Marcus straightened. “I havena had my breakfast yet.”
“I brought it up an hour ago.” She nodded to the tray on the small table. “The tea is probably cold by now.”
He eyed the tray with distaste. “Let me guess—ham and bread and cheese. Again.” He dropped the fire iron noisily into its holder, then stood with his head bent, his jaw set as he stared moodily into the fire.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” she demanded.
“I’m tired. I’m tired of this place. Of this situation. Of this blasted snow. Of the food. But mostly—” He looked up, and the heat in his gaze shocked her. “Mostly I’m tired of wanting you and never having you.”
Kenna’s breath caught. She was tired, too, and of the same things. But . . . and there it was yet again—the “but” that kept her from acting. But it might not work. But I might get hurt again. But he might laugh or leave or reject me. But it won’t last.
He must have read her expression, for his face hardened. “Of course I dinna expect you to take a chance on anything, especially something not sanctioned by your father.”
She stiffened. “That’s unfair.”
“Is it?” He pushed away from the fireplace and came to stand before her, towering and furious. “Had it nae been for your father, would we still be together?” He saw the hurt flicker in her eyes, but he refused to back down. By God, he was due this conversation. Due it, and then some.
“This has nothing to do with him.”
“It has everything to do with him. He hated that you chose me, because he wasna given a say in the matter. From the moment we made our intentions known to him, he spent every waking moment trying to tear us apart. And you let him do it.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Oh? What was our last argument aboot? The only serious argument we ever had?”
She pressed her lips together. “We argued about why you’d been spending time with Lady Cardross. I’d heard rumors, and I’d seen you at Vauxhall with her the night before. But when I asked you to explain it, to tell me why you were with her, you wouldn’t. You—you just looked at me as if I disgusted you, and then you walked away.”
“You chased me down quick enough, and told me what you thought of me in no uncertain terms.”
“I’m glad I did!” She stepped so close that her toes touched his. “We were engaged to be married, yet you couldn’t come off your high horse long enough to answer one simple, important question.”
“If all it took was for one person to whisper a falsehood in your ear for you to distrust me, then you never truly trusted me to begin with. Lady Cardross was nae one, a person I spoke to only because she spoke to me first.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“Why did you ask me aboot her as if you already knew the answer and thought anything I said to the contrary would be a lie? You were willing to listen to everyone but me.”
Her eyes grew damp, but her chin stayed high. “Perhaps if you’d included me more in your life, then I wouldn’t have had to rely on others to tell me of your actions and whereabouts!”
“Who told you I’d been spending time with Lady Cardross?”
She fisted her hands at her sides, but didn’t answer.
“Your father.”
“Perhaps. It was a foolish argument, and I know that now. Actually, I knew it then. But I never had a chance to tell you that; before morning, you’d packed your things and left—not just the city we lived in, but the entire country!” She poked a finger in his chest. “You left, Marcus. Without a word! How do you think I felt?”
“How do you think I felt to be charged and convicted of cheating when nothing could be farther from the truth?”
“I was wrong, and I would have told you, but you were nowhere to be found. How do you expect anyone to repair a relationship under those circumstances? You can’t.”
“There is nothing to repair if there’s nae trust.”
“You— That’s just— What a blind-arse way to see things! It leaves no room for— Oh, damn you and your stubborn pride! That is what sent you racing to the Continent: not your belief that a lack of trust had doomed us, but your pigheaded pride.”
“I’m nae the only one who suffers from pigheadedness,” he replied grimly.
“I can see how it is; you’ll never admit you were just as at fault as I was. Fine. But I’ll be damned if I let you mar my last peaceful moment in this charming cottage.” She marched to the fireplace, bent down, and grabbed a piece of charcoal from the hearth.
Marcus watched from beneath his lowered brows. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making a line of demarcation.”
“Demar— You mean the type they use in war?”
“We’re at war, are we not?” Her chin still in the air, she gave him a displeased look. She bent down at the center of the fireplace, and started to draw a line on the floor.
He should have been furious with her for her accusations, but two things held him back. First, a nagging suspicion that she was right—at least partially. His pride had ever been at fault for the pains in his life. And second, the sight of her sweetly rounded behind as she walked backward, bent over, drawing her blasted line across the floor. Damn, but even when he was furious with her, he couldn’t stop thinking of touching her.
She came close to where he stood, but he didn’t move from her path. Other than sending him a scowl, she didn’t let it deter her as she arced the line around him, her skirt brushing his legs. Reaching the other side of the room, she dropped the charcoal on the table and dusted her fingers on a napkin. “There.”
He looked at the thick black line that bisected the room, and raised his brows. “Care to explain the purpose of that?”
“That”—she pointed to his side of the room—“is your side. And this”—she gestured from the line to behind her—“is my side. We will not cross that line until someone comes for us.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. You stay there. I will stay here. Then there will be no more arguments.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Aye.” She sat primly on one of the two chairs in her half of the small room.
Marcus considered ignoring the line, but he couldn’t shake the humor of the situation, which went a long way to erasing his earlier irritation. He walked along the line, his foot brushing against it. Finally, he stopped. “Fine. We’ll do it this way. It’ll be a relief nae having to share every square foot of this matchbox.”
“I feel the same way.” Her voice crackled with irritation.
His lips quirked, though he hid his grin. So much passion, and in such a small package. Somehow over the years, he’d only allowed himself to remember her passion between the sheets. He’d forgotten she was just as passionate in her beliefs, her opinions, and, apparently, her desire to make a point.
Marcus went to the settee, which she usually occupied, and made a great presentation of moving her embroidery basket to one side.
Kenna winced, then pressed her lips together and looked away.
Hiding his smile, Marcus stretched out, put his hands behind his head, and stretched his feet toward the fire. “This isna so bad.”
Kenna bit her lip. “It’s fine.”
The fire crackled and the silence lengthened. Outside, icicles dripped on the windowsill.
Kenna sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to have my embroidery basket?”
“I would, but sadly it’s on my side of the room.”
“Yes, but you might wish for some breakfast, and both the table and the door to the kitchen are on my side of the room.”
She had him there. He’d mocked the ham before, but now it sounded rather appealing. He reached out with his foot and scooted the basket over the charcoal line.
She jumped up to collect the basket, setting it beside her chair before she prepared him a plate of food, placed it on the floor, and then pushed it over the line. “There.
”
He arose and collected the plate, nodding in thanks as he sat and began to eat.
She settled into her chair and pulled out the embroidery piece she’d been working on. He watched her as he wolfed down his breakfast. When he was done, he placed his silverware on the plate and slid it back across the line.
When her brows lowered, he spread his hands. “As you so rightly pointed out, the kitchen door is on your side.”
She sent him an exasperated look but arose and collected the plate, putting it back on the table before she returned to her chair.
Quiet reigned and he watched as she stitched, her fingers nimble and light. “How long have you been embroidering?”
The words seemed to surprise her as much as they surprised him. “A few years now. I took it up when Montrose fell ill during the final two years of our marriage.”
“Montrose was ill before he died? I heard it was sudden.”
“He kept his illness a secret. He had a slew of relatives—‘buzzards’ he called them. In the end, only his son was at his side when he passed away. That made him very happy.”
She continued on, her voice softer, as if she were speaking more to herself. “He was kind to me. Perhaps more than I deserved. I was so young when I married him, barely nineteen. He was a man of the world, sophisticated and experienced in all manner of things. He’d traveled almost everywhere, even China.”
She grimaced as she took another stitch. “Before I met him, I’d never left our borough except to go to Edinburgh to see a dressmaker, or to London for my season. And neither of them count as a true adventure, as I was accompanied by my father and a swarm of servants intent on making our travels as comfortable and unexciting as possible.”
Marcus stared at the flame of the fire. He’d been upon the Continent when word reached him that Kenna had married the Earl of Montrose. It had been a bitter pill indeed. As a young man Marcus had admired Montrose, who was fourteen years older than he and a well-respected member of the sporting set. A Corinthian of the first water, Montrose had inherited a fortune at an early age, and had surprised everyone when he’d turned that fortune into an even larger one, investing in sugar plantations and gem mines.
It was difficult to find fault with Kenna’s selection of a husband, though Marcus had fumed with a rage that had taken months to overcome. “You were happy, then.”
“Content, yes. He loved me, but . . . I could never love him the way he wished. We both knew it, too. In the end, he became a very dear friend. I still miss him.”
She was silent a moment. “What about you? Did you enjoy traveling?”
“Some of it, aye.” Nothing had been enjoyable after he’d learned of Kenna’s marriage. Still, as time passed, he’d come to relish the challenges. “It was fascinating. I learned a lot, nae just aboot other people, but also aboot myself. But then there was Salamanca.” He put a pillow under his head, watching her. “I returned home after that. Robert and his family needed help.”
She bent her head over the hoop. “And now, here we are. I’m a widow. You’re a former attaché.”
“And both victims of a masquerade party gone awry.”
“I hate masquerade parties. It’s a pity they’ve become so popular simply because Princess Charlotte favored them.”
“I will never attend another.”
“Nor I.” Kenna snorted dismissively, stabbing the needle into the fabric. “I vow, but there was not an original thought in the entire room. Nothing but swans and priestesses and goddesses.”
“You were dressed like a swan,” Marcus pointed out.
“I was going to be an angel, not a swan, but then I overheard—” Her gaze met his and she closed her lips over the rest of her sentence.
He sat up, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “You were never going to dress as a swan.”
She closed her eyes. “No.”
“Until you heard Lady Perth mention what she would be wearing and that she would meet me under the mistletoe.”
Kenna wet her lips, her heart thudding sickly. “Yes. I borrowed the mask from Lady MacLeith. I overheard her saying how she wished she’d brought something more original than a swan costume, as there were so many. So . . . I traded my angel’s mask with her.” She peeped under her lashes at Marcus.
His mouth was thinned into a straight line, the corners white. “You knew it was me all along. You planned that kiss.”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
He stood and walked to the line. “You tricked me, made me a fool in front of everyone.”
“No, no! Marcus, I—” She dropped her embroidery hoop on her seat and hurried to meet him. “I wasn’t trying to trick you. I was just—” Her cheeks heated and she blurted, “I was curious!”
“Aboot what?”
“Whether we were still attracted to each other.”
“Bloody hell! Of course we were! You played me for a fool. I daresay getting stuck here was another stratagem of yours.”
“What? No, no. I didn’t even know this place existed.”
“I’m supposed to believe you now? You’ve been lying to me.”
“I never lied about that!” Kenna pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. “As soon as I could, I tried to apologize, but you wouldn’t let me.”
“Only because I dinna realize you had anything to apologize for! You, my lady, are a manipulating liar.”
“Oh! You—you—” She couldn’t get the words out. They stood, toe-to-toe, the charcoal line smudged under the toes of their shoes. “You think I planned the nervous horse and the snowstorm? You are a fool! And I damn well wouldn’t have wanted to be locked in Stormont’s love nest. I’m supposed to marry him!”
As soon as the words were out, she regretted them.
Marcus’s eyes blazed. “You’re to marry Stormont? Since when?”
“No, no. I’m not going to marry him. I’m supposed to. My father wishes it, and so does Stormont. He’s deeply in debt, so . . .” She waved a hand. “But I haven’t agreed.”
“You will, though.”
“I will not.”
“With both your father and Stormont pressuring you? Ha! You’ll fold like a wet sheet.”
She stiffened, leaning over the line to poke him in the chest. “Listen to me, Rothesay! I’ll not have you telling me what I will or will not do. You don’t know me anymore—any more than I know you.”
“I dinna know you? Then how do I know you like this?” He swept her into his arms, lifting her feet from the ground as he kissed her.
It was masterful and wild, consuming and fiery. And she loved it, kissing him back with every bit of the wild passion he’d stirred.
One moment they were kissing, and then they were on the floor, tugging and pulling at each other’s clothing, furiously struggling to get closer, to feed the passion that threatened to consume them.
Never breaking the kiss, Marcus tugged the neckline of her gown aside, slipping a hand inside her chemise to cup her breast. He kneaded it, and as he ran his thumb over her peaked nipple, she gasped against his mouth. He gently nipped her lip, rocking against her, his hard cock pressed to her hip.
Her skirts rustled as he lifted them with his other hand, sliding his seeking fingers up her leg, to her thigh, to her very core. There he stroked her tight curls, increasing the rhythm, urging her on with every stroke, every movement.
Kenna’s nerves pulled tight, her expectation stretching. Heat flushed her skin as her passion swelled, a fire rising in her veins, pooling in her belly and lower as she rocked up to meet his stroking fingers, moaning his name against his kisses.
Passion threatened to overwhelm her and, throwing her leg over him, she rose onto her knees and straddled him, reaching for the buttons on his breeches. Before Marcus realized what she’d intended, his breeches were opened and she was atop him, sliding down on his turgid member with her velvet-hot grip.
He gasped, grasping her hips and guiding her further down. But she grabbed his wrists and, wit
h a twist, pinned them over his head.
Shocked and excited beyond belief, he met her gaze as she slowly, ever so slowly, raised herself on his shaft, and then just as slowly lowered herself. Each stroke was madness, driving him to the edge of reason, his body aching with growing need as she enclosed him over and over in slick, tight heat. His desperate breath mingled with her furious panting. When she lowered herself the next time, he leaned up to catch her nipple with his lips, flicking his tongue over it as she slid down his cock.
When he closed his teeth lightly on her nipple, she let out a moan and arched, her eyes closed in glorious pleasure, her sheath closing tightly over him. He tore his wrists from her grasp and encircled her waist, holding her in place as he thrust up into her. Over and over, he took her, owned her, gave himself to her.
Just as he thought he could withhold himself no longer, she cried his name and bucked wildly, her heat igniting his own—and, holding her tight, he fell over the edge of passion and into her open arms.
Afterward, they lay entwined as thought and feeling slowly returned. Kenna’s head rested on Marcus’s shoulder, fitting as snugly as if it had been made for her alone. Knowing that was a delicious illusion, she sighed and rubbed her cheek against him.
She smiled as he threaded his fingers through her hair, untangling her curls. There was so much in her heart, so much to be said, she couldn’t decide where to begin.
She spread her hand over his chest, her finger sliding through his crisp hair. His shirt had gotten torn in the their furor, and she wondered if her borrowed gown was the same. Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was that she was finally back in Marcus’s arms. She didn’t know for how long, but right now she didn’t care.
She sighed, her breath stirring the torn edge of his shirt. “I don’t want to move.”
He tightened his hold on her, his large hands warm and firm. “Neither do I.” His breath stirred her hair.
She smiled against his chest. The crackle of the fire filled the quiet room, broken only by the tick-tick drip of melting icicles on the windowsill, and the distant sound of a horse’s neigh . . .
She blinked and then sat up, her startled glance going to the window. A group of horsemen rode toward the house across the snow, and in the front, looking stern and implacable was her father.
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 17
