How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 23

  He supposed propriety had ceased to be a consideration the moment he fetched her from her castle and brought her to his. Not that he could have left her behind. Certainly taking off her clothes and placing her in his bed, no matter the urgent need or that his housekeeper had performed the bulk of the task, pushed him well over the edge of propriety.

  She looked tiny in his big bed. Small and very alone. He stared down at her wan face. Her body needed heat. She needed him.

  “Damnation.” With fierce movements he began yanking at his clothes. There was no time. He needed to act. Fabric ripped, but he didn’t care.

  He slid beneath the heavy coverlet and pulled her slim body against his. He hissed at the instant of contact. Her skin was like ice.

  There was nothing like shared body heat to chase out the cold. He ran his hands up and down her back, chafing briskly, training his gaze on her face, willing color back into her cheeks and lips. “Come, sweet lass. Stay with me.”

  She moaned at his ministrations and he paused at the long, throaty sound. A bolt of heat speared through him and arrowed directly for his cock.

  He muttered an epithet. He wasn’t depraved enough to take advantage of an injured woman . . . no matter the enticing sounds she made. Or the fact that both of them were naked and wrapped around each other.

  Determined to ignore her nudity and forget his arousal, he continued rubbing his palm up and down the slope of her back. God, had a woman’s skin ever felt more like silk? She whimpered and burrowed against him, seeking his warmth. He swallowed back a groan at the soft swell of breasts mashing into his chest.

  Bloody hell. This was punishment for all his many sins. He would endure it, though. Her salvation would be his hell. She clung to him like he was a bit of driftwood at sea, the only thing keeping her from going under.

  He ignored all of his baser impulses that rose to the fore at her closeness.

  This was instinct. He’d respond to any naked female pressed against him.

  Closing his eyes, he blocked out the sight of her. And that only made him more aware of the shape of her. More miserable.

  He opened his eyes and stared at a spot on the wall and fixed his gaze there. I won’t look at her. Won’t peek.

  He would not take advantage of the situation. His hands continued to rub at the slant of her back, imbuing her with his own body heat. It was one thing to touch her for the purpose of saving her life and quite another to look at her, to want her—a lass he didn’t want to like. And yet he feared that it was too late. He already did.

  It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Oil-hungry hinges creaked loudly. Calder lifted his head as the heavy wood door thudded against the stone wall. He blinked awake, rubbing at his eyes, not feeling the least bit rested. Somehow he had managed to doze off even in his present circumstances.

  Fenella strode into the chamber, holding a plate aloft in her hands, clearly unmindful and uncaring that she might be interrupting anyone’s slumber. “Och, good.” She ran her gaze over the length of the bed, assessing first him and then the girl next to him. She nodded in satisfaction. “Just as I ’oped.”

  “Fenella.” He tightened his grip on the counterpane, making certain it hadn’t dipped past his waist.

  Her rheumy gaze slid over him again, noting the movement of his hands. “No need tae be so self-conscious, lad. I’ve seen yer bits before.”

  “When I was four,” he said wryly.

  She shook her head and snorted. “What’s the difference?”

  “I’d like tae think there’s a good amount of difference since then.”

  She stopped at the side of the bed and squinted at him. Not only him, of course. Her gaze skipped to Miss Ballister before flicking back to him. “Changed or no’, it appears ye made progress with our lass ’ere.”

  Progress? He glanced at the deathly still Miss Ballister and back to the old woman. “She’s unconscious . . . and injured!” If he’d had any doubts regarding the soundness of Fenella’s mind, he no longer did. The woman was daft.

  She set her plate down on the side table with a clatter. “She’s fine. Hearty stock. She will give ye many babes.”

  Calder sighed and rubbed at the center of his forehead where it was beginning to ache. He did not bother to deny her charge that Annis would bear him many children. No point arguing with that bit of absurdity.

  He surveyed the sleeping female. She was still pale. He wished he could feel as confident as Fenella that Miss Ballister would be well. “Fenella, I’m no’ in the habit of taking advantage of unconscious females.”

  “Och, man. The lass is fine. She will rouse soon enough and then ye may begin wooing in earnest.” She tsked. “I’ve brought these tae help matters along. Eat a few . . . and once she wakes give ’er one, as well.”

  He glanced down at the plate. A dozen small biscuits scattered over the surface. No buttery shortbread. They more resembled clumps of rock than edible fare.

  “Fenella, are those your . . . biscuits?” One would think alleged love biscuits at least looked more appetizing.

  “Aye, and yer cook was most unaccommodating. I had tae threaten her with a rolling pin tae use the oven.” She shook her head ruefully. “She did no’ understand I’m about important work ’ere.”

  “Fenella,” he groaned. If Marie was unhappy, he would suffer charred food as a result. He predicted no fatted Christmas goose in his future. “Stop this nonsense.” He motioned at the lass next to him. “She and I do no’ suit—”

  “Ye’ve said that about every lass tae toss her bonnet at ye for the last decade. Yer no’ a lad anymore. Ye’ve a legacy tae provide. Ye owe it tae yer people and yer parents, rest their sweet souls.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in the bed. “My parents would want me tae be happy.”

  “Aye, happily wed. Now eat a biscuit, lad.”

  He looked in horror at the plate. “Be serious.”

  “Ye don’t believe they have magical properties, aye?” She shrugged one bony shoulder. “Verra well. Then it won’t matter if ye were tae eat one, will it?”

  A valid point. Still, he hesitated.

  “Go on, then,” she prodded. “Do it and I’ll let ye get back tae sleep, warming up the lass there.”

  He winced. Why did her words sound debauched? He was merely attempting to warm her . . . to imbue life into her.

  “Fine,” he snapped, reaching for a biscuit. It felt as hard as it looked, but he bit into it anyway—and somehow managed not to break a tooth. “Omphgf,” he choked as the stone-hard pastry broke into smaller chunks of foul-tasting stone. “This . . . is . . . awful. Are you certain it’s no’ off in some way?”

  She stared at him in affront. “I made it this verra night. The ingredients came from yer kitchen and they were all fresh.”

  He worked the biscuit around in his mouth until he managed to break the chunks into bits small enough to swallow. He stared reproachfully at the rest of the biscuit in his hand and then looked defiantly at Fenella.

  “All of it,” she directed with a stab of her finger.

  “Fine,” he mumbled, and stuffed the last mouthful of dry pastry into his mouth. “I’ll only eat one,” he choked, managing not to gag around the vile shortbread.

  She narrowed her eyes and considered the remaining biscuits for a moment. “Verra well. But when ye wake I want ye tae ’ave another one.”

  He nodded. In that moment he would agree to anything to get her to leave him in peace.

  She dusted her hands. “I’ll see ye and the lass in the morn, then.”

  The moment the door shut behind her, he dropped his head back on the pillow. The woman was a menace. He wouldn’t feel safe until she and the Ballister chit were back in their own beds. Anywhere but here.

  Scowling, Calder arranged the blankets so that they had a barrier between them and weren’t skin to skin. Satisfied, he snuggled closer to Annis, so that his body heat reached her through the fabric.

  * *
*

  Annis woke toasty warm. A marked improvement considering her last memory was only of stinging cold.

  She felt snug, wrapped in a veritable cocoon. She opened her eyes and settled her gaze straight ahead. A great wall of firm skin yawned before her. A male chest. She could see little beyond it. She inhaled. If warmth was a scent, then this was it. It radiated from him. Salt on supple skin. She glanced up and stared at the face of the sleeping man. Sinclair.

  The back of her skull was tender. Yet even that dull ache couldn’t distract her from the virile body sharing a bed with her. A bed. She glanced down, pulling back the cover for a peek. She was naked. She shifted, enjoying the sensation of warm sheets against her nudity. She should be alarmed. Horrified. She touched her tender head again. Her last memory was riding with Sinclair. They’d spotted the brigands. She must have struck her head sometime after that. Had she fallen?

  Whatever the case, Sinclair had delivered her safely to his home . . . and his bed. But he hadn’t touched her. He slept on the other side of her blanket, a blanket of his own pulled up to his waist, the material functioning as barriers between them. That spoke to his honor. He hadn’t taken advantage of her. Not many men would have left a ready and available woman unmolested. He was a good man—even if grouchy.

  She studied him at her leisure, knowing it was quite untoward of her. In fact, everything about this scenario was untoward. However, in this moment of unobserved freedom, she did not care.

  He was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen, and for the moment he was hers to enjoy. Dark lashes formed crescent shadows on his cheeks. His chest lifted on a soft breath. Asleep and not speaking, he was quite the amenable fellow, unlike during their previous encounters. She stifled a giddy giggle, pressing her fingers against her lips. The action made her sore head throb, and she winced.

  Of course, she’d never shared a bed with a man before. She likely never would again. She wanted to absorb the momentous occasion for all it was worth. Years from now when she was at the convent she would have this secret memory. She hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder, willing herself not to shake, but needing more, needing to expand on this memory. She craved the sensation of his skin.

  She could imagine Mama instructing her to do just as she was doing. All the better to compromise herself and force his hand. For the sake of his title. For a dukedom.

  Except she could care less about that. She shoved out thoughts of Mama.

  This was about temptation. About all she would miss when she entered the convent. The realization made her frown. Miss? She had never thought about taking vows in such terms before. Before it had been about escape, about claiming peace for herself. It had never felt like deprivation. Never like she would be cheating herself of something. Now, though, with her body humming and her heart racing, she felt that keenly. She felt the temptation. The need.

  So instead of hopping from the bed as she should, instead of disentangling her limbs from his heavier ones, she stayed put and let her hand meander over him. She sank a little deeper into the mattress and let herself have this. She let her gaze study the sweep of his long lashes. The nose that appeared to have been broken. The lips that in sleep looked too full, too vulnerable for any man. She looked and looked and looked.

  She relaxed and touched him at will. She would make a memory for herself because she could. Right now.

  Because tomorrow, next week, three months from now . . . she would not have the chance. A heavy weight settled on her chest, sinking, threatening to pull her down. This opportunity might never come again.

  Now was her chance. Now she would seize the moment.

  * * *

  Calder came to slowly, bit by bit, his cock hard, aching, pushing against sweet feminine flesh, seeking release. Damnation. Somehow his barrier of blankets had failed him and twisted free.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d woken at full mast—or with a woman in bed with him. He’d not lived out his days a monk, to be sure, but this was the first time he’d ever been in bed with a female with whom he was not at liberty to share intimacies.

  This was a scenario that called for restraint.

  His body was an inferno, burning beneath the blankets and his own scalding skin. He flung the covers off his shoulders and lifted up on his elbows, his gaze dropping to Miss Ballister, unprepared to find her so . . . awake.

  Wide blue eyes gazed up at him, unblinking. His self-control slipped a dangerous notch and yet he clung to it. He wasn’t like some men, lacking self-control. He was a man who held himself apart—even from people he knew well. His life was and always had been one of restraint.

  Calder stared in silence for a moment before finding his voice. “Hello,” he breathed.

  “Hello,” she returned in a small voice.

  “How are you?” Were they truly exchanging niceties?

  She moistened her lips and he followed the trail of that pink tongue. “Fine. I think.” She inhaled and lightly touched her head. “What happened? I don’t recall . . .”

  “You fell and hit your head.” He reached up and brushed the light brown hair off her forehead. He delved through the strands until he found the lump on the back of her scalp. “Does that hurt?”

  She reached around, following his fingers to test the area herself. “Just a bit tender.”

  “By the time we arrived here you were soaking wet and freezing nigh on tae death. We had tae get you warm.” He actually sounded conciliatory. There was no cause for that, however. He’d saved her life.

  “Oh.” Her gaze dropped between them, taking in her state of undress. Her cheeks pinkened as she pulled the counterpane higher up her chest. “I suppose that explains this.”

  He waited, imagining her ladylike sensibilities taking over. He braced himself, waiting for the shrieking to start, something any proper soon-to-be-nun would do.

  Only it never came.

  Her fingers flexed on his shoulders, and that was when he realized she was touching him. Voluntarily. His mind might have been slow to process, but his body had known. It had recognized her closeness, her touch. He’d wager that was what woke him in the first place with a raging cock.

  “I always wondered . . .” Her hands trailed down his shoulders to his chest, her eyes brightly curious. Perhaps dazed? Perhaps it was the lump on her head?

  He needed to be sensible for both of them. He should climb out of the bed and put space between them. Put his clothes back on. Stride from the room until this inconvenient desire ebbed.

  Instead, he asked, “What did you wonder?”

  She looked up from his chest, her eyes hooded beneath her lashes. “I wondered how it might be . . . with a man.”

  He swallowed back a groan.

  She didn’t mean that. She couldn’t. She was an innocent destined for the sanctity of the church. She’d been through an ordeal tonight and was undergoing the effects.

  “You’re clearly suffering from some sort of head injury.”

  A faint smile hugged her pretty lips. “Is that what you think?”

  She was a siren.

  Suddenly, he felt tied up in knots. As though he was the inexperienced one here and she the skilled lover.

  Their lips were so close. Somehow his head had lowered. Or had she lifted her lips to his?

  “You’re supposed tae be a nun,” he reminded her in a whisper, his words husking over her mouth.

  “But I’m not yet one,” she reminded.

  He brought his head down then, sinking into her lips.

  Just as he feared. She was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. Unfortunately—fortunately?—their individual blankets were bunched between them, keeping all their most intimate parts from pressing flush. It was the only reason he wasn’t already between her thighs. Had that been the case, he might not have been able to stop himself from driving inside her body the moment she invited him.

  He slanted his mouth over hers and she parted her lips on a sigh. He took advantage, sweeping his tongue insi
de, stroking hers. She responded, tasting and licking him back until he felt even hotter than when he first woke up, blazing and afire.

  He tore his mouth away.

  She chased after his lips with a soft little whimper. He cupped her face with one hand and looked down at her, his breathing labored. This girl was unraveling him.

  “Where did you learn tae kiss like that, Annis?” It was not how he expected a convent-bound girl to kiss.

  She smiled coyly. “I have kissed a few boys . . .”

  “Boys?” He hated the thought of that. Almost more than he disliked the notion of her becoming a nun. He far preferred the idea of her staying nearby—within reach—however impossible that was. Her father had won a castle for them to enjoy on holiday. There was no chance of her staying in proximity.

  “Yes. When we lived in Bristol. Before we moved to Town.” Her smile faltered, and she looked suddenly less confident. “I suppose you think less of me for that.” Her tone turned indignant. “I don’t know why it has to be that way. It never struck me very fair that men do all manner of vice and are excused for every single instance. How many girls have you kissed, Sinclair?”

  She was lovely angry. Hot color splashed her cheeks. “Calder,” he said.

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I beg your pardon?”

  He brought his head back down. “My name is Calder, and I don’t care how many boys you’ve kissed, Annis,” he declared. “Because I’m the first man.”

  Chapter Eight

  Annis once had a governess who insisted she was the most troublesome of all her sisters. Naturally, Annis took exception to that. She didn’t throw tantrums. She didn’t pick fights with her siblings or treat any of the household servants with disdain. She never complained about the pudding or the tea or any number of things about which her sisters saw fit to complain.