Mistletoe Wishes

by Anna Campbell

  Except she was agonizingly conscious that if she walked through the dressing room, she’d find her husband asleep in his bed. As she’d returned through the freezing night, she’d wondered whether Canforth would wait up for her. The thought had made her tremble with wanton anticipation.

  But she’d arrived back at the manor to a note wishing her a good night and a merry Christmas, and saying he’d see her at breakfast. However foolish it might be, she’d kissed the slashing signature, familiar after his hundreds of letters. Thank goodness nobody saw her doing such a nonsensical thing, or she’d have been mortified.

  She’d seen enough of the world now to recognize that Lord Canforth had been a remarkably circumspect bridegroom. During their honeymoon, he’d come to her bed a mere five times. She’d been shy and woefully unprepared. The only child of elderly parents, the marital act had proven a complete shock. Despite her husband’s patience and tenderness, she’d cried and cowered away on their wedding night.

  On the few occasions he’d returned to her, he always treated her with heartbreaking consideration. Gradually she’d started to find pleasure in what he did, but he left before she felt at ease in a man’s embrace. Even a man she loved.

  He’d abandoned her to yearn, but with no memory of satisfaction to comfort her. She’d spent the years since, wishing she’d been braver, more responsive, more welcoming. She hadn’t been a cold bride, but nor had she been a particularly generous one. Constant regret had eaten at her. Regret, and the gnawing fear that she’d never have the chance to be a real wife to Canforth.

  Fate had granted her a second chance. She meant to seize it.

  Bold words. When her husband slept in his room, and she hovered, uncertain and awake, in hers.

  Perhaps he no longer wanted her. Perhaps he’d never wanted her, and that tentative honeymoon was proof.

  Except he’d wanted her enough to propose. And he’d written to her all these years. Tonight when she’d looked into his eyes, she’d felt a new and powerful connection linking them.

  Surely that couldn’t be just on her side.

  After that conversation in the drawing room when they’d ventured closer to confidences than ever before, they’d retreated to lighter subjects over dinner. Canforth had been exhausted, and while he did his best to hide his discomfort, she knew that his leg wound troubled him. She’d bitten back the urge to chide him for not taking a carriage, instead of riding all that way in the cold.

  Tomorrow was Christmas. Today, really, although it wasn’t long past midnight. A decent sleep might restore him. Perhaps tonight, he’d come to her bed.

  If only she could enlist the mistletoe’s magic to make her marriage what she wished. Canforth mightn’t love her, but she wanted him to know that while he’d left a frightened girl behind, he returned to a woman eager to be his wife in every sense.

  Feeling more optimistic, Felicity changed into her white flannel nightgown, plaited her long hair, and picked up her book. She prayed that next time she lay down, she had something more exciting than “The Vicar of Wakefield” to put her to sleep.

  Around her, the old house settled into silence.

  The first groan was quiet. Some animal in the woods outside could have made it.

  The second, hard upon the first, was louder and unmistakably human.

  Felicity set down her book and swung her feet to the floor. Should she go to Canforth? Or would he consider it an unforgivable breach of his privacy? He’d always come to her bed, with no traffic in the other direction at all.

  Curse this strange half-marriage.

  Another long cry, sharp with misery, swept hesitation aside. One would need a heart of stone to disregard the anguish in the sound.

  Springing to her feet, she grabbed her candle and burst through the doors separating her from Canforth. When she raised her candle to reveal the large man writhing on the bed, she saw he was too lost in the throes of his nightmare to notice any noise she made.

  She paused on the threshold, tossed back to the uncertain girl she’d been, in awe of her big, strong husband. After a fraction of a second, the capable chatelaine took over. Digby raised his head from near the fire, but seeing Felicity, he lay down again, as if he knew his master was in safe hands.

  She hoped to heaven he was right.

  Despite the cold night, Canforth had kicked the blankets to the floor. The sheet twisted around him. In the flickering light, a sheen of sweat covered his bare chest and shoulders.

  With surprising steadiness, she set the candle on the nightstand and leaned over to place a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Canforth. Canforth, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  He didn’t wake, but he turned violently in her direction, like a compass needle pointing to north. The lines of suffering on his face made his scar stand out like a red banner.

  Pity so powerful that it hurt gripped her. She’d known he must have seen and done terrible things, but only now, witnessing this unconscious torment, did the truth stab deep into her soul.

  “Canforth, wake up,” she said in a firmer voice.

  This time he jerked away, dislodging the sheet completely.

  She gasped, although the bare torso should have warned her what to expect. He slept naked. Ridiculous after eight years of marriage to discover that.

  Even as her hand began to stroke him into calmness, her hungry gaze devoured the magnificent sight before her. Like so much else during their time together, he’d been reticent about his nakedness, coming to her in a dressing gown and taking her in darkness. He hadn’t even removed her nightdress.

  As his ragged panting eased, she surveyed this man she’d married.

  Biddy was right. He was too thin. Felicity knew that, even before he’d appeared at dinner in clothes that had fitted eight years ago and now draped loose on his rangy frame. But his thinness made the superb lines of his body stand out in stark relief. The broad shoulders and powerful chest. The ribs clearly delineated under the pale skin. The narrow hips and long legs. She winced to see the knotted scar on his thigh. He’d called himself lucky, and in many ways he had been. But he’d bear his scars until the day he died.

  Inevitably her gaze strayed between his legs, where his rod lay soft in its nest of dark auburn hair. She bit back the forbidden impulse to touch it, even as her fingers curled at her side.

  Without looking away, however brazen that made her, Felicity bunched her bare toes against the cold wooden floor to restore some circulation. She hadn’t waited to put on a robe and slippers before she dashed to Canforth’s side. The night was freezing, despite the fire burning in the grate.

  When she looked up, her husband’s eyes were open. She blushed like fire and whipped her hand away from his shoulder.

  “Flick?” he said hoarsely, grabbing her hand hard enough to bruise.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Meeting that glassy stare, she realized that the dream still gripped him.

  Instinctively, although physical contact between them had always been rare, she smoothed the damp strands of hair back from his high forehead. Beneath her touch, his skin was clammy. At least the dream hadn’t heralded a return of his fever.

  “It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep.” How incongruous to speak to this huge, virile man the way she would to a child. But for all his potency and power, she was achingly aware of his vulnerability at this moment.

  She’d bitterly regretted that their short honeymoon hadn’t resulted in a child for her to cherish during his long absence. Warmth flooded her, when she realized that now Canforth was home, children might lie in their future. How wonderful that would be.

  “Flick, you’re here,” he said again, although she remained unsure that he was awake. At least the horrors receded from his gray eyes, and his deathly grip on her hand loosened.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she said, still combing her fingers through his hair with a languorous pleasure that felt wicked. She’d itched to touch him like this since he’d return
ed.

  His hold tightened. “Stay with me.”

  Her heart somersaulted with a giddy mixture of excitement and nerves, as she stared into eyes clouded with sleep and the ghost of his dreams. She tugged her hand free and bent to straighten the bed, pulling up the blankets. With a deep sigh, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.

  After stoking the fire, she blew out the candle and slid in beside him. Unsure how to proceed, she, too, lay on her back, clinging to the edge of the mattress and shivering with cold. Canforth had dropped back to sleep. He lay mere inches away, breathing deeply and steadily. Whatever cruel memories had disturbed his slumber, they seemed to have receded now.

  She’d felt so bold joining him. Now her courage deserted her. A braver woman might cuddle into his side or wake him with kisses. Felicity remained where she was, her heart racing. Surely she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  ***

  This dream had tormented Canforth a thousand times before. He woke in a soft, warm bed that smelled of Otway, a million miles from the rough, cold ground of the Pyrenees. It was dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. His wife slept, trusting and relaxed, in his arms. He was naked, and hard and ready for her. The sweet scents of home and Flick tinged the air. He was safe, and free to linger as long as he wanted in bed with the woman he loved.

  He lay on his side, his chest pressed to Flick’s back. She was tucked against him in perfect peace, her head resting on his outstretched arm. His other arm curved around her, one hand cupping her breast.

  For a delicious interval, he basked in this imaginary paradise. Soon enough, there would be orders and maneuvers, and later, the likelihood of violent, bloody mayhem. But right now, he could give himself up to the fantasy that he was back at Otway, and all was well with the world.

  As nobody yet seemed to be clamoring for his presence, he let the dream spin toward its end. Usually some interfering blockhead dragged him back to brutal reality before he got too far.

  Drowsily he bumped his hips against the perfect curve of Flick’s rump. He buried his nose in the fragrant mass of her hair and breathed in her rich scent.

  Today’s dream was particularly vivid. Most times, Flick was naked, but on this occasion, his imagination taunted him with a flannel nightgown between him and her skin. The breast in his hand had the weight and feel of reality, and when his thumb flicked her nipple, it hardened with gratifying swiftness. She made a sleepy sound of encouragement and nestled closer.

  Dreading the inevitable awakening, he shifted and rolled her toward him. He reached down to lift the plain nightdress—next time he had this dream, he’d dress her in silk. Or nothing at all.

  She made another of those damned suggestive murmurs and arched against him. He slid his hand between her legs, seeking her hot, silky core. She wriggled in welcome, and he kissed her neck until she quivered with eagerness. He didn’t dare open his eyes. Not now. Not when, even if only in his mind, rapture hovered so close.

  His lips drifted lazily over her face until they met hers. So soft. So full. The kiss’s sultry sweetness shuddered through him.

  “Canforth,” she breathed in ardent invitation.

  Odd. In his fantasies, she always called him Edmund.

  He stroked her cleft until she was slippery and ready, and slid one finger inside her, to find the slick honey of her arousal. As sleek heat coated his finger, he leaned in and kissed his wife with a carnal hunger he’d always leashed when he’d had her, virginal and fragile, as his bride.

  Dream Flick responded as she always did.

  Well, not quite. She opened her mouth and put her arms around him to bring him closer. But her endearingly clumsy kisses were an enchanting reminder of the girl he’d left so long ago.

  Canforth rose and positioned himself between her thighs, desperate to claim her. By God, this was the best dream he’d ever had. If his tomfool sergeant interrupted him now, he’d shove the fellow in front of the nearest firing squad.

  In wordless welcome, she tilted toward him. He groaned into the warm curve of her neck, the scent of her sleep-warmed skin the sweetest fragrance in the world. He bit down on the sensitive nerve and heard her gasp with rising excitement.

  He lifted his head and opened his eyes.

  Damn it.

  Astonishment gripped him, banished disappointment. Instead of a rough tent pitched on an Iberian mountainside, he saw a familiar bedroom, shadowy with a dying fire. And the woman beneath him was no figment of his imagination, but his beautiful, fastidious wife.

  “For pity’s sake, Flick, why didn’t you stop me?” So close to possession, it was sheer agony to pull back. But he managed it, over the howling, excruciating protest of every muscle in his body.

  She bit lips swollen and red with his kisses and stared up at him. “I…”

  Before she could go on to call him a beast and a brute, and every other name he deserved, he rushed into speech. “What the deuce are you doing here?”

  She flinched at his belligerent tone and wrenched her hands from around his neck. He rose on his arms above her and struggled to settle down. But with her lying so close, it was impossible. His restraint balanced on a knife edge.

  “You had a nightmare,” she stammered. “You were calling out.”

  “Hell, I’m sorry.” Vaguely he remembered the old horrors visiting him last night. He hadn’t had that dream in months. Returning home had stirred up too many strong emotions. Returning home, and seeing Flick.

  He always woke from his nightmares, sweating and gasping and unable to go back to sleep. Flick’s presence must have calmed him, allowing other, much more appealing dreams to take over.

  She looked hurt. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “Yes, I do. I hoped to give you time to get used to me again, before I resumed my husbandly rights.”

  The light wasn’t bright enough for him to see her blush, but he was sure she did. He waited for her to express relief, but she stared up at him as if nothing made sense. Then her delicate jaw firmed. “We’ve already waited more than seven years, Canforth.”

  “Believe me, I’ve counted every day.” It was his turn to demur. “But I’m not sure I can be careful with you tonight, Flick. It’s been too long.”

  Unambiguous annoyance crossed her face. “I don’t want you to be careful. I’m your wife, not a Meissen shepherdess you keep on the mantelpiece.”

  “But what I just did—”

  “Was wonderful. For once, I thought that you really wanted me.”

  He gave a snort of disbelief. “Want you? I die of desire for you.”

  Her eyes widened. “You do?”

  “Yes. And I can’t bear to think I might hurt you because I’ve lost control of myself.”

  “I’m not made of glass, Canforth.” This time her frown was thoughtful, rather than displeased. “And anyway, I want you, too.”

  “You do?” He remembered those unpracticed but enthusiastic kisses. They hadn’t been the product of his imagination. They’d come from a woman discovering sexual pleasure and frantic to experience more of it.

  “You do,” he said more slowly.

  Tentatively she hooked her hands over his shoulders. Even such a light touch shuddered through him like an earthquake.

  Flick’s voice emerged as a strangled whisper. “I’ve been lonely for so long, Canforth. I don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

  Chapter 5

  In an agony of suspense, Felicity waited to hear Canforth’s response to her plea. Had she pushed too far? Broken their unspoken truce? Proven she was no lady, but a brazen trollop?

  But he said he wanted her. And even in her inexperience, she’d recognized his hunger when he’d turned to her in his dream. And there was no mistaking the hot male weight pressing against her stomach. Whatever his mind or his conscience might say, his body showed unequivocal interest in taking things further.

  When he started to pull away, her heart plummeted into her stomach. Failure tasted rank on her tongue.

  God f
orgive her, she’d made a mistake. Been too forward, too needy, too…real.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, lifting her hands from his shoulders.

  “What are you sorry for?” he asked, rolling off her and sitting up. The fire didn’t provide much light, but she made out the powerful outline of his chest and shoulders against the shadows. Even too thin, he remained an impressive figure of a man.

  “For…for asking…” Her voice faded to nothing, as she sat up and faced him.

  “Silly goose.” White teeth flashed as he smiled. “You have nothing to apologize for. Believe me.”

  He caught her hand and carried it to his lips. The kiss he brushed across her knuckles made her tremble—and hope.

  “Canforth?” she asked uncertainly.

  He kept hold of her hand, and his eyes glittered as they focused on her. “After all this time, do you think you could bear to call me Edmund?”

  Ridiculous to balk at such an intimacy when not long ago, his finger had penetrated her body with astonishing and arousing effect. The memory of those sizzling caresses still heated her blood. “Are you sure?”

  “Only if you feel comfortable. But you’re my wife. I’d feel privileged if you used my Christian name.”

  She nodded. “In that case, I feel privileged, too, Edmund.”

  Those straight shoulders eased, and he released a long breath. She couldn’t imagine why he cared what she called him, but it was apparent that he did. “You do an old military man’s heart good.”

  “You’re not old,” she said quickly. “You’re in the prime of life.”

  “I’ve come back to you a physical wreck.”

  Despite the darkness, her hand unerringly found the scar on his cheek. With an aching tenderness that she hoped he felt, she traced the line of the cut. “I told you—as long as you’ve come back to me, I don’t care.”

  “Ah, Flick,” he said, her name a soft exhalation. “You never told me why your parents called you Flick.”

  “When I was a toddler, I couldn’t pronounce Felicity. Flick was as close as I got.”