Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  And if Maeve had her way there would never be any such opportunity for the merry widow.

  “No, we haven’t,” Charles agreed. “We must make time to do that.”

  “I have time now.” Stella stepped back and gestured to her open door. Babe, the vicious Pomeranian, barked nonstop.

  “My wife has her rooms on this floor as well.”

  “If she were truly your wife, she would share your chamber, Charles. Why keep up this pretense with me?”

  Maeve’s heart palpitated wildly, furiously. Stella was attempting to seduce her husband! The cream of New York society knew Charles was a married man. How dare she offer such a wicked invitation to a man whose wife’s door lay only a few yards away?

  Charles hedged. He sounded uncomfortable, as if something large and bitter lodged in his throat. “Well, actually, I, ah, came to make sure Maeve had gotten over her headache.”

  Maeve breathed easier as Charles gently rejected the merry widow’s proposition. Her husband owned an honest heart. He possessed a full measure of integrity, unlike Stella, who Maeve suspected of being spawned by Satan.

  “I’m certain Maeve sleeps,” Stella told him, sotto voce. “I’ve not heard a sound from her rooms since I retired. She’ll never know if you pay me a visit.”

  “She will. She’s, she’s Irish, you know,” he offered in a hapless explanation.

  Indeed she was Irish! And Maeve’s Irish temper presently teetered on the brink of an all-out explosion. In a grave effort to suppress her rage, she gritted her teeth and agitatedly fanned herself with an open hand. It did no good, angry thoughts spun in Maeve’s head as her temperature rose.

  Stella did not mean to give up. “She’s Irish and I, I am starved.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Charles dipped his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  Maeve apparently wasn’t the only one who did not understand Stella’s hunger. She’d witnessed the woman enjoying a full dinner just hours ago.

  Lowering her eyes and purring like a feline in heat, Stella took the role of coquette to greater heights. “I’m a widow, starved for affection,” she explained in a husky voice. “If you would come to my rooms for just a short time, I would appreciate your kindness, Charles. And I would be certain you left a happy, satisfied man.”

  Saints above! Maeve’s heart slammed against her chest. The nerve of the woman! Stella was no better than the dreaded vampire faerie. Once a vampire faerie attached herself to a mortal man, the unfortunate male could not bear to be touched by another woman.

  Maeve could barely restrain herself from leaping out into the hall and pulling Charles to the safety of her room.

  Charles’s dark brows gathered in a deep frown at the bridge of his nose. “You flatter me, Stella. But you forget I’m a married man.”

  “Why do you keep up the sham? All who live beneath this roof know that your marriage was an unfortunate accident. You were a victim of circumstance. Do you believe your mother will allow such an unsuitable match to last much longer? Come into my rooms and see what is in store for you at the end of your so-called marriage.”

  The end of his so-called marriage? Incensed beyond the risk of revealing herself as an eavesdropper, Maeve called out as sweetly as possible — under the circumstances. “Charles? Is that you?”

  “Ah, Maeve is awake,” Charles remarked quite cheerfully. To Maeve’s great satisfaction, he sounded relieved to be rescued from the claws of the female predator.

  “Yes,” Stella sighed.

  He thrust the bowl of grapes into Stella’s free hand. “And may be in pain.”

  Maeve was definitely awake and quite definitely in pain. With hands on hips and toes tapping, she waited.

  Her mortified husband backed away from Stella toward her door. “If you’ll excuse me. Ah, thank you again for your...kind offer.”

  Charles burst through Maeve’s door, slammed it shut, and pulled her into his arms. He brought his mouth down on hers with a fierceness he could barely control. But the sweetness and softness of her comforted him, calmed him. His bruising kiss dissolved into a tender meeting of lovers lips.

  His body ached for her, had been aching for her since this morning when he left the bed they’d shared at Ashton Pond. And there had never been a day so long as this one.

  Throughout the day Charles’s thoughts returned again and again to Maeve. While engaged in yet another argument with Martin, he pictured Maeve’s blond instructor holding her, whirling her round in a romantic waltz. While he sought to put his own mark upon the company his father had built, another man danced with his wife. She had passed the day without Charles, doing what? Had the hours passed pleasantly or in turmoil? His mind seemed never without a thought of her.

  But now Maeve was in his arms and all felt right with the world.

  His heart hammered with the force of a runaway locomotive. Even when Charles raised his lips from Maeve’s, his heart continued to fly on wings of its own. He looked down into her eyes. The sparkling light had died. Their lovely blue color had darkened to a purple hue. A small, worried frown wrinkled her porcelain brow.

  “What is it?” he asked, more disturbed by her apparent distress than he cared to be.

  “Your mother. What do you suppose your mother plans to do about our marriage?”

  He shook his head. “What can she do? My marriage is none of her concern.” Tamping down an uneasy feeling in his gut, Charles guided Maeve toward the bed. “It’s not something I wish to think about at the moment.”

  Maeve teased her lip. “Beatrice feels that you deserve a, a better wife. I know she does.”

  “Who could be better than you?”

  “Please be serious.”

  To Charles’s great consternation, Maeve’s eyes misted. “Should I allow my mother to direct my life?” he asked.

  “Like your father attempted to do?”

  Dear God. Did this little bit miss nothing? Her bluntness chafed.

  Charles rubbed his forehead, looking over her shoulder as Maeve blinked back her tears. Her bed lay in his direct line of sight. The covers had been turned down in invitation.

  This was no time to be discussing marriage or his mother. It was definitely not what he came to do. Gathering Maeve into his arms, Charles spoke softly into her ear. “Mother will do nothing until after the holiday season.”

  “And after, what can she do?”

  “We shall worry about that later.” Grinning, he tweaked Maeve’s nose, attempting to shift the atmosphere from leaden to light. And take her mind off of what mattered not at the present. “At the moment I am bent on taking you to bed and ending your suffering.”

  “Suffering?” Maeve stepped out of his arms.

  “Needless worry is a form of suffering.”

  “‘Tis not needless worry. Stella wants you,” Maeve said with what appeared to be a pout. “She has marriage on her mind.”

  “But I do not want Stella,” Charles assured her. What use had he for a pale matron of polite society when he had the colorful Maeve within his arms?

  She smiled then. A sliver of light crept into the dark blue of her eyes. “How do you intend to end my suffering?”

  “By making love to you until dawn.”

  “What if Stella is counting the minutes you pass with me?”

  ‘‘Then let us hope for her sake that counting minutes is like counting sheep, and she will soon find herself fast asleep.”

  With a light peal of laughter that sent tingling waves of warmth skittering through him, Maeve led Charles to her bed. Gone was the red flannel nightshirt and in its place a blue gown that hinted of every alluring curve beneath its silky folds. The near-transparent fabric softly draped against Maeve’s full, firm breasts and generous hips. With each move she made, his excitement grew. His body heat intensified.

  Charles drew an unsteady breath.

  Maeve came to a stop beside the bed and turned to him. With a secretive smile on her lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes, she pulle
d the sash of his dressing gown.

  He’d never seen a woman’s eyes reflect the undisguised pleasure he saw in Maeve’s as her gaze drifted from his eyes, to his chest, to the hard evidence of his manhood. Charles’s heart felt afire, his body aflame with desire. It was all he could do to stand still.

  “You are a feast to a woman’s eyes, my love. My Charles.”

  Dear God, she had no shame! He loved it!

  Maeve’s murmured statement sent Charles’s body into turmoil. His heart drummed. The aching heat in his loins nearly doubled him over. The bottom dropped from the pit of his stomach and his pulse pounded like a madman’s.

  He crushed Maeve against him. Her breasts, soft and pliant, pressed against his chest, creating rippling tremors of fire. She circled her arms around his neck, grinding her hips against him. In a blurry haze of passion, Charles fell to the bed with Maeve. He tasted her, relishing the delicious, tart peppermint flavor of her.

  Driven by a fever he couldn’t control, Charles devoured the rosy buds of Maeve’s breasts as she held him, stroked him, cradled him. All thoughts of languid lovemaking were lost to a frenzy of desire. He could no more stop the passion that fired him than leap to the moon. And when Charles buried himself inside Maeve’s deep, moist warmth, he spilled his seed and cried her name.

  He was a new man.

  “Charles,” Maeve whispered minutes later as she lay snuggled in his arms. “What were the grapes for?”

  * * * *

  The following evening, not long after dark, five sleighs filled with holly, jangling with a cacophony of bells and piled with young, laughing, and singing bodies, carried Spencer Wellington’s party from his Beacon Hill home to the ice-covered pond in the Common.

  During the brief sleigh ride, Maeve had joined in the chorus of hearty voices singing The Holly and the Ivy. Due to the crowded conditions of the sleigh, Maeve was forced to sit halfway upon her husband’s lap, an inconvenience she found delightful.

  Although it was a cold night, there was no wind or falling snow. The area around the pond was well lit with gaslights, their bases wound with fresh holly and tied beneath the light with big, red bows. Even the benches scattered round the pond were decorated with crimson bows. Wellington’s servants stood by with jugs of hot cocoa and eggnog.

  Minutes after they arrived, Maeve sat on a bench as Charles knelt before her, tying the new skates he’d purchased especially for her.

  She leaned forward, close to him. “I think I should just like to watch for awhile,” she said in a hushed, confidential tone.

  “You cannot learn by watching, Maeve.” He stood up, towering over her, and held out his hand.

  Charles towered over most of Spencer’s guests. But it was not only his height that made him so compelling, his patrician features, so finely hewn, were a riveting factor. His broad, solid frame appeared even more striking in his long, fur-lined coat. Early on, he’d discarded his hat. His hair, thick and dark, gleamed beneath the flickering light. The tips of his ears were red, and his dazzling smile as white as fresh snow.

  Maeve would do anything for Charles. She would even attempt to skate. She took his outstretched hand.

  Charles pulled her up to his side and wrapped a supportive arm about her waist. Her ankles wobbled. Her heart sank.

  “Easy now,” Charles cautioned. “We’re going to skate onto the ice now. It will feel different, but I’ll be holding you until you gain speed.”

  “Speed?” Saints above!

  In the center of the ice Stella, dressed in her navy coat and ermine muff, twirled once and began to skate backward. The show-off! Maeve would not even be standing if it were not for Charles’s arm around her. The solid strength of him gave her courage. And she needed courage for this unnatural act.

  “Speed gives us balance,” Charles told her. “You’ll see.”

  Determined to master the sport for Charles’s sake, Maeve was hampered by ankles that kept buckling inward. All around her, his friends skated with ease. Young men and women glided by, hand in hand. Some of the fellows raced and all obviously were enjoying themselves—but Maeve.

  She had to skate. She had to fit into this group of Charles’s friends. A knot formed in the base of her belly. What was she thinking? How could she ever be accepted by the cream of Boston society?

  Charles had maneuvered them to a rather frightening speed but surprisingly, Maeve felt stronger on her feet, more secure on two thin blades than she ever imagined. The sting of the cold nipped at her face, an exhilarating sensation that made her laugh. Or maybe she was laughing because she was skating. Charles released her with a gentle push and she skated solo. Triumphant! Straight ankles and on her feet.

  Maeve raised her arms and screamed in delight.

  Boom.

  And then, somehow she was on her bottom, sliding across the pond.

  Charles skated to her side and helped her up, encouraging her with his great, hypnotic grin and rallying words. “You’ve got the idea!”

  She fell three times more.

  Charles showed no sympathy, only laughing and coaxing her to try once more. “This is the way everyone learns to skate, Little Bit.”

  Her husband’s support strengthened Maeve’s determination. He never strayed from her side. And she loved hearing his laughter. Each day it seemed Charles laughed more often, more easily. Each day she loved him more.

  After an hour of spills and shaky starts, Maeve finally skated on her own. Many of those who’d watched her final victory glided up to congratulate her. She accepted their smiles and friendly words as genuine. But as soon as Charles went off to race with Spencer, she collapsed on the nearest bench.

  Pansy, a longtime member of the young society crowd, had come to the party as well. She brought a steaming mug of hot cocoa to Maeve and sat down on the cold bench beside her.

  “You’re a fast learner, Maeve. It took me weeks to learn how to skate.”

  “I don’t believe you. More likely you mastered the skill in little more than a minute.”

  Pansy laughed. Dressed warmly in a nut-brown coat and matching hat, she looked different somehow. Her eyes shone brighter, her cheeks glowed and her tight, rusty-red curls brushed against her coat in splendid contrast. “All right. It was less than weeks but more than a minute.”

  Maeve grinned. She was so grateful for Pansy’s friendship. Pansy Deakins might have strange ideas, but she had accepted Maeve as an equal even when Maeve had served as her maid. If it were not for her hazel-eyed friend, who would have spoken with her during Beatrice’s party or sat with her tonight?

  “I fear it will take me weeks before I feel comfortable,” Maeve sighed.

  “Well, you certainly earned the respect of this group tonight.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. It takes courage to learn to skate before twenty or more people.”

  Maeve basked in the ray of hope Pansy had just offered as her friend sipped at her cocoa.

  “Maeve, have you seen your brother recently?” she asked after a moment of silence.

  Maeve’s gaze was on Charles, skating in sure, swift strides around the pond with his friend. “No, but I will have to chase after him soon.”

  “Do you think he has the information you need?”

  “If anyone can discover who attacked Charles, it will be Shea. I have more confidence in him than in the private investigator Charles has hired.”

  “Shea is intelligent?”

  “Of course. He’s an O’Malley,” Maeve teased. But then, seeing the dreamy look in her friend’s eyes, she became serious quickly. “Don’t be getting any ideas about Shea,” she warned. “You’re a friend of mine and I shall be frank with you. My brother has a roving eye.”

  “Perhaps because he has not found the right woman.”

  “Perhaps, but you know your parents would not approve of a man like Shea. They expect you to marry a man like Spencer Wellington.”

  “I have known Spencer Wellington all of my life.”
Pansy made the remark as if their long acquaintance alone made Spencer ineligible as a mate.

  “Please, Pansy, do not spend time thinking about Shea. It can come to naught. And if your mother even suspects that you’re mooning over an Irish boxer, she’ll send you clear out of the state.”

  “I want to see him box.”

  “What?” The thought horrified Maeve.

  “I have been a good friend to you, Maeve. Please arrange this one thing for me. If you do, I shall never ask another favor and I shall never ask about Shea again.”

  Maeve’s misgivings weighed like a boulder tied to her heart. If she were thrown in the ocean at the moment, Maeve would sink like a brick. But how could she refuse the first time Pansy ever had asked anything of her?

  “We shall see Shea box together,” she agreed quietly.

  “Oh. Oh.”

  “What?”

  “Stella is headed our way.”

  Maeve’s evening was rapidly falling apart. She had managed to avoid Stella by remaining in her rooms most of the day, busy with her lessons and finishing the knitting of Shea’s Christmas sweater.

  Stifling an inward groan, she greeted Stella with a smile and a kindness. “You are an accomplished skater. I admire your skill.”

  “Thank you, Maeve. Hello, Pansy.”

  Pansy said nothing in reply, only inclining her head as if she were waiting for a shoe to fall.

  And it did.

  “I should like to have a woman-to-woman chat with you at your earliest convenience, Maeve.”

  Stella’s wooden smile did not distract from the bright, cold gleam in her eyes.

  Maeve suppressed the urge to run.

  * * * *

  The man who preferred to think of himself as Samson prepared to leave for the night. He was deep in thought when he heard the soft rap and then the jingle of the bell as the door opened. He hurried from his back office to find his accomplice.

  The big man’s patched jacket appeared to be two sizes too small. The dirt-brown wool stretched across his wide frame and the sleeves fell inches short of his thick wrists. He held a knit cap in his hands.

  “What are you doing here, O’Brien? I warned you never to come here again.”