What Happens Under the Mistletoe

by Sabrina Jeffries

  She stiffened, the flash in her eyes reassuring him. “Kissing me was an ‘error’?”

  “Or a fool’s impulse. Call it what you will; it willna happen again. I willna allow it to happen again.” There. That made sense. Calm, cool, dispassionate sense.

  She picked up her mug and took a sip, a pensive look in her warm brown eyes. “Fortunately for us both, I am not as afraid of my passions as you are.”

  “Afraid?” he sputtered. “I’m nae afraid of anything!”

  She shrugged. “Then what’s a kiss or two?”

  “Your reputation—”

  “The damage to my reputation has already been done, so there’s no fixing that, at least not now. And no one would know what happened here, unless we told them—which I would never do.” Her gaze locked with his. “Would you?”

  “That is nae the point. It’s aboot stopping before—” He pressed his lips together. “We’re playing with fire, Kenna. We were burned before and I, for one, willna be burned again.” He picked up his mug, the steam wisping before him. “I owe you an apology for this mess. That kiss at the masquerade ball caused this entire situation. The fault was mine.”

  Her brows lowered. “If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine.”

  “As soon as I kissed you, I knew who you were. I should have stopped there, when no one was the wiser, and we were undiscovered. But I lost my temper.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kenna. It was childish of me and—”

  “Marcus, please. That kiss at the masquerade ball, I . . .” She wet her lips, and his gaze instantly locked upon her moist mouth. “It was my fault.”

  “Nonsense. I knew who you were and I kissed you again. When it comes to kissing you, I canna seem to stop when the time comes.”

  “But I—”

  “Och, lass, say no more. I’ve apologized and we’ll leave it at that.” He finished his tea and placed the mug back on the table, glancing out the window. “If help does nae come soon, I’ll walk to the nearest road and flag doon a passing coach.”

  “Walk? In this weather?”

  “It canna last forever.”

  Sighing, Kenna cupped her mug between her hands, her gaze following his to the window. “I wonder why no one has yet come for us.”

  “Perhaps they canna find us. You said the cottage is some distance off the trail.”

  “Aye, but not that far.”

  “The prince knew what path we took, and he would have told Stormont as soon as we were discovered missing. It’s just a matter of combing the woods near the path, which is the first thing I’d do, if I were searching for a lost party. We will be rescued today, I’m certain of it.” He glanced at her and caught a flicker of concern crossing her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “ ’Tis naught.”

  She smiled but it wasn’t a genuine smile, for her dimples remained in hiding. It dawned on him that she often did that—turning her smile on and off as if it were a lamp rather than a true reaction. Does she hide her feelings behind those smiles? Did she do this before?

  He placed his hands flat on the table and leveled his gaze with hers. “ ’Tis nae naught if it keeps you from smiling. What is it?”

  The false smile disappeared and she sighed, a deep, long sigh that said more than words could. “If you must know, I was hoping no one had sent notice to my father that I’ve been missing.”

  “Ah. You dinna wish him to come swooping down from his high perch and sprinkle you with his rancorous judgments.”

  “Something like that, yes. ’Tis to his benefit to pretend all is well in public, but in private—” She curled her nose. “He’ll swoop to his heart’s content, claws bared. He’s not an easy man to deal with in the best of circumstances, but when he feels his good name has been threatened . . . you don’t want to know him then.”

  “I’m well aware of your father’s hawkish tendencies. He never liked me.”

  She stifled a laugh. “And you returned the favor, if I recall.”

  His lips twitched. “Perhaps.”

  “You should have seen him after we ended our engagement. He was furious.”

  His smile slipped. “I knew he’d be angry with me, but surely nae with you.”

  “Oh, he was angry with both of us. As you weren’t nearby to listen to his fuming, I had to listen to enough of it for two.”

  Marcus caught the darkening of her gaze. “I never meant that to happen. I left the country to make things easier, nae to leave you to deal with your father’s wrath alone.”

  “His wrath consists only of sharp words, but he knows how to cut with them.” She took a sip of tea that dampened her bottom lip. He had to fight the urge to draw her close and taste her yet again. Her lips would be warm from the tea, and slightly sweet, too. His groin ached anew and he bit the inside of his lip. Stop that, he admonished his too-vivid imagination, and forced himself to focus on something less tempting than her lips.

  He turned away, looking back out the window. “Bloody hell, it’s a blizzard out there.” The wind blew the snow in white waves against the window, pelting the glass with tiny, icy flakes.

  “It was snowing like that when we reached this cottage yesterday.” She shivered. “I’d never been so cold.”

  “We should take our tea back to the sitting room where it’s warmer, although . . . I suppose you explored the rest of the cottage while I was unconscious?”

  “Me, leave a cupboard unopened? Perish the thought.” She managed a smile, an honest, genuine smile that crinkled her eyes and made her dimples appear. And oh, how he wished he could kiss those dimples.

  Irritated at himself, he pushed away from the table. “We should explore the rest of the house.”

  She placed her mug on the table. “I didn’t have time to examine the rooms in detail, as I was afraid you’d wake up while I was wandering around, and not know where you were.”

  “Thank you for your forbearance. How many bedchambers are there?”

  “Only one master chamber. There are two servants’ quarters in the attic.”

  “Hm.” He brushed a hand over his chin, the scrape of his whiskers audible. “I dinna suppose you saw a razor when you were peeking aboot?”

  “I didn’t pay attention, although I did see some clothes in one of the wardrobes.”

  “Men’s? Or women’s?”

  “Both.”

  “Interesting. Perhaps we can find something more comfortable for you to wear than that riding habit.”

  “I’d like that,” she replied honestly. “There is a copper tub in the master bedchamber, too. Perhaps we could warm water so we can bathe—” “We”? I meant to say “I”! Why did I say that?

  And yet now that the words were said, Kenna couldn’t seem to make her lips take them back. Instead, she met his gaze and this time she couldn’t hide the smoky truth his presence had stirred to life. She wanted him. She wanted his kisses and his touch. She wanted to taste him and feel him and be with him. She wanted more than that, too. She wanted this: to talk to him, to find out what he thought, and why he’d acted as he had, and why he was here now, talking to her in this way, listening to her and—

  He straightened, his mug thumping heavily on the table as he pushed it away. “I should make sure there is more firewood in case we’ve need of it.”

  “There’s a large stack by the front door and—”

  “It may nae be enough.”

  “It’s huge—we could never burn through the lot of it, were we stuck here a month.”

  “Still, I should make sure we’ve extra wood before the weather worsens even more.” He was already out the kitchen door, striding to the steps that led back upstairs, his boot heels ringing with each step.

  “But it’s still snowing,” she called after him. “And you’ll get cold and could catch an ague and—”

  “I’ll wear my coat.” His voice drifted back down the stairs. “Enjoy your tea until I return.”

  She went to the bottom of the stairs. “I thought you wished to
look through the house?”

  But he was already out of earshot and in the sitting room; his footsteps sounding on the ceiling above her. Just as she decided to go back upstairs, she heard the front door open and then close so rapidly that she had to believe he almost ran from the cottage.

  All of that, to protect himself from one look.

  She sighed. She should have known better than expose her feelings in such a way. He’d warned her that he thought there was no future for them, but she’d ignored his words.

  Her heart aching, she picked up her mug—but the tea suddenly tasted unbearably bland.

  Chapter Six

  An hour and a half later, chilled to the bone and thoroughly caked with snow, Marcus entered the cottage, his arms filled with firewood. He stomped the loose snow from his boots, set the stack on the foyer floor, and took off his coat. He hung the wet coat on a peg by the door beside Kenna’s cloak and winced as his exhausted muscles complained. He ached from splitting so many logs into firewood. He’d already made several trips inside, and the brass rack by the fireplace was overflowing. He’d gone on to add several rows of split wood to the stack beside the kitchen door, too, enough wood to last this small cottage the rest of the winter.

  Swinging the ax in the biting wind had cleared his mind, in addition to leaving him blissfully tired, both good remedies against the unruly passion Kenna stirred within him.

  Pleased with himself, he gathered the firewood from the floor, and opened the door to the sitting room.

  Kenna was on the settee beside the crackling fire, and he was surprised to see an embroidery basket at her elbow. She’d apparently found a brush too, for her dark brown hair was now smooth, and her clothing, though still wrinkled, seemed more orderly as well. She held a small hoop in one hand and a threaded needle in the other. She eyed the load of firewood in his arms before looking pointedly at the overflowing bin by the fireplace. “You’ve certainly made yourself useful.”

  He carried the wood to the bin, and—unable to fit even one more log in it—placed the wood on the floor beside it, then dusted the loose bark from his sleeves into the fire. “The wind is picking up.”

  Her gaze flickered to the rattling window. “I noticed.” She was silent a moment. “It looks brutal out there. I wonder if—”

  A crack sounded from outside, followed by a thud that shook the small cottage.

  Kenna’s wide gaze met his.

  “A broken tree limb. The snow is heavy and wet, and there are broken limbs everywhere. It’s only getting worse.” It was why he’d decided to return to the cottage when he did; a huge limb had come perilously close to landing on his already bruised head.

  She looked worried. “It’s almost noon and no one has come. Do you think this wet snow and the falling tree limbs will put them off?”

  I hope not. He pulled off his gloves and placed them over the fire screen to dry. “It may be too risky to the horses. We may be stuck here another night, or they may press through. I dinna know.”

  She looked at her embroidery and sighed. “I finished the book I bought, but then found this basket so at least I have something to do. I also started a stew. It was very quiet after you left, and I wished to keep busy.”

  “That was verrah industrious of you.”

  “It was very desperate of me. I’ve never cooked before; I don’t know if it will be worth eating or not.”

  “How can you ruin stew?”

  “That’s what I thought. ’Tis why we’re having it.” She glanced at the table beside a display cabinet, which she’d set with fine china and silver for their luncheon. “I thought we’d eat in here, where it’s warm.”

  “That is verrah kind of you.”

  “I could do no less, what with you cutting down the entire forest for heat.”

  He found himself smiling at the wry twinkle in her eyes. “I dinna cut down a single tree; I only split the wood already cut and drying in the shed.”

  “All of it?”

  “Almost,” he lied. He nodded to her embroidery basket. “Where did you find the basket?”

  She patted it as if it were a cat. “In one of the servant’s rooms. I daresay the housekeeper kept it handy for when she wasn’t needed.”

  Marcus held his hands to the flames. “I dinna suppose you found any books? This house seems strangely empty of them.”

  “Not a one.” Disapproval folded her lips. “Who can live in a house with no books?”

  “Nae one I would call a friend.”

  “Nor I. I brought one with me, but ’tis a novel and I know you prefer histories, so . . .”

  “So I do.”

  She replaced her embroidery hoop back in the basket and stood. “I daresay you’re hungry. I’ll see if the stew is ready.”

  “Has it been cooking long enough?”

  She smoothed her skirts. “Oh, yes. I wasn’t exactly sure how long stew should take, but I wanted it ready for luncheon, so I made sure the fire was high.”

  He raised his brows at this startling news, but she was already leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

  Marcus looked down at his hands and decided to wash for lunch. He went back to the foyer and pulled on his coat and then hurried outside. There, he used the pump to wash his hands, the water so cold his hands ached, but at least he was clean.

  He’d just returned and left his coat back in the foyer when Kenna appeared carrying a tray, the stew in a fanciful soup tureen, a pitcher of water balanced precariously beside it.

  He stepped forward and rescued the pitcher as it slid to one side, and then filled both of their glasses. Afterward, he took his seat while Kenna dished the stew into his bowl.

  He looked at the stew, the smell instantly choking him. Pepper, garlic, and other scents he couldn’t quite identify seemed to fight for attention. “I can see you seasoned it well.”

  She took her seat, confessing with touching candor, “I wasn’t certain what went into stew, so I put in a little of everything I could find. You can’t have too much flavor, can you?”

  “Nae.” That explained that. He poked at the stew, which had the consistency of water, dotted with floating gray lumps. “I’ve never seen stew of this consistency—” At her concerned look, he hurried to add, “—but there are many types of stews.”

  As he spoke a carrot floated to the top and slowly, ever so slowly, rolled over to reveal that it was half burned. He tapped it with his spoon and discovered that the half that wasn’t burned was uncooked.

  He noted that Kenna was staring at a piece of a turnip that sat in her spoon, cooked much like his carrot. She tried to bite it, but it was impossible, and the flavor made her choke. Face pink, she dropped the turnip back into her bowl, her shoulders sagging. “It’s wretched.”

  Marcus’s first impulse was to agree with her. Yet he heard himself murmur, “I’m sure ’tis verrah tasty.”

  “It’s not. I didn’t put enough water in it at first, which burned the vegetables, so then I added more water, thinking to thin out the stew, but I must have added too much, and the spices . . . I should have been more cautious with them.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” He took a bold sip of the watery, lumpy gravy. It was horrid, the spices clumped, burned pieces of various vegetables floating about.

  Realizing her gaze was locked on him, he forced a smile. “Quite tasty.” He reached for his glass of water and drained it.

  She dropped her spoon in her bowl, where it landed on a large hunk of onion that sat half submerged like the back of a turtle at low tide. “It’s wretched.”

  He watched, wondering if there would be any tears, but she just sighed and said, “Well, I tried. That’s all I can say.”

  “All it needs is a little something more. After all, what’s stew without a nice crust of bread?” He placed his napkin on the table and arose. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  When he returned, he carried a tray that held a plate of crusty bread, two kinds of cheese, a pot of jam, and thick sl
ices of a ham he’d found hanging in the back of the pantry. He placed the tray on the table. “The perfect side dishes to our stew.”

  “Side dishes? That’s an entire meal.”

  “Nonsense,” he said firmly. “They’re just side dishes. Nae more.”

  A smile quivered on her lips, but she joined in. “The ham will make our meal especially appetizing, especially if I eat it between the slices of bread and without the stew.”

  They ate quickly after that, and Marcus realized he was indeed famished. When the meal was over, they collected the dishes and returned them to the kitchen. The fire in the stove had heated the small kitchen, so they washed the dishes and left them on a dish towel to dry, before returning to the sitting room.

  “An excellent lunch,” he declared as Kenna dropped onto the settee with her embroidery.

  She sent him a shy smile. “Yes, it was.”

  “I find I quite like our small cottage.” Marcus looked about the room. Perhaps there was a chessboard or a backgammon game to be found, something a bit boring that would cool his ardor. His gaze moved over the decorative vases, candelabras, and a small painting of a couple by a river—

  He looked at the painting more closely. He’d thought it was of a knight and a lady washing in the river, but now he realized they were— Bloody hell! He glanced at Kenna, who was rethreading her needle.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and casually strolled toward the painting, pausing to examine a glass dish here, a vase there. He kept an eye on her bent head as he progressed across the room. Just as he reached his goal she looked up, and he stepped between her and the painting.

  Her brows knit. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m . . . looking out the window to see if any more branches are falling— Ah! There goes one now.”

  She turned toward the window.

  He grabbed the painting off the wall, then slid it facedown under a chair.

  He’d just straightened up when Kenna turned back to him “I didn’t see anything—”