Comfort and Joy (19 page)

Here in the woods where their voices echoed, they were the only two people in the world. This beautiful wintery snowscape was their very own faerie land, their own Tir Nan Og. Beyond the snow, Maeve envisioned an ice castle where she and Charles could live without the interference of his world or hers.

Abruptly, Charles’s gaze fell to the rope in his hand. “We should go inside before we freeze to death,” he said, turning to wrap the rope around the tree as a tag.

The spell had been broken.

The snow fell faster. “If you freeze to death, your mother will put the blame on me as your dreadfully unsuitable wife.”

Charles chuckled and gave Maeve a lopsided grin that caused her heart to fly.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Our caretaker, George, will chop the tree down for us.”

“Shouldn’t the country house have a Christmas tree as well?” Maeve asked, hugging herself to ward off the cold seeping through her once again. “This would be the most wonderful place to spend Christmas.”

Charles agreed. “I’ve only spent one Christmas at Ashton Pond but it was a memorable one.”

“Aye. I’m certain.”

Perhaps the best, he thought.

“My mother came to Boston especially for the Christmas socializing,” Charles interrupted quickly, anticipating Maeve’s question. “Beatrice would not miss the Cabots’ Snow Ball for the world and I’m afraid she will not allow me to miss it. In other words, Christmas at Ashton Pond is impossible.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment showed in the fleeting shadow that fell across her eyes, the quick press of her full cherry lips.

“But before we go in, I think you should pick one more tree, for the country house,” Charles said in an effort to ease Maeve’s disappointment. “George and Hilda won’t mind.”

Casting him a heart-spinning grin, Maeve closed her eyes and twirled awkwardly around until she was dizzy. “I choose...this one.” After pointing, she opened her eyes.

It was a small, bushy tree not over four feet. Charles let Maeve tag it with a short loop of rope before grasping her hand and hurrying back toward the house.

“Wait!” She stopped suddenly, jerked her hand free from his, and bent low to the ground.

Charles watched in bewilderment as she scooped up the snow. Before he realized what Maeve was doing, she’d made a snowball, tossed it and hit him on the shoulder. A grown woman hurling snowballs, playing as if she were a girl again.

When Charles reached out for her, Maeve scampered away, grinning mischievously. He stopped to make a snowball of his own but as he righted himself she tossed another that landed in his midsection. He hadn’t thrown a snowball in years, not since he was a boy. Charles threw his ball badly and it missed its mark, sending Maeve into peals of laughter.

Once again, Charles gave chase and just as he was about to reach her, his snowball opponent stumbled in the snow and fell flat on her face.

“Maeve!” He ran to her, falling on his knees beside her. “Maeve, are you all right?”

She was making some sort of gurgling sound.

Dear God. He’d killed her.

But in the next moment, with only a little help from Charles, Maeve pushed herself to her knees. Wiping the snow from her face, she began to laugh once more.

She was obviously delirious.

Framing her face with one hand, Charles helped her wipe the snow from her cheek and from her lips. And then all he could see were her lips, blue and wet with snow. He gently covered Maeve’s wet, cold lips with his.

Soon she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and he held her close, drinking the laughter from her full, sweet mouth. The snow whirled around them, kicked up by a sudden breeze, but Charles was warm, very warm. Very alive. Utterly unable to tear his lips from Maeve’s.

She moaned, a soft and passionate sound that caused an unnatural spurt of his pulse. A powerful white heat sparked deep in his loins.

He could take her on this blanket of snow. Right here. Right now. He wanted her that desperately.

The realization of what he was willing to do to have Maeve brought Charles up short. The fire within him died. He’d lost his mind. For the past weeks one unexpected event had followed another, apparently taking a toll on him. Why else would he consider making love in a blizzard to a woman who would not be his wife for long? Those were not the thoughts of a rational man.

Charles dragged his mouth from Maeve’s. Carefully regaining his footing, he pulled Maeve up. “Forgive me. If you suffer frostbite, I will be to blame.”

“Is it cold? I hadn’t noticed,” she said and dissolved into laughter.

Caught up in the infectious music of Maeve’s laughter, Charles found himself laughing as well. He didn’t know himself any longer.

Shaking his head, he scooped Maeve’s beguiling body into his arms and carried her into the house. She weighed no more than a snowflake. She felt light and right in his arms. A rocking, searing desire swept through him. Despite the cold he grew hot and hard, aroused beyond endurance. Charles groaned inwardly as Maeve settled snugly into his embrace as if she was meant to be there.

“Hilda! My wife needs a warm bath immediately,” he shouted as he marched through the front door.

What made him say that? He’d said the word aloud again — wife. He hadn’t been thinking.

“And so do you!” Maeve exclaimed.

Ignoring her impudence, Charles continued delivering cheerful orders to the unseen Hilda. “And then we shall require supper and a warm fire in the parlor.”

Maeve started to protest. “But…”

“I’m afraid there’s no going back to Boston now. It’s a bad northeaster blowing out there.”

“We’re snowbound?”

“We’ll have to make the best of it.”

She grinned up at him. “I can do that.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be too... distressed.”

Her smile belied her sigh. “I shall overcome the inconvenience.”

Charles chuckled. “You are an uncommon woman, Maeve O’Malley.”

“But my clothes are soaked through.”

“Since mother never comes to Ashton Pond, I’m afraid there are no women’s clothes about. You shall have to wear something of mine. Do you think you can find something for this little woman, Hilda?”

The broad-hipped caretaker’s wife shot him a strange little smile. “That I will, sir.”

“Did I say something humorous?”

“No, sir. It’s just that except for Mr. Wellington, you’ve never brought anyone to the country before. And now, here you come all smiles and fit to burst with a wife. It’s a miracle.”

“A miracle?” Charles repeated, feeling a bit wounded.

Maeve giggled.

“Yes, sir. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I didn’t mean to shock you. And I understand it’s an imposition arriving without notice and requesting food and clothes —”

“Mr. Rycroft, the mister and me wish you would spend more time with us. I’ll get the baths now.” With that, Hilda gave a no-nonsense nod and waddled from the room.

None of the ornate furnishings and luxurious fabrics of the Beacon Hill house were in evidence at Ashton Pond. No modern bathroom had been installed as yet. Simplicity and warmth reigned within the cozy, rambling structure.

Hilda quickly prepared adjoining rooms on the second floor and Maeve settled into a bath by the fireplace in her cozy chamber. The furnishings were old but comfortable, crafted of sturdy maple by New England furniture makers. A bright blue-and-yellow quilt covered the four-poster bed and lace curtains graced the windows.

During her bath, Maeve pondered the significance of Charles bringing her to Ashton Pond when, according to Hilda, he’d not brought anyone else to this house. She took their visit as a positive sign.

The clothes Hilda appropriated for Maeve consisted of a pair of dark trousers that Maeve rolled up to her ankles and a white linen shirt with full sleeves. Several other petite persons could have helped Maeve fill Charles’s trousers and she felt swamped by the hopelessly large shirt. She made do by rolling up the sleeves and leaving the top buttons undone. The caretaker’s wife supplied one of her own magenta scarves for Maeve to wrap around her waist as a means to hold up the trousers. The scarf succeeded and a pair of Charles’s dark socks completed her outlandish costume.

Maeve unleashed her hair from its pins and brushed the blue-black mane until it gleamed. Still, a quick glance in the mirror told her she looked misbegotten, a little woman drowning in a man’s clothes. She tilted her head, pressing the side of her face against the shirtsleeve. The musky, masculine scent of Charles clung to the fabric. A warm tingle of pleasure trickled down Maeve’s spine.

Curious to see if her husband had gone downstairs, she opened the connecting door and peeked into his room. He sat in the copper tub, long legs bent awkwardly at the knee. He appeared uncomfortable, nevertheless, Maeve thought he looked magnificent. The dark curls peppering Charles’s broad chest and muscular legs glistened with beads of water and sparkled like jewels. With his wet, dark hair slicked back, his handsome features became more prominent, even more appealing.

Temporarily immobilized by the lusty allure of her husband, Maeve could not imagine even the great faerie lord, Fin Bheara, looking quite so splendid. She could not tear her eyes away. She could not catch a complete breath of air. Actually, she felt quite feverish.

“Maeve!”

Saints above, she’d shocked him again. He must think her a brazen hussy. “Please, I did not mean to disturb you.”

Frowning, Charles hurriedly pulled his knees almost up to his chin and wrapped his arms about his legs.

Although she admired his attempt at modesty, Maeve bit her lip in order not to smile. “If you recall, I’ve seen you...like this before.”

“Oh?” A disconcerted scowl flickered across his face. “Oh.”

And if she dared breathe the truth to Charles, which she didn’t, Maeve looked forward to seeing her husband buck naked again soon. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Flashing a distracted smile, she spun on her heel and, humming happily, sailed from the room.

The sight of Charles in all his naked glory filled her with longing. She yearned for the days when he had been a man with no memory of what was proper and what was not. The man she married would have invited her into his bath.

Those were the days. Too few and too brief.

Maeve entered the parlor in a wistful mood. Hilda had set a lovely candlelit table by the fireplace. The ragged, unadorned Christmas tree Maeve had selected earlier sat on a nearby table. Its heady pine fragrance mingled with the scent of cinnamon and apple already perfuming the air.

Hilda carried a tray to the table piled high with cheese and apples, steaming barley soup, hot bread, and chocolate cake. Maeve declined the wine.

“Thank you, Hilda. Your timing is impeccable,” Charles said as he strode into the room refreshed and feeling in especially good humor.

He sat across from Maeve at the small table. While he felt the heat of the fireplace, Charles knew another fire simmered within him. A fire that intensified as he met Maeve’s upturned eyes. “Are you comfortable in my trousers, Maeve?”

She tilted her chin and gave him a sassy smile. “I have never been so comfortable, Charles. A woman should always wear pants.”

Enveloped in his country clothes, Maeve resembled a small waif. When she moved, the gaping neck of Charles’s open shirt revealed her creamy shoulders and the deep, sweet valley of her cleavage.

The ache in his loins neared the point of pain. Charles raised his gaze to Maeve’s sloe-black hair tumbling in a glossy mass of curls cascading past her shoulders. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, searching for calm and strength of will. He required the will to overcome an involuntary, but overwhelming, need to bury his fingers in her silky mane.

Charles wasn’t sure he could eat.

Distraction might be the answer. “Maeve, this will be a different Christmas for you. I’m quite certain that the Rycrofts’ traditions are different from the O’Malleys’.”

“Of that there can be no doubt.”

“Tell me about your finest Christmas.”

Inclining her head, she teased her bottom lip. His gaze focused on her moist, highly desirable lips.

“I, I can’t think of when that might have been.”

Attempting to forget Maeve’s lips, Charles studied his soup, pushed his spoon through the thick stuff, and posed another question. “Can you remember a special toy you received from Santa when you were a child?”

Frowning, she shook her head. With the slight movement, a thick midnight lock brushed against the bare porcelain skin of Maeve’s shoulder. A shower of hot sparks prickled down Charles’s spine.

She appeared deep in thought. She had no idea what she was doing to him.

“Maeve?”

“Santa never brought me a toy.”

He was astounded. “Never? Not one?”

“No.”

“Not even a doll?”

“No.” A wistful smile played at the corners of her sweet cherry lips. “But I do remember yearning for a beautiful doll of my own.”

A quick, jabbing pain pierced Charles’s heart. “You never owned a doll?” he repeated again in disbelief.

“Not as I can remember. We had no money,” Maeve replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Poor Irish children were happy with a piece of rock candy or a shiny apple.”

“Maeve, I’m so, so —”

She interrupted Charles by leaving the table in a swift, abrupt movement. “Da did whatever he could.”

With her head held high and her shoulders straight and proud, Maeve shielded herself from any pity he might be about to express.

“Of course.” Charles could not explain the heaviness in his heart, the consuming need to hold Maeve in his arms.

“Since coming to America we’ve been able to observe Blackfast on Christmas Eve.”

“What is Blackfast?”

“A dinner of boiled salt cod and potatoes followed by Christmas cakes. ‘Tis a feast.”

Charles grimaced. “Boiled cod?”

Maeve grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“By some, perhaps.” He left the table to join her.

Her generous hips undulated slowly, softly beneath his trousers as she wandered toward the small, barren Christmas tree. His throat felt dry, dry as book dust.