A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella (10 page)

The kindling caught most satisfactorily, the flames licking greedily at the larger logs. At least they were unlikely to freeze.

“He’s good with a fire, too.”

“I’m no useless aristocrat,” he said drily. “Life on a ship prepares a man for any circumstances, including finding himself alone with a beautiful girl in the middle of a snowstorm.”

She cast him a mocking look. “And teaches him a smooth line in flattery, too, it seems.”

He merely spoke the truth, but if he started telling her how wonderful she was, he didn’t trust himself not to offer physical proof of his admiration. “What on earth are you doing?”

She’d wrestled the door open and wind cut through the room. He leaned over the fire to keep the frail flicker of heat alive.

“I’m getting some snow to melt for water. We’ve got the makings for soup. Are you hungry?”

Yes, and not just for soup. “Something warm would be nice.”

She was outside only moments. The door slammed shut behind her as she fought her way back into the hut. He crossed to take the heavy iron pot she’d filled with snow and set it on the hook above the flames.

“I’ll have to compliment the landlord on his arrangements.” She headed for the shelf of supplies and began to sort ingredients.

Rory didn’t smile as he pulled a chair up to the table and sat. When the villagers had conspired to advance his courtship, he’d been amused—and touched. And he’d certainly appreciated any opportunity to have Bess to himself.

But now, because of that conspiracy, potential disaster loomed. At least from Bess’s perspective.

“If we stay here all night, there will be repercussions,” he said gravely.

“It will be all right.” She brought two onions, a heel of desiccated bacon, and a few shriveled turnips, potatoes, and carrots to the table.

He hadn’t expected her to collapse into hysterics—his Bess was made of stronger stuff than that. But surely the threat of scandal deserved more attention than she gave to a few old vegetables. “Your reputation will be in shreds.”

She returned to the shelves. “We’ve got barley, too, and split peas. We definitely won’t starve.”

“Capital. Did you hear what I said?”

She carried a couple of jars across. “There’s chamomile for tea, and some sort of liquor. It’s probably filthy stuff, but it might help to keep us warm.”

Rory caught her wrist before she moved away again. As the room warmed up, they’d both taken their gloves off, so he felt her pulse racing beneath his fingers. She wasn’t as calm as she appeared on the surface. “Bess?”

She regarded him wonderingly. “You’ve never called me Bess before.”

He released an impatient breath. “Never mind that. I just want you to know that I’m a man of honor.”

Her eyelids flickered down and she stared at his large tanned hand encircling her pale wrist. “This isn’t London or even Newcastle. People here understand that emergencies happen.”

“If we’re alone until morning, there’s no help for what we must do.”

She pulled away and returned to the shelf where she rooted out a couple of bowls, a sharp knife, and a ladle. “I’m not going to make a fuss.”

“You won’t have to.”

She looked back, blue eyes deep and serious in the golden light. He realized that she was fully aware of the trouble they were in. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“We could try to get back to the Abbey. It can’t be much more than a mile.”

Her lips turned down in dismissal. “In the dark in a blizzard? And both of us on foot and not dressed for this weather? We’d be taking our lives into our own hands.”

“It would save a scandal.”

“I’d rather stay alive.” She began to chop an onion with impressive efficiency. “I grew up in this valley. Trust me when I say this is likely no more than a flurry.”

A flurry? The world outside was howling white horror. But he put aside further arguments for now. As she said, there was no point borrowing trouble. They were stuck here until the storm worked itself out.

He’d marry her tomorrow, scandal or no scandal, but she clearly didn’t share his enthusiasm for the idea, damn it. “Can I help?”

She looked up with a quick smile. And visible relief that he changed the subject. “I doubt I’ve got the strength to dice that bacon. Can I give it to you? You might need an ax.”

“What time is it?” Bess asked from the table where she lingered over her empty bowl. Rory sat on the bed across the room, legs stretched over the rough mattress.

The improvised soup had been surprisingly palatable, and now they drank herbal tea from tin mugs. The hut was cozy, and they’d both removed their heavy outer coats which lay steaming in front of the fire.

He set down his tea and retrieved his pocket watch. “Nearly eight.”

When he’d ventured outside for more snow, he’d fumbled around in pitch darkness. The blizzard still raged, but he’d become so used to the wind, he hardly noticed it anymore.

“It’s getting colder again.”

“Yes.” He extended a hand toward her and hoped he wasn’t making a mistake trusting to his willpower. But he couldn’t bear to have her to himself, yet so far away. “Body heat is the best way to keep warm.”

Pleasure filled him when she crossed to take his hand, kneeling on the low bed. He slid his arm around her and tucked her close into his side, pulling up the blankets until they were cocooned against the wall.

“You’re shivering,” he said in dismay. He reached for the flask of homemade liquor he’d put on the floor beside the bed. “Have some of this. It might help.”

She sneaked a hand out from under the blanket and took the flask. She brought it to her lips and took a sip, then choked. “That’s vile.”

He laughed as he took back the flask and tested its contents. Aye, she was right. It was bloody dreadful, but once the fumes had cleared, he appreciated the spreading warmth. “Well, we’re stuck here. Any idea how to pass the time? If I had a pack of cards, I could teach you piquet.”

“I can play piquet.”

He snuggled her closer. He reminded his animal self that he’d offered her body heat, not the heat of passion. Difficult to remember when he touched her. “Miss Farrar, you clearly have a wicked past.”

“Not very,” she mumbled into his chest. “Your brother taught me.”

“Aye?” Ridiculous to be jealous of a dead man.

“When you’re ill, you have a lot of time to fill. I used to visit the Abbey to read to him. One day he was bored with the story and suggested cards instead.”

Rory struggled not to picture an intimate scene in the same state bedroom where he’d slept alone and longing since meeting Bess. It was much more likely she and his brother had been in one of the public rooms downstairs.

He was a fool to torment himself. If Bess had wanted the late Earl of Channing, she’d have married him.

“I’ll have to make sure all the huts on my estate are stocked with playing cards.” He offered the rough spirit, but she shook her head. He braved another taste, then sealed the flask and put it beside the bed. Despite their dire situation, he felt ridiculously content. Bess was soft and warm in his embrace, and her rich scent, tinged with wood smoke, filled his senses.

He rested his cheek on her shining hair. A hint of wet wool also teased his nostrils, despite the fire drying them out over the last few hours. But beneath that, she was all delicious woman.

With all his might, he strived to behave like a solicitous gentleman, and not a rapacious seducer. After all, her presence in his arms was a mark of hard-won trust. She clearly had no idea how his blood surged at her nearness, nor how he fought the need to drag her beneath him and warm her up the best way he knew.

Since he’d gone to sea, he’d had few dealings with virtuous ladies. The sort of lassie who succumbed to a sailor knew he’d be away on the next tide. Bess, for all her strength and vigor and courage, struck him as so heartbreakingly fragile right now. He loathed the thought of frightening her with his unabashed desire.

If she’d been one of his lusty mistresses, he’d tumble her in a blink. But she wasn’t. She was a chaste vicar’s daughter, and he had no idea how to shift her feelings from cordiality to passion. She was pure and perfect, and he wanted her so fiercely, he felt ready to burst into flame.

“I’m sorry I got you into this.”

He emerged from his brooding to meet her solemn blue gaze. “How is this your fault? Unless you’ve got some influence with the snow gods that I don’t know about. If you have, for pity’s sake, ask them to lay off.”

She smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I made you come out cutting Christmas greenery. In fact, I got you involved in having Christmas at the Abbey in the first place.”

“Silly wee chit, don’t you know yet that every step of the way, I’ve done exactly what I want?”

She studied him, her brow wrinkling in puzzlement. “Have you?”

“Aye. Unless you’d prodded me out of my bachelor squalor, I’d never have come to know the villagers. Or you.”

“Oh.” She put more effort into her smile. “I’m glad.”

“That I joined in?”

“Yes. And that I got to know you, too.”

Dear Lord, he ached to kiss her. To do more. Only with the greatest effort did he resist hauling her up against him. He’d been bold enough to kiss her that first day. Now too much hinged on what happened between them for such recklessness.

Her smile faded, replaced by an intent expression that corroded his frail self-control. “I know just how I’d like to pass the time.”

“We could swap life stories. Although no doubt mine would shock you.”

“Perhaps it would.” She paused. “And perhaps I want to be shocked.”

He didn’t understand. “Bess?”

She licked her lips and tilted her chin at a defiant angle. “Lord Channing, would you please kiss me again?”

L
ord Channing’s striking face tightened with shock. His jaw hardened and a muscle flickered erratically in his cheek. He looked like she’d asked him to shoot his best friend.

The bed suddenly felt intolerably small. Sick with humiliation, Bess wriggled to escape the arm she now realized that he’d placed about her for purely practical reasons. Her cheeks burned hotter than his skillfully built fire. “I’m sorry. I was stupid to ask.”

“It’s too dangerous to kiss you here.” He sounded austere and resolute, and not at all like the lighthearted man who had teased her about her mythical wicked past.

“I told you I won’t kick up a scandal.”

“But if I kiss you—devil take you, lassie, will you sit still one wee moment?—it’s surer than sunrise that I’ll do something worthy of a scandal.”

Puzzled, she stopped pushing and studied his somber features. “I trust to your honor.”

His lips twisted in self-derision. “Well, that makes one of us.”

A deep breath fought her dizziness. “I…I liked it when you kissed me before.”

“So did I.”

That was something. She seized her courage with both hands and squeezed it until it squeaked. “So why haven’t you done it again?”

“Because you’re a virtuous woman, and gossip runs through this damn village like a flood down a dry valley.”

“People will think we’ve been kissing anyway.”

“People will think a lot more than that,” he said grimly. “If I kiss you, they’ll be right.”

Monumental disappointment crushed her. He tried to let her down lightly, but rejection was still rejection. She went back to trying to escape. “Please forget I said anything.”

Despite her best efforts, tears clogged her voice. She’d never invited a man’s attentions before. After today’s debacle, even if her life depended on it, she’d never invite them again.

But, oh, how it smarted to hunger so desperately, and know Channing felt nothing in return.

“Bess, you make it so impossible.” He sounded like she tested him to the ends of endurance.

Still she wouldn’t look at him. “I promise I won’t embarrass you again.”

“What?” The few inches she’d managed to claim back between them disappeared as he caught her with ruthless hands and shoved her onto her back. He loomed over her, big and powerful and, unless she was mistaken, fuming. She ought to be frightened. But she’d sunk so far into sin since she’d met Channing that her wanton blood surged with female excitement. And a much overdue return of spirit.

“You’re to blame. You made me think you like me.”

He stared at her as if she was losing her mind. “I do like you.”

She raised her chin and glared at him. “I mean…
like
me.”

“I do.”

He clearly didn’t understand. Which was odd. He was one of the most perceptive people she knew. “You kissed me.”

“I did.”

She frowned as her temper spiked. “If you’re not attracted to a girl, it’s wicked to kiss her.”

“It’s wicked to kiss her anyway.”

“Exactly,” she said, so desperate to score a point against him that she hardly knew what she agreed to. “And it’s wicked to single her out, and call her pretty, and…and make her feel special.”

“You
are
special.”

Bess immediately dismissed that as another attempt to soothe her hurt feelings. “It’s wicked to touch her, and take her arm, and look at her as if you want to kiss her again.”