He sent her an amused glance. “Remind me to install extra padlocks on my house.”
“I can open those, too. You wouldn’t believe how much damage a woman with a strong hairpin can do.”
He laughed, and the low, deep sound curled around her and banished some of the chill. “This is quite a neat little residence,” she said, looking around. “There is a larder and a pantry as well, which surprised me, given the small size of the cottage.”
“Someone has a cook.” He eyed the shiny line of pots and pans that hung along one wall. “This must be Stormont’s hunting box.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been to Stormont’s hunting box. It’s quite large, and he always has servants stationed there during hunting season. But we’re still on Stormont’s land, so . . .” She looked around. “I just don’t know what this is.”
“Whatever it is, I’m glad you found it.”
“It was sheer luck,” she admitted. “As I was helping you to your feet after the accident, I noticed a path leading off the trail. We followed it here and I was never more glad to see a cottage in my life.” She went into the larder and began peering at the full shelves, selecting a pot of jam, a loaf of bread wrapped in waxed paper, and a tin of tea. She carried the goods back into the kitchen and placed them on a long table.
Marcus was lighting a fire in the large wood stove and she tried not to be irritated that, after just a few moments of effort, flames were already licking at the wood.
He picked up the kettle and filled it at a pump, then carried it back to the stove.
She looked about for a knife and saw one in a bowl. As she reached for it, her heavy skirts tugged at her wrist, so she removed the loop and let her skirts fall to the floor.
His dark gaze flickered over her. “We must find you more comfortable clothes.”
She grimaced. “The long skirt is annoying, but hopefully I won’t be wearing it much longer. Surely someone will find us today.”
He glanced out the window, where the snow was piled halfway up the glass, but said nothing.
She fought a sigh, turning her attention to the task at hand. She unwrapped the bread, the crusty scent rising through the air. “At least we won’t starve to death.”
“Thank goodness.” The kettle on the budding fire, Marcus returned to the table, where she was preparing to cut the loaf into slices.
“It’s odd that Stormont’s never mentioned this cottage,” she said idly, pulling her cloak closer about her to ward off the chill.
Marcus looked at her. “Why would Stormont bother to tell you aboot this house or any other?”
Because he wishes to marry me. There was no reason she shouldn’t say the words, yet she knew instinctively that Marcus didn’t like the viscount, and for some reason, that mattered. “The viscount is a friend of my father’s. I’ve grown to know him over the last year.”
Marcus’s gaze flickered to her and she thought he was about to say something, but he just opened the pot of jam and placed a spoon beside it. “Were there any cheeses in the pantry?”
“I think so, yes. On a shelf by the door.”
He disappeared into the small room, and she cut the bread as well as she could. When Marcus returned, he looked at the hunks of bread and stifled a laugh.
Her cheeks heated. “The knife is dull.”
He set the cloth bag containing cheese on the table and held out a hand. “Give me that knife.”
She bit back a sigh but gave it to him. “You’ll see what I mean. The blade is—”
He cut a perfect slice of bread, placed it on a small plate, and shoved it toward her. “Eat. I dinna suppose you know how to cook.”
“Of course I don’t know how to cook. Do you?” she threw out in challenge.
To her surprise, he smirked. “Aye. I’d make us some stew for our supper, but I doubt there will be a need. Someone will come before that.”
“You can cook?”
“A few things. I’ve traveled a lot, and it wasna always Grillon’s Hotel.”
At the mention of one of the best hotels in London, she found herself hungrier than ever. “I ate there once,” she said. “The chef . . . oh my, such glorious pork roast.” She looked down at her bread and jam. “Perhaps we should talk about something else.”
“Like how we’re going to handle the scandal of being alone overnight in this cottage?”
Stormont must be furious, she decided, a flicker of hope warming her. Now, not even Father could save that proposal—and she couldn’t be sorry. Yes, people would talk, and some would drop her from their invitation list, but she really didn’t care. This would stop Father’s pressure to accept the viscount’s unwelcome offer, too.
Marcus was watching her, a question in his eyes.
She shrugged. “It’ll be fine, whatever happens.”
“You’ll be ruined.”
“I’m almost thirty and a widow. I wouldn’t mind receiving fewer invitations. I find it more and more onerous to go into public, anyway.”
He looked surprised. “You used to enjoy plays and such. At least, you did when nae enthralled with a new book.”
“I used to play with dolls, too,” she replied dryly. “I would be quite happy to be left alone with my garden, books, and friends.”
“You could lose some friends from this.”
“Not real ones.” She watched him take a bite, his even teeth closing over the jam-slathered bread. Instantly, she had a memory from long ago when, in the heat of passion, he’d gently raked his teeth over her nipples, driving her mad with desire and—
She put down her bread, her heart pounding against her throat. “I’ll see if the water is ready.” She hurried to the stove and pretended to check the heat.
“It will take a while,” he warned. “The water from the pump was icy cold. I’m surprised it hadna frozen.”
“Of course.” With nothing left to do, she returned to the table.
Marcus picked up a small towel hanging from the side of the table and handed it to her. “You have jam on your chin.”
She swiped at it. Wonderful. I’m remembering times I shouldn’t be, and he’s thinking about what a mess I look. And he’s right; my clothes are horribly wrinkled, my hair is falling down, and now there’s jam smeared on my—
“You missed it.”
She wiped her chin again and the towel came away sticky. “There. Thank you.”
He shook his head. “There’s still a smudge left. Give me the towel.”
“No, no. I can—”
“Bloody hell, can you nae let me even wipe off some jam withoot arguing? You are the most contentious woman I’ve ever met.”
She had to swallow a heated retort. Perhaps he was right. He was just trying to help. With her lips folded tightly over her own protests, she handed him the towel.
He took her arm and pulled her closer, and then wiped her chin. As he did, his eyes met hers, and time froze.
She’d always loved his eyes. Almost slumberous in heaviness, they seduced with each glance. A deep gray like a stormy ocean, his emotions lurked in their depths. It took a cautious fisherwoman to extract their secrets, and at one time, Kenna had been able to do that. Now, though, she knew him so little that she didn’t even dare guess what he felt.
“The towel isna removing the jam.” Marcus’s voice had deepened.
She couldn’t look away. “No?”
“Nae. Shall I find something that will?”
Did he mean . . . She couldn’t even finish the thought. Instead, she nodded mutely.
He dropped the towel and slipped an arm about her waist, pulling her to him. Her body fit his as if she’d never left him, softening to fit his harder planes.
With his free hand he tilted her face to his, and then he bent to place a kiss on her chin.
Tremors of awareness crashed through her as his warm lips touched her chin . . . and all thought fled.
She slipped her arms about his neck and drew his mouth to hers, seeking and desiring
. She wanted him; she’d always wanted him. And now she had him here, alone, no one watching, no one condemning. She kissed him deeply, opening to him, teasing his tongue with hers.
His hands tightened about her and with a single move, he lifted her to the table, pushing her legs apart with his knee even as he moved his kisses from her lips to her chin, lingering where the jam had been. Every touch of his lips sent her senses careening madly, made her shiver with need, with desire. It had been so long. Too long. She had wanted this since she first saw him in Stormont’s sitting room.
But there will be consequences, some uncooperative part of her whispered. Dire ones.
I don’t care, she responded fiercely, as she gripped Marcus’s coat and pulled him closer. I want this. Now. While I can.
She tightened her knees about his hips and arched against him, welcoming him, urging him forward, begging for more.
Chapter Five
Marcus deepened the kiss, reveling in the feelings of both the familiar and the new, of Kenna’s rounder curves sliding under his seeking hands; of her scent, the memory of which had teased him mercilessly in the years since they’d parted ways; of the taste of her lips, which were softer and yet more demanding than any others. He slid his hand down her hips to her knee, and on to her boot-covered ankle, pushing aside her light wool chemise so that he could cup her bare calf in his palm. Her calf just fit his hand and he reveled in the warmth of her skin under his fingertips.
She was succulent, delicious, making him hungry for more even as he greedily tasted. Kenna stirred against him, restless and urging. He slid his hand higher up her leg, curving his fingers about her knee as he trailed a line of kisses from her jaw to the delicate hollows of her neck.
Shivering, Kenna shifted to grasp his arm, and as she did so, the long skirt of her riding habit tugged under his foot. It was a faint tug, barely distracting. But it acted like cold water upon his reactions. They hadn’t come to this cottage to enjoy a flirtation. No, they’d been madly dashing to her father’s house, hoping for assistance to rectify an error—an error he was responsible for, one that could impact her life in the worst of ways.
It could impact his, as well, if he made the error of caring for her again. She had walked away from their love and never once looked back. And if there was one thing Marcus didn’t wish to repeat, it was being the one who loved the most. It would be sheer madness to torment himself so again.
But here they were, alone together, protected from the curious gazes of society, friends, and families, and once again irresistibly drawn into one another’s arms. But it’s not real, he told himself. What happens here, in this isolated cottage, far away from our responsibilities and concerns, is far from reality. It is illusion, fragile and unreal, and it will end just as painfully as the last time.
Unless . . . unless he could find a way to kiss her, yet keep from falling in love with her again. He pulled back and cupped her face, looking into her eyes. Deep brown and slumberous with sensuality, they held secrets he ached to know.
Could he be with this woman and still protect his heart?
It wasn’t impossible. He’d done it before with many other women. He could do it now.
Couldn’t he?
No.
The word whispered deep in his mind, as loud as a shout. Not with Kenna.
Heart burning, he dropped his hands and stepped back, away from temptation, away from madness. “Kenna, this canna be.” He shook his head. “Nae again.”
She blinked, obviously stunned, her skirts draped over her spread knees, her lips damp and swollen from his kisses, her hair yet more disordered. The coat of her riding habit hung partially off one shoulder, and she looked like what she was—an almost ravished woman. Her gaze was hazy, as if passion still muddled her thinking, disbelieving that he’d left her.
He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. One step, and he’d be back in her arms. One. Step. As if to rescue him from the inevitable, the kettle whistled loudly, its sound discordant and shrill. His hands ached from emptiness, so he curled them into fists and turned to the demanding kettle. “I’ll make the tea.”
Bemused at Marcus’s sudden abandonment, his words as cold as ice water, Kenna found herself alone, her heated skin rapidly chilling, especially the burning trail left by his lips.
Feeling almost ill, she straightened her cloak and tugged her skirts back into place, then slid off the table and moved to the other side. She rubbed her arms, aware anew of the chilliness that permeated the room. What had just happened? She’d opened to him, shared with him, offered herself freely, and he’d walked away.
Again.
She pressed her lips into a tight line, fighting hot tears. In her entire life, she’d never felt so achingly alone. It was as if she’d been given a glimpse of something special, something to be treasured, something that lifted her soul . . . only to have it ripped out of her arms with neither warning nor care.
Marcus placed two mugs near the kettle, the crockery rattling on the small slate-topped table. Without sparing her so much as a glance, he opened the tin holding the tea. Soon, the fragrant scent of bergamot lifted through the air. “I dinna suppose you saw any milk in the larder?”
Ah yes, he always took his tea with milk. She’d almost forgotten that. Glad he hadn’t looked at her, she swiped her eyes with her sleeve. “No, although I daresay there’s an icehouse out back. If it’s halfway as well stocked as the larder, there should be milk.”
“I’ll be damned if I traipse into that snow for nae more than a splash of milk; I’ll do withoot.”
She nodded, wondering miserably what she should say to make it seem as if their kiss had held no meaning for her, either. But no words came, because the kiss had meant something to her . . . She only wished she knew what.
Marcus searched through the line of tins sitting upon a shelf until he found the sugar. He carried the tin and the two mugs to the table, where Kenna leaned. “Here.” He dipped a spoon inside the tin of sugar and placed a heaping spoonful into her mug, stirring it once before he slid it across the table in her direction.
He remembers how I take my tea. It was a small thing. Tiny, really. But the fact that he’d remembered, added to the fact that his hand shook the faintest bit and caused him to spill some of the sugar beside the mug, soothed her embarrassment. She wasn’t the only one affected by their embrace.
The realization made her sigh in deep, sudden relief. He is affected just as much as I am; he just hides it better.
She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it did. A lot. Now able to breathe more normally, she picked up her mug of tea and held it in both hands, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Thank you for the tea.” Her voice was husky even to her own ears.
Marcus gave her a dark, searching glance that made her tingle all over again.
The tea was so hot, she could barely hold the mug. Marcus must have felt the same, for he lifted the mug and blew upon the curls of steam. They danced away, disappearing in the sunlight, his lips damp.
She watched, mesmerized, longing. She could stay here, silent and miserable, or take a chance and speak her mind. If I don’t say something, this moment will be gone. And we’ve allowed so many such moments to disappear already.
Kenna placed the mug back on the table with a thunk. “Marcus.”
His gaze flickered to her. “Aye?” There was caution in that word, and distrust.
“That kiss. It was—”
“—a mistake.” He said it firmly, as if in doing so, he could make it true. “It willna happen again.” His gaze met hers. “I promise.”
Disappointment rippled through her and she curled her fingers into her palms in frustration. In the past, she would have swallowed her true feelings and avoided a potentially embarrassing confrontation. But I’m no longer that girl. I am older now, and changed by my mistakes and triumphs. “ ’Twas no mistake.” She met his gaze boldly. “Mistakes don’t make my knees weak.”
Marcus’s mug was h
alfway to his lips, but now he lowered it. “Perhaps ‘mistake’ was the wrong word. You and I . . . we are like a spark to tinder.”
“We have passion.” She leaned toward him. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“As strong as our passion is, ’tis nae enough. Ye canna build a true relationship upon it, for it crumbles like ash in the wind whenever there’s a problem or an argument. ’Twill nae bear the weight.”
“But—”
“Nae. We canna make that same mistake again. This time we must fight that passion and win over it, instead of the other way around.”
“And if we don’t?”
His cool gray gaze locked with hers. “Then we face the pain of yet another parting.”
“You don’t know that. This time, it could work. We could—”
“But I do know. And so do you. We dinna work well together, you and I. We are both stubborn and headstrong, we both have tempers that flash and flare, and neither of us is willing to give the other an inch.”
She shoved a loose curl from her cheek. “You make us sound wretched together. That’s not a complete picture. We had more than mere passion, Marcus. We laughed together, you and I. We loved and lived and fulfilled one another.”
“You are remembering only the good times.”
“And you’re only remembering the bad!”
“If our relationship was so much more, then why did we part after only one argument? One, Kenna. That is nae love.”
He waited, but she had no answer.
His expression softened. “We canna repeat auld mistakes. ’Twould be madness.”
Her heart sank with each word. He might have only felt passion for her, but she’d felt much more for him. She’d been devastated when they’d ended their relationship. More than devastated. The wounds pain me still, even after all these years, so it was definitely more than mere passion. But perhaps it wasn’t the same for him. Perhaps that was all the feeling he had for me. The thought lowered her spirits yet more.
Marcus watched the emotions play across Kenna’s face, and it took all his strength not to reach for her and pull her into his arms. She is facing the truth for the first time; a truth I knew years ago. “ ’Tis good we are discussing this now, before we make another error.”
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 13
