A Kiss for Christmas Page 3

  Her eyes flashed. "Why not?"

  "He doesn't like dogs."

  "Nonsense," she declared. "He's very fond of Daisy."

  Arthur shrugged. "Then he's not fond of walking her. And I don't think she enjoys his care much, either."

  She looked astonished, then she turned her back to him and made another effort to grab her dog. The greyhound didn't want to be caught, though; she leapt away and wagged her tail. Arthur suspected she was taunting Pilot, who still remained in place but with his attention fixed on her.

  "If I give my word to call Pilot back at a moment's notice, will you let them run?" he asked cautiously. "She's far faster than Pilot, he'll never catch her if she doesn't want to be caught."

  Lady Fitzhugh gave him a fulminating look. Daisy was watching Pilot, her sleek head cocked playfully, and Lady Fitzhugh took the opportunity to lunge at her.

  But, as Arthur had said, the greyhound was fast. She shot away from her mistress's sudden movement and flew across the frozen grass. Unable to resist any longer, Pilot took off after her with a joyful bark.

  And Arthur ran two steps forward to catch Lady Fitzhugh as she staggered and slipped. "Careful," he murmured against her dark hair. The wind had blown her hood back, and her curls smelled like cinnamon.

  "Major!" Pink-cheeked, she struggled against his grip.

  "You're standing on ice," he said, nodding his head toward the ground. It was true; water from the fountain had blown over the walk and formed a hard slick coating. Her wide dark eyes followed his, and she went still. "Let me just…" God, she felt lovely in his arms. More a man of action than words, he gently lifted her against him and set her feet on the grass. Reluctantly he let her go.

  "Thank you." She backed up a step, looking troubled. "What did you mean earlier? About Daisy not enjoying Farley's care."

  "Farley is the gray-haired fellow?"

  "My butler," she replied, lifting her chin.

  "I saw him yanking her about until I thought her neck would snap. He dragged her around a few bushes and then headed straight back to the house, resisting all her efforts to stop. Dogs are animals and need to be outside. Your butler clearly wanted to be inside."

  "He must have been in a hurry that once," she said slowly. "He has other duties, after all…"

  "I've seen him walk her a dozen times and it's always the same." Arthur hesitated. He could still feel the shape of her body against his. "Why don't you walk her yourself?"

  For a split second she stared at him with… guilt. "I do," she murmured, turning away. "And I should take her in now. Daisy!"

  "Have you been avoiding the square because of me?" Arthur exclaimed in astonishment, suddenly realizing why he never managed to cross paths with her.

  "Of course not. Daisy!" she cried desperately. She picked up her skirts and hurried off. "Daisy!"

  Arthur kept stride beside her. "Why?"

  "Of course not," she protested. "But—but if you must know, it's your dog!" Pilot and Daisy were nowhere in sight. Lady Fitzhugh stopped, her breath curling in plumes around her head. "He frightens everyone, Major."

  On impulse he seized her hand. "I apologize for that. I don't want you to be frightened of him… or of me."

  Her eyes rounded and her lips parted. Arthur tamped down a renewed surge of appreciation. He tucked her hand around his arm. "Let me show you."

  He gave a sharp whistle, and a moment later heard the thud of Pilot's paws. Flying ahead of him came Daisy, her ears back and her eyes bright.

  "Daisy isn't frightened," Arthur said to the woman beside him. "Nor would Pilot hurt her. He's more inclined to rescue people—and animals—than hurt them."

  The big dog plowed to a stop before them, sitting at Arthur's command. But Daisy leapt all about him, nipping at his ears and sprinting away before darting back. Her tail was wagging, and when Pilot rolled onto his back and put up his enormous paws, Daisy sprang right on top of him.

  * * *

  "She's playing," said Marianne numbly. She'd never seen her pet so active and obviously happy.

  Major Winston nodded. "It's just as good for dogs as it is for children. She's an active little creature, I’ll wager."

  "Very." She couldn't say more. The dogs were playing—and Daisy looked delighted. In spite of herself, a little laugh escaped her.

  The major cleared his throat. "Are you still frightened?"

  Now she felt like a fool. "No," she said softly. As if he heard her, Pilot folded his front legs around her little dog and began licking her enthusiastically on the head. And Daisy settled down as if she enjoyed it.

  Major Winston shifted his weight. Marianne realized he was blocking the wind. He was a big fellow, and so warm. She had unconsciously moved closer to him as they watched the animals. "I'm unspeakably relieved, Lady Fitzhugh. I never thought that would be the reason you were avoiding me."

  Her face burned. He had noticed. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

  The major looked abashed. "Er. We've been neighbors for several months now but hardly meet. I wondered why."

  And for the first time Marianne became exquisitely aware that they had been standing very near each other for some time now, utterly alone except for the two dogs. Up close the major was even handsomer than from a distance, and she was taken off guard by how lovely it felt to have a man's arm around her, and how masculine a man could smell. She hadn't realized how his deep voice would spark a faint buzz across her skin that could only be called attraction.

  Rattled, she released his arm and stepped away. "Coincidence," she managed to say. "I should return. Daisy, come." This time her dog listened, and allowed Marianne to re-attach her lead. Feeling in control of herself again, she rose and faced the major. "Good evening, sir."

  His smile was a little crooked. "Happy Christmas, Lady Fitzhugh."

  "Oh—yes, Happy Christmas to you," she replied, flustered. His house lay directly behind him. The windows were as dark as the windows of her own house, only a few windows illuminated. "Are you not visiting family?" she blurted out.

  "No," he said. "They are too far."

  She nodded. "Of course. Mine is as well."

  His hesitated, his dark eyes intent on her, and then seemed to reach a decision. "How unfortunate. ‘Tis a day for family and friends."

  Uncomfortably she nodded. Together they walked across the frozen garden in silence, Pilot trotting behind. Marianne's thoughts were in torment. Should she invite him to share her Christmas dinner? It did seem very lonely now to spend the whole day alone, and it would serve as apology for avoiding him. Did Farley really drag Daisy by the neck? How could she have missed that? If she had seen him doing it, she would have been just as outraged as the major had been when he spoke sharply to her.

  "Well, good night," he said, snapping her out of her thoughts. They had reached her step.

  Marianne blushed. "Good night, sir." On impulse, she added, "Thank you. I will speak to Farley."

  Major Winston's mouth curved in a rueful smile. With his hair ruffled by the wind, he looked roguishly attractive. "Walk the dog yourself. Pilot will want to see her again."

  Marianne nodded and went inside, into her parlor. Tomorrow she would speak to Farley, but tonight she couldn't stop thinking about Major Winston. He was also alone for Christmas. Her cook had a whole goose to roast for dinner tomorrow. Would it be neighborly? Would it be forward? She ran her hand over the desk near the window, and couldn't decide.

  * * *

  Arthur paced his parlor, unable to decide. Pilot settled in for a nap near the hearth, looking as contented as a dog could look. And no wonder—he had finally got a chance to romp with the object of his affection, Arthur thought sourly, while his master was still held at arm's length.

  Perhaps that would begin to change now that he'd allayed her fears about the dog. Arthur thought she must have seen Pilot out with the Beech children, when his friend John Beech brought his family to visit. Since John's eldest boy was prone to trying to ride Pilot like a horse,
no wonder the dog had knocked him down. Arthur knew for a certainty the boy wasn't hurt, and Pilot was never allowed to run wild and knock down other children.

  He knew he should sit down in the chair by the fire and return to his book and brandy. But he also knew Lady Fitzhugh was alone, perhaps a little lonely as well, and he'd always been a man of action. He could still feel her in his arms, when he'd caught her on the ice. He wanted to make her laugh again, and smile, and not at the damned dogs.

  On impulse, he snatched up his coat again, this time remembering his scarf. In the army they'd used to sing on Christmas Eve, when there were few other comforts of the season to be had. People had told him he had a good voice. Pilot lifted his head as he opened the parlor door.

  "Wish me luck," he told the dog, and Pilot answered with a firm woof.

  He stopped right outside her windows. They glowed with light, and as he watched, the lady herself walked past. Her head was down and she seemed to be deep in thought. Encouraged, elated again by the sight of her, Arthur cleared his throat and began to sing.

  “Adeste fideles læti triumphantes…”

  By the end of the first verse, she was standing still in the middle of the room. He could just spy the top of her head, from his position on the pavement.

  “Deum de Deo, lumen de lumine…”

  By the end of the second verse, she had take a seat close to the window. Now he could see the lamplight gleaming on her dark curls.

  “Cantet nunc io, chorus angelorum…”

  He knew four verses by heart. There were more, but his memory was unreliable. At the end of the next verse, he would have to go home and wait for another opportunity. Lady Fitzhugh still sat by the window, her back to him. Was she pleased? Flattered? Appalled? Cringing at his voice? Contemplating sending her butler out to chase him away?

  A faint heart never won a lady, he reminded himself, and plunged into the fourth and final verse.

  “Ergo qui natus die hodierna.

  Jesu, tibi sit gloria,

  Patris æterni Verbum caro factum.

  Venite adoremus

  Venite adoremus

  Venite adoremus

  Dominum.”

  He had barely finished the final note when her door opened. Lady Fitzhugh herself stood in the rectangle of light, as beautiful as an angel to Arthur's eyes. He closed his mouth and bowed.

  "That was lovely," she said.

  He grinned. "Thank you. We used to sing in camp, during my army years, when there were no friends and family to share the season with."

  "We used to sing at home." She hesitated. "Would you like to come in and sing some more? I can play the pianoforte."

  And Arthur thought he heard the heavenly chorus for just a moment. "I would be delighted, Lady Fitzhugh."

  4

  What a Woman Needs for Christmas

  A holiday epilogue to

  What a Woman Needs

  The fire had already been banked for the night and the maid had pulled the drapes closed. The old house was drafty and grew terribly cold on winter nights, especially bitter ones like tonight. A raw wind had whipped the countryside for days now, but tonight it brought freezing rain as well, needles of ice that tinkled against the window panes and hissed in the fireplace.

  The lady of the house surveyed her quiet domain. She had sent the servants, all three of them, to bed early, and her niece had gone upstairs a short while ago, too. There was no point burning through a week’s worth of fuel trying to keep the house warm tonight. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and put out all but a single lamp, then took up that one to light her way to bed.

  In the doorway she paused, looking back at the small sitting room. It was by far the nicest room in the house now. The windows were secure behind thick drapes, the fresh paint brightened the room considerably, and the floor had been waxed to a shine. Her niece Susan had decorated with sprigs of greenery as well, bringing in the fresh scent of the forest along with a dash of color. It would be a pleasant Christmas, even with the general shabbiness of the rest of the house.

  She sighed and turned away, bracing herself for the walk upstairs. The maid had prepared her room, but it would still be cold and lonely, and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

  As she reached the foot of the stairs, a sound caught her attention. She paused, frowning. It sounded like steps outside the wide front door, but who could be out on a night like this? No one, of course. It must be the storm.

  But the knock that came next, a pair of short muffled thumps, was not the storm. Most likely not, at any rate. Still frowning, she set down the lamp and hurried to the door.

  “Who is there?” she called, resting her palms on the scarred wood and listening.

  For answer, there was silence. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the wood. It was no one, of course. The wind must have blown something against the house.

  Three more knocks, solid thumps this time, made the wood beneath her forehead vibrate. A voice called out—or was it the wind?—and she hesitated, then undid the bolt and opened the door a few inches to peer out.

  She barely glimpsed a man’s figure before he pushed past her into the hall. His every step squelched loudly, and a steady patter of raindrops fell around him from his soaked greatcoat. Slowly, jerkily, he unwound the long, frost-covered muffler from his neck and dropped it to the floor.

  Her mouth fell open as she saw his face. “What are you doing here?”

  He grinned. A few days’ growth on his jaw gave him a wild, dangerous look as he tossed aside his hat and shook his head like a dog, water and ice flying from his dark hair. “You don’t sound pleased to see me.”

  She raised her chin. “And why should I be?”

  This time he laughed. He peeled off his sodden gloves, one finger at a time, before flicking them aside with the muffler. “What a fine welcome. How can you deny a man the warmth of your hospitality on a night such as this?”

  “Any man who ventures out on a night such as this is a fool,” she retorted. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, I’m a fool,” he said comfortably. “But where is your comfort and cheer, madam? It is the Christmas season.”

  “I expect it’s all gone out the leaking roof and the smoky chimney in the dining room.”

  He casted a glance into the sitting room, where the coals still glowed faintly in the grate. “But it was here. I smell evergreen. Dare I hope to find a bit of mistletoe as well?”

  “You may hope all you like,” she replied, “and much good might it do you.”

  “Ah, I see.” He gave her a glance glittering with amusement. “I understand. A leaky roof, a smokey chimney … What sort of man would leave a woman in such a hovel in winter? Your husband ought to be whipped.”

  She twisted her lips into a sardonic smile. “Perhaps.”

  His greatcoat hit the floor with a wet slap, revealing how little it had protected him from the weather. He rolled his shoulders with a grimace, then peeled off his jacket as well, tossing it onto the growing pile of his discarded clothing. His white shirt clung to powerful arms, and her eyes drifted down the broad planes of his chest before she jerked them back to his face—which wore a knowing smirk.

  She turned her back on him and started for the stairs, turning her head to speak over her shoulder. “My husband is expected in a week’s time. I’m sure you’ll be welcome then.”

  He followed her. “Lucky fellow, to come home to such a beauty.”

  She sniffed. “Flattery will not serve you, sir.”

  “No?” He laughed softly, prowling ever closer to her. She quickened her step, keeping the distance between them, until he outmaneuvered her and strode around, barring her path to the stairs. “Perhaps your husband isn’t lucky, then. Perhaps he’s a bloody idiot for leaving you here alone in the country.” She just shrugged, and his easy laugh rang out again, more confidently this time as he came toward her. “So, he is an idiot. Well, perhaps I can warm your heart in preparation for
his return. It seems the most I can do, since I plan to take full advantage of his hearth and table tonight.”

  “My husband—” she said sharply. She had backed into the wall against his approach, and now made to move to the side, around him.

  “You husband,” he echoed, placing one hand on the wall where she would have gone, then the other hand on the other side to trap her in place.

  “Yes, my husband,” she snapped. “He will not like it that you’re taking advantage of me this way!”

  “On the contrary, my dear,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers. “I think he’d approve very much.” And he kissed her.

  She tried to turn her face away. She grabbed at his wet shirt and tried to push him away. But slowly, inexorably, he gathered her into his arms, kissing her until her hands clutched instead of shoved, and her arms went around his neck with a soft moan of surrender.

  “There,” he said softly, his breath gone as ragged as hers. “I think your husband would expect me to finish that properly. Come upstairs with me.”

  She let her head fall back so he could kiss the length of her neck. “You wicked man, to show up like this and expect me to fall into your arms …”

  “By God, yes. I’m counting on it,” he murmured, sliding his hand up to cover her breast. “I’ll take you straight to bed and keep you warm all night.”

  She shivered, both from the prospect of having him in her bed and from the touch of his hand on her flesh. Even when she wanted to refuse him, he made it impossible. It frightened her sometimes, how potent her desire for him was.

  “Say yes, darling.” He kissed her again, deeply. “Take pity on a poor man nearly drowned, half frozen, willing to risk his life for a night in your arms.”

  “You know I would say yes,” she breathed as his fingertips teased her skin until she arched her back, pressing into him. “Oh, Stuart, you’ve been away too long …”