Elisabeth Fairchild (12 page)

Chapter Seventeen

She did not fuss over him—which he appreciated—neither did she keep asking him, as
Bolton was wont to do after an episode, if he felt better. She simply watched him
more keenly than before, especially when he stepped out of the sleigh and into the
house, and later when he ate very little of an excellent dinner.

“Perhaps we ought to make an early night of it,” she suggested.

He shook his too-heavy head, feeling weary—so very weary—and yet he knew that if he
went to bed now he would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, worrying, and listening
to every beat of his failing heart. Best to keep his mind occupied.

“You promised me cards,” he reminded her.

She smiled an uneven little smile of compassion that took his breath away, rendering
him pleasantly dizzy.

“I do not make or take promises lightly,” she said.

“I know you do not.” He relied on the support of her arm in that instant, in steering
him through a mistletoed doorway. It was a simple matter to turn his head, which swam
a bit as he leaned toward her that he might lightly kiss her cheek, the warmth of
her skin a surprise. She had always seemed chill to him before.

She accepted the salute without demur.

He looked into her eyes and said, “You saved my life.”

She looked steadily back. “Happy Christmas!” She kissed him full on the lips, softly,
gently, a careful kiss. An unexpected gift.

Her lips were lush, full—berry bright and beckoning. He feared he might fall if he
pursued them, so he concentrated on standing upright, and asked, “How can I ever repay
you?”

“No need.” She adjusted the position of her arm, propping him against the doorjamb.
A welcome support. He was weary, so very weary. His chest ached. His arms ached.

“You’ve no desire for anything?” he insisted, and wished it might be another kiss,
and wished she might take it upon herself to be the one to do the kissing, for he
hadn’t the energy—just the desire.

A faraway look took possession of her eyes. Something she would not ask for.

“Tell me,” he pressed. “I would make you a Christmas gift.”
Now, before I die, before I slide down this doorjamb and pass out on the floor at
your feet.

“You have already given me gift—in living.”

She made no sense. “How so?”

“In saving your life, I save my own soul.”

He blinked at her, confused, and concentrated on her lips. He wanted to taste them
again, to delve their wonders.

“It is enough,” she said.

But it wasn’t. Not to him. He wanted more, much more, to express his deepest appreciation.
“But . . .” Again he thought of the kisses they had missed. His gaze strayed upward
to the dangling mistletoe.

She glanced up as well, realization dawning. That devastatingly small smile teased
the corners of her mouth.

“Would you . . .”

Her eyes met his. Her breath smelled of cinnamon, her hair of wood smoke and frankincense.

He did not allow her time to finish, simply drew on his deepest reserves of energy
and answered with a quick, unhesitant, mistletoe kiss—no more than a glancing contact
of his lips to hers. He drew back to gauge her reaction.

Her eyes met his with amused surprise. She was not offended.

“That’s one,” he said.

Her lips parted on a reply, but he stopped her mouth, stopped the questions with a
second kiss, pulling her closer, the pressure of his lips more demanding, their mouths
melding in a liquid heat unlike any he had ever before experienced. Like a star exploding
between them. Dizzying. It was as if he fell into her, as if water closed in over
his head and he could not breathe, and it did not matter, nothing mattered but the
thrum of his heartbeat, steady and sure, and the light in his soul, brilliant—all
encompassing. No holding back this time, no interruptions, no fear of falling senseless
at her feet. Bliss found him, that little bit of the heaven he had tasted that afternoon—when
his life had teetered in the balance.

She was honey-sweet and warm, and he could not drink enough of her.

“Oh God.” He drew a deep, satisfied breath, Christmas on lips and mouth. “That’s two.”

She wore a knowing look, eyes lit with a glow of desire that he began to think might
equal his own. “You heard me? This afternoon? In the sleigh?”

“I did.” Christmas filled his lungs—the bright joy of it, the cinnamon scent. “Now
I can die happy.”

“Why die at all?”

He could see by the sparkle in her eyes, could tell by how close she remained, that
she enjoyed their mistletoe kisses as much as he.

For a moment, the merest fraction of a moment, he considered telling her all—telling
her the bitter truth. But what he said was, “We all die eventually.”

“All too soon. And then what?”

He pressed his lips to the warmth of her frankincense-scented forehead. “Why, Heaven,
I suppose, unless one is inclined to go the other direction.”

“Is this not Heaven?” she whispered.

He smiled, pleased she should think so. “This is love.”

“And what of ghosts?” Her voice came muffled as she cradled her cheek against his
shirtfront, the pressure of her cheekbone and temple soothing, rejuvenating him almost
as much as the kisses. “Are they trapped somewhere betwixt and between?”

“I suppose they are.”

“Is there no saving them?” She tipped back her head, to look into his eyes, as if
his answer fascinated her deeply. So gray her gaze, fathomless, deep, his future,
the unknown.

He felt a wave of dizziness returning, closed his eyes, listened to the rhythm of
his heartbeat. It hovered on the edge of betwixt and between.

“What do you think?” He turned the question back on her, no energy for answers.

“I think . . .”

The intensity of his desire to live, to hear her answers, made his blood race.

“I think prayers are answered,” she said.

He opened his eyes, head cocked, pleased with her words, with the look of her, with
the memory of her lips on his. “I think you are wrong.”

Her smile faded. “How so?”

With rising strength, with a swelling of joy, he reversed their positions, so that
now she stood propped against the door frame and he pressed her to it. “Not two kisses,
but three you owe me.”

She laughed as their mouths met a third time, a low chortle that vibrated against
his chest. He laughed as well, the kiss hot, and sweet—deep—so deep he thought he
would drown. Completely intoxicating, an elixir of life. He grew stronger with each
meeting of their lips. Enough of her kisses and he might be a new man, his heart made
whole again.

As if she read his mind, she murmured, “Is it really only three?”

He laughed, and kissed her again, this time on the tip of her nose.

“I suppose it depends . . .” He planted another on her brow, his breath stirring her
hair. “. . . on how long one stands beneath the mistletoe.”

She kissed his chin.

He closed his eyes, startled that she took the liberty, enjoying the sensation. “I
am quite prepared . . .” This time he tasted the soft peach of her cheek. “. . . to
stand here . . .” Her jaw tempted him.

“Until Christmas?” she whispered.

He must rain kisses next on the tender lobe of her ear as he replied. “Must we stop
then?”

Her passion met his, her mouth a present he must open, all peppermint and marzipan,
the taste of her like music that struck a note in the very depths of him, a song of
desire. He wanted more, like a greedy child given sweetmeats, though it made pulse
race and head whirl. He wanted to press her close, to unwrap her, neither carefully
nor gently but in a frenzy of haste, sinking teeth into her softness, swallowing sweetness,
sating himself in desire. He would wrap her in his need for her, and nothing else.

He lost himself in feeling. He had never known that what he yearned for was the magic
of her embrace. All care and worry, all sense of himself seemed to slip away in their
kisses. He stepped into love and light and sunny heat. The next moment she slipped
his clutch with a laugh and left him holding air, chill air, the door frame his only
support.

“You show remarkable strength for a gentleman who almost lost all of it this afternoon,”
she teased, the heat they had shared still glowing in her eyes. “Now no more mistletoe
seduction, my lord.” She wagged a finger at him. “If you would take advantage of me,
it must be over cards. You promised me we should play.”

He took a deep breath, pulse racing, heart pounding raggedly with an intensity of
yearning. He glanced suggestively at the mistletoe. “I am in a mood for play.”

She shook her head and
tsk-tsked
, understanding his double entendre, a twinkle in her eyes. “Perhaps we should move
the mistletoe.” She reached high, tone teasing as she plucked it from the doorway’s
peak, with a look of pure mischief.

He took advantage of her lifted arms, hands running the length of her rib cage. She
slipped his grasp and backed away, dangling the bit of greenery.

“My dear Miss Walcott,” he said with a grin. “You are a woman after my own heart.”

***

She might have led him a merry chase. It crossed her mind as she danced away from
him, mistletoe in hand. But he had not the strength for it, nor she the heart. Too
much of the past in such a chase. She led him to a table and chairs not far from the
fire and set the mistletoe between them as he dealt the cards.

It seemed almost at once the berries began to wither.
We all wither, give up the plump firmness of the berry,
she thought.

She had believed he meant to give up his heart that day—had been certain he would
be lost to her almost as soon as he was found, but here he sat, explaining the game
of Ambigu, and she had only to glance up at him over the edge of her cards, to be
reminded that he had almost died in her arms.

She could not let it happen—could not exact the revenge that had so long been her
goal. The sparing of him was a wondrous swelling of emotion that filled her like a
bubble, lifting her as she had not felt lifted in many a year. She fairly floated
above the table looking at him, this gloriously alive and oh so passionate man, who
looked back at her with love in his eyes, and a desire unlike anything she had ever
witnessed.

What now?
she wondered. What sort of future did they share beyond mistletoe kisses?

“Shall we try something new?” he asked when they had finished the hand.

Anything
, she thought,
will be new with you.

She twirled the wilting sprig of mistletoe between her fingers. White berries rolled
across the tabletop, headed in different directions, just as they must in the end.
She thought of past Christmases, past mistletoe kisses. None had pleased her half
so much as his. She must have more of them, must give more. “Have you the energy?”
she asked.

“Will you have a go at Matrimony?”

His suggestion brought her head up fast.

Mistletoe fell from her hand and struck the edge of the table. Berries and dried leaves
exploded in all directions.

“Or perhaps you’ve had enough of me?” He wore a look of mischief as he rose.

He was smiling as he said it, the words dropping lightly between them, bouncing like
mistletoe berries, as if he had not just asked a momentous question.

“And how does one play at matrimony?” she asked, head cocked, wondering if he intended,
after all, to dishonor her—as another Copeland had dishonored her. It pained her to
consider it might be true. She watched warily as he opened a panel in the wall with
an un-oiled creaking noise and pulled out a little table, which he proceeded to unfold.

“It requires a special table,” he said. “But the rules are fairly simple.”

A table? Rules?
He placed the table between them, the top painted, divided into a playing field.
A game, nothing but a game, and she had just been played for a fool.

“The face cards . . .” He placed a deck between them, upon the special table. “ . . .
represent matrimony, intrigue, and confederacy.”

Belinda sighed, her rush of hope subdued. “I am all too familiar with intrigue and
confederacies.”

“But not matrimony?”

She studied his face for trace of malice or deceit. His features appeared as guileless
as a puppy’s, kissable and dear.

“Not matrimony,” she said, unwilling to reveal more; indeed, it occurred to her that
her thoughts at this moment ought to be of him, of how he was feeling. “Are you sure
this does not exhaust you? I’ve no desire to tax you with my company.”

“l have caught my second wind. In fact, I feel strangely invigorated,” he said.

His movements seemed brisk enough as he dealt the cards.

“Tell me of your intrigues and confederacies,” he prodded gently. “You pique my interest.”

She took up the cards he had dealt her and stared at hearts and lozenges without comprehension.
She had captured the king of her heart. Now what to do with him? She had vowed not
to be misled by any man’s charm. “Would you distract me?” She waved the painted pasteboard
at him. “Put me at a disadvantage? I know not the rules.”

Of course he obliged her in explaining, and thus she managed to distract him from
questioning her for the next quarter of an hour as he demonstrated the play.

“You catch on quickly.” Halfway through their second hand his dark brows arched in
such a way that she longed to reach out, to touch them, to trace that line forever
in her memory. With a flick of the wrist he used his ace of diamonds to sweep her
counters into his pile. “It must come from your firsthand knowledge of intrigue and
confederacies.”

He said it playfully, not knowing he touched her on the raw.

She forced a smile. “Certain games makes perfect sense to me.”

When she said no more, he leaned forward. “Will you not confide in me?”

She focused on her cards. She could not tell him. It would ruin everything.