All Things Merry and Bright: A Very Special Christmas Tale Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The tender inside of her thigh.

  The sensitive space beneath her ear.

  Then he clasped his fingers through hers and turned until his weight pinned her to the bed.

  At one time, she would have fought him. When she’d first met Pagan, she believed that making love was akin to waging battle. One warrior always emerged the victor, one the vanquished.

  But now she knew better. If love was war, it was a war fought between equals, full of surrender and triumph all at once. Pagan might have the upper hand now. But she would conquer him before the night was over. Deirdre might feel victorious in the throes of passion. But he would master her in the end.

  Lovemaking was an amazing, exhilarating, glorious alliance that never failed to awe and inspire her. She would never tire of it.

  While he held her hands captive, his tongue made lazy designs down her throat. Delight shivered through her every nerve. He grazed her collarbone, moving her Thor’s hammer aside with his teeth. Then he teased along the top of her bosom until she arched up, willing him to do more.

  “So impatient,” he teased in a whisper.

  She growled in response.

  Then he released one of her hands and retrieved something from beneath the pillow on the bed.

  With a mischievous grin, he showed her what it was.

  He’d hidden a sprig of mistletoe under her pillow.

  “Knave,” she scolded.

  He swept the tiny plant along her eyebrows, kissing each eyelid in turn. Then he traced the bridge of her nose. When she wrinkled it in protest, he soothed the tickle with a kiss. He brushed her lips with the white berries and lowered his mouth to bestow a kiss there.

  With her free hand, she seized the back of his neck and drew him closer to deepen the kiss. He obliged her for only a moment before removing her hand and chiding her with a shake of the mistletoe.

  “We have time,” he murmured. “I’m certain the three kings haven’t even arrived yet.”

  In truth, she’d forgotten all about the mummers. And Christmas. And their guests. She was only eager to engage her husband…who seemed intent on making her wait.

  She held her breath as he circled her breast with the mistletoe, spiraling closer and closer to the aching center. Finally, with a low groan of pleasure, he cast the plant aside and lowered his mouth to enclose her.

  Every nerve awakened like bright lightning illuminating a dark sky. Her hands tightened into fists. Her eyes closed in sensual joy. The divine throbbing of her nipple echoed deep in her womb, intensifying into an urgent need.

  He moved to suckle at her other breast. Desire struck her like another bolt of lightning, shooting current through her body to the swelling bud between her thighs. She squeezed his hand in hers, trying to convey the power of her lust for him.

  While she squirmed in impatience, with the back of his knuckles, he smoothed the hollow of her abdomen and flirted with the curve of her hip. He trailed wet kisses along her arm and lapped at the inside of her elbow. He opened their joined hands and pressed a devoted kiss into her palm.

  Finally, she could endure no more delay.

  Patting across the pallet with her free hand, she found and closed her fingers around the discarded sprig of mistletoe. She wrested loose her trapped hand and pushed against Pagan’s chest, forcing him up off of her. Then she slipped the mistletoe between their bodies, brazenly setting it atop the nest of curls where she most wanted a kiss.

  His face blossomed in a devilish grin. Emerald flames leaped in his eyes.

  What followed was a sensuous blur of wanton delight.

  He feasted upon her.

  She feasted upon him.

  At last, they joined in unadulterated bliss.

  And when they ultimately exploded together, it was in a searing blaze of fireworks to rival those they’d witnessed years ago during the famous siege of Rivenloch.

  The mistletoe was crushed in their coupling.

  Christmas was forgotten.

  And in the soothing music of their subsiding passion and slowing breath, they drifted into a slumber that was long, deep, complacent.

  Hours later, before she even opened her eyes, Deirdre smiled, feeling the heat of Pagan’s backside against her belly. She snuggled closer, basking in the recollection of their lovemaking.

  Then her brow creased. She’d forgotten to tell him about the babe.

  “Pagan,” she sleepily murmured.

  He didn’t respond.

  She ruffled his hair.

  Still he didn’t respond.

  When she finally pried open her eyelids, the glow of rare winter sunlight was already seeping through the shutters.

  She gasped in panic and blinked against the light. Bloody hell. Where had the night gone?

  “Pagan,” she whispered urgently, shaking him.

  The children…their guests…the clan…

  She may have enjoyed a night of wanton, well-deserved pleasure. But it had been at the price of abandoning her duties as laird. She cursed under her breath, sweeping a dried mistletoe twig from the sheets.

  Lucifer’s ballocks. How could she have been so careless?

  Pagan

  PAGAN THOUGHT DEIRDRE should bear at least part of the blame for what happened. After all, if she weren’t so damned stunning and desirable and tempting, he wouldn’t have spirited her away to their bedchamber in the first place.

  Still half-asleep, he felt Deirdre jostling him.

  But he didn’t want to wake up.

  If he woke up, he’d have to leave the bliss of his wife’s bed. He’d have to walk away from her silky skin. The compelling fragrance of her hair. The warmth of the long, lithe limbs wrapped around him. And he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  As much as he’d wanted to celebrate Christmas at Rivenloch, to share the traditions of his Norman Noël with his half-Scots children, at the moment all he could think about was the irresistible angel tucked under the bed linens with him.

  After their delicious night together, he wanted to spend all day here with his beautiful wife.

  Of course, he knew that was out of the question. Deirdre was laird, and he was the host of the festivities.

  But surely they could linger here just a bit longer. Indeed, if his delectable wife continued to press those soft, supple breasts against his back like that, he wouldn’t be fit to appear before company anyway.

  Already he was rousing to the thought of coupling with her this morn.

  He stretched, feigning a yawn. Then he turned to her with a cunning grin.

  A knock at the door dashed his lusty mood.

  “Shite!” Deirdre hissed, echoing Pagan’s exact sentiments.

  Pagan would have ignored the knock.

  But Deirdre took her duties as laird seriously. So she scrambled out from under the coverlet.

  He yielded with a sigh, falling back in disappointment on the mattress. But when she snatched the sheets off the bed to cover herself, leaving him nude, he frowned.

  “Hey!”

  She ignored his protest and headed for the door, giving him barely enough time to dive off the far side of the bed for cover. He was forced to cower behind the pallet in naked displeasure.

  Peering over the top of the bed, he watched her haul open the door. She may have wrapped the sheets around her, but she’d left an enticing gap at the back, giving him a tempting glimpse of her sleek buttocks.

  “What is it, Lucy?” Deirdre asked.

  It was Deirdre’s maidservant, Lucy Campbell. The wench had once been the castle flirt, until Pagan’s best knight, Sir Rauve d’Honore, had won her heart. She was now Rauve’s wife and a devoted nurse to their children.

  Pagan only hoped she’d deliver her message and return to devoting herself to their children so he and Deirdre could get back to…

  “Da! Da!”

  That was Brand, four years old and full of fire. Pushing past his mother, he raced Pagan’s way.

  “Get up, Da!”

  Pagan quic
kly seized a bolster from the bed to cover his nether regions just as the lad rounded the bed to jump onto his lap.

  “Good morn, Brand,” he groaned.

  Five-year-old Gellir had more discretion. “Brand!” he reprimanded his little brother. “We’re not to enter Ma and Da’s bedchamber without permission.”

  “But ’tis Christmas,” Brand argued.

  From the doorway, Deirdre arched a brow.

  That was Pagan’s fault. He’d been using that excuse for the last fortnight for everything from letting the children stay up late to overindulging them with sweetmeats.

  He sighed. “Come on in, Gellir. But only because ’tis Christmas.”

  When Gellir charged in as well, two-year-old Julian, trapped in Lucy’s arms, screamed in protest and squirmed to get away.

  Lucy sized up the situation with a slight widening of her eyes. “Perhaps we should return later, m’lady.”

  Pagan agreed. They should. But he knew his wife. And he knew better than to counter her authority when it came to the household.

  “Nay,” Deirdre said. “’Tis late. We should be up and about. We have guests.”

  She was right. They’d already stolen a night away from the clan. It was sheer greed on his part to want more. Yet who wouldn’t want more when he was married to such a beautiful creature?

  “Go on, lads,” he said, giving his sons a swat on the rear. “We’ll be down soon.”

  Once the children were gone and the door was closed, Pagan tossed the bolster onto the bed. He collected his discarded clothing and sat on the edge of the pallet. He’d just put one leg into his trews when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Deirdre drop the sheets to the ground.

  The sight of her perfectly sculpted body in all its naked glory made him stiffen at once. The breath caught in his chest.

  But there was no point in false hope. He knew Deirdre’s sense of honor was everything to her. The clan always came first.

  So, willing his body to surrender, he continued pulling on his trews.

  “Wait,” Deirdre said, biting her lip in a rare moment of uncertainty.

  He froze.

  Then she let out a decisive sigh. Her eyelids dipped, and she sauntered toward him with sensual grace. “I suppose they can suffer without us for a little while longer.”

  There was no mistaking the sultry gleam in her clear blue eyes…nor the answering throb between his thighs.

  “Are you sure?” he croaked. “I know how…the clan…”

  She flashed a wicked, lopsided smile at him and shrugged. “’Tis Christmas.”

  Rand

  RAND WAS SURE this was all his fault. His lovely bride might have led him into temptation, convincing him to follow her into her secret hiding place at Rivenloch. But it was Rand who had fallen prey to distraction, all but forgetting the outside world.

  When Miriel first slid the heavy chest away from the wall of the lower level storeroom, he narrowed his brows, puzzled. To his surprise, there was a large breach in the stone and a dark passage beyond.

  He hunkered down to peer into the tunnel and whistled low. “Is this…?”

  “Aye,” she replied with a twinkling smile. “’Tis the passageway that leads from the keep to the woods.”

  He nodded. He knew the clan legend well. His beloved Miriel had once used this secret tunnel to save Pagan’s life. How brave she’d been—his meek, mild wife—fearlessly facing the dark and death to rescue her sister’s husband.

  “Go on,” she urged. Her azure eyes gleamed as she nodded toward the tunnel. “Hurry.”

  He frowned. “In there?” The passage looked cold and damp and foreboding.

  “Aye. ’Twon’t take long.”

  He resisted the urge to ask her what wouldn’t take long. She might look demure and delicate, but once Miriel had an idea in her head, there was no changing her mind.

  She crossed her arms and arched a fine, dark brow at him. “Unless you’re afraid.”

  He smirked. His sweet-faced wife could play him like a lute. “Hand me the torch.”

  She retrieved the torch from the wall sconce. He thrust it through the gap, revealing a widened earth tunnel that curved and disappeared around a corner.

  The passage wasn’t quite as dank as he expected when he stepped through the breach. He moved the brand to and fro, examining the walls. They were reasonably dry and free of vermin.

  When he heard the scrape of the chest behind him, he wheeled in alarm, wondering for an instant if Miriel meant to close him up in the wall.

  But she’d climbed into the passage beside him and was dragging the chest across the breach again.

  He raised his brows. What did she intend?

  When she turned toward him, he lifted the torch. What she intended was clear in her sultry blue eyes.

  “Why, Lady Miriel,” he accused with a grin, “here?”

  She grazed his body with a lusty gaze that took his breath away. “Can you think of anywhere more private?”

  She had a point. It was difficult enough, with four children under the age of eight, to find seclusion at home. But several days on the road had made intimacy nigh impossible. He longed to be with his wife.

  Thanks to brilliant Miriel, they could finally be alone together in a place where even their clever children couldn’t find them.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t adore his children. Seven-year-old Feiyan was like a shadow of Miriel with her fair skin, chestnut hair, and mild manner. Adam, their four-year-old, was Rand’s pride and delight, and his younger brother Tian already showed promise as a scholar. Even the littlest, Alexander, made Rand smile with his antics.

  But it seemed they were cleverer than most at seeking out their parents at the most inopportune times. For once, maybe he and Miriel could spend a few moments alone.

  He studied the walls, looking for a place to plant the torch. Alas, there were no sconces in the tunnel.

  In the flickering light, Miriel began undressing, sliding the scarlet kirtle from her shapely shoulders. Even that subtle gesture sent the blood rushing to Rand’s loins.

  He quickly scanned the dirt floor, looking for a place he could prop the brand, to no avail.

  When she slipped the top of her kirtle down to her waist, revealing her small, firm breasts, he sucked a breath between his teeth at the tempting sight.

  He gave a rueful chuckle, silently cursing his dilemma. If he dropped the torch, he’d no longer be able to see his breathtaking wife. But if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to avail himself of her charms.

  The wicked lass chuckled at his frustration. “Have you not memorized my form?” she murmured. “Surely you can find me in the dark.”

  She shimmied out of the kirtle, letting it shiver to the ground. He gave up, tossing the brand aside.

  A peat-black darkness fell instantly in the passage. For a moment, it felt as if the walls had closed in around him. But Miriel’s hand immediately touched his chest, assuring him of her presence, and he drew her into his arms.

  It was a curious and exciting sensation, making blind love to her. Deprived of sight, he found his other senses were heightened.

  She smelled divine, as warm and comforting as mulled wine.

  He sought her mouth with his, relishing the honey-sweet taste of her yielding lips.

  She gasped and sighed and breathed softly against his ear. And when he let his hands and mouth explore all her curves and clefts, her purrs and moans made him shiver with need.

  Best of all was the heavenly feel of her skin against his.

  She clawed the clothing from him, and the desperate scrape of her nails made him catch his breath.

  She pressed demanding fingers into the muscle of his shoulders, branding him with hot desire.

  And when her tongue mated with his in an erotic tangle, he would have sworn the shadows lifted and that heavenly light filled the tunnel.

  Miriel

  MIRIEL HAD NOTHING to blame but her own selfishness for what transpired. She sh
ould have stayed alert to the castle activity. She’d forgotten how isolated and peaceful it was here.

  She’d made use of the tunnel on numerous occasions when she’d lived here with her sisters, though never for this sort of clandestine pursuit.

  Here in the dark she wouldn’t see Rand’s elated face when she told him the glad tidings—that they were expecting their fifth child. But at least this time, she’d be the first to tell him.

  She was determined that her meddlesome servant from the Orient wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anyone before she had a chance to tell Rand. Odd, all-knowing Sung Li was prescient about these sorts of things, in the habit of informing everyone of Miriel’s pregnancies, sometimes before even Miriel knew.

  Not this time.

  This time Sung Li wouldn’t spoil the surprise.

  Miriel’s self-satisfied smile might be lost in the dark, but she had other ways to express her joy to her beloved husband.

  Their tongues entwined, sweeping her up in a blinding whirl of desire. Thrilled by the challenge of finding her way around her husband’s magnificent body by touch alone, Miriel realized she should have made use of the passageway earlier. The endless black was intriguing, their privacy assured.

  His mouth left hers, seeking and finding her breast with expert skill, bathing her with tender care.

  Her breath sharpened. She clenched her hands in his thick hair. The lazy circles he made with his tongue seemed to spiral down until she felt a coiled heat low in her belly.

  She wanted him…now.

  Snaking one hand down, she captured the steely confirmation of his arousal. He gasped against her bosom.

  “What have I found here, husband?” she teased in a murmur. “Your dagger?”

  His chuckle was full of fire. He answered her by wedging his fingers between her thighs, seeking and finding the treasure hidden there.

  “And what is this, wife?” he whispered. “Some sweetmeat to nibble on?”

  His words sent a rush of hot blood surging through her veins, warming her cheeks.

  He gave her breast a farewell lick and then sank before her, kissing his way down her abdomen. When he reached the spot where all her sensation centered, he parted her gently, feasting on her flesh until her legs trembled beneath her.

  She gripped his shoulders as she rode her yearning higher and higher, growing more breathless with each wave of lust. At the fine point of climax, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. And then, she exploded in a burst of bright stars, as awe-inspiring as the paper rockets they’d once made together years before.