Let it Snow

by Suzan Butler, Emily Ryan-Davis, Cari Quinn, Vivienne Westlake, Sadie Haller, Holley Trent

  “Of course,” she said to him, though it was more to soothe his sensibilities than because she thought it was a good idea. “But do not worry. This man is a gentleman of some rank and we will make inquiries to find his family and alert them of his condition.”

  “Very well. I shall return in a few days, but if his condition worsens, please send for me.”

  The doctor’s joints acted up during the inclement weather, so she watched him amble forward, his hips not quite in sync. A footman helped him into his greatcoat and top hat and she watched the coat billow out as he exited the door.

  He was a character from a gothic novel for sure. She could imagine him haunting the moors and frightening some young woman who dared to venture out in the storm.

  My, her imagination was active today. First the stranger, now the doctor. Maybe she was more affected than she’d thought by the events of today. Was she in shock as the soldiers had often been after battle?

  Or was she merely tired and lonely? Envisioning things around her to be more vibrant and mysterious than they were so she would not have to face what was lacking in her life.

  Maybe her brother was right. It is about time that you find a good man to settle down with. John would not want you to grow old alone.

  Violet liked her independence, the freedom that came with being a widow of means. But that freedom definitely came with a price.

  She could spend her money as she liked, stay out late visiting friends, or make her own choice of investments, but at night, she lay in her large oak bed and listened to the wind echo through an empty house. There were servants, but no husband, no children, no laughter to quiet the silence in her heart.

  * * * *

  “He still sleeps fitfully, my lady.” Avery put his hand to the man’s head. “A little warm. We should get some ice and keep his temperature down.”

  “And you have checked his bandages?” The bleeding had stopped, but the chance of infection was high. She stood by the four poster bed, looking down at her savior, who lay still and quiet, despite the people in the room.

  “Yes, the wound is not healed, but neither is it as gruesome as it was yesterday.”

  “And he has not awoken?”

  “He tosses and murmurs and has managed the chamber pot a couple of times, but he does not speak and his eyes are glazed and unfocused.”

  It had been two days since the incident. She prayed it was the laudanum keeping him so dazed and not his injury. But they could not be sure yet.

  “If he does not awaken in the next day or two, we shall have to fetch Doctor Littleton. For now, let us keep him cool and make sure that someone checks on him every hour.”

  Violet went to the window and opened it. The sky was cloudy and the ground covered with a thin layer of snow. “The fresh, cool air should do him good.” She rang the bell then went back to the bed and sat down. The man’s hands felt hot under hers, but she raised them to her cheek to be sure. Definitely too warm.

  “My lady?” Miriam entered the room.

  “Go and fetch some ice please. If there’s no ice, send a footman outside and gather snow. We need to keep him cool until his fever breaks.”

  She leaned over to the bedside table, dipped a cloth into a small ceramic basin, and wrung it out. “I will see to him for a while, Avery.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you.”

  Gently, she wiped the man’s face, always conscious of the bandage. She hummed as she worked. It was a very old song that she’d learned as a girl. Sometimes her mother would sing it as she stitched.

  “Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove. The hill and valley, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield.”

  She washed his arms, noting each twist and turn of muscle. She even tested it with her finger to see if it was as firm as it appeared. Nothing about him was soft— except for his lips and the silky threads of his hair.

  She brushed the towel over his neck and down to the exposed skin at the opening of his tunic. The hair there was fine. She couldn’t help but stare as she swept over his chest. His nipples were wide, but tightened into little nubs when she touched them.

  What would it feel like to run her palms over them? Would they react to her as they did to the damp cloth? What about her mouth?

  Violet turned away and blushed. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember him fighting off the thief and the moment when he’d taken the fateful blow. She needed to focus on her task and not on the yearnings she felt for a man she barely knew.

  She might be fantasizing about a man of base morals or a man with a wife and four children. Or what if he was a clergyman? That she doubted considering his skill with weapons and his readiness to fight, but what gentleman would watch an innocent woman get attacked by thieves and not come to her rescue?

  A man does what needs must. Even a man of the cloth will take up a pistol if his life or his country demanded it. She had seen boys barely old enough to carry a gun with gaping holes in their chests and villages ravaged and burned in the war.

  And this man would die like the rest if she did not do her duty to him. He’d saved her and now she must do the same for him.

  With such thoughts distracting her, she didn’t realize she’d paused her singing until she heard a low, gravelly voice.

  “Sing.”

  She looked down to see dark eyes watching her.

  “You are awake!”

  “Sing,” he repeated, but he’d barely finished the word when a ragged cough took over his body.

  “A belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs, and if these pictures may thee move, come live with me and—”

  “Be my love.” His voice was hoarse, even more than she expected for someone who’d slept for two days. She lifted from the bed to pour water from the pitcher into a cup.

  When she lifted the cup to his lips, he coughed and it dribbled down his chin. “Easy.” They tried again, but still, most of the water ended up down his chest. His tunic absorbed the excess liquid and clung tightly to his body, so she could see every line and curve. His nipples hardened again.

  “Let me try this another way,” she said. This time, she dipped her fingers into the cup and let the water drip into his mouth.

  He opened wide for more. She leaned closer, her bosom near his face, and poured more water from her fingers.

  After the third time, he put her two fingers to his lips and sucked them. A flash of heat shot through her limbs. If she’d been standing, she would have faltered and lost her balance.

  His mouth was hot and she suspected it had little to do with his fever.

  “More,” he whispered. He stared at her and she could not move, could not speak.

  There was a knock behind them and that jolted her out of her frozen state. Miriam stood in the doorway with ice and more water. The man groaned.

  She motioned for the maid to come in. As soon as the girl was close, Violet took a tiny chip of ice and put it in the man’s mouth.

  The ice would help his thirst, but she also was afraid for him to speak. The need in his eyes was too real, too close to the desire that she felt. But he was a stranger. A beautiful, dark, bewitching stranger who had risked his life for her, yet she knew almost nothing about him.

  A fact that she could remedy. No. What was she thinking? He was wounded, disoriented, and who knew if he mistook her for his wife or some mistress? A sharp pang twisted in her gut. Did he have a mistress? She’d already considered that he could be married, but she hadn’t thought about the possibility of a mistress.

  He was a virile, handsome man with a body any sculptor would worship and carve into stone. She’d seen it all, every wicked inch of him. The thought of that body being pleasured by some other woman made her ill.

  “Do you or the gentleman need anything else, my lady?”

  “Perhaps the cook has some broth. But please make sure it is tepid, not hot.”

&nb
sp; Miriam set down the tray of ice and curtsied before exiting the room.

  He rubbed his temples, then when Miriam was gone, he turned back to her. Though he whispered the word, “Water,” his eyes said something else.

  She plopped another ice sliver into his mouth. He sucked on it, watching her still. She felt a flush run down from her ears to her belly. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought his fever was catching.

  A foolish part of her longed to demand if he had a wife or mistress, but she bit her lip. That was not the first question she should ask him. And he was so weak, it was better if he didn’t speak at all.

  She put her hand to his mouth. “Do not try to speak, sir. You are weary and hoarse.”

  He opened his mouth and before he could argue, she fed him another ice chip.

  “You have a fever and you need to rest.”

  His forehead was still warm. It could be a long night if his fever didn’t break. But he was at least alert for now, which was a good sign.

  She stood up, intending to move aside the blankets and leave him with the sheet, but he reached for her arm.

  “Don’t.” Under his stare, she froze again. “Do not. Leave.” Though the words were gravelly and low, it was a command, not a plea.

  “Very well.”

  She pulled aside the blankets, careful not to touch his thighs, and moved a chair close to the bed. The mere foot of space between her seat and the bed seemed much farther. Every little movement made her aware of the hard chair beneath her and the cool air brushing over her skin.

  She missed the heat of his body next to hers. “Shall I sing you the rest of the song?”

  He nodded and she continued singing the last two verses. She fed him a few more ice chips and started a new song, a sad tale about sailors at sea.

  She rubbed the ice over his face and arms, singing softly. His eyes closed and though he tossed a couple of times, he soon fell asleep.

  “My lady,” Miriam whispered from the doorway. “I’ve the broth and a bit of bread here.”

  Violet took the soup from her and set it down as quietly as possible.

  “Bring me the sewing basket and the man’s jacket and trousers.”

  Since she did not want to leave him, she decided she could make herself useful.

  He slept for two hours before he stirred again. This time, he could hardly speak and every movement caused him to groan in pain. She managed to get him to eat some broth and gave him a dose of laudanum, which made him even less intelligible than before. But he slept deeply and she iced him down again before sending Sally to look after him for a while.

  After some consideration, Violet went to her room. At first, she sat down at her secretary to write a letter to her brother, Westley. But the black ink beaded on the page more than once as she paused to think of what to say. Her mind kept returning back to him.

  She would have to tell Westley everything sooner or later, but it could wait. Fingering the fine walnut wood of her desk, she reached down to the drawer where she kept her journal.

  It was the only place where she could allow herself to express what she was really feeling. Her quill danced over the page as she recalled the last two days: the wild events on the way home from the Crofts’ farm and the mysterious gentleman who’d come to her rescue.

  She described his intense gaze, the sumptuous mouth that tempted her every time she looked at it too closely, and the body that made a woman want things that should never be spoken aloud.

  In front of the doctor and the servants she could pretend that she merely sought his welfare, that she wished to repay him for assisting her on the road. But here in her private space, she could be honest. Violet wanted him. She wanted his kiss, his body gliding over hers. Each time he awoke and looked into her eyes, the need grew stronger.

  Chapter Four

  Four Days Later

  The cannon fire between his ears made him want to weep. He held both sides of his head, trying to ease the pressure there. What had happened? Had an anvil been dropped over his head?

  He could hear the distant clatter of what sounded like silverware. The clanging only made the pounding in his head worse. If he’d had a gun, he’d shoot himself, merely to be free of it.

  He closed his eyes and willed the noises to subside. Where was Jeffries? “Jeffries! Jeffries! Stop that incessant noise!” His valet would see to his peace and quiet.

  “Pardon, sir. You called?” A young blonde girl came into the room and curtseyed. She carried a tray that included hot tea and scones.

  He did not recognize her. She must be new. “Where is Jeffries?”

  The girl gave him a blank look. “Let me fetch my lady for you.” She set down the tray. The clanging continued as the cup jostled against the saucer and the teapot rattled. He grimaced and rubbed his head.

  No, no, no. He didn’t want his sister. He wanted Jeffries. But before he could correct her, the girl was gone.

  A few minutes later, an exquisite woman with hazel eyes and full lips entered the room. That was not his sister.

  When she spoke, the sound echoed through his skin, sending tingles all over his body. Who was she?

  The dream. He’d dreamed of her before. Leaning over him, bathing him, singing to him. Was he merely dreaming again?

  “You are awake! I’m glad to see you alert again.” The woman smiled broadly. Her teeth were white and even, her skin clear and smooth. Surely she’d dropped from the heavens.

  “Hello, angel,” he said. The gravel in his voice surprised him. His throat was parched and his fingers felt stiff when he moved them.

  She came and sat on the bed. Yes, she must be a dream. What fine lady would come into his room and sit on his bed in so familiar a fashion?

  He leaned forward to touch her hand. A hammer pounded through his head, but he ignored it. He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. “Is this a good dream?”

  Her pupils widened and he could hear the catch in her breath. When she spoke, it was a breathy caress. “It is no dream, sir. Do you remember anything?”

  She lifted her arm, but then dropped it. When she bit her lip, his gaze was drawn to her lips again. Full, sensual, and perfect. He could bite and kiss them for hours. To have them on his skin would be a treasure. On his cock, would be heavenly.

  She blinked and turned her head from him. But the redness in her cheeks gave it away. She knew what he wanted. And if she did not want it, she would walk away.

  He took hold of her wrists and pulled her toward him. He wanted her. And this was a dream, so he saw no reason to proceed with caution or whisper honeyed words to flatter her into seduction.

  He reached for the chemisette tucked into her bodice, wanting to be rid of the fine sheer cloth that hid her décolletage from view.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered in a tone so soft it made him instantly hard.

  “I am unveiling your treasures.” He tore off the thin fabric and feasted his eyes on the enticing fruit of her body. “These are far too lovely to hide away,” he said, sliding his hands under them.

  “You should be resting.”

  He kissed her neck. She smelled of honeysuckle and her warm skin tasted sweet and salty, like baked bread.

  “You should not overexert yourself,” she said, even as she angled her neck to give him access. “It’s been four days since the incident. I think you need a bit more time to recover from your wounds.”

  That stopped him.

  “Wounds?”

  She touched his head. The heat of her hand touching his body made him want to kiss her again. But something was wrong. He put his hands over hers and realized that his head was wrapped in a bandage.

  Earlier, he’d been too pained by the loud sounds to notice that it wasn’t a sleeping cap on his head.

  “You were assaulted by criminals.” She bent her head down. “You came to assist me when I was attacked on the road.”

  He could rem
ember seeing glimpses of her face. Remember her touching him. But he could not remember any criminals or being on the road with her.

  “I-I have no recollection of that.”

  She stroked his cheek. “That is common after an injury such as yours. I’ve seen it in the soldiers we tended after battle. You need rest.” She pushed him gently, urging him to lie down again. “In time, it will all come back to you. It was only yesterday that your fever broke.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Violet Laurens of Welbury Park.”

  Mrs.? He’d nearly made love to another man’s wife? Perhaps he had been thrashed in the head.

  “You are married?” He accused, crossing his arms.

  Violet’s eyes narrowed and she met his stare with one of her own. “Widowed.”

  “Ah.” No harm done. The lady was free. He loosened his arms and placed them at his side.

  “Now, may I ask for your name?”

  His name. What was his name? A moment ago, he remembered his valet, his sister. “Kit—” The words fell off. He could not remember. He rubbed his temples, searching for the name that was at the edge of his mind.

  He tried to think. Kit. Kittleson? Kittridge? Kitson? Christopher? He couldn’t be sure.

  “It is alright. Do not strain yourself, Kit. You are safe for now.”

  “Why can I remember the name of my valet, but I cannot for the life of me recall my own?”

  “Perhaps you are oft used to yelling it across the house? Like as not, you say his name far more than your own.” She winked.

  It was as plausible an explanation as any. He looked up to see her smile and then he forgot everything but the desire to touch her.

  “I take it we do not know one another?”

  “No.”

  “Seeing that I am here in your home, I think we should take steps to remedy that situation.” He grinned slowly and looked at her through his lashes.

  “You are persistent.”

  “I can say with confidence that I am.” He may have forgotten some things, but he had not forgotten how to charm a lady. “Now tell me something about you.”