Mistletoe Wishes

by Anna Campbell

  He chanced sliding a fraction closer. “May I offer my shoulder as a pillow? We should make ourselves as comfortable as we can. We’ll be warmer huddled together.”

  Very gently, expecting her to flinch away, he slid his arm around her straight shoulders and drew her down until her head rested on his shoulder. His heart gave a great thud of joy when she didn’t move away. She wasn’t in one of his coats, and the worn merino of her dress was soft to his touch. Nowhere near as soft, he was sure, as her skin. The thought didn’t make him feel any sleepier.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” she whispered, although nobody was within earshot.

  “It’s purely for self-preservation.”

  With her so close, a tantalizing female scent teased his senses. Tentatively so as not to alarm her, he brushed his cheek against her hair. It was as silky and thick as he’d imagined.

  Miss Philippa Sanders might have a sharp tongue, but she proved a lusciously sweet armful. He tightened his hold, ignoring her half-hearted protest, and rested his head back against the wall.

  However undeserving he might be, Christmas this year had provided glorious gifts.

  Chapter 3

  GRADUALLY PHILIPPA SURFACED from sleep. Beneath her ear, something pounded deep and steady like the ocean upon the shore. Whatever she rested upon was firm and warm. She murmured and rubbed her cheek against her lovely pillow. Lazy pleasure trickled through her as someone rhythmically stroked her hair.

  Then she remembered where she was. And who she was with.

  How bizarre to think that a man she’d hardly spoken two words to before tonight touched her with such tenderness.

  How bizarre. How wrong. How…delightful.

  “Dear heaven…” she muttered with less horror than a genuinely virtuous woman would muster.

  When she made a token effort to sit up, Erskine’s hold tightened. “Not yet.”

  How far she’d ventured from her safe little world. He hugged her into his side so she curved against him, her face buried in the front of his coat. One hand lay on his shoulder, and her legs curled beneath her, her thigh resting against his hip. The alien but delicious scent of a man surrounded her. Clean skin. Male musk. A touch of sandalwood.

  Compared to her, Lord Erskine was so big. At their first meeting, she’d noted his height, but now, pressed to his hard body, she was overwhelmingly conscious of restrained power.

  Any sensible girl would be terrified. Instead, Philippa stayed exactly where she was.

  The sheer strangeness of how much she liked resting in Erskine’s arms made her try yet again to sit up. This time he let her.

  “I’m sorry.” She raised trembling hands to her untidy hair.

  How mortifying. She must have been wriggling all over him while she slept. Her hair was half collapsed around her face.

  “No need to apologize.” His voice was low and subtly insinuating. Or perhaps only her uneasy conscience made her think that.

  “Did you sleep?”

  “No.”

  Somehow that made it worse. That he’d remained alert while she’d felt easy enough to drift off into dreams. Dreams now wisps, but which left behind a trace of guilt.

  “Was I asleep for long?”

  “I’m guessing only an hour or so.” Erskine’s laugh was mocking. “Fear not, Miss Sanders. You didn’t confess your darkest secrets in your sleep. You didn’t molest me. Your innocence remains unsullied.”

  Except now she knew the touch of his hands and the scent of his skin. Now she knew how it felt to sleep beside him. A man of his experience might consider their interactions as pure as spring water. Philippa felt like she’d surrendered a corner of herself. She didn’t like this vulnerability.

  Erskine’s arm still encircled her in a loose embrace that could have felt merely friendly, if not for her prickling awareness. She should insist that he release her, but curling up with her head on his shoulder had established an intimacy that made missish megrims too coy for words.

  “Are you cold?” The softly accented voice was rich with concern. She’d once pegged him as a selfish, careless man, but tonight he’d been kinder than she deserved.

  “No.” If anything she was too warm. A blush rose in her cheeks. She struggled to sound calm and mature. It was fiendishly difficult. “Are you? I can get another coat.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Such a banal discussion, while all the time his touch filtered through to her bones in a way she’d never experienced. Worse, she couldn’t stop wondering what she’d do if he kissed her. Something about the late hour and the cramped room and, above all, the delicious warmth of his body, made her think of forbidden pleasures.

  Given Erskine was such a rake, it seemed a pity not to sample his famous rakish skills. Unwelcome curiosity coiled like a snake. Curiosity, and a fatal yearning to play the wicked woman. Just once, before life as beautiful Amelia Sanders’s sensible, disregarded sister resumed.

  Philippa was never likely to have another adventure like this. The whole season, she’d trailed around London behind Amelia, making no impression at all. Now that Amelia had made a brilliant match, Philippa would return to the country and her dull but useful life, running her mother’s modest estate. Perhaps in lonely old age, she’d look back on this encounter with a libertine and smile.

  “Why don’t you go back to sleep?” he suggested softly.

  How horrified he’d be if he guessed the wanton pictures filling her mind. “No.”

  Although the idea of drawing on someone else’s strength was so appealing. In the family, she kept things going, managed the farm, ordered the household. She’d always believed herself perfectly content. Until this brush with a scoundrel made her wonder if she’d settled for second best, only because it was easier for her mother and sister if Philippa undertook every necessary but unexciting task.

  Discomfiting thoughts. Thoughts that did nothing to dilute her physical reaction to the man sharing this dangerously intimate space. It rankled that if he’d been trapped with Amelia or one of his glamorous London ladies, he’d do more than fling an avuncular arm across her shoulders.

  “Aren’t you tired?” she asked.

  His laugh was a mere grunt. “I’m used to late nights. Unlike you, my innocent country lassie.”

  The darkness lent her courage to take issue with his remark. “You keep calling me innocent.”

  Another taut silence descended. Her comment overstepped the barrier separating polite strangers.

  Well, mostly polite.

  After a moment, he sighed and lifted his arm away from her. “It’s a reminder that you’re out of bounds.”

  With that, any pretense that only a jammed lock linked them melted away.

  “If we’re discovered, everybody will think that we’ve been up to no good.” Philippa’s voice faded to a whisper. But in this tiny room, there was no chance that he wouldn’t hear, even if she was cowardly enough to hope he mightn’t.

  “Are you inviting me to ruin you?” he asked wryly. “Somehow I doubt it.”

  She raised her chin and told herself to be brave. Some devil in her soul turned her into a person much more daring than her workaday self. Right now, she couldn’t bear to think that she’d leave this closet with her curiosity unsatisfied.

  “I’d like someone to kiss me.” Her words emerged more steadily than she’d imagined possible. “Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  She flinched at Erskine’s laugh. “To Hades with you, who else have you been kissing?”

  It didn’t occur to her to lie. “Prescott Wayne, the vicar’s son, kissed me last year.”

  Danger hummed in the air. Lord Erskine’s long body brushed hers as he shifted. One of the startling things about being so close to him was how physically aware she was of his every movement. She even heard the catch in his breath before he spoke. “You didn’t enjoy the experience?”

  “No, it was horrible.” She shuddered, recalling the bad fish taste of Prescott’s mouth and the sl
oppy suction of his lips.

  “And you think I can do better?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused, wondering if she was mad to pursue this. Then letting the devil inside her have its way, she pursued anyway. “I’d like grounds for comparison.”

  “Would you indeed, my little sparrow?”

  She almost welcomed the surge of annoyance at his patronizing response. “Please forget I mentioned it.”

  She slid away from him. Not far enough. His big, strong hand closed around hers. She started as beguiling warmth flowed up her arm and through her body.

  Oh, dear, she really was in trouble.

  “I love that you look like a sparrow.” His Scottish accent was more pronounced.

  “I don’t,” she said glumly, wishing that she was as beautiful as her sister. Then this handsome rogue wouldn’t hesitate to show her the kind of kisses that sent poets into raptures. “Sparrows are dull and as common as dirt.”

  His grip tightened. “You should look more closely. Sparrows are quite beautiful.”

  “Boring.”

  “Subtle.”

  Her pique faded. “You’re full of clever answers. I suppose it’s because you’re used to persuading reluctant ladies.”

  “Are you so reluctant?” That velvety murmur was a seductive weapon.

  A shiver rippled down her spine. To her surprise, it wasn’t fear, but irresistible physical awareness. “You always have a ready reply.”

  “Not so ready. I’ve devoted three days of thought to the issue of kissing you.”

  She frowned into the darkness without trying to break his hold on her hand. “I’m an unremarkable woman from an undistinguished family. What interest can you have in me?”

  “You underestimate yourself. If you made more effort to shine in company, I wouldn’t be the only man to notice that your hair is like mahogany silk and that your eyes are large and sparkling and express your every thought.”

  Oh, no. She definitely didn’t need him reading her thoughts. “In that case, I’m glad that we’re in the dark and you can’t see my face.”

  “I don’t need light to see you. I’ve observed you very closely indeed, my lovely shy bird. From the moment I first saw you.”

  She tugged her hand free. “That can’t be true.”

  “Of course it’s true.”

  She heard the smile in his voice. If she’d thought that musical baritone appealing before, now she was close to melting into a pool of honey.

  “Prove it.”

  She didn’t know why she pushed this. Did she really want to prove that he lied about seeing her? Something inside her blossomed at the idea that amongst the glittering throng at her uncle’s Christmas party, this experienced man had singled her out.

  “Yesterday, you wore a green dress. Today you’re wearing a blue one. Whenever I’ve seen you, you’ve had a simple gold locket around your neck.”

  Shock jammed her response in her throat. Still he sounded like he smiled. She wished he wouldn’t. She also wished she wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t try to recapture her hand.

  “Shall I continue?” he asked gently.

  “I feel…I feel a little overwhelmed.” She reached up to fiddle with the locket she’d inherited from her grandmother. “Perhaps it’s a rake’s habit to note the details when he meets a woman.”

  Erskine laughed softly. “You’re a suspicious chit.”

  He sounded as though he genuinely appreciated her. Her brief enchantment faded. Surely he mocked her. Or used dalliance to fill the dull minutes while they were stuck here. She wriggled away, feeling depressed at being Lord Erskine’s stopgap.

  “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured.

  Every hair on her skin lifted in awareness. She heard the unspoken promise in his words. “You’re dangerous.”

  “I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”

  “So far.”

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

  That sounded ominous. Her stomach lurched with forbidden excitement. She moved further away, out of temptation’s reach. Unfortunately in this glorified cupboard, that wasn’t very far at all.

  How mortifying that twenty years of respectability crumbled by the second. As yet, Lord Erskine hadn’t gone beyond holding her hand and admitting that he’d noticed her. Imagine how cooperative she’d be if he tried a little harder to seduce her.

  She swallowed to moisten a dry throat. “This has gone far enough.”

  “As you wish.”

  Curse him. He sounded like he didn’t care.

  Oh, she was a fool. Of course he didn’t care. All his talk about the charms of quiet, brown-haired women was just that—talk. He must laugh himself silly to think that she swallowed this drivel about his interest. As if a man like Lord Erskine would spare a glance for plain-spoken, plain-featured Philippa Sanders. She only had his attention now because there wasn’t another candidate, and he must be bored, locked in this cupboard. He was probably wishing that Amelia had decided to retrieve her own letter.

  The thought stung. As she meant it to. “Perhaps we shouldn’t talk anymore.”

  She retreated further, bumping the base of a leather chest that filled the corner. How she’d love to stride away with pride intact. But of course, her pride wouldn’t be wounded if she wasn’t trapped with a sweet-tongued Don Juan.

  Even so, she could get up. The room was small, but not so small that she had to huddle at Erskine’s side. The thought had just crossed her mind when his hand brushed her cheek.

  Every muscle went absolutely still. Even her heart stopped beating.

  The tingling contact lasted a mere second. Then it was over.

  She should shift. Protest. Make it clear that she had no intentions of providing this rake with an amusing interval before his return to the fleshpots.

  The fleeting tenderness in his touch kept her mute. Mute and waiting.

  It felt like an eternity before he touched her face again, cupping her jaw in his large, capable hand. Still he was gentle, and his gentleness opened a rift in her heart. She’d never allowed herself to long, but this soft caress in the thick darkness made her yearn for a man’s touch as she’d never yearned for anything in her life.

  Such power a rake had.

  But not even recalling the scandalous stories about Lord Erskine made her demur.

  She trembled, waiting.

  And still she waited.

  Surely a rake wouldn’t allow his prey a chance to reconsider her surrender.

  Then the air vibrated in a way she couldn’t define, and his lips glanced across hers. Her muffled response smacked of welcome rather than objection. His hand curled around her arm, and he drew her forward until she angled across his chest, perfectly placed for more kisses.

  Another pause.

  Before his lips met hers again, she was shaking as if she’d been left out in the snow instead of confined in this cozy den. She should tell him to stop. Kissing Lord Erskine was even more reckless than breaking into his room. But still that treacherous tenderness held her acquiescent.

  Tenderness had been tragically rare in her life, and it lured like a warm fire on a cold night. She curled her hands over his shoulders, giving him silent permission to continue. She behaved with shocking wantonness, but right now, she’d readily break any rule as long as this enchantment continued.

  This time he lingered. Lord Erskine’s lips were firm and cool. A hint of pressure here. A brief touch there. Everything deepening her need.

  The intimacy was astonishing. She caught a hint of his breath, sweet with a rich hint of port. Lord Erskine’s hand sweetly cradled her cheek, making her feel more fragile than glass.

  She remained in her right mind enough to recognize that, for all his careful handling, this was seduction. The moment he placed his lips on hers, all impulse to anything except pleasure had vanished.

  Before she’d broken into his room, if anyone had suggested that she’d willingly kiss the reprobate Lord Erskin
e, she’d have laughed in their face. Now the prospect of more kisses made her giddy with excitement.

  She pulled away a fraction to catch her breath. Her heart pounded a wild tarantella. And when he drew her back to him, her sigh sounded like yes.

  Erskine kissed her again and again. Surprise lurked beneath her sensual delight. This rake’s kisses were almost innocent. And astonishing. Prescott had grabbed her arms, holding her still as he thrust a slimy tongue into her mouth. It had been like eating a slug. Erskine’s tongue touched her lips, tasting her delicately, never encroaching inside, although some wicked impulse inside her wished he would push further.

  His kisses made her think of butterflies or feathers or silk. Nothing slug-like at all.

  At first she appreciated his endless patience, but after an eternity of teasing, urgency subsumed uncertainty. Reaction settled hot and heavy and disturbing in the base of her belly. She longed for more. Although despite Prescott’s clumsy efforts, she had no idea what “more” entailed.

  Then Erskine began to kiss her face. Soft, quick kisses to brow and nose and chin. Across her cheeks. To the corners of her lips. More feathers and silk.

  Instinctively she licked her lips as he moved on to trace the line of her cheekbones. Tasting him was astonishingly powerful, as though his essence seeped into her blood. She identified the flavors of wine and man and something that she guessed was desire.

  Did Lord Erskine desire her?

  Once the idea would have appalled her. Once she’d never have credited it was possible. Right now, trembling under a volley of sweet kisses, Philippa wondered if perhaps he did. It made no sense, but since she’d entered this dark cave of a room, the real world had lost its sway over her.

  Still he tormented her. A dissatisfied sound welled up from her throat. Philippa wasn’t stupid enough to yield more than kisses, and asking for more risked ruin indeed. But his touch made her restless and yearning. Her skin felt hot and tight, and her heart crashed over and over against her ribs.

  His tantalizing seduction drove her mad, changed her into someone she didn’t recognize. This panting girl who welcomed his touch was no longer purposeful, practical Philippa Sanders.