stomach made her wonder. Was a man’s need as great as hers, but nowhere near as well concealed? She smiled at the thought.

‘Like a sheath, Lilly,’ he said as he nuzzled her neck. ‘I promise that you will fit me like a sheath.’

Snug? Close? Bound in skin?

Again he took her mouth, using his tongue in the same way he did his fingers, penetrating to find knowledge of her. Time seemed to stop as the day faded into only feeling, a nip of his teeth against the soft skin of her lips, his other hand pushing away the fabric covering her breasts and cupping the fullness before finding her nipple. And below his fingers bathed now in wetness.

The air between them quivered with all that he was doing to her, sweat building across the skin of her body as waves of need seemed to grow and grow and then recede again as he pulled away.

‘No!’ He laughed at her fervency, though his voice seemed hoarse and different.

‘Not so fast. Not so fast.’

Peeling away her stockings, he settled her against the wall, her velvet gown a cushion against the cold and her skirt now riding high above the juncture of her legs. Naked. Bare. Waiting. Excitement built steadily, vying with impatience as he undid his trousers and slid them down. The billowing white of his cotton shirt contrasted against the brown of his skin, muscles firmed and well defined.

A beautiful man with golden eyes and night-black hair and enough experience to make all of this easy! Giddy delirium urged her on, her fingers coming to the abundance of his sex and feeling…him. Smooth, warm. Needing all of what was to happen next. No control. No limitations. Just all the hours before them and an aching yearning eagerness!

He brought her hand into his as he positioned himself
at the juncture of her legs. Wetness flooded between them and she frowned.

‘It is your body, sweetheart, saying that you want me.’

Now he lifted her slightly, gently piercing.

‘Luc,’ she cried as the first pains hit, his length buried within and straining.

He stopped instantly, his breath ragged and his eyes pleading.

‘If you truly wish for me to cease…’

‘No.’ She whispered this time, for in the hurt she could detect some other want, a small question of flesh as he moved once and once again.

Bringing her legs around him, he tipped her hips and her weight upon his manhood changed from discomfort into another thing.

Some life-filled thing, her hands holding him in place as her mouth bit into the soft folds of his neck.

Not just her hurt, but his as well, the deep thrusts changing rhythm, harder and faster, careful wariness punctured by a building fervour as his hand covered her bottom. The crescendo of an ache made her throw her head back and just feel, the pulse of heat and light and loving. And sound. Her voice. Not restrained or polite or ladylike, but vivid and raw and loud.

Nothing hidden or covert! No shrouded thing as the pace of their breathing slowed and the world reformed again.

‘This is what all married people feel…?’ She had to ask.

‘Only those who are lucky enough,’ he returned and
lifted her into his arms, the swell of her breasts displaced so that her nipples were easily on show.

When he laid her on his bed she sat there as he undid her gown and her stays, pulling the cloth from her nakedness, daylight revealing much more than just secrets.

‘My God, you are so very beautiful,’ he said slowly, unravelling her hair. ‘Far more beautiful out of your clothes than in them and that’s saying something.’ The heavy drop of her tresses reached to the small of her back and the warmth was welcome.

Lucas wrapped his fingers in the gold paleness and brought it up to the light.

‘So many different shades of pale, Lilly.’ He had never seen hair her colour on anybody before, a changing kaleidoscope of corn and wheat and silver, her skin mirroring the delicate fineness. Carefully he shrugged off his shirt and stepped from his trousers, though when the bandage on his arm chaffed against his side he saw her wonder, all the other scars he had kept hidden beneath clothes visible as well today in the morning light.

Lillian’s fingers traced the one on his thigh and then the smaller scar beneath his left rib. ‘A bullet where I was not quick enough,’ he said when he saw where it was she looked.

Her body glowed in unmarked glory, the long lines of her legs, the roundness of her bottom and the smooth beauty of her breasts. Only one finger held the slice of some accident. He found the hand and separated it from the others.

‘I hurt it on a knife last year when I was quartering the first apple of summer.’

He laughed. Even her accidents were appealing. The ruby ring on her finger winked at him as he turned her hand.

‘Do you still want this changed?’

She shook her head.

‘I have grown used to it and it has grown used to me.’

‘It was my grandmother’s and the only possession I took with me from England. I wore it on a chain then around my neck so that it would not be stolen when I worked my passage. I never gave it to my first wife and now I know why. I was waiting for you.’