One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  “When I first saw you in the ballroom tonight, you took my breath away. Your gown…  it’s beautiful,” he said, aware of the inadequacy of his words. “You are beautiful.”

  She looked down, admiring the dress. “Thank you. Belle made it. She has a gift.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but you are beautiful apart from the gown. Your beauty is in your kindness and compassion. It’s in your wisdom and grace. It’s as much a part of you as your heart. And it’s why I adore you so.”

  “Oh, Charles,” she breathed. “I adore you, too. I think I’ve always known that we were meant for each other. We may not have a lifetime together, but the days we’ve had have counted. They’re the days that the sun has felt warmer, the fields have looked greener, and the birdsong has sounded sweeter. If I live to be one hundred, the days I’ve spent with you are the ones I’ll treasure most.”

  A lump lodged in his throat, and he looked at the ground, not trusting himself to speak. When the stinging behind his eyes subsided, he met her steady gaze, cupped her face in his hands, and brushed his thumbs across her impossibly smooth skin. “You said earlier that you thought we had something special. We do. It’s a connection that transcends words and distance and even time. No matter where I go or what I do, you’ll be a part of me—the best part of me.”

  A tear spilled down her cheek, and he kissed it away, tasting the salt and sharing her emotion. But now was not the time for crying. She was right. If they had only an hour together, he didn’t want to fill it with tears or rage or angst.

  No. They’d drive all that away with passion, pleasure, humor…  and love.

  With a grin, he said, “You did want to see my loft.”

  “I did.” She managed a watery, wobbly smile.

  “And do you always get what you want?”

  “I’ll have to let you know after tonight.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Harness: (1) A type of tack used to hitch a horse to a carriage or wagon. (2) To gain control over, as in After years of denying their passion, they could no longer harness it.

  They didn’t go to the loft right away.

  Rose pushed Charles’s greatcoat off his shoulders and then removed the jacket beneath it. After that, they played a tantalizing little game in which each took a turn at removing an article of clothing from the other. Plenty warm from the fire and their desire, she savored every round.

  Charles patted the bench, directing her to sit. When she did, he removed both her boots, cradled one of her feet in his hands, and pushed her skirt up past her knee.

  Smiling wickedly, he rubbed her heel, massaged her arch, tugged lightly on her toes. Her whole body melted a little, relaxing under his expert touch. He treated her other foot to the same pampering, then kissed his way from her ankle to her calf to her knee, sending sweet shivers through her body.

  He pushed the hem of her dress higher, letting it glide over her thighs, and though the unmistakable hunger in his eyes thrilled her, she stopped him.

  Because it was her turn, after all.

  She rose and smoothly guided him to sit, switching places. When he reached for her hips, she skirted his grasp and moved behind the bench. The white cloth of his shirt stretched across his muscled shoulders and clung to the contours of his back. With a fingertip, she traced the indent of his spine all the way to his waistband. Heady with anticipation, she grabbed a fistful of shirt and pulled it up, exposing his tapered torso inch by inch. He lifted his arms, freed his head and hands, and tossed the shirt aside. When he would have turned to embrace her, she placed a firm hand on each of his shoulders, stilling him. For she wanted to explore.

  His body was breathtaking, more stirring than any painting or statue. She glided her hands over the breadth of his shoulders and down his upper arms, skimming her palms over hard muscles. Unable to resist the temptation of his neck, she leaned forward and kissed the soft skin near the curve of his shoulder. She tasted him, nipping at his neck and shoulders, wondering if she pleased him half as much as he pleased her. In answer, he moaned and gripped the front edge of the bench as though she’d pushed him to the very limits of his control.

  Emboldened, she slipped her arms around him, raining kisses on his back as she caressed his chest, smoothed her palms over his nipples, and felt the downy hair on his hard, flat abdomen. When she dipped the tips of her fingers below his belt, he seized her wrist and stood, freeing himself from the circle of her arms.

  “My turn.” A feral grin lit his face as he led her around the bench, directly in front of the crackling fire. His heavy-lidded gaze raked over her, lingering on her lips, her breasts, her hips.

  Slowly, as if he were unwrapping a long-awaited gift, he reached behind her and tugged on one end of her silk sash, releasing the bow. The ribbon pooled on the floor, and her dress loosened—a gloriously liberating feeling. Charles moved behind her, swept aside the tendrils of hair at her nape, and bent his head to her neck. As he kissed her, the slight stubble on his jaw prickled her skin, leaving her breathless. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him, reveling in the warm, solid wall of his chest.

  Impatiently, he pushed her sleeves off her shoulders and down her arms. When they would go no farther, he found the laces of her dress and worked them loose. All the while, he whispered in her ear, nibbled on her lobe, and kissed the column of her neck, driving her dizzy with desire. At last, her gown fell away, a puddle of silk at her feet.

  Charles spun her around and growled, running his rough palms over the sensitive skin of her arms. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he said. “I wouldn’t even admit it to myself, but I’ve wanted you since that summer. Dreamed of you. Longed for you.”

  His words, coupled with the tender look in his eyes, thrilled and humbled her. “I’ve wanted you for…  forever.”

  He reached for the laces of her corset then, and even though it was supposed to be her turn, she allowed it, for denying him would have been denying herself. He separated the halves of her stays several inches, and she raised her arms as he gently lifted the corset over her head, leaving her wearing nothing save her thin chemise.

  The corset fell from his fingers as he stepped back and blinked. “My God, you’re beautiful.” He started toward her then as though he’d devour her, but she halted him with a raised hand.

  “It’s my turn,” she said. “Let’s take off your…  boots.”

  “I have a proposition for you,” he countered.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll take off my boots, if you’ll take down your hair. It will save time.”

  She barely flinched at the mention of time, even though she resented every relentless tick of the clock. “You have a deal, Mr. Holland.”

  He sat on the bench like he was taking the front row seat at an opera, eager for the performance to start. She waited for him to begin pulling off his boots, then reached up to remove the pins from her hair.

  Long, heavy curls tumbled free, tickling her back. As she shook them out and massaged away the tightness on her scalp, a sigh of pleasure escaped her. “That’s better,” she said.

  “Indeed.” The approval in his eyes warmed her exposed skin.

  He’d removed his boots, leaving only his trousers.

  She was down to one garment as well.

  The game had reached its final round—only it was no longer a game.

  He stood, enveloped her hand in his, and looked at her with a tenderness that almost made her weep. “I want you to know,” he said, “that if things were different, I’d give you the world. I’d spend my entire life—”

  “Stop.” Each word he spoke brought exquisite, excruciating pain. She couldn’t endure torture wrought by visions of what might have been. “At this moment,” she said, “I’m exactly where I want to be, where I need to be—with you. That’s all that matters.”

  He hauled her close and covered her mouth with his, pressing his hips against hers and running his hands over her body. A minute later they wer
e both breathless and wild with wanting. “It’s time for your tour of the loft.”

  Charles went up the ladder first, and Rose followed right behind. She waited on the third rung and watched as he lit a small lamp and covered the pallet with a soft, thick quilt. Then he extended a hand to help her climb the rest of the way. The ceiling slanted above their heads, much too low to allow them to stand. But the cozy quarters made for an inviting bedroom. Light from the lamp flickered low on the wooden walls, and the heat from the fire rose up to warm them. Two books sat on a crate next to the pallet.

  Rose nodded at them. “You were going to leave them?”

  “They’re of little use to me.” He stared, challenging her to contradict him. Though tempted, she didn’t take the bait. Oh, she didn’t doubt he possessed the drive and determination to succeed in whatever he wished, but she wouldn’t let him think she measured his worth by his ability to read, because she didn’t, any more than she measured it by his wealth, social standing, or even his knee-melting good looks.

  “I like it up here.” She lay on her side, leaning on an elbow and propping her head on her hand. “It feels like a retreat from the world.”

  He stretched out beside her. “I’ve slept here for months but never thought of it that way. Now that I’m here with you, I like it a lot more.”

  The lamp’s glow illuminated the contours of his chest, defining every muscle and indentation. The sprinkling of hair covering the center of his torso proved irresistible, and she glided her palm over it, then down his side and over his hip.

  At his sharp intake of breath, she met his gaze.

  “You know,” he said gruffly, “we don’t have to make love. We could lie here with each other and talk and kiss.”

  A touch of anger ignited within her and she sat up abruptly. “No. I want everything with you. I want your skin against mine. I want to taste you. I want to be as close to you as a person can be.” To be sure he understood the sincerity of her words, she pushed him flat against the pallet, straddled him, and kissed him with all the passion pent up inside her.

  A glorious curtain of red hair surrounded Charles’s head. He inhaled the scents of oranges and soap…  and Rose. The night had a surreal quality—as though the snow had stopped time and created a haven where his wildest fantasies could come true.

  Rose was here with him, in the flesh. He savored the weight of her on his hips and the view of her breasts above her loose, white shift. Thus far, he’d maintained a scrap of control, but her kisses intoxicated him and her touch seduced him, stripping him of everything but desire and—he couldn’t deny it—love.

  He pulled the flimsy tie at her neckline and tugged the fabric lower, exposing her breasts. Moaning, he flipped her onto her back and removed the chemise entirely. With her auburn hair fanned out behind her and her pale, smooth skin glowing, she resembled a wanton goddess. Her sultry eyes shone with complete trust and her pink, swollen lips smiled in wicked invitation.

  Which he readily accepted.

  He hauled off his trousers and, at last, no barriers existed between them—at least, not the physical kind. She gave herself completely, sighing as he suckled her breasts and arching her back as he traced circles on her inner thighs. She seemed eager to explore, too, running her hands over his buttocks and tentatively circling her fingers around his—

  Dear God.

  He gasped, struggling to deny his body the release it suddenly demanded. More than anything, he wanted to make the experience pleasurable for her, but she looked, felt, and tasted so impossibly good. Too good.

  “Rose,” he choked out, “I don’t know if I can…  wait.”

  Tangling her fingers in his hair, she shot him a pleased smile. “You don’t have to. We don’t have to.”

  He swallowed the curse on his lips. He hadn’t been with many women before, and they were generally more experienced than he. The thought of causing Rose pain…  well, it sickened him. “I’m afraid it might hurt at first.”

  “I’m not,” she breathed. “When you kiss and hold me, I feel only pleasure.”

  Jesus, she was amazing. Speechless, he poured his emotions into every kiss, every caress. When he positioned himself at her entrance, she wrapped her legs around him and threw her arms around his neck. “I want you, Charles. I have no doubts, and I’ll have no regrets.”

  He touched his forehead to hers, slipped his hands beneath her soft bottom, and slowly eased into her. At her sharp intake of breath, he stilled, his muscles quivering with restraint. He wanted to lose himself in her—to let go of all his ambitions and shortcomings, his dreams and failures—and steal a few moments of blissful contentment. With her.

  “Are you all right?”

  In answer, she wrapped her legs more tightly around him and drew him in. Deeper, harder, faster.

  Over the blood pounding in his ears, he heard her whisper, “Yes, yes.” And that was his undoing. Release barreled through him, stripping his soul of doubt and worry, leaving only the brief perfection of him and Rose together.

  Much too brief.

  He pulled out, spilling his seed on the quilt. It was bad enough that he’d taken her virginity. He couldn’t leave her with child as well. She made a little cry of protest when he rolled away, and he knew that he hadn’t brought her pleasure. Yet.

  He lay next to her, and as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal, traced lazy swirls on her belly. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been ravished,” she teased. “In the best possible way.”

  “It wasn’t the best, I fear.”

  “No?” She looked surprised—and a bit hopeful.

  “I should have taken more time,” he admitted. “When it comes to you, my control is in short supply.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “But now,” he said huskily, “I want to see you let go.”

  A fetching blush stole across her cheeks. “Let go?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Like the other day in the folly?”

  “Exactly. Except maybe better.”

  “Better?” Rose could hardly imagine. But she was more than happy to let Charles do his best. He kissed her…  everywhere. The hollow of her throat, the undersides of her breasts, the base of her spine. The brush of his lips across her skin made her burn with desire, made her want him more. He let his hands roam free as well, teasing her taut nipples, stroking the backs of her legs, and gently touching the still-tender folds at her entrance.

  She didn’t close her eyes, for she loved watching his handsome face and seeing the intensity with which he devoted himself to the task of pleasuring her. He seemed in tune to her every sigh, quiver, and moan, doing the things that she liked the best till the sweet pulsing began in her core, drowning out her troubles and sweeping away her doubts.

  But just when she was on the brink of something spectacular, his wicked fingers stilled.

  He trailed kisses down her belly, alternately licking and nipping until she thought she’d go mad with desire. His head dipped lower then, and he parted her legs, seemingly intent on…

  And then he was. His tongue, warm and wet, brought her to new heights. Every wicked stroke brought her further, enticing her to forget everything but this, everything but him. Every muscle in her body tensed, on the edge of ecstasy. Her fingers clutched the quilt, grasping for anything to keep her from plummeting too fast, too hard.

  As though he sensed her need for something solid to hold on to, he reached for her hands and laced his fingers through hers. He squeezed tightly, encouraging her to trust him, to let go.

  And for him, for herself, she did. Spasms rocked her body and her cries filled the cottage. The force of her release, so exquisite and so raw, was almost too much, but Charles wouldn’t let her flee from it. Instead, he stayed with her, ensuring she rode out every wave, seeing her pleasure to its completion.

  He lay beside her once more, swept the damp tendrils from her cheeks, and kissed her with heartbreaking tenderness
. “Now you’ve been properly ravished,” he whispered.

  “It certainly feels that way.” Her limbs had turned to jelly, and glorious tremors still echoed softly in her core.

  “I shall return in just a moment,” he promised, and he did. Using the damp cloth he’d fetched, he gently washed away the evidence of their lovemaking from her body first, then his. Afterward, he pulled a blanket over them, hauled her close, and held her tight, like he never wanted to let her go.

  Her cheek pressed to his chest, she breathed in the scent of him and committed it to memory. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulled her into a dreamlike state, and her eyes fluttered shut.

  His voice heavy with regret, he said, “We must go soon.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured, just short of agreeing.

  For she had the sinking, certain feeling that the best night of her life was about to become the worst.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rose didn’t sleep, and she doubted Charles had either. They lingered in the loft longer than they should have, and yet not nearly long enough.

  When the sun’s first rays reflected off the snow and penetrated the cottage’s threadbare curtains, they descended the ladder and dressed. Charles gathered up all the pins he could find on the floor and handed them to her. He had neither a hairbrush nor looking glass in the cottage, so she twisted the heavy length of her hair into a bun at her nape and secured it as best she could. Frowning, she asked, “How is this?”

  “Beautiful.” His soft, sincere expression almost made her believe it—in spite of her matted hair, wrinkled gown, and puffy eyes.

  It didn’t matter anyway.

  The flakes had stopped falling and the wind had ceased blowing, but a foot of fluffy snow covered the ground. Frigid air seeped beneath the door and around the windows, and last night’s crackling fire had turned to cold, gray ash.