Bluebell's Christmas Magic: A perfect and heart-warming cosy Christmas romance for 2019

by Marie Laval

  She nodded. ‘I’m fine.’

  He let out a sigh of relief, unbuckled his seat belt and took the key out of the ignition. ‘There’s no point trying to start the car again. We won’t have enough traction to go any further, so I guess we’re walking. Make sure you wrap up well.’

  He switched off the lights, slipped the key in his coat pocket and jumped down. ‘Wait. I’ll help you get down.’

  The snow reaching up to his knees, he walked around to her side, yanked the door open and held his arms out. ‘Jump!’

  She nodded and launched herself into his arms. Letting go of her once her boots touched the ground, he slammed the passenger door shut then stretched out his hand. With snow so deep, she would struggle to walk up the lane.

  ‘Hold my hand and walk in my steps.’

  Stefan trudged in the snow, and Cassie walked in his footsteps. He held onto her small, gloved hand, aware that she trembled and stumbled more and her breathing sounded more ragged and uneven with every step.

  ‘Keep moving! Come on! Don’t stop!’ he urged every time he felt she was faltering.

  He was focussing so much on taking her to the safety of the manor house that he ignored the telltale signs his own body was sending him. Ignored the increasing tightness across his shoulders, the sharpening ache in his lower back, and the burning in his legs. Stopping even for a minute was out of the question. With the snow falling thick and fast, and the icy gale howling from the fells, they needed to keep moving.

  Cassie’s hand gripped his more tightly as they neared the top of the lane. She didn’t complain, didn’t ask to stop and catch her breath. At last the house emerged from the shadows, its outline barely visible in the storm.

  ‘Hang on a bit longer,’ he shouted, pulling harder on her hand. ‘We made it.’

  He unlocked the front door, and they stumbled into the hallway, bringing the whirling blizzard in with them.

  Having divested himself of his gloves and parka, he made a fire in record time and soon flames crackled and shot up in the fireplace. The wind blew into the chimney, wailing and lamenting, and making the fire hiss and pop. He let out a sigh of relief. At last they were safe.

  He turned round and his chest tightened. Cassie had taken her boots off, and now stood in her stripy red and green socks, with her dungarees caked with snow from the knee down and her pom-pom hat still on. She looked like some Christmas elf the storm had blown in.

  He wanted to smile. Tell her she could take her hat off now. But most of all he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tight until she was warm and dry.

  Instead, he stepped aside and gestured for her to come close to the fire.

  ‘I’m sorry I put you through this. I should have been more careful driving up the lane. I should have…’

  She looked up. She had stopped shaking, but her face was still very pink from the freezing wind. ‘It could have been a lot nastier. You did well to get us back here safely.’ She touched her shoulder and pulled a face. ‘Although the way you dragged me up that lane it’s a miracle I didn’t dislocate my shoulder.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, but she put her finger on his lips before he could say any more.

  ‘Stop apologising. Without you, I would never have made it back here. I never thought I would one day say this, but I’m glad to be at Belthorn!’

  He captured her hand in his. It was freezing cold, and he cursed himself again. ‘I shouldn’t have listened to you. You would have been far better staying at the farm with your family instead of being stuck here with me.’

  There was something in her eyes now – something warm and soft and inviting that reminded him of the way she had looked at him in the kitchen at the farm earlier. His heart skipped a beat, as hope, caution and cynicism warred inside him.

  ‘What if there was no one I’d rather be stuck with?’ she asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He didn’t reply. Didn’t say anything. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken loud enough. Or, and it was more likely, he was racking his brains to find words to let her down gently. Why had she even spoken? How stupid of her to throw herself at him again when he had turned her down once already that evening!

  He let go of her hand, looked down. Shadows and flames danced in his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  Would she dare tell him what she felt?

  She tilted her chin up. ‘I’m glad to be snowed in with you, because I…’ She should be brave for once, and come out with it. ‘I am attracted to you.’ There, she had said it!

  She held her breath, but he still didn’t speak. Her chest tightened, and a tidal wave of embarrassment flooded her.

  ‘All right…’ She sighed. She’d better make something up, slink away whilst her pride was still intact.

  ‘I’ll go to the kitchen and make some coffee. I’m sure you could do with some.’

  She was about to turn away when he bent down, and pinned her to the spot with just one burning look.

  ‘I don’t want coffee.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her pulse picked up pace and she gazed at him in confusion. Was she misreading the heat and the longing in his eyes once again?

  ‘I want to do this.’ He lifted a hand to her face, and she tensed as he cupped her cheek and stroked the outline of her mouth with his thumb, making her shiver all over.

  His eyes softened. He smiled, bent down further, and kissed her – a light, gentle touch of the lips, a barely there kiss, as if he was holding back to give her time to change her mind.

  With a muffled cry, she lifted her hands to his shoulders, moulding her body to his and revelling in the feel of his broad, hard chest. He cradled her against him, and kissed her again. She tasted the snow on his lips, and the cold wind on his skin. She shivered with pleasure as he trailed kisses down her throat, and revelled in the strength of his arms around her as he held her tight and lifted her off the ground.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said, putting her down lightly.

  ‘My clothes are wet.’

  His fingers slid up and down her back, tracing patterns that made her skin tingle.

  ‘Mine are too. We should do something about it.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ She was getting dizzy and breathless now.

  The hint of a smile flickered on his lips. ‘Perhaps we should take them off. We don’t want to catch a cold, do we?’

  Did he really want her as badly as she wanted him, or was it all a dream? ‘It’s a wonderful idea.’ Her voice husky with desire and emotion, she looked at him and smiled.

  At once heat blazed in his eyes, and he held her more tightly.

  ‘I love your smile, and I love those cute little dimples you have here…’ He kissed the side of her mouth. ‘And here.’ He kissed the other side. ‘It makes me crazy just to wonder if you have any in other places.’

  Feeling wicked and naughty, and very much unlike her usual self, she let out a low chuckle. ‘Then why don’t you find out?’

  He wanted her so much he ached, but he would take it slowly even if it killed him. Fire raged in his blood as he slid one hand at the back of her neck and stroked her soft, delicate skin. She shivered under his fingertips, and a rosy blush spread on her face.

  The light from the fire painted sunny streaks in her hair as he combed his fingers through it. She threw her head back with a shaky sigh, offering her throat to his kisses.

  Slowly still, he unzipped her fleece and slid it off her shoulders.

  ‘How do you take these dungarees off?’ he asked in a raspy voice as he fiddled with one of the metal clasps holding the garment up.

  She deftly undid both buckles, the dungarees slipped down to her hips. Her grey top moulded her curves so perfectly he couldn’t resist. He brushed his knuckles against her breasts, revelling in the feel of the tips hardening under his touch and the sounds of her breathing. Her fingers fluttered along his spine, tickled the back of his neck, and his body hardened further. This was torture – sweet, intolerable torture but he di
dn’t want it to end.

  He kissed her mouth again, slipped one hand under her top, and explored. Her skin was smooth and silky, her breasts so generous his mouth became dry and he let out a low moan. He wanted to see her – all of her. He wanted to touch, taste, and bury himself inside her. He lifted the T-shirt over her head, and let it drop to the floor. Next he pushed the dungarees past her hips. They pooled at her feet and she stepped out of them. With a muffled moan he bent down to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat. His fingers traced the contours of her face, trailed down her throat, her round shoulders and along her arms all the way to the inside of her wrists. He caressed the sides of her waist, cupped her breasts, and revelled in their weight and fullness in his hands.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, circling the tips of her breasts with his fingers until they pebbled and darkened underneath the white bra. White heat flashed inside him, almost blinding him with desire. He wanted her naked and under him. He wanted her calling his name, touching him, surrendering. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the fresh lemon fragrance he had come to associate with her. Combined with the feminine scent of her skin, it was the most potent elixir, and he felt almost drunk and lightheaded.

  ‘I want to make love to you so much I’m going out of my mind,’ he whispered.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ She locked her fingers at the back of his neck, pressed her body closer and made a sexy, low humming sound that drove him even wilder. Her lips trailing tantalising soft kisses at the side of his neck, she slid her hands under his jumper, un-tucked his shirt from his jeans, and made contact with his bare skin.

  He drew in a sharp breath as her fingers skimmed his chest, glided on his abs, ventured lower. It was her turn to touch and tease. It was fair enough, but he didn’t know how long he could take it.

  Stepping back, he got rid of his pullover, almost ripped the buttons off his shirt in his haste to undo them, and stood, shirt open to his bare chest, in front of her, every part of him aching for her.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Still in her underwear, she crossed the room to close the curtains – as if anybody was likely to venture to Belthorn in the middle of a snowstorm, except perhaps that Grey Friar who was rumoured to haunt the grounds of the abbey – then walked up to the fireplace to switch the fairy lights on.

  ‘I don’t need fancy lights to make love to you.’

  ‘No, but it’s so much prettier, don’t you think?’ she asked with a shy smile.

  And then reality hit him. A blast of freezing cold air spread into his heart, filled his chest, made him stumble back. What was he doing? He was a broken, ugly brute with a body covered with scars, and a grouchy temper, and she was the most delightful woman he’d ever laid his eyes on.

  She couldn’t want him. Not really. Hell, she just said she needed fairy lights to make the décor more appealing. She wanted a man like that designer whose photo she had sighed over – the sharp, handsome, dark-haired designer bloke who she said had inspired her. A hard lump formed in his gut.

  He stood like a block of ice and let out a hollow laugh. ‘It will take more than fairy lights to make me look pretty, you know.’

  She came back to him and touched her lips to his chest, showering him with kisses as he stood still. ‘I don’t care for a pretty man. I care about you,’ she said between kissing and teasing him. Her mouth, her hands glided over his bare skin, tormenting him.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled away slightly. ‘Are you sure?’

  She lifted her head up and laid her hand against his cheek. Her eyes were filled with heat and unfocussed, the grey irises clouded with arousal. Her lips were red and swollen, her face flushed.

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Weak with relief, he enfolded her into his arms, enjoying the feel and the scent of her body, and the sounds of her breathing. She fitted so well against him, and nestled in his arms as if it was the most natural place to be. They didn’t speak, didn’t move. The fire crackled softly behind them, the flames painted shadows on the walls. Outside the howling of the wind had ceased, replaced by an eerie quiet.

  It was the calm before the storm.

  Cassie kissed the side of his mouth and slid the sides of his shirt off his shoulders, tugging on the sleeves until it dropped to the floor. Her lips kissed the jagged scars on his chest with such innocence and tenderness his heart expanded with pure joy.

  A moment later innocence fizzled out when she stroked his chest with long, lingering, teasing touches. The mood changed, sizzled with tension and pleasure, and pulsed with dark, throbbing desires.

  He brought his hands to her shoulders, slid the straps of her bra and yanked the triangles of fabric down to expose her breasts. Slowly he pushed her pants down, and took them off. When she was naked, he enfolded her in his arms, lifted her up and brought her to the sofa where he lay her gently down, then he looked at her and held his breath. Her blonde hair draped over the cushions, and her bare skin glowed in the light of the fire. She looked wild, tantalising, and beautiful.

  And when she reached out for him and called his name, his heart did something strange and powerful, something it had never done before. It roared and thundered and proclaimed that she was his.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘I’ll never think about a feather duster in the same way ever again,’ Stefan said, trailing Cassie’s brand new blue feather duster along her leg, from her hip all the way down to the sole of her foot. She tried to roll away but the bed wasn’t big enough to escape him, or the feather duster.

  He had found a brand new duster in the kitchen cupboard as he fetched a bottle of wine and two glasses, and hadn’t been able to resist taking one upstairs.

  He kissed her bare shoulder. ‘Who would have thought that this innocent looking fairy had such a naughty implement in her cleaning arsenal?’

  Laughing, Cassie hid her leg under the duvet. ‘There’s nothing naughty about my feather duster, at least not when I use it. You’re the one with the wicked mind.’

  He dropped the feather duster to the floor, put a finger on her lips, and brushed her hair aside to kiss the curve of her neck. ‘I didn’t used to have a wicked mind. You worked your magic on me, Mademoiselle la fée chasse-poussière.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He smiled. ‘It means “dust-busting fairy”, but “chasse-poussière” is also the name given to a type of sandstorm in the Sahara Desert. They’re little whirlwinds, just like you. I could also call you chasse-tristesse because you have worked wonders for my mood too.’

  ‘Did I?’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘Chasse-tristesse,’ she repeated. ‘I like that.’ She closed her eyes and relished the feel of his lips on her skin, the tenderness in his voice. ‘I haven’t quite finished working on you, actually. You are still terribly crabby and short-tempered at times.’

  Dropping the feather duster to the floor, he rolled on top of her, lifted her arms on both sides of her head and intertwined his fingers with hers. The fire in his eyes was mesmerising. The heat and weight of his body took her breath away, his strength made her feel small and frail and very female, but it was the intimacy of their linked fingers that caused her heart to beat faster.

  ‘Then perhaps you should perform a little more magic.’

  His eyes darkened. He kissed her, and she was lost once again in a tumult of love and pleasure.

  ‘I’m glad we came up to my room,’ he said a while later, wrapping his arm around her waist, and pulling her on top of him. ‘My bed is a lot more comfortable than the sofa downstairs.’

  ‘I agree.’ The sofa had spiky springs and hard lumps, and her back would probably sport bruises for days to come. She dare not imagine what it might have done to Stefan’s back.

  He pointed to one of the paintings opposite the bed. ‘I believe that painting refers to a story about a hunchback and a swan.’

  She glanced up, surprised. ‘That’s right. How do you know that?’


  ‘André Vaillant mentions it in his diary. Can you tell me what it’s about?’

  ‘It’s an old folk tale – a kind of Cumbrian Beauty and the Beast fairy tale.’

  She expected him to laugh or make some kind of disparaging comment, but he said nothing. His fingers slowly stroked her waist. Perhaps he was falling asleep.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, his deep, rough voice reverberating inside her.

  ‘Very well… There was once a hunchback who lived in a small cottage overlooking a lake. For years he went down to the lake every morning to feed a beautiful white swan, despite people making fun of him and children throwing stones at him. One morning, the hunchback didn’t come. The swan waited all day, and the following day too, and the day after that, but still the hunchback didn’t come. So the swan waddled to the cottage. It craned its neck to peer through the window, and saw the poor hunchback lying on his straw mattress. He wasn’t moving. He didn’t appear to be breathing. The swan broke the glass with its beak and managed to get inside the house, but it was too late. The hunchback was dead.’

  His hand stilled. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Not quite.’ She kissed his chest, nestled closer and listened to the beating of his heart. ‘The swan plucked her feathers with her beak and stuck them on the hunchback’s arms, his shoulders, his chest, bit by bit covering all of his body with gleaming white feathers. And from that day on, there wasn’t just one swan gliding on the lake, but two.’

  ‘Some story,’ Stefan said after a few moments.

  ‘Why was the French soldier referring to this old story in his diary?’

  ‘Ruth’s parents were opposed to Vaillant courting their daughter. They wanted her to marry that rich farmer – Hardy – and laughed at her for being a hopeless romantic. Vaillant had been left a cripple when his plane was shot down, you see, and from what I gather Ruth was a pretty young woman.’