The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  Nettled, she pulled on a pair of socks herself. The stone floor was very cold.

  By the time they’d arranged their wet things around the fireplace, the kettle was singing. Damaris searched in the kitchen for tea but found only various jars of dried herbs. Luckily she knew her herbs.

  “It will have to be herbal tea, I’m afraid.”

  He pulled a face, but anything hot was better than nothing, and when she poured the tea into two cups, he produced a flask from the pocket of his coat and poured a nip of brandy into each cup. “I never travel without it.”

  They sat by the fire, sipping their hot drinks. “You realize we’ll be spending the night here,” he said.

  She’d realized. She just didn’t want to think about it. “I was hoping someone might come to rescue us before then. Maybe the woman who lives here.”

  He shook his head. “Her hens were already locked in the henhouse when we got here. I’d say she expected to be gone for the day. She’ll be on the other side of that flood.”

  “I feel a little uncomfortable, making so free with all her possessions.”

  He shrugged. “We have no choice. I’ll leave her some money to make up for it. The question that’s worrying me is what we’ll have for dinner. I’ll kill one of those hens if I have to, but—”

  “No, you mustn’t! You wouldn’t know which one to kill. What if you killed her favorite hen or her best layer?”

  His brows rose. “You seem to have given it some thought. You kept hens in China, I gather, as well as swimming pigs.”

  She nodded. “You won’t need to kill anything. There are plenty of eggs and some bread in the larder. And vegetables. I could make soup, and scrambled eggs on toast.”

  He gave her an exaggerated look of admiration. “Does this mean you can cook as well? Good heavens. There is no end to your talents, Miss Chance. You breed hens and experimental swimming pigs, you paint, you make dried weeds into a drink that’s almost palatable—”

  She laughed. “Wait until you’ve tasted my cooking before you judge, Mr. Monkton-Coombes. I may yet disappoint you.”

  “Never,” he said quietly. But she was already searching the larder and didn’t see the expression on his face.

  • • •

  As night fell, the cottage seemed to grow smaller and the bed bigger—although, to Damaris’s mind, it was not big enough. Since dinner, she’d been putting the moment off, first with conversation, but she had soon run out of things to chat about. It was difficult to think of interesting conversational topics when a man in a toga—naked under that toga—was watching you rather in the manner of a cat watching a mouse, only with a lurking half smile.

  Next she’d tried playing a word game. He turned out to be quite good at that, which was disconcerting. Finally in desperation, she’d tried “I spy” but whenever it was his turn he picked B and it always turned out to be B for bed.

  Finally Freddy gave an extravagant yawn and stretched. “Time to turn in—that is, unless you’ve thought of yet another reason to put off going to bed.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “No, of course you don’t. And I suppose you expect me to be the kind of gentleman who will give you the bed, while I sleep on that freezing slab of stone that passes for a floor here, but I’m not such a fool.”

  “I never said—”

  “You didn’t need to. But here is what we’re going to do: I shall remain in this toga-shroud affair and I’ll wrap this quilt around me in a cocoon of blast—er, perfect chastity. You shall remain in that fetching red flannel tent, and we shall share the bed and the blankets. That way we shall both be warm and comf—well, warm, at any rate.”

  She hesitated.

  “What is it now?” he asked. “Do you want me to promise not to seduce you? I won’t. Come along, Miss Innocence, I won’t bite.” He gave a slow grin. “Not unless you ask me to.” He held out his hand to Damaris.

  She didn’t take it. She was perfectly well able to rise from a chair on her own and she didn’t trust herself to touch him. “I will make my ablutions first,” she told him and removed herself to the back of the cottage, where she borrowed a pair of wooden clogs to make use of the outdoor privy. The rain had stopped but the wind was bitter and when she came back in she was freezing. She’d needed cooling down, she told herself.

  She washed her face and hands and dried them slowly.

  It was just a bed, she told herself. They had to sleep. And though he might be the kind of gentleman who was far too adept at helping a lady out of her clothes, he wasn’t the sort of man who would force her. She was sure of that.

  As long as she didn’t let him see that she desired him, she was safe.

  He was already in bed. He patted the bed invitingly. “I’m warming it for you.”

  She slipped into her side of the bed, blew out the homemade rush candle that sat beside it and pulled the covers up to her ears. “Good night, Freddy.”

  “Good night, Damaris.” If his voice were a novel, the title would be Invitation to Sin.

  The bed was a lot smaller than it had looked. She didn’t want to bump up against him, so she arranged herself as close to the edge as was practical. She closed her eyes.

  He wriggled around a bit, and she stiffened. “Just getting comfortable,” he murmured. He was very close.

  Something bumped the back of her legs. “Sorry, I need to curl up a bit. The bed’s a bit shorter than me.” A brawny arm slid around her waist and pulled her against him.

  “What are y—?”

  “It’s a small bed, and you don’t want to fall out. Now stop worrying. This way we’ll keep warm—ouch! Who put icicles in the bed?”

  “If you’re referring to my feet—”

  “Is that what they are? Good God, they’re frozen solid.” He hooked a foot around her and drew her freezing feet against his legs. “Think of me as your personal hot brick.”

  She ought to have resisted, but her feet were cold and he was so wonderfully warm. He snuggled against her, holding her by the middle. “There, isn’t that toasty? Now you’ll sleep.”

  “Thank you. Good night,” she said. How could she possibly sleep with his long, hard body wrapped around her, pressed against her from shoulder to thigh, his knees touching the backs of her thighs, his groin curved around her backside, his arm holding her close? Thank God for the toga and the quilt. What had he called it? A cocoon of perfect chastity.

  It had better be.

  She lay there, listening to the wind in the trees and gentle hiss and crackle of the fire. And the quiet breathing of the man in the bed with her. It was her definition of heaven.

  Sometimes a woman just needs to be held. She understood now what Mama meant.

  There was such comfort in it. But such bittersweetness, knowing it would be her only night with this man. She should savor it as long as she could.

  She slept.

  Freddy knew the moment Damaris fell asleep. Her breathing deepened and she relaxed back against him. He was as far from sleep as ever he’d been. He was as hard as a rock from the scent of her hair, the feel of her body against him. Patience, he told his eager little soldier. Good things come to those who wait.

  But the good thing—the only woman he’d ever truly wanted—was here in his arms. Trustfully asleep, blast it. And he’d promised to be a gentleman. It was the hardship of the long game.

  Fools rush in and all that, and she was as wary a creature as any female he’d met.

  She shifted a little in her sleep and he felt it; through a toga and a patchwork blasted quilt he felt it. He shifted uncomfortably. Cocoon of blasted chastity? More like an iron maiden of inconvenience.

  Such an irony that he, who’d sworn loud and long that he never wanted to marry, was now certain that the only woman he could stand to wed was a sweet, stubborn girl who herself had vowed
not to marry.

  It was a mystery to him why a girl like Damaris would be so averse to marriage. He could understand that she might not wish to marry him—though there was a future title and a fortune to sweeten the deal. But not to wish to marry at all, when she didn’t even have tuppence to her name . . .

  It was all academic now. It didn’t matter what either of them wanted. After this night together they were well and truly compromised. Marriage was no longer a choice for either of them; it was an obligation.

  He wondered how she’d take it when she realized.

  The quilt was rucked up and uncomfortable. Carefully he wriggled out of it and kicked it out of the bed. The toga would have to stay, he decided regretfully. After he’d promised not to seduce her, she wouldn’t take kindly to waking up in bed with a naked man.

  The wind rattled the windows and sighed around the eaves. He held her in his arms and waited for sleep to come.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Elinor . . . told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  Damaris awoke slowly to a sense of warmth and comfort and . . . rightness. She lay without moving, savoring the sensation, aware of her breathing . . . and his. Abandoned in sleep he claimed her, one heavy arm holding her against the curve of his body, his chest pressed to her back, her bottom cuddled into . . . his groin.

  He was hard. She could feel him pressing against her. Her eyes flew open and she tensed a moment, waiting. But the rhythm of his breathing didn’t change and she slowly relaxed.

  If only it could stay like this between them, peaceful, trusting, with no expectations. But she knew better. Those dreams were long gone.

  Carefully she lifted his arm and turned to face him, drinking in the sight of him in a way she usually couldn’t. When he was awake, those vivid blue eyes of his danced and dueled and offered endless lighthearted invitations to sin. People said eyes were a window to the soul, but his weren’t. They were a barrier, his inner thoughts hidden behind the laughing gaze of the lighthearted rake.

  On only a few occasions had she glimpsed another side of him, a more serious, thoughtful side. When he’d talked about his brother. A brief glimpse of something darker and more painful. And again when the lash of his parents’ dismissal caught him unawares.

  Now that brilliant blue gaze was hidden beneath the twin crescents of his lashes, thick and brown and tipped with gold.

  In sleep he looked younger, less . . . guarded. Without his usual expression of faint cynicism. More . . . vulnerable.

  His dark gold hair was tousled, and not by the expert attentions of his valet. His jaw was roughened with bristle, darker than his hair but with faint glints of gold. Her fingers itched to rub against his jaw, to feel the delicious abrasion and the hard bone beneath.

  His lips were parted slightly. She looked at his mouth, his beautiful, mobile, masculine mouth, and remembered that kiss by his brother’s grave.

  Her first kiss, though no one, knowing what she’d done before reaching England, would believe that. She had difficulty believing it herself. And having done what she’d done, knowing what she knew, how had that kiss been so . . . sweet? So unexpected?

  Tender, yet carnal, and deeply arousing. She ached now with the memory of it, wondering how it might feel to lie with this man. If his kiss—one single kiss—could move her so, how much more might there be if they were to lie together? If she opened herself to him and took inside her that part of him now pressing so insistently against her belly?

  She ached to do it, to know . . . to feel again what she had felt that day by the lake. Only more.

  She’d believed she knew everything about congress between a man and a woman, but that kiss had shown her how little she understood.

  It was a mystery. He was a mystery.

  And lying with him like this, gazing on his sleeping face and breathing in the scent of him and feeling what she was feeling, she was a mystery to herself.

  She ached for him. But she knew it couldn’t be. The cost would be too great.

  • • •

  Freddy knew before he’d even opened his eyes that she was watching him. He could feel her gaze on his face, feel the softness of her breath on his skin. The scent of her was intoxicating, her softness pressed gently, trustfully against him and—Lord help him—he was hard and rampant, pressing against her like a randy dog.

  Did she know it? More to the point, did she understand it? She was an innocent, he reminded himself, despite the soft breasts pressed against his arm, hard tipped and begging for attention.

  He opened his eyes and found her gazing intently at him, so sweetly earnest, as if he were a source of endless fascination. All his good intentions crumbled. “Morning, beautiful.” With his free hand he cupped the nape of her neck and pulled her down to his mouth.

  She tasted of sleep and surprised, aroused woman. She accepted him softly, with shy eagerness, her tongue touching, then tangling with his.

  Desire, already kindled, sprang to a raging blaze in an instant.

  He tried to resist, but a small voice inside him reminded him their fate had been tied the moment they’d been alone together and stranded in the cottage overnight. She was going to be his wife, and, strangely, for once he didn’t seem to mind the idea of being married.

  He particularly didn’t mind it at this minute.

  He rolled her over, kissing, tasting, glorying in her. He dragged at the tangled folds of the blasted toga affair he was still wearing, trying to free his body. He abandoned that for more urgent needs and swept the hem of her nightgown up along her long, slender legs, finding the satiny skin of her thighs and seeking the heated, damp place between them.

  “No.” She clamped her thighs together and pushed his hands away. “We can’t.”

  “We can,” he muttered and pulled her mouth back to his, one hand seeking the soft nest of damp curls between her thighs.

  “No, we mustn’t.” Something in her voice alerted him. She pushed him away and sat up, wide-eyed and distressed. A flash of something he thought might be shame crossed her features. It was like a dash of cold water, bringing him to his senses.

  Dammit, she was an innocent. And he’d pounced on her with a complete lack of finesse. Where had his much-vaunted skills as a lover gone? Evaporated in a burst of white heat.

  He pulled back, breathing deeply, willing the rampant desire to pass. He felt like a ravening wolf, but he gave her a smile that he hoped was reassuring. “Sorry, I’m not usually such an animal in the morning.” He would be, if he woke every morning with her in his bed.

  The thought cheered him. “When we’re married it will be different.” He would make love to her at night, as well as in the morning.

  She stiffened. “Married? We’re not getting married.”

  He smiled. “My dear girl, you must realize that spending the night together means we’re thoroughly compromised. We have no choice but to marry now.”

  All the warmth and color drained from her face. “No. I can’t. I won’t.”

  “We must, don’t you see?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Just leave me, please. I beg you.” She turned away and pulled the covers over her head.

  “Very well,” he said a little stiffly. He knew she wasn’t keen on marriage, but her reaction was stronger than he’d expected. “Give me a moment to dress, and I’ll leave you. You need time to get used to the idea.”

  “I don’t need time to get used to anything. We’re not getting married.” She sounded completely certain. Her refusal even to entertain the thought for a moment annoyed him.

  He would have to make her understand; their fate was sealed. It didn’t matter whether she liked it or not—they had to get married.

&nbs
p; If he could accept it with good grace, so could she.

  He slipped from the bed and padded across the icy floor to where his clothes had been left to dry in front of the fire. His linen shirt and drawers were dry, as were his breeches. He pulled them on. His coat was still damp. He glanced outside. It was a clear, dry morning, no sign of rain, for which he was heartily grateful.

  The fire had gone out in the night, and he cleared the ashes away and lit a new fire. “I’ll see to the horses,” he said when it was burning well.

  He moved toward the door, then paused. “Should I do anything with the hens?”

  “There’s a bowl of scraps in the scullery,” came a muffled voice from the bed. “Give them that and let them out.”

  “Won’t they run away?”

  “No, they’ll come back when it’s getting dark.”

  He fetched the bowl and left. His calmness in the face of her unreasonable obduracy was, he thought, quite impressive. He would see to the animals and come up with a sober, well-reasoned argument that would convince her that they had no option except marriage.

  Below, the floodwaters swirled all around them for miles. It was as if they were on an island in the middle of a muddy sea. The rain had stopped and the clouds had passed away, leaving a washed-out wintry blue sky.

  Pity. He could do with forty days and forty nights. It might take that long to convince her. . . .

  • • •

  Damaris shook out her dress. It was crumpled but dry. Keeping one eye on the door, she dressed in front of the fire, slipping into her underclothes first. She laced up her corset from the front, tying it as tight as she could, then twisted it around, hoping it would stay up all right. She would rather die than ask Freddy to tie it for her. His words echoed in her mind.

  Spending the night together means we’re thoroughly compromised. We have no choice but to marry.

  If there was one thing everyone agreed on about Freddy Monkton-Coombes it was that he didn’t want to be married.

  She sat on the bed to put on her stockings and shoes. She couldn’t, couldn’t bear to let him be trapped into marrying her. It was her fault they’d ended up in this situation.