A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  But then she wouldn’t be here with him now …

  ‘We need to find shelter,’ he said, slowing the horse to a safer pace.

  Mary glanced back the way they had come, ice pellets stinging her cheeks. ‘The last village seems as if it was hours ago!’

  ‘It was hours ago.’

  Really? Somehow the time had gone by fast for her, as they’d talked of books and gossip and places they would travel to if they could. ‘Are we near another inn?’

  ‘Not for miles yet.’

  But what they did soon find was a farmer’s small hay barn, just beyond a low stone wall in the midst of a frosty field. It was a rough structure, with the wind whistling through gaps in the rough plank walls and rain dripping from the rickety roof, but to Mary it seemed a glorious palace of sanctuary.

  Dominick spread the lap robe over a thick pile of hay for her, before seeing to the horse. Mary took off her damp cloak and sodden half-boots, digging out a clean pair of stockings from her valise. As she tried to get warm, she surreptitiously watched Dominick calm the frightened animal, talking in a low, deep voice as he stroked its velvety nose.

  She almost cried at his gentleness, at the calm, firm way he took control of the situation and kept cold panic at bay. She had the terrible feeling that, if not for him, she too would be running into the storm shrieking! But instead she felt—safe. She also felt all would work out in the end, even though the true likelihood of that was very small indeed.

  How very strange that the same man who so disrupted her hard-won peace of mind, who made her feel so confused, could also make her feel so much better.

  He turned from the now quiet horse, shrugging off his greatcoat, and Mary looked hastily away. She covered her flustered feelings, her overly warm cheeks, by digging a hairbrush out of the valise. Her hair was a tangled, damp mess, and she was sure the curls she tried so hard to keep smooth were now a frizzy rats’ nest.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Dominick asked, sitting down beside her on the hay. He held a hamper from the carriage. ‘We still have the food the innkeepers gave us before we left this morning. Meat pies, pickles, cheese, and—oh, yes—some wine.’

  Wine—she should definitely not have that with him! Who knew what she would say under its influence? ‘I’m not hungry yet. I fear my stomach is still unsettled from our wild ride.’

  ‘Hopefully the storm will pass by in a few hours and we can go more peacefully on our way.’

  He lay back on their makeshift chaise, his hands under his head as he looked up at the slanted roof. His eyes were shadowed by purplish stains, as if he too had not slept last night. She wondered what his thoughts had been as he lay on the other side of the inn wall. So close, yet so far.

  He kicked his booted foot against the hay. ‘A barn—it’s all a bit too authentically Christmas-like, don’t you think?’

  Mary laughed. ‘At least we are not here to pay our taxes, as Mary and Joseph were. And I did not have to ride here on a donkey.’ There was no baby, either. No sweet infant with Dominick’s blue eyes to coo and reach for her with tiny hands. She had dreamed of that when she was younger … the beautiful children they would have.

  And that thought made her feel the sadness of loss all over again. The loss of her children, real and imagined.

  To cover her sudden rush of wistfulness she yanked the brush through her tangled curls. At least her stinging scalp would excuse the prickle of hot tears in her eyes.

  ‘Here, you’re going to tear your hair out,’ Dominick said. He sat up beside her and took the brush from her hand. His touch was gentle as he worked the bristles through her hair, so soft she could barely feel it. No wonder the horse had been soothed to sleep by him.

  Her eyes drifted closed and she leaned back into him. She could not resist.

  ‘You’re very good at that,’ she murmured, trying not to think of the other women whose hair he had brushed. They didn’t matter at that moment, when she and Dominick were alone in their strange little shelter with the storm raging outside. This was a time apart from real life, the real world of responsibility and obligation. Soon enough all that would intrude again—but not yet.

  ‘My mother had curling hair,’ he answered quietly. ‘But it was blond, not dark like yours. She used to get terrible headaches, and when I was a child I learned how to soothe them by brushing her hair.’

  ‘You had a mother?’

  ‘Of course I did. Did you think I sprang from the Underworld fully formed?’ he said, laughter in his voice.

  ‘I’m not sure what I thought. You’ve never spoken of her.’ But then, when they were young their meetings had been secret, full of desperate kisses. They had spoken of nothing at all since then, and she was surprised and delighted by his small confidences now.

  ‘She died in childbirth when I was eleven, and my father sent me to school,’ he said, the stroke of the brush never faltering in its slow, sensual rhythm.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘That was one thing I always envied about you, Mary. Your family, and how much you all loved each other. The way you still love each other—even your wayward sister.’

  ‘I do love them, even when I don’t agree with them—which is often,’ Mary admitted. ‘But once I did hate my parents for keeping us apart.’

  The brush stilled for a barely perceptible second before moving again. ‘They only wanted what was right for you. And it was all for the best.’

  Mary frowned, remembering things she had hoped were forgotten. In the end it had not been her parents who had kept them apart, but Dominick himself. When she had wanted to run away, as Ginny had, he’d turned her away. Rejected her. And, humiliated and heartbroken, she had married William.

  ‘I suppose it was for the best,’ she said. ‘I had a secure life, and once … ‘ Once she had had her son. That had made it seem worthwhile. ‘But I did always wonder about you, and what you were doing.’

  ‘I always thought of you, too.’ Dominick laid the brush aside and twisted her now smooth hair into a loose braid. Slowly, gently, he swept it over her shoulder, leaning close to the curve of her neck. He drew in a deep breath—and she could not breathe at all. She felt the warmth of him, his very essence, soak into her skin, wrapping all around her.

  ‘You smell of rain,’ he whispered. ‘And lavender.’

  Mary spun to face him, reaching up to frame his face in her cold hands. She traced his cheekbones with the edge of her thumbs, and rubbed over the pulse beating in his temple. His hair tangled over her fingers and he stared at her, as if greedy for the sight of her. As if she was water, and he had been wandering in the desert for years.

  ‘Oh, Dominick,’ she said, her throat tight. She could say nothing more. After all that time, all those lost chances, what was there to say?

  He seemed to feel the same way, for his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close until they were pressed against each other. His head lowered towards hers, slowly, as if he waited for her protest.

  She made no sound except a small moan of longing, and his lips claimed hers. It was not a gentle kiss. It was hungry, desperate, his tongue delving into her mouth to taste her. Mary met him with equal passion, revelling in the scent and taste and feel of him, the sense of jumping out into blank space and somehow landing where she had always belonged.

  It was just as she remembered it. That blurry, hot need engulfed her as they kissed. And yet it was even better. They were older now, more experienced—or at least he was. His kisses and caresses were more skilled, his hands sure as they swept down the curve of her body, pressing, lingering, at just the right places to make her groan. She wished she had more to offer him, too, but all she had was her passion, which had slumbered inside her for too long.

  Her hands twisted in the damp linen folds of his shirt, luxuriating in the hot feel of his skin underneath. Through the cloth she traced the lean, muscled planes of his chest, his hard shoulders.

  He moaned against her mouth, his lips tearing f
rom hers to trace the curve of her jaw, the line of her throat as her head fell back. Her hands clutched at him, as if she would drown if she let go.

  How alive she felt! She had been asleep for so long, it seemed, resting in a cocoon of comfortable silence and stillness. Now that enveloping shelter had cracked wide open, spilling her out into a world of colour and noise and wild sensation. Her long years of careful restraint were burned away and she felt young again. Young and free.

  She wasn’t really, of course. There was still her family, still Ginny out there somewhere. But for the moment she pushed all that away and held onto Dominick with all her might.

  He held onto her, too, his strong hands at her back, her hips, as he pulled her tight against him. She felt every angle of his lean body, every shift of his muscles, and it heightened her awareness to a perfect, exquisite clarity.

  He pushed away the high collar of her dress to kiss the pulse that beat at the base of her throat, fast and frantic as that hot life rushed through her. He nipped at it, soothing the little sting with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘Dominick,’ she whispered hoarsely. She shoved his shirt away from his shoulders to trace the naked skin, savouring the warm, satiny feel of him, the sheer power of his body.

  He carried her down to their makeshift bed, both of them sinking deep into the hay. The furore and cold of the storm seemed completely gone even as it still raged over their heads. The whole world had narrowed down to only the two of them.

  Dominick kissed her lips again, frantic and hard, and she felt his palm slide over her ribs, along her hip and down the curve of her leg. He dragged up her heavy skirt, and for a second she felt cold air through her stocking, chilling her. But that burned away under his touch.

  Mary couldn’t breathe. She wrapped her leg around his waist, drawing him into the curve of her body. She felt his erection through their clothes, iron-hard—he wanted her. Had he missed her, too, all these years? That seemed impossible, but it was enough that he needed her now. That they had this one moment.

  She trailed her fingertips over the groove of his spine, the taut muscles of his back, and skimmed over his backside. She pressed him even closer, wrapping both her legs around him as she kissed him, putting all her desire and need, all the dreams she’d once had, into that kiss.

  How wonderful it felt to be wanton! No wonder William had always held her back—he must have sensed her terrible capacity to be a loose woman. But Dominick did not hold her back. He sank deep into the cradle of her legs, his caress hard and needful as he traced the curve of her breasts through her gown. The wool and linen chafed deliciously.

  Still revelling in that wantonness, Mary slid her hand down his chest, damp against the shirt, and covered his penis. She traced her fingers down that thick, hard length, arching up into him.

  Dominick raised his head, staring down at her with narrowed eyes. His hair fell in golden waves over his brow, his skin flushed. ‘Mary—are you sure?’

  Her throat was too tight to speak. She just nodded. Tomorrow she would probably not be sure at all. But right now she could not live for another minute without him.

  He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, reaching down between them to unfasten his breeches. Her skirts fell around them in a froth of wool, linen and lace as he eased himself inside her, slowly, carefully, inch by delicious inch.

  Mary’s head fell back, her eyes tightly closed. She loved the hot friction of him as he slid deeper, the strange feeling of being exactly where she was meant to be. She buried her fingers in the rumpled silk of his hair, holding him close to her.

  He drew back and plunged deep again, the two of them finding their primitive rhythm together, faster and faster, ever more frantic, as something built deep inside of her. She had never felt anything like it before, and she reached out for it desperately.

  It grew and grew, expanding over all her senses, a pleasure so pure, so hot and wondrous. A golden light emanated from him, flooding along her body until she was utterly consumed by it.

  ‘Dominick!’ she cried out. The force of her feelings frightened her with their hot intensity. Would she burn up inside them?

  ‘Mary, Mary,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Just let it happen. You’re safe here with me.’

  And those words freed her. She let her heart open, let all those sensations rush into her like the red roar of a bonfire. She fell into the flames and never, ever wanted to escape their all-consuming touch.

  Dominick cried out above her, his body taut as he found his own release. With one last thrust he gasped her name, and in that instant Mary knew she would never again be so close to another person. Her heart, so guarded for so long, had been set free—and it longed for his heart.

  Not that his heart could ever be hers, she feared. Too much time, too much experience separated them, and in the morning they would be Lady Derrington and Lord Amesby again. But now she was just Mary—the girl who had been so in love with Dominick she hadn’t been able to see straight.

  He collapsed beside her on their straw bed, his arm heavy over her waist. The harsh sound of his breath, the frantic beat of her heart, blended with the pattering icy rain on the roof. A warm languor stole over her, and she closed her eyes as she pressed her hand over his arm, holding him with her as if he might fly away like a dream.

  ‘Mary … ‘ he said, his voice harsh and rough. Did he have regrets already?

  But she wanted to hold regrets—hers and his—at bay until morning. She wanted to forget her life, and the desperate errand that awaited them out in that storm.

  ‘Shh,’ she whispered, stroking her fingers lightly up his arm. She felt the tickle of the hairs over his warm skin and it made her smile. How very masculine he was, her handsome Dominick. ‘Don’t talk now. I’m tired.’

  For a moment she thought he might argue, might insist on saying something. Insist on—oh, no—apologising. She wanted none of that. Not now.

  Finally he just rolled closer to her, resting his head on her shoulder. For the first time in so very long she felt warm and safe. Far away from the griefs of the world, from painful memories. Dominick had given her that—a very precious gift.

  Yet even he could not keep the real world at bay for ever. Even as she lay in his arms she remembered. Her lost little boy, poor Ginny out there in the storm—her failure to protect them all.

  She turned her face away from Dominick and wept silent hot tears for all she hadn’t done, all she had lost, all she could never have, no matter how hard she wished.

  Chapter Six

  So now he had the answer to the question he had asked himself back in London. He was not, in fact, able to control himself with Mary. He thought of her tears, the tears she had wept silently so he would not hear. But he had heard. He was so perfectly attuned to her now, and those tears had made his heart ache like nothing else ever could.

  Dominick rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand to watch her as she slept. She had drawn her clothes around her against the chill, but her dark curls were still wild around her face. Her cheeks glowed pink with the aftermath of lovemaking, her parted lips cherry-red. She looked wanton and sweet, and he longed to kiss her awake, to hold her in his arms again and feel her passion stir to life. Her passion for him.

  A strange, fierce possessiveness swept over him like a rainstorm. He had made love to Mary, to the woman he had once wanted above all others—the one woman who couldn’t be his. He had kissed her, felt her cry his name against his lips, felt the fierceness of her desire as she wrapped her legs around him and he drove inside her.

  That passion had seemed to startle her, too. He remembered the look of surprise and delight that had spread across her face, the gasp of pleasure she had been unable to contain. He held tightly to that memory; it was an image he would always carry with him now.

  Gently, so as not to wake her, he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. Her skin was soft as rose petals. She sighed in her sleep, turning her face towards him as if to f
ollow that touch. But she did not wake.

  Dominick lay back down on their straw bed, drawing her against his side. She murmured softly, burrowing into his warmth. He was tired, too, his body relaxed as it had not been in such a very long time. Usually a terrible restlessness overtook him after sex—a pounding need to escape. But now he just wanted to hold onto Mary, to drift down into sleep with her.

  But he kept himself awake and alert. Their time together was very short, this second chance, and when it was gone it would never come back again. He could offer her more than when they were young—a title, though one less than the title she already bore, and a house—more than one if she wanted them—sexual passion—they obviously had that.

  But he still could not give her the respectable life her husband had. He could not give her an untainted name. She had not cared about such things once, or had claimed not to. She was older now, though, and would think of their children as well as herself. Could he ever be a fit father? Once, when he’d first met pretty young Mary Smythe, he had dreamed of a family, a home. But the years had shown him he was unfit for such a life. Could he change now?

  Mary sighed in her sleep, her breath cool and soft against his neck. He gently kissed her temple. This night was his second chance. He would never forget it. But once their little adventure was over, once her errant sister was found and they went back to their own lives, he would have to let her go—for ever this time. His soul was not entirely blackened.

  Only partially black, he thought as she threw her leg over his, curling her body around him. His manhood hardened in response, and he was ready to leap on her all over again.

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, her eyes fluttering open. A lazy, sensual smile curled her lips. ‘So it was not a dream.’

  Dominick couldn’t resist kissing her, but he held himself firmly in check and didn’t deepen the caress as he longed to do. He didn’t jump on her and rip her gown off.

  ‘It’s only a dream if you want it to be,’ he said.

  Mary’s smile widened. She curled her hands into his rumpled shirt, pulling him back for another kiss. ‘No—I want to remember every single real second.’ No matter what happened to them tomorrow, she wanted to keep this. She needed to keep it.