Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  Charles felt his heart melt in that moment, honey-thick and hot, pouring over carefully constructed walls that once protected him from this very thing. Caring, loving. Needing.

  He gently lifted Maeve’s chin between his thumb and forefinger until her eyes met his. “But there is something I want more than Barnabas’s sketch, my wild Irish lady.”

  Appearing crestfallen, Maeve frowned. “There is?”

  “You. I want you by my side for the rest of my life. You are the one work of art I cannot, will not, live without.”

  Her lips trembled as they slowly turned up into a blinding, dizzying smile. Mesmerized, Charles dipped his head, focusing on the delicious lips he meant to kiss.

  But Lynch, still crouched behind Charles, made his presence known. “The door!”

  Charles’s head snapped up. Newly alert, he listened. A key turned in the back door lock. Clasping Maeve’s hand, he motioned Lynch to stand on one side of the door while he quickly strode to the other.

  Positioning Maeve flat against the wall, Charles poised to spring on whoever walked through the door in the next second.

  Edgar Dines.

  Charles jumped the villain while Lynch slammed the door shut behind him.

  Dines passed out from fright.

  It took several minutes to revive the art dealer and by then Lynch held him fast.

  “Rycroft!”

  “I understand you sent me a ransom note,” Charles said. He spoke calmly, he thought, for wanting to rip Dines’s heart out.

  “Who told you that?”

  Maeve stepped forward. “I did.”

  While he burned to pummel the bird-like man with his bare fists, Charles instead kept a grip on his emotions. He spoke quietly and distinctly. “And now I’d like you to open the safe, Edgar.”

  Dines grimaced and gave a great put-upon sigh. “Why does nothing ever go right for me?”

  “Open the safe quickly or Mr. Lynch will help you,” Charles threatened in a menacing tone.

  “Nothing, nothing has gone my way for years,” the art dealer mumbled as he worked the lock on the safe.

  “A man who cheats and steals cannot expect things to go his way,” Maeve scolded.

  After the art dealer opened his safe, Lynch bound him with the same rope used to tie Maeve. Charles sat on his heels to inspect the contents of the safe. Maeve stood behind him, the sweet violet scent of her softening the hard, thick tension engulfing the room.

  His pulse quickened at the sight of the package resting alone inside the safe. He withdrew it carefully and stood to tear away the brown paper wrapping.

  Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick.

  Unable to contain his delight, a grinning Charles held the sketch for Maeve to view.

  “Saints above! It’s the merriest, sweetest Santa Claus I have ever set eyes upon.”

  “And we shall enjoy it this Christmas, thanks to you,” he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead.

  “What are we going to do with Dines?” Lynch asked.

  “We’re going to hand him over to the authorities and find his accomplice.”

  Maeve supplied the accomplice’s name. “Bill ‘Spit’ O’Brien.”

  “Spit?” Charles repeated.

  “Terrible habit the man has,” she said with a rueful wag of her head.

  “Where’s O’Brien, Edgar?”

  “I don’t know.”

  ‘‘Would you like me to set my man Lynch upon you?”

  “No, I would not. Not one opportunity have I had in this life,” the miserable man grumbled before grinding out the information between his teeth. “You might look for O’Brien at a boxing match.”

  “Aye!” Maeve’s hands went to her mouth. “ ‘Tis Shea O’Malley he’s going to see! My brother is boxing tonight!”

  * * * *

  Men from all over the Boston area packed the A Street Gymnasium. Thick with cigar smoke and shoulder-to-shoulder bodies jostling for a better position, the hall felt overly warm and stuffy. The noise of a high-ceilinged hall filled with men rooting for the boxers, jeering in some cases and just being rowdy in others, was enough to make a woman deaf.

  After what she’d just been through, Maeve was in no mood.

  Charles found a small, empty space to stand in the back of the hall. His height allowed him to see the boxing ring but Maeve stared at a sea of backs, male backs of all sizes and shapes.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Maeve,” Charles’s shouted over the din.

  “It’s my brother who’s boxing. Of course I belong here. I’ve never missed a match yet.” Standing on tiptoe, Maeve stretched her neck, attempting to see the ring. The results of her efforts yielded nothing but a crop of heads, the hairy backs of heads. Was everyone in the world taller than she?

  “Can you see what’s happening?” she asked Charles.

  “Your brother is pounding his opponent into the ropes.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  A loud roar went up from the crowd.

  “What happened?” A spasm of anxiety gripped Maeve’s stomach.

  “Shea stepped back. An impressive, sporting gesture.”

  “Do you see my father?”

  “Yes, he’s standing alongside the ring. Looks as if he’s coaching your brother. He’s smiling.”

  “A bit too much of the ale.” Her father always primed himself before one of Shea’s matches. “Is Shea bleeding?”

  “Not much.”

  “Saints above!”

  “Hmmmm—”

  “What?” Maeve’s heart collided with her chest.

  “Spencer Wellington is here ...”

  Maeve breathed a sigh of relief.

  “And I think that’s Pansy I see with him.”

  “Pansy at a boxing match! Her mother will have my head for certain now!”

  “Why? Pansy is with Spencer, not you.”

  “Harriet Deakins blames me for Pansy’s strong-willed ways.”

  “I can’t blame her.”

  “Charles!” Maeve protested.

  “In any event, Pansy appears pleased.”

  “She must have persuaded Spencer to bring her to watch my brother box. It’s certain she knew that I would not.”

  “To see your brother?” Charles arched a skeptical brow. “At present, Spencer and Pansy only have eyes for each other. Our friends may not even be fully aware that they are in a boxing hall and a match is in progress.”

  “What?” Maeve bounced up on her toes once again in a vain attempt to see.

  She was about to ask Charles to give her a hand when the crowd gave a resounding cheer. Whistles, applause, and shouts of approval all rang out as the bell sounded. Pure pandemonium broke out in the hall.

  “Is my brother on his feet?” Maeve shouted.

  “Yes.” Charles bent his head down and hollered so that she could hear. “Shea’s arms are raised above his head and he’s grinning from ear to ear. Your brother has won the bout.”

  “Heaven be praised.”

  “And if I’m not mistaken, over near the other corner of the ring Spit O’Brien has just been arrested.”

  “It’s sad but only right.”

  Taking Maeve by the arm, Charles guided her quickly from the hall.’’Don’t be sad, he might have killed you.’’

  “But not without a fight.” Maeve smiled, tickled with the memory. “Before the big bully tied me up, I did manage a good swift kick in the chins that made him yelp,” she confessed. “Mr. Spit O’Brien ranted a bit with words that should never be spoken in the presence of a lady.”

  Charles rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “Maeve, you must promise me you won’t do anything to put yourself in danger ever again.”

  “I can promise to try.” And she would. The thought of repeating such a draining day of drama as this had been gave her goosebumps. Not a good faerie to help her anywhere, all of the day.

  Charles chuckled as he led her out of the hall. Icy needles of air st
ung Maeve’s cheeks, almost taking her breath away. But the cold night could not touch the glowing warmth within her. Shea was safe and at last Charles had what he wanted. She could not be happier.

  ‘‘Would you like me to ask your brother and father to join us for Christmas Day?” Charles asked when they were settled inside his coach.

  “I would like that more than anything.”

  His eyes, the soft hazy gray of morning fog, met hers. “I want this to be the best Christmas of your life.”

  Maeve didn’t doubt it would be. It was what the new year held that worried her.

  Chapter Twenty

  On the drive home from the boxing match, Maeve fell asleep in Charles’s arms. She did not attempt to see her father and brother after the fight as both men had been instantly surrounded by a wild surge of cheering Irishmen.

  It had been a long, emotionally trying day and Charles hesitated to disturb his sleeping beauty once they arrived home. He carried Maeve to his room and to his bed, where he carefully removed her coat, hat, and shoes. Half-awake, half-asleep, his groggy wife allowed Charles the liberty of undressing her without protest.

  Uncertain if Maeve could sleep comfortably in a corset, Charles still could not bring himself to fully awaken her in order to undertake that particular task — as much as he would have enjoyed freeing her.

  After removing the pins from her hair, he settled her under the down cover. An extraordinary tightening gripped his chest as Charles stood over Maeve, watching her sleep.

  He knew of no artist with talent enough to duplicate her beauty to canvas. But he would never forget the way she looked at this moment, at peace and content. Maeve’s lustrous midnight mane fanned the snowy white pillow in startling contrast. Her long, black lashes curled along high, silky alabaster cheekbones. And her cherry lips, slightly parted, puffed small breaths of air as she gently exhaled.

  Charles bent to kiss the tip of Maeve’s nose, to feel her warm breath against his cheek, to inhale her sweetness. Straightening, he forced himself to turn away. After almost losing her, he could not bear to be parted from her. Undressing with more haste than usual, Charles slipped into bed, careful not to wake his sleeping wife. Gathering Maeve’s small, voluptuous body into his arms, he held her close to his heart through the night.

  Much to his chagrin, Maeve woke earlier than he the next day and was gone when he woke. Somewhat belatedly, Charles joined her at the breakfast table. His lovely little wife shot him a somewhat hesitant, shy smile. Was she nervous to be alone with him? He dismissed the thought as preposterous. Nothing ruffled Maeve O’Malley Rycroft,

  He dipped to kiss her cheek before taking a seat across from her. “Good morning. You look lovely, and none the worse for our alarming adventure last evening.”

  “Good morning.” She eyed him warily.

  He didn’t understand her edginess but persevered with his plan. “How would you like to spend Christmas at Ashton Pond?” he asked.

  Maeve underwent an instantaneous transformation. Her guarded expression gave way to one of pure joy. Her smile outdazzled the sun on the brightest summer day. “That would be glorious!”

  Charles’s heart beat in triple time, his body warmed in the glow of Maeve’s radiance. He found himself unable to speak.

  “Do you mean it, Charles?”

  “I’m closing the company at mid-day,” he told her, unprepared for the husky timbre of his voice. The gut-wrenching desire swamping him was not the sort a man admitted to feeling at breakfast. “Can you be ready to leave when I return?”

  Maeve clapped her hands together in delight. “Sure’n I can be ready to leave now—but I shall wait.”

  It was all Charles could do to leave her even for such a short time. He made her swear not to leave the house while he was away. But he did not intend to be gone long. He was closing Rycroft Publishing after only half a day’s work. But it was a special day, Christmas Eve day, and for the first time he realized that more than likely his employees wanted to be with their families as much as he longed to be with Maeve.

  Cousin Martin did not bother concealing his astonishment but heartily approved, slapping Charles on the back and wishing him a happy holiday. The two men had resolved their differences to mutual satisfaction. In January the Rycroft Monthly would make its debut featuring a story discovered by Maeve from the manuscripts Charles had brought home to her.

  Conrad Rycroft would never have allowed his employees to work only half a day. Paying men for time they had not worked would be unthinkable. But Charles wasn’t his father and never could be.

  He felt especially pleased that at last he understood, accepted, and took pride in the difference. Since his revelation came about recently, he suspected it had something to do with Maeve but wasn’t quite certain. The one thing Charles was certain of, was that he must dissuade Maeve from seeking a divorce. Ashton Pond provided the perfect setting for seduction.

  He was fairly bursting with excitement when at last he bundled Maeve into the sleigh beside him for the ride to Ashton Pond. Ralph, his driver, assured him that the journey would be cold but free from snow.

  Maeve kept a tight rein on her emotions, afraid to hope her handsome husband had experienced a change of heart. If she was wrong, the letdown would be too shattering. But there was reason to believe. She could always find reason to believe.

  Charles had appeared happy to find her alive at Edgar Dines’s gallery, albeit tied and bound like a piglet on its way to market. He’d whisked her away to Shea’s boxing match with only mild protest and now he was taking her to her favorite spot.

  On the other hand, he’d vowed to give Maeve the best Christmas of her life. He hadn’t vowed to give her the best life...a life shared with him.

  Maeve spotted the chimney smoke before the sleigh rounded the bend at Ashton Pond. The flickering light of candles burning in every window of the house offered a cheerful welcome. Her heart loop-de-looped with delight. Charles squeezed her closer. She’d been cradled in the strength of his arms and the warmth of his body heat for the entire journey. With every breath she’d inhaled his lusty male scent, held it within her, savored the essence of Charles. By the time the sleigh came to a stop in front of the country house, Maeve wanted her husband quite desperately.

  Hilda and George greeted them at the door, bustled them into the cozy warmth of the country house, and helped them off with their hats and coats. Maeve felt as if more than a heavy coat had been removed from her shoulders. Her intangible burden also lifted. She truly felt at home here, at peace within the comforting walls of the rambling cottage.

  “Look, our little Christmas tree is still bare,” Charles pointed out as he strode into the parlor, heading for the fireplace. “After supper we must see to its decorations.”

  Maeve followed, briskly rubbing her hands together.

  “We shall make it the loveliest tree in New England,” she promised.

  “Perhaps the loveliest tree in Ashton Pond,” he grinned. “I’ve sent Ralph back to Boston. He’ll bring your father and Shea to join us tomorrow.”

  A sweet heat rose up inside of Maeve as she met Charles’s smiling eyes. “You are most kind.”

  He frowned. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “Certain.” She rubbed her hands together. They were no longer rough and red, but soft and ivory white.

  Charles angled his head, regarding her warily. “You are unusually circumspect.”

  Maeve lowered her eyes, away from the face she longed to touch, the lips she yearned to kiss. “A lady is expected to be discreet and judicious in your world.”

  “We’re in our world now, Maeve. And I favor your usual, ah ... spontaneity.”

  “Truly?” Maeve remained skeptical.

  “Truly. And we are free to be ourselves here. We can howl at the moon if we like, dance a jig or make love all day.”

  Her smile came straight from her heart.

  “I wi
ll demonstrate love-all-day as soon as possible,” Charles assured her with a wry twist of his lips.

  Maeve’s heart thumped a bit too hard and a bit too swiftly in response. Hoping to calm the upheaval, she pressed a hand against the runaway spot within her chest.

  “If that’s all right with you,” Charles added.

  They had not made love in many days, and Maeve’s longing for him had grown almost unbearable. But before she could answer, Hilda announced supper.

  Over steaming bowls of creamy oyster chowder, Charles’s gaze locked on hers. Maeve’s throat went stone dry. Undisguised desire burned in his dark ash eyes.

  “You know oysters are an aphrodisiac, don’t you?” he asked, rather thickly.

  “No... I...did not.”

  “Be warned.” His lopsided smile held a promise of passion that took her breath away.

  In order to finish her meal without throwing herself into his arms, Maeve avoided her husband’s eyes, did not venture a glance at his sensuous lips. Instead, she devoured the delicious hot meal of chowder and biscuits, stewed tomatoes, and macaroons. Once, she stopped long enough to look beyond Charles’s broad shoulder to the window.

  A steady snow fell through the velvet black night. The bright white crystal flakes created a fresh new cover of snow that glistened beneath the scant rays of fluttering candlelight.

  Love and desire curled through her like a tunneling cloud, leaving an exquisite ache in its wake. Being within arm’s reach of the man Maeve loved more than life itself gave her more happiness than she’d ever known. Determined to live for the moment, she refused to think of what lay ahead, after the holiday had passed.

  Alone in the intimate room, a deep river of magnetism flowed between Maeve and Charles. A tumbling current of unspoken need. His dusky gaze held hers. Her body trembled.

  Pine cones snapped in the fireplace, leaping flames crackled. Charles made no move to retire for a cigar and brandy as was his custom after dinner in Beacon Hill.

  “Hilda has set out decorations to hang on our tree,” he said, breaking the heavy silence. “But first let’s hang Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick.”