“Yes, Mr. Hamilton.” The footman nodded.
Reminding herself that she was the lady of the manor, Amanda squared her shoulders and strode to the dining room. When she entered, the men stood, and she waved. “Please, be seated, and let us enjoy the lovely meal I planned.”
At the first pop of the cork, she recalled the morning toast Mark always offered, and she struggled to compose an elegant oratory, as she assumed his position. Something inside her fractured, as she caressed the stem of the elegant crystal, because, without Mark, everything was wrong.
Closing her eyes, she invoked his image, and he magically appeared before her, with his arms outstretched. Oh, his thick brown hair, which she often yanked in the throes of passion. His chiseled cheekbones. His patrician features. His blue eyes swimming with naughty thoughts. His stalwart frame. More than anything, she longed for his lips, which could kiss her into sweet oblivion, banishing the most grievous torment, and how she needed him.
“My lady.” The plea came to her, as if from afar. “My lady.”
Torn from the cherished respite, she shook herself and discovered Hamilton at her left. “Yes? What is it?”
“The footman observed the coach coming down the drive.” The butler pulled back her chair, as she leaped to her feet.
In seconds, she sprinted into the foyer. Without donning her pelisse, she threw open the door, just as the coachman drew rein, and Mark jumped to the ground. With outstretched hands, he made for her, and she flew into his ready embrace.
Everything she held inside burst forth as a raging river, and she collapsed in a spate of tears, as she buried her face in the curve of his neck. For a while, Mark just stood there, rocking back and forth, as she wept.
“Darling, we have guests,” he said at last, in a whisper.
“I know.” Relaxing her grip, she slid down the front of him and wiped her eyes. Turning, she inhaled a calming breath. “Why, Admiral Maitland, what a wonderful surprise.” When she cast a glance at Hamilton, he nodded and dispatched a footman, and she again addressed Maitland. “We are honored to have you with us.”
“Lady Amanda.” Maitland doffed his hat, took her hand in his, and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “The honor is mine.”
“Please, come inside and take your ease, as we were just about to sit down to breakfast.” As she ushered Mark and his friend into the house, she peered over her shoulder, and to Clegg she mouthed, Thank you. To wit, he dipped his chin.
“Thank you, everyone, for the warm welcome, and it is good to be home.” Swamped amid the Brethren, Mark reached for her. “Now, if you will assemble in the dining room, my lady and I will join you shortly.”
To her surprise, while the family went one way, she and Mark went the other, as he drew her into his study. After he shut the door, he turned, and she found herself beset by six feet of aroused male.
“I know this dress, and more importantly the woman in it, and I see you got my gift.” As he pressed her against the wall, he bent his head and trailed his tongue along her décolletage, and her knees buckled. “But I am in dire need of a bath, I need to visit our son, and then I need to spend the better part of an hour making love to my wife.”
“You are late.” She raked her nails along his nape.
“My Amanda, you are stunning, as always.” To her abiding delight, he showered her face in kisses. “And I love you.”
“You are forgiven.” She giggled, as he nibbled the crest of her ear and fondled her bottom through the heavy velvet skirt. “What kept you from our bed, my darling?”
“A promotion and a series of events you may not believe.” At last, he tightened an arm about her waist and cupped her cheek. “You are looking at the Royal Navy’s First Sea Lord.”
“Oh, Mark, I am so proud of you.” It was her turn to kiss him, and she applied herself that he might have no doubt of her regard. “I shall commission a gown with the requisite regalia, my lord.”
“What I would do to you, were we alone.” He thrust his hips, as if she could possibly be oblivious to his desire. “But we have a house filled with family, and duty calls.”
“Indeed, but you will not let that stop you, later.” She straightened his cravat and then pulled a feather from his coat. “What is this?”
“It is a long story, which I will share, tonight.” He laughed and then stood at attention. “Now, will the most beautiful Lady Amanda consent to escort this humble sailor to breakfast?”
“Oh, she will do more than that, my lord.” Emboldened, she rubbed his crotch and whispered something naughty.
“Good lord, woman.” Mark exhaled audibly. “Married thirty years, and you still make me tremble. Let us convene in the dining room, that we might celebrate our reunion in private.”
Arm in arm, Mark and Amanda returned to the festivities and assumed their requisite places. After Hamilton dispensed the champagne, Mark held high his glass, and the gathering quieted.
In that peaceful calm, Amanda admired the large extended family comprised of colorful characters. The legacy of the Brethren manifested a fierce collective of daring Nautionnier Knights and the spirited women who claimed their hearts, along with an unshakable love independent of romance, which spanned the distance of time and place, never waning.
Constant as the rising sun, the bonds of kinship knew no price and made no demands. For such devotion existed in a realm unencumbered by envy or other human imperfections. Indeed, it burned as an eternal flame, to inspire future generations. When Mark clutched her hand in his, she knew, without doubt, he felt it, too.
“Friends and family, once again we are fortunate to rally for the holidays, and this Christmastide, as opposed to those past, has served to remind me of what is most important, so I shall keep my customary remarks brief.” He squeezed her fingers and winked. “It is not the presents we exchange but the time we spend, together, that ranks supreme. It is not Stir-Up Day, the kissing bough, the Yule Log, the plum pudding, or the carolers but the giving of ourselves that truly exhibits the spirit of the season, and I may have forgot that until my most recent journey. But this morning, as I study your faces, I realize I am a fortunate man, thus I wish a Happy Christmas, to one and all.”
The End
*If you would like to read Admiral Mark and Lady Amanda’s love story, download the permafree book Loving Lieutenant Douglas at any major retailer. Also, you can read George and Eileen’s story in the upcoming Owner of a Lonely Heart. And you can learn more about the entire Brethren of the Coast series at barbaradevlin.com.
About Barbara Devlin
USA Today Bestselling Author Barbara Devlin was born a storyteller, but it was a weeklong vacation to Bethany Beach, DE that forever changed her life. The little house her parents rented had a collection of books by Kathleen Woodiwiss, which exposed Barbara to the world of romance, and Shanna remains a personal favorite. Barbara writes heartfelt historical romances that feature flawed heroes who may know how to seduce a woman but know nothing of marriage. And she prefers feisty but smart heroines who sometimes save the hero, before they find their happily ever after. Barbara earned an MA in English and continued a course of study for a Doctorate in Literature and Rhetoric. She happily considered herself an exceedingly eccentric English professor, until success in Indie publishing lured her into writing, full-time, featuring her fictional knighthood, the Brethren of the Coast.
Connect with Barbara Devlin at BarbaraDevlin.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter, The Knightly News.
A Rivenloch Christmas
Glynnis Campbell
The Scottish Borders, 1144
More Historical Romances by Glynnis Campbell
The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch
THE SHIPWRECK (a novella)
A YULETIDE KISS (a short story)
LADY DANGER
CAPTIVE HEART
KNIGHT’S PRIZE
The Knights of de Ware
THE HANDFASTING (a novella)
MY CHAMPION
&
nbsp; MY WARRIOR
MY HERO
Medieval Outlaws
THE REIVER (a novella)
DANGER’S KISS
PASSION’S EXILE
DESIRE’S RANSOM
Scottish Lasses
THE OUTCAST (a novella)
MacFARLAND’S LASS
MacADAM’S LASS
MacKENZIE’S LASS
California Legends
NATIVE GOLD
NATIVE WOLF
NATIVE HAWK
Deirdre
Deirdre blamed the mistletoe. If her incorrigible husband hadn’t scattered the wicked plant all over Rivenloch in the spirit of his Norman Noël, none of what happened would have happened.
It wasn’t as if they’d never had Christmas at the castle before. Deirdre’s Viking father had built a chapel in the courtyard for her Christian mother so she could celebrate her holy days. When Deirdre’s mother passed away, the clan continued to mark Christmas in her memory—with a few sprigs of holly, a sizable feast, and a word or two of thanksgiving. But that was all.
This year, however, Deirdre’s husband Pagan had decided that wasn’t enough. When Deirdre’s two sisters, Helena and Miriel, announced they were bringing their families to Rivenloch to spend the holiday season together for the first time in three years, Pagan had insisted on decking the castle halls in full Christmas splendor.
Deirdre couldn’t tell him nay. She’d never been able to resist her husband. Especially when he gazed at her with such childlike enthusiasm. So she indulged him, even though she knew her practical sisters would never appreciate his efforts.
True to form, warlike Helena muttered that the festive boughs of holly were hiding all the glorious shields of defeated enemies hung on the walls.
Thrifty Miriel confided that the beeswax candles lighting every inch of the great hall seemed a great waste of coin.
The sisters’ father, Laird Gellir, grumbled into his white beard, irked by anything at odds with his Viking Jul.
Her sisters’ husbands, however, were quite impressed. Like Pagan, they had Norman blood in their veins. The décor likely reminded Colin and Rand of home.
But it was their collective children’s wide-eyed wonder at the colorful mummers Pagan had hired to reenact the birth of Jesus that convinced Deirdre she’d been right to let him bring Christmas to Rivenloch.
An enormous log, large enough to burn for twelve days, was hauled in from the forest and placed on the fire.
The entire clan crowded into the hall for a giant feast—the first of twelve, featuring roast boar with all the trimmings.
Wassail flowed freely.
Carolers and a consort filled the hall with song.
That was when the cursed mistletoe began to wreak havoc in the household.
Pagan had hung it in every corner.
Above every doorway.
And from every beam of Rivenloch’s great hall.
The irksome sprigs were everywhere.
And when Deirdre innocently asked what the mistletoe was for, Pagan had been only too glad to show her.
Of course, when they arrived, Colin and Rand had to demonstrate its use to their wives as well.
Thus began the trouble…
Currently, Deirdre watched the mummers from the foot of the corner stairs of the great hall. She had to smile at the way her four children were gazing at the spectacle in slack-jawed amazement.
She absently rubbed a hand across her belly. Nothing showed yet. But soon there would be a fifth to add to their brood. She planned to tell Pagan tonight, after the performance.
Of course, the announcement of one’s fifth child wasn’t terribly surprising or newsworthy. Still, she knew Pagan would be pleased. He was a doting father who took great pride in their growing army of warrior lads and lasses.
Her gaze again slipped sideways to observe her children—Hallie, Gellir, Brand, and Julian. There was her devoted husband now, crouched between the two lasses. He was pointing out the bright star painted on a screen behind the players.
Sometime after the mummers’ Mary and Joseph had secured lodging at a stable, and before the three kings arrived with gifts, Pagan left the children. He sidled up to Deirdre, wrapping an arm around her waist.
She sighed in pleasure and snuggled closer. Even after all this time, she never tired of his affection.
Then he cleared his throat.
She glanced at him.
He was giving her that look. The smoky, sparkling, gray-green gaze that always made her heart beat faster.
The knave. He knew very well what that look did to her. And when his eyes lifted to indicate the branch of mistletoe dangling from the archway, it didn’t matter that they’d been wed for seven years. Her heart fluttered like a windblown pennon.
Thankfully, he pulled her into the shadows of the stairwell to claim the kiss she owed him. After all, one lavish spectacle in the great hall was enough.
Pagan tasted like sweet mulled wassail. Apple and cinnamon and ginger. She drank his desire with eager thirst.
He cradled her jaw with one battle-callused hand, sweeping the pad of his thumb across her cheek.
The fingers of his other hand traced the upper edge of her gown, toying with the silver Thor’s hammer she always wore around her neck. Then they dipped dangerously low beneath the linen of her shift. He stroked the top of her breast with a feather-light touch.
When the rogue delved farther to graze her nipple, she gasped and pressed closer. Beneath his belt, against her abdomen, she could feel firm evidence that he had more in mind than just kissing.
She moaned with anticipation, weaving her fingers through his thick, freshly washed curls.
Curls that wound loosely around her knuckles like a fond caress.
Curls as warm and golden as the blaze burning on the fire.
Curls he’d passed on to two of their children and…
She let out a sigh of regret.
A tiny frown settled between her brows as she pulled away.
“Ah, Pagan, we can’t,” she whispered. “The children.”
“What children?” he murmured, easing forward for another kiss.
But Deirdre, as the eldest daughter, had always been the responsible one. That was why her father had entrusted her with the lairdship of Rivenloch. As much as she longed to continue their play, she placed a restraining palm on Pagan’s chest.
“We can’t just leave them…” she trailed off. Leave them what?
“Leave them what?” Pagan said, echoing her thoughts with a sly grin. “Completely enthralled by the Christmas play? Happy as a litter of pups? Safe in the company of the entire clan?”
He was right, of course. The children were safe. They’d never miss their parents. In fact, everyone in the hall was so well entertained, Pagan and Deirdre probably wouldn’t be missed by a soul.
She answered his smile. Lord, he was irresistible. Especially when his eyes smoldered like that.
He tilted his head to trail kisses down the side of her neck. Delicious shivers coursed through her. Like sword iron in a hot crucible, her knees melted beneath her.
After that, she had no willpower whatsoever.
Somehow she managed to stagger up the stairs to their chamber.
When he closed the door behind them, Deirdre wasted no time. Breathing heavily, she backed toward the bed and slipped the dark blue velvet kirtle from her shoulders.
He advanced, sliding her sleeves ever lower to nibble at her exposed flesh.
Meanwhile, she seized his leather belt, unbuckling it with practiced haste and casting it aside. It slithered across the oak floor like Eden’s tempting serpent.
He swept the gold mesh coif from her hair, and her long tresses tumbled over her bare shoulders.
Hungry to taste his warm flesh, Deirdre wrenched his indigo surcoat down. It lodged across his broad shoulders. She went for her dagger, intent on slicing through the laces.
But Pagan seized her wrist and halted her with a sensual c
huckle. “Patience, wench. You know, they untie.”
She didn’t want to wait that long. Then again, she didn’t want to have to explain the severed laces to their guests. She dropped the blade.
With a wicked twinkle in his eyes, Pagan slowly spread the laces and drew the surcoat over his head. He tossed the garment onto the chest at the foot of the bed. Then he hooked his thumbs expectantly in the waist of his trews, perusing her from head to toe.
“Well, m’lady?” he asked. “I believe it’s your turn.”
She unbuckled her own belt and dropped it to the floor. She kicked off her soft leather shoes. Finally, with her eyes fixed on her husband’s cocky mouth—the mouth she wanted to feel over every inch of her skin—she lifted the kirtle off over her head.
Pagan’s nostrils flared. He wasted no time, leaning back against the plaster wall to pull off his boots and stockings. He untied and yanked down his trews. His undershirt unfurled halfway to his knees. But there was no mistaking the state of his arousal when he freed the beast beneath the linen.
Deirdre gave him a knowing smile. She perched on the edge of the bed, peeling back her stockings, inch by inch, to expose her long legs.
His gaze darkened. He groaned in appreciation. Hauling his undershirt over his head, he pushed off the wall, anxious to join her.
She made quick work of her shift. The cloud of linen had barely floated to the floor when Pagan collided with her in a hot, demanding embrace.
With fevered gasps and in a tangle of limbs, they clambered onto the bed.
After enduring a chaste week full of holiday preparations, their hunger erupted in a gluttonous rush.
With the desperation of a starving waif, Deirdre fed on Pagan’s supple shoulder, his corded neck, his succulent mouth.
While Pagan’s hands boldly claimed her body, he pelted her face with kisses as soft as snowflakes. He stroked her with practiced skill, knowing all her most vulnerable places.
The spot behind her knee.
The tender inside of her thigh.
All Things Merry and Bright Page 23
