Wicked Nights With a Lover (19 page)

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she murmured. “Let’s hurry. Before all the pine is gone.”

With a chuckle, he held open the door and led them out into the sweeping cold.

Freezing air hissed past him as Ash fell from the tree and hit the ground. He laid there for a moment, stunned, the wind knocked from him, arms still full of itchy pine. He credited most of his astonishment to the fact that he had been so clumsy to lose his balance and fall in the first place—not that he had seriously harmed himself. The snow cushioned his fall.

“Ash!” Marguerite cried. He marveled at the panicked sound of the cry, inordinately pleased that his wife of one day should care so much for his safety.

“Ash!” Her boots pounded the snow-covered earth, crossing the distance from where she had been gathering holly. “Are you hurt?”

Perhaps it was wicked of him, but he did not hasten to reassure her, instead he held still, eyes shut, waiting for her tender ministrations, eager for the first touch of her hands.

She dropped beside him, bringing an icy breeze with her. Her urgent little hands flattened against his chest, exerting the slightest pressure as she patted him, checking for life. He stifled a laugh when her hands arrived at a ticklish spot low on his ribs. He bit back the sound.

A glove warmed over his cheek, chafing fiercely. “Ash, darling, can you hear me? Speak to me!”

Darling.

Her sweet breath fanned his face, a puff of warmth on his chilled lips, so close and misty-sweet he couldn’t resist.

In one swift move, he grabbed hold of her and rolled her beneath him. She yelped, clinging to his shoulders.

She blinked wide eyes up at him. “You—you—” “Marvelous man,” he supplied. “World’s best lover?”

She swatted him in the shoulder, scowling. “Fraud! I thought you were hurt. I was already envisioning how I was going to drag the great hulk of you back to the lodge.”

Chuckling, he lowered his head and kissed her chilled, sputtering mouth. He deepened the kiss until he’d chased the cold from both their lips. Until his body warmed from the inside.

He slipped a hand beneath her body, bringing her up toward him and off the cold ground. Moaning, she circled her arms around his neck, clinging to him as if she would never let go.

He cursed their cumbersome clothes, thick and unwieldy between them. Mindless of the snow, he tugged her cloak open and pulled at her scarf, baring her throat for his lips. He kissed her neck, grazing the delicate arch with his teeth. She shivered. From him or exposure to cold, he didn’t know. He only knew he had to have her.

Vaulting to his feet, he dragged her up with him. Clutching her hand, he strode swiftly back toward the lodge.

“The holly, the boughs,” she cried breathlessly.

“I’ll come back for them,” he growled, increasing his pace.

Several times, she tripped and he pulled her upright. After a moment, he finally gave up on dragging her through the snow with so little regard. Without pause, he swept her up into his arms and carried her the last of the way.

His breath fell fast and hard, blood pumping as he entered the lodge, kicking the door shut behind them.

Her mouth already worked its magic on him, kissing up his neck, feathering along his jaw. Their hands worked in a frenzy, tugging and tearing clothes off of each other.

Her eagerness heightened his, and he freed himself with savage movements. Naked first, his hands darted to her hair, tugging the pins free and running his fingers through the strands, loosening the dark mass. He pulled her to him, kissing her, open mouth to open mouth.

She squirmed against him with a laughing moan, her hands managing to shed the last of her garments until she was flush against him. Bare flesh to bare flesh.

In their frenzy, they did not reach the bed. Limbs entangled, they fell on the fur rug before the fire in a pile.

Ash laughed against her neck. Rolling, kissing, crawling over each other, their hands never stopped—clinging, gripping, seizing, stroking.

Ash slid between her parted thighs. She wiggled herself up until she was perfectly positioned for him, her heat cradling his hardness in welcome. He slid inside her with one slick thrust.

She cried out, arching beneath him, her neck falling back, exposing the fine curve of her throat to his mouth. She shuddered at the first press of his lips there, at the gentle nip of his teeth on the cords of her neck as he moved in and out of her, setting a slow, sinuous pace.

She clawed his back, nails scoring his flesh. She thrust her hips up to meet him, pushing him to increase his pace, to take her swifter. His strokes quickened, drove deeper, wringing him of his control.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the sweet milk and honey of her skin, certain he had never smelled a woman like her before. “Marguerite,” he panted, wondering how every inch of him could feel so hot with winter sweeping outside.

Her hands slid down his back, seized his buttocks and squeezed. He bucked against her, growling out his release as he slammed inside her a final time.

She shivered, convulsed in his arms as her own release swept her. He fell atop her, still buried inside her delicious warmth, the aftershock of his climax ripping through him in shudders.

After a moment, he rolled off her, an arm still wrapped around her waist. On her side, eyes shut, her breath labored as if she’d sprinted a great distance.

He stared at her face, flushed from their lovemaking, the tip of her nose still pink from the cold outdoors.

He stretched his arm to the nearby chair and grabbed the quilt folded there, pulling it over them, making certain she was fully covered.

“Hmm,” she murmured contentedly, nestling against him as she settled deeper into the fur rug. “I could grow accustomed to this.”

Making love in the middle of the day? Napping like a fat cat without a care or responsibility? Despite the wealth and power he’d acquired over the last few years, he’d never permitted himself the indulgence. He’d always prided himself on his labors, working more than he rested or played. He was no blue-blooded aristocrat who inherited a silver spoon in his mouth. And yet he knew what she meant.

As her breathing evened to slow pulls, he studied her face, so relaxed and young in repose.

“Me, too,” he murmured, an odd tightness squeezing in his chest. “Me, too.”

Chapter 18

W
hen Marguerite woke, dusk was settling in a soft blanket over the day, tingeing the air sifting through the window to soft pinks, purples, and grays. She yawned, surprised at how long she’d napped. A quick glance around revealed the bed empty. Ash was gone.

Although she knew he couldn’t have gone far, an odd pang penetrated her chest. Rising, she quickly dressed, heat creeping over her face to realize she had slept these several hours naked. She’d never slept completely nude before. At Penwich, forty odd girls slept in one large dormitory. Even with little privacy to be had, she’d clung to her modesty and managed to reveal very little of herself when undressing. Somehow, with Ash, she lacked all such modesty.

Now she was a veritable siren, forsaking her clothes as though accustomed to sharing a bed, her body, with a man.

Dressed, she entered the lodge’s main room and found Ash bent over the table, pulling a loaf of bread from the hamper.

She sniffed the air. “Something smells heavenly.”

“I’ve made a stew.”

Her eyes widened, landing on a large pot beside him on the table. “You cook?”

His lips twitched. “I do a great many things.”

It was then she noticed the holly and boughs sitting in a great pile by the door. “You fetched our holly,” she murmured.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Thought you might like to arrange them this evening.”

She seated herself across from him at the table. “Of course, I
should
do something. While I slept the day away, you’ve been quite productive.”

“I’ve dragged you across the country. You’re due your rest.” His eyes took on that seductive glint she was coming to expect. “Especially as you have a long night ahead of you.”

“Oh,” she murmured, watching with her heart in her throat as he lifted the lid from the pot and stirred its steaming contents. A man waiting on her was quite an unfamiliar sensation.

Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since that morning. As he spooned the savory-looking stew into bowls, she cut the loaf of bread into thick slices, feeling the need to occupy her hands, to ease her discomfort at having her new husband wait on her.

They ate in silence.

“This is very good,” she finally remarked.

“Not the finest Christmas Eve dinner you’ve ever had, I’m certain.”

She started. “It’s Christmas Eve?” She’d lost track of days in the last week, so intent was she on escaping him … escaping her fate. Her gaze swung sharply to the window, as if she would see some evidence of the day in the softly falling snow.

“Yes.”

Unbidden, the thought came to her.
Her last Christmas.
She shook her head fiercely in denial and blinked suddenly burning eyes. Not the last. This would
not
be the last. She would cease such dismal thinking. Especially with a man she was coming to …

She gave herself a mental shake.
What?
What was it she was coming to feel for Ash? Love? The word whispered across her mind. She squeezed her eyes in a tight blink. Yes, that was the sum of it. She’d already realized as much. How else could she take such a risk with him?

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly, almost angrily, clearly misreading her reaction as she sat across from him in stunned silence. His spoon clanked against the inside of the bowl. “I’m sure there were countless ways you would have preferred to spend the holiday. I did not think of the timing when I took you from your father’s—”

“Don’t be sorry,” she rushed to say, almost astounding herself with her next words, but needing to say them. “I’m not. I’m glad you came when you did. If you had come a day later, a moment later, you would have missed me entirely.”

And that was the truth. He would have missed her. One of her sisters would be sitting here on Christmas Eve with him.

She wouldn’t have been abducted. She wouldn’t have married him … wouldn’t have this. So much, she realized, was left to chance. Or fate. And she wasn’t sorry for it. Wasn’t sorry for any of this—for him.

No matter what the year brought her, she would hold no regret. Everyone faced death sooner or later. If she faced it sooner, at least she would have truly tasted life. And love.

His features relaxed at her words, the harshly cut lines softening in the flickering firelight. “Very well then. I’m not sorry either. Not that I ever really was.” With a grimace, he motioned to their bowls of stew, their simple surroundings. “I simply wanted something better than this for you on our first Christmas.”

Lifting the spoon to her lips, she held his gaze and took a sip. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

Later that night, Marguerite woke to an empty bed and wondered if skulking from beds was a habit when it came to Ash. Did the man never sleep?

Slipping her shift over her head, she padded out into the larger room, chafing her chilled arms and marveling at how comfortable the little lodge had become to her. The idea of staying, lingering here forever, didn’t strike her as altogether …
bad.
Perhaps danger wouldn’t find her here … or whatever accident was meant to befall her. Perhaps here she could hide from the specter of death. She and Ash could build their own safe little world. A pleasant dream—even if it could never happen.

She found Ash sitting in the chair before the fire. He wore only his trousers, and his broad naked back gleamed in the firelight as he bent over something, his shoulders and biceps working, flexing and rippling as he labored.

Hugging herself, she approached silently, stopping behind him. A faint scratching sound filled the air.

“Ash?”

He looked swiftly over his shoulder. “Oh. I thought you were sleeping.” He glanced to the window. She followed his gaze, noticing the faint purple light of impending morning. “Happy Christmas,” he murmured, rising to his feet.

He offered her what he had been working on. A set of crudely carved figures filled his palms. She instantly recognized the three figures. She touched them with a shaking hand.

“I didn’t have time to craft all the figures.” His voice was rough with apology.

She took them from him, examining them as if they were the finest-crafted crystal. The small Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus fit snugly into her palms. “You stayed up making these for me?”

He shrugged. “I’ll finish the set for you someday. Perhaps next Christmas. If you like them.”

Next Christmas.

“I love them,” she managed to say, squeezing the words out thickly.

Her eyes burned at the thought of him finishing the set, and the Christmases to come when they could display them in their drawing room on a bed of holly. The children that would surround them, singing carols …

She stopped, shaking her head at the fanciful notion.

Before he saw the tears in her eyes and misunderstood, she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, speaking into the warm flesh of his neck. “I love them.”
I love you.

His arms came up, surrounding her, making her feel safe, protected,
loved.
And she prayed that she would be. That nothing would tear her from what she’d found with him. That this could last.

His hand trailed through her hair, dragging through the dark snarls. “I almost hate to leave this place.”

She released a breathy laugh. “Me, too.” Resting her cheek on the smooth skin of his shoulder, she added, “But we must.” She had much to accomplish.

“Yes, I’m sure your father is worried about you.”

She snorted. “I’m certain he’s not. And even if he were, I would not care.”

“He is your father, Marguerite. He should be told.”

She stiffened in his arms. Yes, Ash would want him to know.

“Marguerite?” He pulled back to stare into her face. “What is it?”