As if his troubled thoughts disturbed her sleep, she moved restlessly against him. “Hsst, all is well,” he whispered, brushing his fingers lightly through her hair. She settled against him with a sigh. So he had only himself to blame for the fact that she heard the story of Maeve and how she vowed to choose as her husband only the man who proved himself worthy of her.
The idea of an Irish woman considering herself an equal to her husband--choosing her husband based on the traits she desired in a man--was an absurd one. Only Kate could think she might do the same. Perhaps there was a touch of fey in her, after all, as his uncle claimed.
All of London had watched their unusual courtship with sly amusement. He’d gotten the worst of it, and not only because he was Irish. He thought of what she’d asked of him. To prove he was a man worthy of her. A man not just after her dowry, but herself in all her glory. A man willing to prove himself without meanness, jealousy, or fear, to win a woman for wife.
The absence of meanness, jealousy and fear. He sighed. He had proved himself to her even now, by this action. After all, who could doubt the absence of fear in a man who’d dare to share his lady’s bed right under the duke’s nose?
He wasn’t so absent of meanness, though, that he didn’t wish he was able to do more than lay beside her, holding her as impotently as the ghost he had pretended to be. The fate was only his just desserts. She had not invited him to her bed. He knew well enough that a woman gave and took more enjoyment when she was able to anticipate the night.
He supposed he had half-hoped she might awaken and welcome him, and she had--as a dream, not as a flesh and blood man to make love to her. Which was why she clutched at him and slept against him in peace, no doubt. Since such was his fate, he gave himself up to it, enjoying the scent of her, the sound of her breath. The feel of her body against his. He felt a surge of impatience. When might he feel it so again? When would he, at last, have her to wife?
After tonight, he imagined they’d keep her well away from him whatever wedding the duchess arranged for them. Lord willing, she’d be quick about it. He’d be happy enough to head for Gretna Green, if only the roads were not so treacherous this time of year. But her family would more likely ask for a few weeks.
He’d concede no more than a month. Her family was a close one and he didn’t wish to offend the duke more than absolutely necessary. It occurred to him, suddenly, that he was taking on more than a wife, he was taking on a new family--and an English one at that. For a moment he wished he had had the sense to do as his uncle had bid him: set his cap for Lady Dorothy, an orphaned heiress. But, he admitted, he had wanted Kate.
He turned his head so that his lips pressed warm against her temple and moved his hands--slowly, gently as a dream lover might do, so as not to wake her, against the curve of her hip and breast. A man could not be faulted for enjoying the little he was able, now could he?
He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent once more. “Nollaig Shona,” he whispered. But no, he was in England now. “Happy Christmas, Katie.”
A loud clang woke Kate abruptly from her very pleasant dream of lying entwined with Sean in a field of wildflowers. She sat up, shaking with the rough transition, her blood surging through her veins as if her life had been threatened.
Sarah, the maid stood staring at her, the pan of coals lying at her feet.
“No harm done, Sarah. Just clean them up and no one will know but the two of us.” Kate tried to reassure the girl, but her voice was rough from sleep.
Tears sprang to Sarah’s eyes. For a moment she thought the girl would manage a trembling apology for the noise, but all that came from the girl’s parted lips was a mewling whimper.
“Have you injured yourself?” Sarah was a nervous, trembly little thing, but surely a dropped pan of coals could not be the reason for such a reaction. Kate sighed. She would have to help the girl clean up the mess so that she would not be chastised on Christmas Day.
“Wait, I’ll help you,” she said, feeling for her dressing gown. To her surprise, Sarah’s eyes widened and the girl turned and fled without warning.
“What’s gotten into the girl?” Kate muttered as she grasped the elusive dressing gown and pulled it toward her.
“I have no doubt the girl will be fine, as soon as she gets over the shock of seeing me in your bed.”
For a moment the dreams that had warmed her night seeped into the reality of the morning light and she thought that she had conjured Sean’s voice with the power of her imagination.
But he dispelled that possibility when he spoke again. I don’t think she was prepared to see what Father Christmas left for you.”
She turned her head, and saw him then. He lay back among her pillows as if he belonged there. He looked so right that she had to remind herself he did not belong there. Not yet, no matter what she dreamed. “Father Christmas leaves his gifts under the tree…” she answered, as she reached out to lay her hand on his chest and registered the beat of a strong heart under her palm. He was, without doubt, no ghost.
“Sean?” She glanced at the door, thinking to halt disaster before it could begin. Sarah had fled, not even stopping long enough to clean up the coals, which lay scattered on the carpet. It was not the spilled coals which had upset her.
She turned back to the man in her bed, registering his half pleased, half apologetic smile and the gleam in his alert green eyes before she realized she wore only her nightgown. She sank back beneath the covers and closed her eyes, even as she said a small prayer that she was still dreaming. But the feel of him—unexpectedly large and warm and very real--sent a jolt of panic through her. She sat up again, prepared to escape at any cost. To call Sarah back, to stop this insanity.
The warm hands she thought she had imagined gripped her more tightly and he said softly in her ear, “Poor thing was startled enough, you wouldn’t want to frighten her to death with a scream, now would you?”
“You’ve no qualms at frightening me to death,” she answered, her heart racing. What was he doing here? Even as her mind formed the question, she realized the absurdity. What reason did any man ever have for climbing into a woman’s bed?
“You’ve a stouter heart that that, Katie. Haven’t you proved time and time again that you’ve Maeve’s own courage?”
For a moment, pleased despite her shock, she relaxed against his chest, back into the same position she had been in during her “dream.” And then she tensed, a sensation of lightheadedness engulfing her despite the fact that she was prone. He wore nothing. Nothing. She twisted away from him, drawing the bedclothes up around her, which had the unfortunate consequence of revealing even more of him.
The naked man in her bed laughed as if he were doing nothing more or less unusual than he did every day. “Surely you wouldn’t chide me for wanting to be the first to wish you a Happy Christmas? Anyway, a considerate husband should see his wife has a good fright every now and again to keep her sharp.”
Husband. For a moment the word sounded so comfortable, so right, that she wondered if a marriage ceremony had simply slipped her mind. But no. Definitely not. “You’re not my husband yet, or have you forgotten?”
“Surely you would not be so ungracious as to refuse my Christmas gift to you? Have you never heard the saying Níl leigheas ar an ngrá ach pósadh? There is no cure for love other than marriage, Katie, don’t condemn yourself to a long lingering illness by refusing me.”
“Refusal is nothing less than what you deserve,” she said sharply.
He grinned unashamedly. “Nothing is likely to stop a wedding now.”
Fury rose like a whirlwind inside her. “No?” She wouldn’t stand for this. She would--
He cocked a brow at her and sat up, exposing the broad expanse of chest, uncovered by anything, except an indecent amount of finely curling dark hair. “Do you see the duke allowing me to run away?”
“The duke need not know--” she stopped herself. Of course Sarah would tell him. If the maid did not, if discretion
--or timidity--held her tongue, she would at the very least tell Miranda, since the duchess was mistress of the household. Miranda, as the eldest of the Fenster sisters, had taken her responsibilities seriously since their parents died when Kate was just a baby. She would not hesitate a moment when Sarah brought her news of this indiscretion.
Miranda would, at the very least, inform Valentine. Kate felt the fine net of the trap he had sprung on her tightening until her choices were limited. “If I refuse--”
He kissed her, to stop her words. A light kiss, not threatening, despite their odd situation. “Will you? After all I’ve done to prove myself to you?”
Damn the man, he had been patient with her little games. At least, she thought he had been. “No. I suppose you’ve proved yourself fearless enough--to the point of foolhardy recklessness some might say.” She would have preferred that he had been patient a little longer, though.
He didn’t seem surprised at her words, although he let out a breath as she conceded his point. It pleased her that he had not been quite so sure of her as he pretended. His look was almost sheepish as he said, “I am Irish, am I not? What else should I be if not foolhardy, reckless, and willing to take a shorter, more unorthodox path to marriage?”
Despite herself, she laughed, feeling the anger drain away into a belly-tightening swirl of awareness. So. They were to be married. And he was here, in her bed as she had dreamed so many restless nights. She ran her palms up over his arms to the smoothly muscled shoulder and rested for a moment against his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse, enjoying his look of alarm at her sudden change of mood. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He didn’t pull away. Nor did he kiss her again, as she half wished he would. “You were such an angel, sleeping peacefully.”
“There was no use to make a waste of this night.” She tightened her grip on his neck so that he could not pull away, and leaned up to kiss him. “After all, everyone will assume we’ve taken matters into our own hands, so to speak.”
To her chagrin, he pulled away and patted her cheek lightly, as if she were a child. “I would never have anyone think badly of you, if I could help it. Would you like me to tell them the truth?”
She realized he was being deliberately disingenuous, so she turned her head until she could kiss his fingertips. “They’d never believe you.”
“Then the only answer is for us to be married as quickly as possible so I can call out anyone who dares say a word against you.”
“You sound almost eager to risk a bullet to your heart, my lord. Surely that will put a stop to the grand political plans you have.”
“Our plans will go forward, I promise you that. But not until after our wedding day, my love.”
“But to slip into my bed, sleep beside me all night, without a kiss.” She drew her forefinger lightly along his palm, over the wrist of the hand that rested at her waist. “I wouldn’t have expected you to let such a potentially… fruitful…moment go unexplored.”
His fingers tightened for a moment on her hip and she thought he might draw her to him and kiss her. Instead he pushed her away and withdrew his hand. “We have all our married lives to bite into that apple.”
She wanted to believe he was simply being a gentleman, but a quiet voice in the back of her mind whispered that he might have done all this to win her dowry more than her person. She took his hand in hers and pressed it against her heart. “We have now. Perhaps you might consider this your last test--the one that will win me?”
There was a satisfying catch in his breath. “I’ve no objection, I assure you.” He pulled her closer to him, and then took her shoulders and locked eyes with her. “Fair warning for a fair maid—I’ll not shortchange you the first time I take you, so tell me now, are you certain that you want the duchess to see me in my full glory when she bursts through the door?”
Kate suppressed an unladylike oath and leaped from the bed. “Where are your clothes you awful man.” The chill of the unheated air struck her like a slap, little mitigated by the dressing gown she threw over her chemise. At least it quickly subdued the heat that had coiled inside her while she tried to seduce her soon-to-be husband. She wasn’t certain whether she was more embarrassed or disappointed.
“Surely not awful, just impatient, Katie love. Haven’t you kept me on a string long enough?” There was not an ounce of regret or shame in the man, she realized with a mixture of chagrin and amusement.
“Where are your clothes?” she asked again, seeing the neat pile even as she spoke.
He stretched lazily, lion like, and took on an expression of mock hurt. “In a hurry to have me gone, now that you don’t need me to please you?”
Please her. Her imagination took flight, and the heat began coiling inside her again. But, regretfully, there was no time. “As you say, my sister might prefer you dressed when she enters the room--perhaps it would even be better if you were entirely absent.” She lifted the neat pile of worn wool that held his familiar scent. He had taken the time to fold them carefully, but one frayed cuff had been ripped and a twig clung to it. “Did you climb in the window?”
His green eyes twinkled with pride. “You should have seen me.”
She went to the window and looked down the sheer granite wall at the ground below. Looked across at the tree growing there--at least two feet from the window. “You could have been killed!”
He shrugged, but his lips curled up in a smile of pleased bravado. “How else could I prove to my doubting sweetheart that she ought to judge me fearless?”
She tossed his clothes at him, annoyed. Soon enough he could buy himself new with her dowry, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of treating them carefully after he’d climbed through her window last night.
And hadn’t even woken her.
She knew she should be furious with him. Most definitely she should refuse to marry him. Not even the duke would insist they marry if she truly objected.
But Miranda knew well enough that Kate fully intended to accept her importunate Irish suitor, after a little more torture, of course. Worse, she could hardly fault the green-eyed devil for circumventing her torments--she’d have done the same to him if the situation had been reversed.
She shook her head at him, trying not to smile. “A fine Christmas present you’ve given my sister and the duke, Sean McCarthy. Miranda has been working herself frantic to see that the children had a happy Christmas. When she learns of this, I doubt she’ll take pleasure in the smiles and giggles of the children--even if there are any.”
“Do you think the mites will care a jot for what has happened here?” He crossed his arms as he dismissed her charge, daring her to argue. “Children have an infinite capacity for enjoyment, despite the foolish preoccupations of their elders.”
“Much like you, my lord.” She shook her head, marveling at his lack of remorse. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“On Christmas morning? Would you give me coal in my stocking, then?” He stood, presenting himself to her as casually as if they had been married for fifty years, rather than not at all.
“Not coal--you’d only use it to warm your toes.” She certainly didn’t feel the same comfort, though she would be damned if she’d turn her eyes away. He’d be her husband soon enough, the Duke and Valentine would both see to that as quickly as they could.
“That I would. You know me well enough--tell me, are you displeased with me? Or with yourself for being bested?”
She turned her back, unwilling to dress in front of him, no matter his own casual attitude. “Don’t be so smug, or I may refuse you yet.”
He laughed softly. “Yourself, then. Well, if it’s any help, you must tell yourself that you’d no chance of besting an Irish devil who has kissed the Blarney stone as a lad and a man--not to mention taken his title from it--seeing as you’re only a poor English lass yourself.”
She allowed herself to laugh with him. No man would have gone to such trouble just for a dowry. He wanted her as wel
l, it was high time she allowed herself to believe that. “We’ll see what happens after I kiss the stone myself.”
There was a small silence before he said softly, “There are times I wonder what devil made me tell you the stories of the stone--or of Maeve.”
“Everyone know the tale of the Blarney Stone, Sean.” She turned to see him frowning at her and smiled at his discomfort. “And don’t tell me I would be the first lady to kiss it.”
His frown slipped into a grimace of surrender. “If I let you do such a dangerous thing--you must agree to hang over the precipice only if you have my hands to hold you safe.”
His heartfelt concern reassured her somewhat. “You’ll have hold of my feet, Sean McCarthy. And you won’t let me fall.”
He laughed, but for a moment she thought she saw a dark shadow cloud the clear green of his eyes. In a moment, he was fully dressed. He opened the door a crack and peered out. The gesture was somewhat out of place, considering he had intended for them to be found.
Mockingly, she whispered, “Shouldn’t you use the window, my brave hero?”
“Wouldn’t want to break my neck before the wedding, now would I?” His grin brought out that dimple that had made her fall in love with him when she was seven years old. As if he knew she’d be annoyed at him for having the last word, he closed the door behind him and was gone before she could reply. Damn him.
CHAPTER TWO
She began to wash and dress, even before Hattie, her lady’d maid came into the room, eyes downcast and face pale. After a sweeping glance of terror about the room, she asked Kate which dress she would like to wear, still without looking at her mistress.
“The scarlet one, of course, to commemorate the day,“ Kate said sharply.
Hattie turned crimson. “The day?”
“Of course,” Kate replied as innocently as she could manage. “It is Christmas Day, is it not?”
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