Blaze Historicals Bundle II

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  That their wedding celebration would last the full twelve days of Christmas seemed only fitting. With Callum as her husband, Christmas promised to take place not only for the traditional twelve days but all three hundred and sixty-five. He’d already pledged to present her with a different sensual “gift” on each of their first twelve nights together, gifts they would savor and enjoy throughout the years. Considering all the wicked things she’d dreamt of doing with him, her pulse skipped every time she imagined what the next twelve nights might bring. And yet ever since breaking her fast that morning, foreboding had seized hold of her, jangling her nerves and seeping into her bones like a dank, dark mist. No doubt it was nothing more than a bride’s natural nervousness, but she couldn’t help wishing they’d set the wedding for Christmastide Eve instead.

  Pummeling outside her door startled her, causing the comb to slip from her fingers. She rose from the cushioned bench on jellied legs. Callum! It must be. The only other who would come to her chamber at this hour was Milread, and it was too soon for the wise woman to have returned.

  Callum’s muffled shout confirmed it. “Alys, ’tis me.”

  She hurried over to the bolted door, the desire to see him warring with the desire to keep their love safe. For a betrothed couple to see one another on the eve of their nuptials was to risk the ultimate bad fortune. She’d disregarded tradition in her first marriage and there’d been the very devil to pay. This time she meant to do everything proper and right.

  Through the barrier, she called back, “My lord, you must leave at once, for ’tis terrible ill luck for you to see me the night before our wedding.”

  Ever stubborn, he shouted at what must be the tops of his lungs, “Nay worries, lady, for ’tis after midnight and thus morn already. I would but claim a Christmas kiss from your sweet lips.”

  Despite her fears, she chuckled. “Quiet you, my lord. You’ll wake the household entire.”

  “And if I do, ’tis mine to wake as I will.”

  She pressed the side of her cheek against the planked wood, wishing it were Callum. The glimpse she’d got when they’d broken their fast that morning seemed so very long ago.

  “I will grant you all the kisses you desire tomorrow eve, after our vows are said and the Yule candle lit.” At that moment a chill swept across her back and the shiver kept her from saying more.

  He honeyed his voice. “I have a gift for you, and it willna wait.”

  “Another gift!” She pulled back from the door. “You are too good to me.”

  Her cedar-lined cupboard and bride’s chest were both bursting with his bounty. It wasn’t yet the first day of Christmas and already several sumptuous gifts had found their way into her room: a cowl encrusted with semiprecious stones, a pair of slippers stitched with scarlet silk and soled of softest leather, a mahogany inlaid sewing chest filled with an array of various sized bodkins, a pair of silver scissors and spools of fancy spun thread.

  “That would be impossible. You are the sweetest, kindest and aye, fairest lady in all of Christendom, and I the most fortunate of men. Only set aside these fears of old wives’ warnings and let me in, sweeting. I willna claim more than kisses. Just kisses, only kisses, I swear to you.”

  Alys bit her bottom lip. Oh, she was tempted—sorely. The seven months of waiting had been powerfully hard on her, too. She could scarcely credit it. Her one taste of passion had been with her English husband, Alexander, and they’d been together mere months when he’d left her in the port city of Portree on the Isle of Skye and returned to the service of the English lord to whom he owed fealty as a foot soldier. Soon after he’d contracted the smallpox and died, leaving her alone in a strange city with their newborn son. Scarcely risen a week from childbed, she’d spent one of her last precious coins on the bolt of saffron cloth that, once fashioned into a kirtle, would proclaim her as a whore. During those dark days of walking the docks, she’d kept her body numb, her mind blank, and her heart sealed off to anyone save her son. She’d thought herself forever ruined as a woman, too jaded for passion and too bitter for love. But these past seven months of holding Callum to his promise had proven her wrong. For the first time in her life, she knew what it meant to long for someone with all her body, all her mind and aye, all her heart. The sound of his voice through the door sufficed to send warmth flooding her heart and her nether parts in equal measure. Her breasts tingled, her womanhood wept, her empty arms and all the rest of her ached to be filled.

  She gave up, surrendered. “One kiss and then you must take your leave.”

  She lifted the bolt and stepped back. With Callum there was no such thing as stopping at a single kiss, and well they both knew it.

  The door flew open. Callum launched himself across the threshold. “Alys, dearling!” He dropped his bundle atop the trestle table, kicked the door closed behind him, and swept her into his arms. Lifting her from her feet, he swung her around. “It feels a lifetime since last I saw you.” He set her down and held her away from him, regarding her with burning blue eyes fringed with wicked black lashes. “How have you been keeping yourself since this morn? They’ve treated you well, have they? I ordered that you be tended as befits not only a laird’s lady but a queen.”

  As always, his tenderness melted her. So long as they stopped with kisses, she would give him as many as he wanted.

  She stroked one side of his face, so handsome and so very dear to her, and admitted, “I am not accustomed to being so coddled.”

  The warm milk-water bath with rose petals, the massage with scented oils rubbed into her fire-warmed flesh, and finally the supper served upon a silver tray in her room had been lovely but overwhelming. And thanks to the services of the nimble little maid he’d insisted on giving her, her best blue gown now hung on a peg to warm before the fire, the rich brocade thoroughly brushed. Callum had pressed her to accept a bolt of cloth of gold and make a new gown from it, but in this she’d refused him. Cloth of gold was reserved for the nobility, but it wasn’t humility that held her back. The shimmering fabric reminded her of the bold yellow gown she’d worn when she’d plied the harlot’s trade. When she’d entered Brianna’s household as a servant, she’d seized her first opportunity to stitch herself a simple blue gown from cloth she’d scavenged from the scrap heap and tossed the hated yellow one into the fire.

  Not yellow, not ever again.

  His big, warm hands spanned her waist. Of all the men who’d put their hands upon her, her husband included, no one had ever made her feel so wholly safe, so beautifully loved.

  He ran his gaze along the length of her, lingering on the swell of her breasts above her shift’s smocked bodice, his blue eyes undressing her as surely as his hands would this time tomorrow. “Such a slip of a thing you are, my lady, a wee wisp of a woman, and yet you fill my heart so full that betimes I fear to burst with the love I feel for you.”

  He still hadn’t kissed her. Knowing his wicked ways, she more than suspected he held off deliberately, making her want it, making her want him.

  And Alys did want him, oh how she wanted. Her nipples ached, her womanhood throbbed and her mind, dear Lord, her mind… Like flood waters rushing past the failed barrier of a broken dam, her mind fair near to burst with all manner of delicious, devil-made images…Registering the surprise on his handsome face when instead of pulling away she pushed him back against the wall… Drawing up his kilt and tearing off her smock…Smelling his desire, savoring his brine… Straddling him and moving his callused hands to cup her bottom…Spearing him inside her, that first delicious sharp thrust. Were it not for her fear of tempting fickle Fate, she’d gladly forgo any further waiting, forgo any further wanting, and play out every sinfully lovely fantasy.

  “Oh, Callum.” She let out a choked sob and lifted her head from his chest, trusting herself even less than she did him. “Claim your kiss, my lord, for after it you must make good on your promise and go away.”

  “Must I?” He lifted her one hand from his chest, turned it over, an
d kissed the sensitive spot on her palm.

  Like one of the archery arrows he so unerringly aimed, the sensation struck straight to her core, raising a blaze of heat, a void of blinding wanting. Imagining him filling her, easing her, stroking her slowly back and forth, she shivered. “Aye, you must. Milread will return at any time.”

  Callum snorted and reached for her other hand. “I can more than manage one old woman. ’Tis the young and beautiful woman before me that tests my true limits.” Teasing her thumb with the tip of his tongue, he looked up at her through the veil of his black lashes.

  She felt her knees weaken, taking her good intentions along with them. And yet she must be strong. There was so very much at stake, so very much to lose. She’d learned that the hard way. By the time she and her first husband, Alex, had reached Skye, their babe, Alasdair, was already big in her belly. As Alex had pointed out, they couldn’t possibly hope to marry in a sanctuary, not with her in such a state of obvious disgrace. Instead they’d wed in the public room of an inn in Portree, the ceremony performed by a priest from St. Andrew’s whom Alex had bribed. She’d never been able to entirely shake off the shame of that sad little ceremony—or recover from the far greater shame that was soon to follow.

  “My lord, you must go.” She shoved at his chest.

  He didn’t budge. “And you, my wee bride, must call me Callum.” He punctuated the command with a wink.

  “Very well, Callum, I pray you rise and go—now!”

  He let out a laugh and cut his gaze downward to the bulge tenting his kilt. “I assure you, lady, I am rising. But first your gift.”

  He wasn’t lying. Through the scratchy wool of his kilt, she could feel his hardness rubbing the bottom half of her belly. Imagining how wondrous fine that thick rod would feel, she closed her eyes and willed herself to be strong. This time, she must take no chances. For both their sakes.

  The sound of rustling had her opening her eyes. Callum handed her the bundle he’d brought. She’d been so ensnared by her lustful thoughts, she’d as good as forgotten it.

  “Thank you.”

  She took the package, testing its weight. It was light. She almost wondered if the wrapping cloth might not outstrip its contents. Thinking it must be a toy for Alasdair, she unwound the strip of linen. The cloth fell away. She held the gift up to better catch the light. The flickering flames revealed the ugliest doll she’d ever beheld. Small and crudely formed, it was a female figure hewn of hoary wood.

  Aware of Callum’s expectant gaze upon her, she hesitated, unsure of what to say. “It is verra…unusual.” She surveyed the creature’s enormous crooked nose and slit-like eyes. “Alasdair is surely asleep, but I will give it to him first thing on the morrow.”

  “Alasdair?” He stared at her strangely. “But ’tis for you, my love.”

  Without warning, he tossed back his head and roared. He laughed so long and so hard that even loving him as she did she was tempted to crack the ugly thing over his head.

  Swiping a hand across watery eyes, he straightened his face. “Wheesht, ’tis the Christmas Old Wife. I fashioned her for you this verra eve with wood from a withered stump. Do you nay have the custom in the Lowlands?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, we dinna, leastways not when I lived there.”

  He took the figure from her. Holding it at arm’s length, he surveyed his handiwork with a smile. “Looks a whit like Milread, aye?”

  She opened her mouth to reprimand him but before she could, he drew back and hurled the figurine across the room. It landed neatly in the fire, the flames eating through it along with the peat.

  It was too late and yet reflexively she grabbed for his arm. “What’d you go and do that for!”

  Wicked blue eyes met hers. “’Tis the custom, lass. The Christmas Old Wife stands for the evils of winter and death. The burning is said to ward off misfortune for the coming year. And my sweet Alys, I mean for these next twelve months to be wicked wondrous indeed, starting with these coming twelve nights. Better yet, why do we nay start our celebrating…now?” His gaze brushed over her bare shoulders and then dropped.

  Feeling her morals slipping along with her smock, she tugged the bodice back up. “I’m nay sure I should marry a man who treats his wives so poorly. How do I know you’ll not cast me aside, too, once I’m withered and old?”

  He braced a hand on either side of the wall behind her head, trapping her between his arms. “You could never be withered and even were you to become so, I would always treat you as the rare and precious treasure you are.”

  There was no means of escape in sight and were she honest with herself, she must admit she had never wanted less to escape in all her life. She looked up into his handsome face beaming with masculine confidence, and felt her heart twist with love and her body blossom with lust. Milread had the right of it. The devil surely did make them bonny. And Callum didn’t only look good. He smelled good, too, better than any man to whom she’d ever been this close. The strong clean scent of evergreen mingled with the scents of leather and musk to create a scent that was savory, not sweet. Nay, most definitely not sweet.

  She shook her head, more than halfway to drunk on him. “Oh, Callum, must I really be good for the both of us?”

  His smile broadened to a full-blown grin of generous lips and even teeth. “Alys, my dearling, I dinna wish for you to be good at all. Now kiss me, sweetheart, for sure you ken what mistletoe is for?”

  Caught off guard, she lifted her face to the bare ceiling above them. “But there’s nay mistletoe about.”

  “Sure of that, are you?” Grinning, he reached up with one sinewy arm and plucked the sprig of greenery from his cap. Instead of his customary yew, the Fraser badge, the small yellowish flower and waxy white berries proclaimed it to be mistletoe. Holding it above her head, he fixed his gaze on hers, his expression softening. He tilted her face up to his. “Kiss me, my love, my lady, my Christmastide bride, for ’tis past midnight and now our wedding day. Mistletoe or no, I vow to make every day Christmas for us from this day forward.”

  Tears gathering, Alys opened her mouth to return the sentiment. Before she could, lips—warm, moist and mobile—covered hers, kissing her as she’d always dreamt of being kissed, only better. Large though he was, his hold was exquisitely gentle. He ran his big hands up and down her arms, smoothed his palms over the small of her back, and framed her waist as though she was some rare, cherished object he was afraid to break. Forgetting her fears, she tilted her head and parted her lips, then slid her tongue into his mouth, kissing him back with seven months of pent-up passion.

  He slid a hand from her waist to her breast and groaned. “So beautiful, so verra beautiful.” Cupping her, he flicked his thumb over her nipple, teasing it to life. Liquid heaviness settled between her thighs and with it a damp, drumming ache.

  Alys arched against him. Melting like a snowflake brought indoors, reveling in the size and breadth and power of the male body molding to hers, she forgot everything save her desperate desire to join with him.

  He drew away from her mouth and pressed fevered lips against her temple. “In but a few hours I will be your lord and master so far as the great wide world is concerned, but within these four chamber walls, it is I who am your vassal, your slave. And know this, lady, I mean to serve you well. There isna anything I wouldna do for you, no pleasure I would deny you.” He let out a ragged breath and looked deeply into her eyes. “I would begin by giving you the first of your twelve Christmas gifts early. I would give you the first of those twelve great pleasures this verra moment.”

  He turned away from her to the small trestle table upon which the remains of her mostly untouched supper was set out. With the edge of his arm, he swept it clean, the trencher and empty goblet falling to the floor. He swung back to her, wrapped his arms about her, and lifted her atop it.

  “My lord, it may be our wedding day but we’re no yet married and the last time I—” Her voice broke off. How could she begin to explain the d
epth of her fears?

  Setting her gently down, he shook his head, his eyes wearing a fevered, feral look. “A taste of forbidden fruit is allowed most betrothed couples. Had we chosen to be handfast wed, we’d have leave to enjoy the full orchard for a year and a day. If you do not believe me, I’ll send for Father Fearghas to bear me out.” He set a hand upon her knee, easing her legs apart.

  “Callum Fraser, you’ll do nay such thing!” She stopped when she realized he wasn’t serious.

  “Then I’ll have to satisfy myself with kissing you. Only kisses, my sweetheart.” Stepping between her splayed thighs, he feathered his lips over hers. Alys moaned, feeling each sweep of his mouth like fire. “Just kisses.” He touched his lips to hers again, more firmly this time. “Once we are wed on the morrow, I will consecrate my body to your pleasure for the rest of our earthly days—and nights.”

  Alys could resist no more. She held his lean, handsome face between her hands and opened for him like a flower. “Oh, my lord, my sweet lord.”

  His tongue entered her, as wickedly delicious and insistent as the rest of him. And suddenly Alys was hungry, ravenous, more starved than she could ever recall being. Never before had she felt such need, known such want. The light kiss burst into a sparring match of tangling tongues and nipping teeth. Caught up in the midnight madness, she felt almost a virgin again. Whatever whore’s tricks she’d performed in the past, whatever passion her former husband had coaxed from her girlish body were forgotten. She was Callum Fraser’s lady and with his touch, he was washing her clean.

  He broke contact with her lips to lay a trail of damp, biting kisses at the sensitive spot behind her ear, the line of her throat leading into the curve of her shoulder, the tips of her breasts, first laving her through the thin fabric, then pushing one sleeve off her shoulder and down.

  He breathed against her breast. “Ah, you’re all roses here, too.”