His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  She grabbed the edges of his waistcoat and pulled him closer, silencing him with her mouth. She did not want to hear about his regrets and unfulfilled desires, or the loving part of him that Esme Newton had destroyed forever. If she could not have his heart, then she would take what he could offer, praying with every corner of her soul it would be enough.

  Her impulsive gesture unleashed a fire in him. Lucas may not ever come to love her, but he clearly wanted her with a warrior’s fierce passion, and with a hunger that left her breathless and aching with a need only he could assuage.

  As he ravished her mouth, he pulled her close, nudging the ridge of his erection into the cradle of her thighs. She melted in his arms, pulling her knees back to open herself to the seductive thrust of his hips. He groaned against her lips and started to pull back, but she curled her hands around the back of his neck, holding fast as she eagerly tasted his mouth. She poured all her tangled, treacherous emotions into her kiss, possessing him with a silken glide of lips and tongues that tasted both forbidden and sweet. Desire curled low in her belly, and she could not help rocking against the shaft that pressed against her.

  Lucas surrounded her, looming tall as his hands roamed her body. His kisses teased away her pain, igniting a heat that rolled through her body like flaming brandy. When he nudged once more into the vee of her thighs, his shaft against her aching flesh, she broke away from his mouth with a strangled cry.

  “Christ, Phoebe,” Lucas panted.

  She clutched his arms and slid her trembling legs down to dangle over the edge of the desk. “We should go upstairs,” she managed in a strangled voice.

  “The hell with that,” he muttered as he attacked the fastenings of her bodice. “I might not make it up to the bedroom.”

  Her eyes widened as he yanked her dress down past her shoulders, trapping her arms. “We cannot do this in the study. The servants might come in.”

  His clever fingers were already busy with the lacings at her back. “Why do you think I locked the door?” Under the bronze of his tan, his cheekbones were flushed, and his eyes were heavy with a sensuality that set off a quiver low in her belly. It frightened her to think how vulnerable he made her, even knowing he would never feel for her as she felt for him.

  He hummed with satisfaction as her stays loosened around her breasts. “Don’t worry,” he added. “The servants are busy with their own pleasure.” He glanced up, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “As you already discovered.”

  She blushed at the reminder of what Maggie and Philip had been doing in the pantry.

  “And I’m certainly not one to be outdone by the servants, my love,” he said with a grin. Carefully, he worked her stays and chemise down to her waist, exposing her breasts to the air. Without the warmth of her garments, her nipples, already half stiff with desire, contracted into tight points.

  Lucas took a small step back to look at her. “God, Phoebe,” he said in a reverent voice. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She looked down at herself and felt the heat rise up her throat to her face. She was naked to the waist, her breasts gleaming white in the candlelight, the tips hard and flushed pink. Her arms still trapped in the lowered sleeves of her gown, she gripped the edge of the desk for support. Her legs were spread wide, skirts tumbled around her thighs, but that apparently did not satisfy her husband. He pushed the fabric up to her hips, uncovering her completely. The silky nest of curls between her thighs glistened with moisture, and she wanted to squirm, both embarrassed and excited by her wanton position.

  “That’s perfect,” Lucas said with a deep rumble.

  “Oh, really?” she muttered, feigning offended dignity. “I cannot even move.”

  “Yes, I have you right where I want you.”

  He reached out to palm her breasts, his thumbs scraping lightly over the nipples. Sensation darted from their tips to settle with a quiver between her thighs. Biting back a moan, she let her eyelids begin to fall.

  Lucas let out a soft laugh. “Oh, no you don’t, sweet wife. I want you to watch what I do to you.”

  The dark promise in his words brought a soft rush of moisture from the depths of her body. “You are very wicked,” she whispered.

  He murmured deep in his throat as he teased and gently rolled the stiff points between his fingertips. “I’m about to get a lot more wicked.”

  She gasped as he tugged and tormented her nipples into tight, burning peaks. And torment was the only word, a delicious torment that had her writhing with frustration. Just when she was about to beg, he bent his head and fastened his mouth to first one nipple, then the next. She choked back a strangled cry, wobbling on the edge of the desk as a luxurious spasm rippled deep in her womb. His hands settled low on her spine, holding her steady as he rimmed her nipple with his tongue.

  Phoebe was devastated by the sight of his head at her breast, and by the sensations storming her body. The rasp of his tongue across her nipple, the feel of his hard body between her thighs was too much. Her head swam with a dizzy passion. “Lucas,” she panted. “Please . . . please . . .”

  She was barely conscious of what she pleaded for, but he knew. He always knew. With a last, tender nuzzle, he lifted his head. His features were stark, but his heavy-lidded, passionate gaze held tenderness, too. He cradled her gently as he finished undressing her. In a moment, she sat open before him, clad only in her stockings and garters, and one shoe—the other having fallen to the floor.

  He smiled a distinctly masculine, evil grin. “Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better.”

  She was about to scold him when he interrupted her. “No, wait. I know.”

  Her eyes popped wide when he pushed her thighs apart, exposing her completely to his roving gaze.

  “There. That’s better,” he purred.

  She choked, caught between disbelief and laughter. “You are truly most wicked, Husband.”

  He simply shrugged his shoulders. “Guilty as charged, Wife.”

  Then he was on his knees before her and those wide shoulders were pushing her thighs even farther apart. Before she could utter a word his hands snaked under her naked bottom, tilting her up. With a hot rush, his mouth fastened on that most sensitive part of her with a masterful kiss. This time she did cry out, falling back on her elbows as sensation pulsed in a hot, heavy throb.

  Phoebe’s breath came in shattered sobs, her emotional control unraveling under his sensual assault. They had made love many times, but never like this. If he had told her of this first, asked her permission, she would have refused. But he’d taken her by surprise and breeched her defenses.

  Her body asserted its desires. She rested on her elbows and spread her thighs wide, inviting Lucas to pleasure her.

  And pleasure her, he did. His fingers gently parted her drenched folds so he could reach everything. He sucked and kissed, slicking his tongue over aching flesh again and again, as sensation gathered in her womb, first as tight little contractions, but then in long pulses of pleasure that built and built. She was spread out before him—naked, vulnerable, and open. He controlled her, dominated her—big, handsome, utterly masculine, and . . . fully clothed.

  Phoebe blinked several times. Suddenly, it was too much. She needed him inside her. Part of her, not apart from her, made too vulnerable by this unfamiliar act.

  Not when he controlled so much and she so little. She struggled up and grabbed his shoulders. “Lucas, st . . . stop.”

  His head came up right away and she trembled at his hard expression, his features tight with lust. His voice came out in a dark rasp. “What is it?”

  “I want . . . I want . . .” She could not find the words. She only managed to run her shaking fingers through his thick tumble of hair.

  His gaze grew tender. “What do you want, my love?”

  She took a deep, steadying breath. “I want you. Only you.”

  He surged to his feet, his fingers pulling at the fall of his breeches. She reached out to help
him, and in a moment he was free. Lucas stepped close between her thighs, fitting the broad tip of his staff to the snug opening of her body. He nudged gently inside, then took her in a slow but relentless slide. She clutched at his back, digging her fingers into the fabric of his coat as she sobbed with relief when he was lodged deep within her.

  “You have me, Phoebe,” he said in a voice heavy with emotion. “You will always have me.”

  She tilted her head back to look at him. “Do you promise?”

  He smiled gently as he stroked the damp hair back from her brow. “I promise.”

  She pulled his head down, feathering a kiss across his lips. “I love you,” she whispered. It was reckless and foolish to admit it, but her heart refused to be silenced.

  Lucas murmured his satisfaction, kissing her as he began to move. She gasped as he gave a hard nudge, kindling an erotic burn in the deepest part of her. Her heart raced with excitement and she arched her back, grinding her pelvis into him. Then she exploded, the spasms rippling out from her womb with a power that wrenched a cry from her throat. He rode her through her climax until he shuddered and convulsed inside her.

  Clutching her within the shelter of his embrace, he kept her safe while her senses returned and the world began to right itself. When her breathing had returned to normal, Lucas carefully pulled out. Then he cradled her against his chest and silence fell around them, thick and peaceful, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

  Phoebe rested against him, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Once again, she had told her husband she loved him. And once again, she had been met with silence.

  Chapter 34

  Lucas stamped his feet as he thrust his gloved hands toward the heat of the bonfire, watching the roaring flames cast leaping shadows through the grove of apple trees. On Epiphany Eve, as lord of the manor the duty had fallen to him to light the huge pile of wood and kindling that had been stacked by his groundskeepers. The male servants, the farm tenants, and most of the men from the village had gathered in the orchard, as was the custom this night across the length and breadth of all the counties. Some would discharge guns or blow horns in the ancient tradition to frighten away evil spirits and promote the health and vigor of the trees across England’s fair lands.

  And they would drink and tell stories as they tended the fires through the night, strengthening the bonds between the men of the village and the fields through the age-old custom that spanned generations. Of all the traditions of the Season, this one made the most sense to Lucas. It brought men together, from the lowest day laborer to the lord of the manor. On this January night, they united in a profound desire for peace and prosperity throughout the coming year. They stood together in the biting cold, shivering under the vast, starry vault that stretched over their heads. Only the warmth of fire and the bonds of their mutual fealty kept danger at bay. It joined them in an ancient pact of survival, fellowship, and good cheer.

  Lucas had never participated in the tradition as an adult, and damned if he didn’t feel like an outsider. He recognized most of the men, and all had greeted him with smiles and tips of the hat. But in many subtle ways their actions indicated wariness, even mistrust. That bothered him more than he cared to admit. After years commanding soldiers, he was used to earning the troops’ respect—swiftly and unconditionally. But he was quickly learning that his particular brand of leadership, one forged in battle, did not necessarily carry over into his new life as Earl of Merritt.

  And try as he might, he had yet to acquire the knack of easy conversation with the men of the village or his tenant farms, a fact all too evident in the way they kept a polite distance from him. He wasn’t fool enough to think that aloofness signified respect for the lord of the manor.

  Mr. Knaggs joined him by the fire, extracting something from inside his greatcoat. “Lord Merritt, can I interest you in something a bit stronger than mulled ale to keep the cold at bay?” he asked with a twinkle.

  Lucas couldn’t help smiling. “You shock me, Vicar. Whatever would your wife say if she saw you promoting public drunkenness?”

  The cleric’s eyes widened in mock alarm. “This is purely medicinal, my lord. We can’t have you succumbing to a chill. I’m sure her ladyship would be most distressed if that were to happen.”

  Lucas held back a grimace. A chill definitely described the state of affairs between Phoebe and him. Since their fight on Christmas night, they had been living in a state that reminded him of a shaky armed truce.

  After that spectacular bout of lovemaking on his desk, he had assumed they’d made up. But he’d quickly discovered otherwise. Phoebe, professing love for him one minute, had retreated behind a facade of dignity the next. Her reserve only broke whenever he tried to compel her to reveal the names of the smugglers she had encountered in the forest. She staunchly refused each time, and that had resulted in more than one sharp exchange of words and wills. For a Quaker, Phoebe had proven to be a capable fighter. Unfortunately, their battles always ended in frustration and disappointment for them both.

  And refusing to express his feelings for her didn’t help the situation, either. His world was beginning to revolve around Phoebe in ways he never could have imagined. That, frankly, worried the hell out of him, making it well nigh impossible to force any kind of declaration past his lips.

  “You seem troubled, my lord,” Mr. Knaggs said quietly.

  Startled, Lucas frowned. “How so?”

  The cleric glanced around, assessing their distance from the other men.

  “Your heavy sigh,” he replied, obviously satisfied they would not be overheard. “And I cannot help but notice you seem . . . withdrawn.”

  Knaggs might look like a weather-beaten scarecrow, but his eyes gleamed with intelligence and perceptiveness. And he had an air of patient empathy that no doubt served him well in the village, especially during the hard years of the war. Lucas had never had much use for the clerical cast, but he was beginning to understand why the people of Apple Hill held their vicar in such high regard.

  Not that he would confide his deep concerns about Phoebe with anyone. Besides, he knew the source of his worries. It wasn’t just about the smugglers, no matter how much he wanted to believe that. It was about their marriage—it was about him, and his inability to sort through his tangled emotions.

  Mr. Knaggs gave him a verbal nudge. “Lord Merritt, if you ever need my help, I hope you won’t hesitate to ask. You and your lady are the very heart of this community. All of us will do whatever we can to assist you.”

  Lucas breathed out a cynical snort, casting a glance at the men who so carefully kept their distance. Just like his wife. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to breach the barriers that separated him from so many aspects of his new life.

  “I’d like to believe what you say about the community is true, Mr. Knaggs, but circumstances tell me otherwise. I’ve got smugglers on my land, probably aided and abetted by my own servants, and I doubt there’s a single villager who would trust me to deal with the problem as I see fit.”

  The cleric simply handed over his battered flask. With a wry smile, Lucas took a swig, welcoming the burn of rum down his throat and into his stomach. If only it could warm the part of him that struggled against the bone-chilling cold of loneliness and frustration.

  “They’re not the easiest lot to get along with, I’ll grant you,” said Mr. Knaggs. “But these last years have been hard ones indeed.” He gestured with his flask to a man huddling with a small group on the other side of the bonfire. “There’s Mr. Wilson, the butcher. A wife and three daughters, but only one son. And what did the silly boy do? Ran off to join the army, looking for adventure. He was killed at Waterloo and poor Wilson hasn’t been the same since. His oldest girl tries to help him now, but butchering is hard business for a woman.”

  “I didn’t know that about the boy,” Lucas said softly, looking at the burly man with graying hair and a gentle face. Lucas had lived through the epic carnage of Waterloo, b
ut many of his men had not.

  The vicar nodded. “And then there’s Markwith, over there with young Billy.”

  Lucas swung his gaze toward the short, gap-toothed fellow sharing a laugh with one of the grooms from the manor stables. “Markwith is one of my tenant farmers.”

  “And a good one, too. But he lost two of his children to the fever last winter. Thank the good Lord, he and his wife have three others, but something like that weighs heavy on a man’s soul.”

  Lucas shook his head, increasingly disgusted with himself. He’d spoken to Markwith a number of times, finding him to be a plain-speaking and capable man. But he’d had no idea the man had suffered such a devastating loss. Then again, in his determination to wrestle order back to his ramshackle estate, he’d focused solely on what pertained to business. He’d treated everything and everyone as a problem to be bludgeoned into line, ignoring what was most important—the people.

  His people.

  “And you know Ned Weston, the innkeeper,” Mr. Knaggs went on in his gentle, inexorable voice. “And his son, Sam.”

  Lucas transferred his attention to Weston and his son, seated on a log by the fire. The boy gazed up at his father, his eyes round and solemn, as the man swapped tales with his neighbors.

  “Yes, I met the lad on Christmas Day.” He remembered him—too thin and pale, but smart as a whip. Phoebe had taken a shine to Sam, and had made a point of drawing him to Lucas’s attention. “But Ned Weston wasn’t there. And I don’t recall seeing the boy’s mother, either.”

  “That’s because she died six months ago, my lord. In childbirth, and the baby with her.”

  Lucas rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” But Phoebe obviously had. He understood that now.

  “Weston and his son have only each other,” Mr. Knaggs said. “And I fear Ned doesn’t understand the boy. He loves Sam, but he pushes him too hard. It’s the anger, you see. Ned is far from over his wife’s death. Can you imagine, my lord, losing your wife and child that way?”