Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  Charles wasn’t sure he could eat.

  Distraction might be the answer. “Maeve, this will be a different Christmas for you. I’m quite certain that the Rycrofts’ traditions are different from the O’Malleys’.”

  “Of that there can be no doubt.”

  “Tell me about your finest Christmas.”

  Inclining her head, she teased her bottom lip. His gaze focused on her moist, highly desirable lips.

  “I, I can’t think of when that might have been.”

  Attempting to forget Maeve’s lips, Charles studied his soup, pushed his spoon through the thick stuff, and posed another question. “Can you remember a special toy you received from Santa when you were a child?”

  Frowning, she shook her head. With the slight movement, a thick midnight lock brushed against the bare porcelain skin of Maeve’s shoulder. A shower of hot sparks prickled down Charles’s spine.

  She appeared deep in thought. She had no idea what she was doing to him.

  “Maeve?”

  “Santa never brought me a toy.”

  He was astounded. “Never? Not one?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a doll?”

  “No.” A wistful smile played at the corners of her sweet cherry lips. “But I do remember yearning for a beautiful doll of my own.”

  A quick, jabbing pain pierced Charles’s heart. “You never owned a doll?” he repeated again in disbelief.

  “Not as I can remember. We had no money,” Maeve replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Poor Irish children were happy with a piece of rock candy or a shiny apple.”

  “Maeve, I’m so, so —”

  She interrupted Charles by leaving the table in a swift, abrupt movement. “Da did whatever he could.”

  With her head held high and her shoulders straight and proud, Maeve shielded herself from any pity he might be about to express.

  “Of course.” Charles could not explain the heaviness in his heart, the consuming need to hold Maeve in his arms.

  “Since coming to America we’ve been able to observe Blackfast on Christmas Eve.”

  “What is Blackfast?”

  “A dinner of boiled salt cod and potatoes followed by Christmas cakes. ‘Tis a feast.”

  Charles grimaced. “Boiled cod?”

  Maeve grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “By some, perhaps.” He left the table to join her.

  Her generous hips undulated slowly, softly beneath his trousers as she wandered toward the small, barren Christmas tree. His throat felt dry, dry as book dust.

  “And do you remember a special toy delivered by old St. Nick that struck your fancy?” she asked.

  Her deep blue eyes sparkled with challenge as they met his, locked on his, took him prisoner. Lost in the mysterious ocean-blue depths of Maeve’s eyes, Charles’s mind became a blank slate. Stripped of all cognitive ability, he could not determine right from wrong, impulse from procrastination. He felt suspended in time.

  Seconds that felt more like hours slipped by until at last a faded image appeared in Charles’s mind. The red toy replica of a tall ship. “My special toy was a ship and I sailed it on the Common ponds. When I was young I dreamed of being an explorer,” he added unnecessarily.

  Good God! He babbled like a schoolboy!

  “Have you seen the world?” she asked, in a voice as soft and melodic as a lullaby. A voice that could soothe and comfort a man until he grew too old to hear.

  “No.” Carrying on a conversation became more difficult with each minute. The ache deep within Charles had become a painful throbbing. And each time he looked into Maeve’s eyes, or allowed his gaze to drift down her delicate form, his pulse pounded so loudly he feared she would hear.

  He cleared his dry, scratchy throat. An explanation was in order. “I’ve a publishing company to run.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  Maeve’s gentle smile struck at Charles’s heart like a mallet against a bass drum. A series of tingling vibrations shot through him. If he didn’t regain his composure quickly, the woman would drive him to ravishing her here and now. Surely, if he asked a serious question, the answer would take his mind off of Maeve’s warm lips, her full, inviting hips, the whimsical light in her eyes, her seductive smile. Surely.

  “What did you dream of when you lived in Ireland?” he asked. “What did you hope America held for you?”

  Maeve gave a little shrug, displacing the oversized shirt to reveal one exquisite shoulder. A satin shoulder Charles’s lips longed to savor.

  “I didn’t know what I would find here,” she admitted, obviously unaware of his physical distress. “But I wanted to be a teacher. It seemed to me that if a man or a woman knew something besides how to grow potatoes, life would be better for them. I wanted to learn, and pass on whatever knowledge I gleaned to the children who came after me.”

  Charles could barely hold himself together. Every ounce of his rigid self-control seemed to be seeping from his body. “But you became a maid.”

  “And studied at night.”

  “You are quite a woman.” The words fell from his mouth without warning, a whisper of honest admiration.

  She gave him a hapless smile. “Not at all like the ladies you are accustomed to. The ladies who have been to finishing school and who play the piano without missing a note.”

  “You are unique.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “It’s good.” Charles had lost perspective again. His focus had returned to Maeve’s lips, her sweet tempting, tasty lips. “Very good.”

  “And do you find me...” she paused, taking a breath before continuing quietly, hesitantly. “Do you find me ... the least bit attractive?”

  Charles’s heart crashed against his chest. “You...you aren’t just attractive. You are a beautiful woman, Maeve.”

  “Even like this?” She looked down at her borrowed clothes.

  “You are more beautiful tonight than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “Then why...why...” Maeve’s voice trailed off, her gaze fell to the scarf at her waist which she twisted nervously.

  “Why what?”

  Using the tip of his finger, Charles gently lifted Maeve’s chin until her eyes, misty blue pools swimming with unshed tears, met his. She spoke in a jagged, barely audible voice. “You...you have not come to my bed since your memory returned. I’m your wife. Do you not want me any longer? Have you forgotten what we shared?”

  “I want you.”

  Oh, how he wanted her.

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  “But Maeve, I must confess, I don’t recall what passed between us before.”

  She took his hand.

  His heart stopped.

  “Tonight... if you, if you make love to me in this special place perhaps pleasant memories will return to you.”

  There was nothing in the world Charles would rather do than make love to Maeve. He could not speak. His throat felt raw. His heart drummed.

  Her eyes, as big and round as a blue moon, fixed on his. “Charles, will you make love to me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dear God, she had asked him to make love to her! Charles had no doubt about it. His wife was a brazen hussy, Irish tart...remarkable, extraordinary, heavenly woman!

  At that moment he could not remember wanting to make love to any woman more fervently in his life. He’d done everything in his power to resist Maeve’s charms. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was take advantage of an innocent. But the dark-haired beauty had just requested that he make love to her. What hot-blooded, sane man could refuse?

  The thought of claiming her with his memory intact gave Charles goosebumps. A surge of unprecedented energy swept through his body. He felt as if he could fly, that his feet might never touch the ground again.

  How could one night of love that they would both remember cause any harm? They were secreted away at Ashton Pond and no one need ever know what passed between them.
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  Charles was no martyr nor was he deceiving himself. Fulfilling Maeve’s request would be for his benefit as much as for the captivating little woman in his arms. He fully expected making love to Maeve would relieve the painful ache plaguing him almost constantly of late. Perhaps the restless, edgy feelings he’d been suffering since she came into his life might cease as well. He could only hope.

  And, after all was said and done, Maeve was his wife.

  Without another word, he scooped her into his arms and carried his beaming bride upstairs to his bed.

  The winter storm had worsened to blizzard proportions. Icy snow tapped sharply against the windowpanes. The frigid wind slapped against the house, howling like an angry demon. But in his room a roaring fire blazed in the fireplace and the big four-poster canopied bed had been warmed. Gaslight sconces cast dancing shadows across the room. Carefully, Charles set the delicate creature who was his wife down on the soft, thick bearskin rug spread before the fireplace.

  Maeve lowered her eyes and clasped her trembling hands. She lay silent, suddenly overwhelmed by her own audacity. Cold shivers spiked down her spine. She’d been shamelessly impertinent in asking Charles to make love to her. It simply wasn’t done by women in general and wives in particular. Maeve’s very proper Beacon Hill husband must think the worst of her for certain now. How could he respect a woman who behaved like a bold Irish Jezebel? She dared not meet his gaze. So she hummed, softly.

  Maeve excused her unseemly request as the act of a desperate woman. For the first time since their hastily exchanged vows, she and Charles were alone together. There might never be another opportunity to feel the warmth and strength of his arms enfolding her again, or know the toe-curling thrill of his kiss once more. If Beatrice Rycroft had her way, Charles would shortly be quickly and quietly divorced from Maeve.

  Maeve meant to fight for her husband, but if she should lose, she would have this night for all time. A time she would remember for the rest of her life, and one she hoped Charles would never forget. Understanding that Charles had undoubtedly agreed to make love to her out of pity or some sense of obligation did not lessen Maeve’s resolve.

  When she finally summoned the courage to raise her eyes, she found her husband’s gaze sweeping her body in a languid, burning perusal. A small, enigmatic smile played on his lips, desire burned like a silver flame deep within his smoky eyes. Maeve’s heart reacted like a wild thing, instantly fluttering; rapidly, incessantly.

  “Do you have any idea how arousing a woman dressed in a man’s clothing can be?” Charles asked.

  The husky timbre of his voice simultaneously ignited delicious chills and an aching warmth within Maeve.

  “Am I...arousing you then?” she whispered.

  The corners of his mouth turned up in a bemused smile as Charles gently cradled Maeve’s face between his hands. Slowly he brought his mouth down on hers. He kissed her tenderly. He kissed her fiercely. He kissed her with an intensity that caused her heart to race and her knees to weaken.

  Her lips parted beneath his, welcoming the soft, intimate plunge of Charles’s tongue. He filled her mouth, exploring, tasting, savoring. Maeve’s pulse pounded in a spurt of dizzying speed.

  He gathered her in his arms and within his warm, sheltering embrace, Maeve became more than a poor Irish maid, she became a queen who possessed all she could possibly desire. She ruled from a gilded fairy palace and her heart beat for only one man. The pine and musky masculine scent of Charles invaded her senses as she reached for his cheek and felt the prickly stubble of his jaw. Humming with core-deep pleasure, she ran her fingertips into his thick, dark hair.

  Through the light-headed haze of her desire, Maeve became aware of Charles unbuttoning her shirt; his fiery touch brushed her skin and set her flesh to tingling. With the barest contact he’d kindled a simmering heat within her. When all the buttons were undone and the linen garment parted, Charles gently eased Maeve’s arms from the oversized shirt. His gaze fell to her breasts. Maeve drew a deep, quivering breath. Her heart swelled to twice its size; milk and honey flowed through her veins, moist and warm.

  Charles’s eyes darkened with intensified desire, dove-gray deepened to granite shot through with silver light. Maeve’s heart crashed against her chest Her throat closed. Her mouth watered.

  Charles raised his burning gaze to hers. He tore impatiently at his vest and shirt, tossing them aside. Maeve ripped off the scarf holding Charles’s trousers about her small waist, and wiggled free from the giant-sized trousers. Since her bath before dinner, she’d worn nothing beneath the trousers.

  The flash of fire in Charles’s eyes revealed his sudden understanding. He sucked in his breath. Exhaled heavily.

  She smiled.

  Maeve lay on the bearskin exposed and vulnerable, prepared to abandon not only her wildly beating heart to Charles, but her soul as well. Once more and always.

  Charles stood. At his full height, he towered above her like a magnificent mountain, dark and mysterious. Galvanizing. His intense gaze never left hers as he hurriedly removed his trousers and undergarments and kicked them away. Before Maeve could appreciate the power and perfection of his sculpted-steel body, he fell to his knees beside her. Pulling her up to him, Charles crushed Maeve against the thick muscular wall of his chest and the hardness of his manhood. She held her breath. He wound his fingers through her hair, sprinkled kisses at the throbbing hollow of her neck, the soft sensuous inner core of her ear.

  The lusty essence of Charles sent an exquisite white heat spiraling though Maeve. A slow, sultry burn.

  And then he eased her down again onto the soft bearskin rug. She rested on her back, waiting, unable to draw a single, steady breath for the excitement, the unbearable anticipation careening through her.

  At last Charles’s mouth came down on Maeve’s, smothering her with kisses both fierce and tender. She splayed her hands against the crisp, curly mat of his chest as the pads of his thumbs brushed gently against her nipples. A river of fire surged up from her feminine core. She needed him now.

  Lifting his mouth from hers, Charles turned his attention to the taut buds of her breasts. Maeve gasped as he sucked one and then the other until the glorious sensations of heat and light, of bittersweet delight, caused her to moan with an aching pleasure she could not articulate.

  She was unwilling for him to stop, and yet her moist, eager body demanded much more from her lover. She needed him now. Now.

  Her heart yearned to be one with him, the man she loved more than the moon, the sun, and the stars. She loved him with all the love she had to give.

  When Charles raised his mouth from her swollen breasts to cup them in the palms of his hands, she thought she would cry. His silver-gray eyes smoldered with passion as they met hers. And then he braced himself beside her and softly stroked Maeve’s arm. His gaze flickered over her body as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world. His world?

  “You are even lovelier than I dreamed, Little Bit. Lovelier than a man can fathom.”

  Before she could reply, he leaned in to kiss her. Hot sparks skipped down Maeve’s spine, between her thighs to the tips of her toes. While his fingertips traced every curve from her waist to her calves and back, Charles’s sensuous lips remained fastened on hers. He devoured her like a starving man who could not be filled. She wondered that her heart didn’t explode.

  Soon his lips traveled the length of her. His tongue circled her belly button, his palm caressed her flat, fluttering stomach. When Charles’s mouth returned to hers, his palm lingered to softly massage the soft sensuous area of Maeve’s inner thighs.

  She felt as if her body was dissolving like sugar in a sun shower. A puddle of aching need would soon be all that was left of her. Her hips shifted impatiently, her back arched, her mind spun in light-headed exhilaration.

  The truest happiness she had ever known began with her blueblood husband’s touch. Like the great faerie lord, Fin Bheara, Charles possessed the power to transport Maeve to a m
agical place, to Tir Nan Og, the land of eternal spring, the land of eternal youth. He was the only one who could take her to the mythical kingdom where peace, happiness, and beauty prevailed. The uncharted destination could be seen by mortals through a silvery sea mist, but few ever gained admittance.

  Oh, how she needed him!

  “Charles,” she pleaded breathlessly. “Come to me, be one with me, my love.”

  He needed no further urging. Rising above her, his eyes met Maeve’s. A fresh flood of heat cascaded through her veins, leaving her breathless. She curled her arms around his neck. Her heart overflowed with happiness.

  With a gentle nudge, Charles parted her legs. A sigh of elation escaped Maeve as her husband buried himself within her, filling her with the strength of his manhood. Slowly, his hips ground against hers as he slowly plunged deeper within her. Her body hummed.

  Breathing heavily, hotly against her cheek, Charles submerged himself in Maeve. Each deep thrust came more quickly, carried her higher, until she lost all thought and abandoned herself solely to feeling. Feeling the passionate frenzy and unspeakable bliss consuming her.

  With every breath Maeve inhaled the tantalizing blend of musky male and deep pine forest. She inhaled him. Savored him. The more Charles gave of himself, the more she craved. She pulled him into her. Deeper. Stronger. One with Charles, she soared higher and higher.

  Deeper, stronger, higher.

  A loving thrust. A soul explosion. Maeve cried out in joy as she touched a magical moon and floated among the stars. Down, down. Down.

  A great peace settled over her. It felt as if the sun circled her heart, bright and warm, filling her with happiness. She recalled the first time Charles had made love to her. As Charlie he had been shy and gentle; he’d been careful not to hurt her. Tonight, her husband had lost any inhibitions. He had loved her fiercely, as if it were the first and last time he would hold her.