Mistletoe Magic

Chapter Seventeen

Lucas 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.’

Her hand fisted tight and he leant to place a kiss on the back of her knuckles, laving the spaces between with his tongue, the trail of coldness making Lillian shiver.

Her husband. A man fashioned by hardship and loneliness and the absence of family that had shaped all of his life.

And now. What was he now? Just at this moment in this room with their skin against the daylight and the feel of each so known?

Lovers? Friends? Two halves of a whole made complete? The beginning of a life that glinted in the red stone on her finger, tantalisingly close.

‘Love me, Lucas,’ she whispered.

‘I do,’ he answered and his mouth came down to claim hers in reply.

He had left when she woke, the dent in the sheets where he had lain, cold and empty.

Her hand smoothed down the creases and she turned towards his side so that she lay watching the window, the smile that played at her lips pushing into the pillow with a shy incredulity.

‘Goodness,’ she whispered, remembering. She had always been so controlled, so restrained, so correct and careful and proper.

But not this morning!! The hours with Luc had cured her of ever being proper again, his hands in places she had not dreamed of, and showing her things she could never have imagined. Stretching, she felt elation rise. She was a wife in truth now, and one who knew the secrets of a marriage bed.

A tiny piece of misdoubt remained as she also thought of the marks that crossed his body. No little accidents or paltry cuts. The scar on his leg ran from his groin to his knee and the one at his neck reached the blade of his shoulder. And that was discounting the long wound still beneath the bandage. She frowned. The man who had left England as a boy had had enemies; that much was certain. Still had enemies, she corrected.

Could she ask him about it? Would he tell her? Her father had seldom spoken to her mother of anything of importance. She knew because Rebecca had complained of it again and again to her friends when she thought Lillian was not listening.

Was this the way of marriage? She shook her head and played with her ring. In the light the stone shone red against the sheets, and in the newly cleaned yellow gold she saw markings. Slipping the bauble off, she brought it up to her eyes and read an inscription of three words held within the band.

Whither thou goest…

Lillian finished it off from memory in a whisper. ‘…I will go: and where thou lodgest I will lodge.’

She sat up, the declaration of devotion from the Book of Ruth making her heart thump. Did Lucas know these letters lay within the ring? Had he meant them for her? The band was an old one, fashioned, she imagined, some time in the last century, the worth of it considerable. Had it been only recently engraved or was it an ancient troth given between other lovers? His grandmother’s, he had said, and the only worldly tie to a family lost to him. Slipping it back on, she clenched her hand inwards, the value of gold and precious stone as nothing compared to the worth of the words.

A shimmer of hope crossed her heart like a kiss beneath the magic of mistletoe or the first dusting of fine snow when the Christmas bells rang true.

New! Exciting! Full of promise!

Pushing back the sheets, she stood, donning a nightgown left on the oak chest at the foot of his bed, the material holding the smell of Lucas and the folds of fabric easily reaching to her feet. With care she pulled the bedding upwards so that the prying eyes of the maids she summoned would not see the chaos that such loving had wreaked and then she waited for a hot bath to be filled.

There were two men in the library with her husband when she went to find him a few hours later. Two men who looked nothing like refined country folk or city gentlemen.

Dangerous.

The word came out of nowhere and made her stop, fright replacing all that had been there a moment earlier, and Lucas’s expression daunted her further.

‘Lillian.’ His tone was distant but polite as he moved in front of the visitors, shielding them from her gaze. ‘I am busy now. If you could wait until later?’

‘Indeed?’ She could not keep the question from her response, though nothing showed on his face save guardedness.

Looking further on to the desk, she noticed a pile of paper bank notes of the larger denominations and beside them lay a gun. Not the elegant shape of a duelling pistol, either, but the serious contours of a lethal shooting tool. The small Christmas tree that Charity had made him as a present sat squarely beside it, its red and silver stars the reminder of a season of goodwill and peace.

Not here though!

Not in this room!

Not with men who looked like foreign sailors or thieves, their eyes falling away from her own even as she glanced at them. Her right hand crossed her left, feeling for her ring.

‘I will await you in the blue salon,’ she added frostily, accepting her husband’s help with the door as she sailed through it, the wide sway of her gown breaking the growing silence with its own particular music.

Once outside she stopped and took stock. Lucas’s arm was out of the sling Mrs Poole had fashioned for him, and the clothes he wore were riding ones. Could he have been out already?

Eight days until Christmas and her house was filling up with guns, blood money and ruffians of a foreign persuasion, not to mention the chilling anger that had dwelt in her husband’s eyes before he had been able to hide it.

She took three deep breaths and heard the sound of a squeal from the stairs.

Rounding the corner, she saw Hope and Charity playing with a puppy who looked nothing like any other dog she had ever seen. And Hope was calling to it, as it leapt to try to take a ball.

Lillian walked forwards. ‘Where did the puppy come from, poppet?’

‘Mrs Poole brought it over early this morning and Mr Lucas said we could keep it because Royce is getting to be so old. Can we, Lilly?’ This entreaty, given her husband’s promise already made, was so unexpected that she could not help but nod. Charity’s head was bobbing up and down, too, and Lillian thought for a second that the child might even speak, for she pursed her lips in the way of a ‘please’.

This morning could not possibly become any stranger, she thought. A husband sequestered with men who looked like pirates and a puppy dog with baby fat showing through the ample folds of its pink-and-white skin.

But when Stephen Hawkhurst suddenly burst through the front door in full riding kit and without knocking, she revised her opinion.

It just had!