Mary's Christmas Knight Read online

  Mary preferred tart citrus to sweet. Her mouth watered, her throat tightened, and it was no use trying to resist. “Thank you.” She tried not to inhale the first piece. Before she knew, four slices had disappeared, and she knew her fortitude had crumbled in a heap. She was going to eat them all. At least it was fruit and not sugarplums.

  After awhile, Sir Wesley opened his book again. If he observed her eating his last orange, he didn’t let on. The clock struck three. She wished she didn’t notice him rolling his shoulders and rubbing his arm. It woke Mary the Nurse, whose altruism overshadowed her discretion.

  “I suppose it’s time to change the bandages on your shoulder, and perhaps a topical analgetic for the pain.”

  Sir Wesley’s hand rubbing his shoulder dropped into his lap. “It’s starting to burn.”

  “Either the injured nerves are regenerating, or you’re working up a nasty fever. You might drop dead.”

  He nodded with his head cocked, a gesture of acquiescence. “Well, I wish it would make up its mind either way.”

  Mary sighed, then realized how rude and resigned she sounded. Oh, well. “Here. You hold the baby while I fetch the supplies.”

  She expected him to refuse, or at least protest. Instead a lovely smile spread on his lips and he held out his uninjured arm. Carefully she transferred the baby, which he expertly cradled against his chest. Rebecca looked impossibly tiny in comparison.

  “She’s called Rebecca.”

  “Beautiful,” he answered. Just when Mary thought Sir Wesley couldn’t surprise her, he made a gentle cooing sound and starting muttering nonsense in a foolish voice, smiling like a fool. Rebecca’s eyes went wide, her mouth made an O shape, and she cooed back. Sir Wesley’s charm knew no bounds, apparently.

  He paused to look up at Mary. “Go ahead, I shall manage.”

  Taken aback, she had no choice but to go back to her apartments for her nurse’s bag. She returned to find Rebecca Montegue laughing, in magical baby peals that probably summoned pixies and springtime. Granted, she didn’t know any better. Then Mary saw why: Sir Wesley puffed out his cheeks and crossed his eyes, then blew air in a rude noise Rebecca found hilarious.

  The earth spun all its seasons at once then returned to the present, and there stood Mary, changed in that long, long second. She couldn’t hate him. Truth be told, she had no choice but to like him.

  Resigned, she knelt at his side. Tucking the baby close with his good arm, he held out the other and shrugged out of the sleeve. What a difference a bath made, with his skin toasty warm from the fire, with gold and shadow highlighting an impressive musculature she must run her fingers all over. “Oh, bugger,” she muttered despite herself as she unwrapped the bandage, damp from his bath.

  “I’m not going to apologize for kissing you, Mary.”

  Her throat squeaked at his unpredicted frankness. “None of the sutures have burst, but you did make it bleed.”

  “Well worth it.” Worth lifting her over his shoulder, for the sake of trumping an argument?

  “You must be more careful if you want it to heal properly.”

  “I like you, Mary. A great deal. I won’t apologize for that either.”

  “Oh, shut up.” She almost covered her mouth, horrified, then remembered the glob of salve on her finger she didn’t want to smear on her face. And if he could throw manners to the birds, so could she.

  Curse him, he laughed at her. Well, chuckled, more like, but the delightful rumbling sound annoyed her. He had a beautiful laugh. Of course. Forest animals probably gathered at his feet, and the wind always blew at his back, surely. He hefted a breath, which made the first wrapping of the new bandage slip. She gave him a swift pinch to mean, Hold still.

  “Oh, yes. I do like you, Mary Cavendish.” He patted a knee. “Why don’t you sit here and let me touch your hair? And I’ll listen while you talk.”

  After tucking the end of the bandage in, she lost her excuse for not looking him in the eye. And she could only repack her bag for so long. “What for? And what about?”

  “Take it out of the braid and let it all down, here in my lap. And I don’t know. I thought women liked to talk. Half the time I have no idea what they’re saying.”

  Mary kept her mouth shut while a gauntlet of responses flashed in her head, from How dare you, to How stupid do you think I am, to That sounds divine. Instead she said nothing. Rebecca’s eyelids drooped, her breath slowed and she burrowed her face against Sir Wesley’s chest.

  Simply because she wanted to, Mary pulled her braid over her shoulder, untied it, then combed out the plait with her fingers. It was so long he would probably make a horrid tangle of it, but it was Christmas, she was starving, exhausted, and restless, and selfish enough to indulge in his offer of comfort.

  Sir Wesley hummed in interest, his eyes looking up and down, then back up. She should have been ashamed, or at the very least embarrassed, but illogically it made her feel beautiful. He patted his knee again and held out his elbow in a gesture for her to take the baby. Carefully he placed Rebecca in Mary’s arms, which meant he quite conspicuously brushed her hands, then her ribs. Rebecca woke, blinking, then her eyelids dropped again.

  He gripped Mary by the waist and pulled her down to sit across his lap then guided her head to rest on his shoulder. She couldn’t say he made a very good pillow, all hard angles, but his large size was rather pleasing. Finding the perfect nook for her face in the hollow between his chest and shoulder, she let out a breath, waiting for her heart to quit dancing the quadrille. With her arm resting atop his, she didn’t have to carry the baby’s weight. Sir Wesley leaned, cramping her for a moment while he lifted her feet to rest on the opposite arm of the chair. Utterly at ease, Mary closed her eyes.

  Her skin shivered with a nervous energy the same time a warmth radiated from the inside out, growing hotter by the minute. The contradicting sensations seemed to pull time in both directions.

  She thought he’d forgotten about her hair when his fingers grazed her back, gathering the sections trapped between their bodies and under his arm. With all the strands in his fist, he tugged a bit, wrapped a loop around his fist, and gave it a gentle pull again. Something about the gesture felt lascivious, but she couldn’t say why. Her instincts alerted her of the primitive masculine and female nature of it.

  Aware of possibly falling headlong into a trap, her pulse kicked in a jolt of panic that somehow felt remote, as though she watched the scene from the other side of the windows. She tensed to spring out of his lap and run away just as he let go of her hair. A feather-light touch at the nape of her neck made every nerve in her spine riot. His fingers spread in her hair then slowly dragged down her back, all the way past her waist and over her hip to the ends of her hair, on which he gave a little pull. That made her head tingle, and she had no idea the scalp was so sensitive.

  She sat listening to her own deep, slow breaths while her senses rode a carousel. His hands gentle in her hair, brushing her back, teasing her neck and arms — mesmerizing, hypnotizing. His chest rising and falling, his noisy heart beating a steady rhythm against her ribs, and his steely-velvet warmth heating her everywhere they touched. Inexplicable, how his touching the side of her neck made her belly clench, and his hand cupped in the curve of her waist lit the nerves under her collarbones. Relaxing, electrifying — she didn’t know what he was doing to her, but it was catastrophically wonderful.

  “What do you wish for Christmas, Mary?” His voice, low and so near her ear, chased another shiver down her spine. It made her shudder, and he chuckled, rubbing a deep circle at the small of her back with his thumb. Wicked, glorious man.

  “Peace on earth and good will toward men,” she said, muffled in his shoulder.

  He blew a snort, which prickled the fine hairs on the nape of her neck with his breath. “Don’t you want a new hat, or a puppy, or chocolate doves?”

  The sides of her tongue pinched, watering her mouth again, and she groaned. “Please — don’t mention chocolate.�
�� To distract him in case he meant to ask why, she said, “And what does Sir Wesley hope to find in his stocking?”

  His chest lurched, startling Mary and making Rebecca stir enough to stretch and squeak before settling again. He was laughing, silently.

  “What? What is it?”

  “You are an innocent, I know, but still you should mind your words, Mary.”

  She scowled, replaying her dialog, finding nothing amiss.

  “But since you asked, I do have a Christmas wish.” His fingers hooked in the locks hanging at the small of her back, then he traced his fingertips the rest of the way down.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Predictably indecent in nature — I cannot tell it.”

  She scoffed. “You say that so I will insist.”

  “Very well, since you insist. We already agreed women love to talk. But men? We love to look.” He let her puzzle over it while he twirled a lock until it pulled on her scalp, then he let it spring free. “Do you know what would please me on our wedding night? If you stood before me, in a room like this, with dark windows reflecting like mirrors, and a fire lit behind you so I can see through your nightdress. Look me in the eye while you unlace it and let it drop to the floor, and let me simply watch as long as I want.”

  Her breath quit — it seemed her chest squeezed in a motion opposite from breathing, but her heart scrambled in a wild rhythm, like a trumpet call. Small fires lit in places she didn’t want to think about. Overheated and stricken, she squeezed her arms tight against her side and pressed her knees together, trying to quell the onslaught of sensation she couldn’t identify. Like a bee sting made of honey…

  Sir Wesley had probably drawled his naughty words in her ear like that to get a rise out of her, so she made a point of not indulging him. Once she thought she could speak without croaking, she hummed and said, “The obstacle in achieving your wish…”

  His lips pressed to her temple, which startled a gasp out of her, then — oh, for shame — Mary leaned against his mouth and let him kiss the side of her face. “What obstacle?” he said, his lips grazing her cheek.

  “The unlikelihood of you and the word marriage together in the same sentence. It was so jarring, I scarce heard the rest of it.”

  “Should I repeat myself?”

  “No!” she half-shouted, stirring Rebecca half-awake again.

  “Then you think about it, Mary. When you’re ready for a life of passion and adventure, I will ask.”

  Chapter Seven

  Down in yon forest there stands a hall:

  The bells of Paradise I heard them ring:

  It's covered all over with purple and pall

  And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.

  ~English Renaissance carol

  CHRISTMAS MORNING AT Rougemont was delightful mayhem, high-pitched squeals from the children as they dumped presents from their boxes then created yet more noise with the toys. Madeline Cavendish and Christian Tilmore pounded away on a piano duet. Dishes and glasses clinking competed with low to high-pitched voices laughing and buzzing in conversation. It all made Wesley’s ears ring, but his smile was genuine; he found other people’s naughty children hilarious.

  Richard, one of Lord Devon’s mischievous twins, had found the box of crackers meant for Christmas dinner and went around pulling them open with a pop, trying to startle his unsuspecting relatives. Apparently he’d eaten the bonbons inside; his mouth was ringed with chocolate and raspberry jelly. His mother, Lady Devon, was preoccupied laughing with Elise, whose children had opened replica Roman shields and swords in their presents, and so declared war on Lord Devon, whom they called “Uncle Wil.” He defended himself with an umbrella quite poorly, letting the children “slay” him.

  Wesley chuckled as Richard’s twin sister, Rose, scolded one of her kittens for trotting away with the bow from her present. The other kitten had caught a mouse behind the Christmas tree and batted it around. Tinkering with a toy train for his young son, Phil Cavendish caught Wesley’s eye, gestured to Lady Devon, then gave him the high sign. Wes nodded and picked up a bit of rumpled paper baby Rebecca had chewed on then discarded. Wes grabbed the kitten by the scruff until it dropped the mouse then wrapped the mouse carcass in the paper. Hopefully without being noticed by Lady Devon, he passed by the fire grate and tossed it in, which put him in the same corner of the room with Mary.

  He took a seat on the marble ledge before the fireplace, next to her chair. “Good morning, Miss Cavendish.”

  She said, “Oh,” pretending she hadn’t covertly watched him crossing the room a minute ago. “Sir Wesley. And a good morning to you. You slept well, I hope?” A blush spotted her cheeks a lovely cranberry color, with matching marks on the tips of her collarbones. If she couldn’t play better at discretion, soon everyone would guess something had transpired between them.

  He kept his expression casual but lowered his voice so only Mary could hear, “I slept rather soundly, thank you.” Looking her in the eye so she would catch his meaning, she colored again, no doubt recalling the hours she’d slept in his arms. Warm, perfect, a strange mix of satisfaction and temptation, until the clock had chimed seven.

  It woke the baby, her fussing woke Mary, who rose and went away, presumably to return the baby to her mother. Wesley had acted asleep so as to not embarrass Mary; he’d even tossed in a snore or two for good measure. He thought he could still feel the soft pulse in her throat pressed against his neck. Her honey-citrus-clove scent had been branded on his skin, and he liked it. Might not wash his neck for a week to preserve it.

  In her lap lay a copy of Thomas Hardy’s new novel Desperate Remedies. Beneath that he saw Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White. Mary unwrapped a rectangular-shaped present. Another sensation novel, Poor Miss Finch. “Wilkie Collin’s newest! Thank you, Uncle Wil,” she called to Lord Devon.

  “Have you read it?” He deflected a blow from a wooden sword.

  “Not yet, but I’ve been pining for it.” She rose to give him a kiss on the cheek, and jealousy hit Wesley like a hammer to the head. He wanted to give Mary a present, one that would make her kiss him, but better than the one she gave her uncle.

  She opened a set of tea cozies — and a poetry collection — from her Great Aunt Louisa, whose serene expression likely had something to do with the cotton stuffed in her ears. Her brother, Philip, also gave her a book, as did her little sister Madeline. All books, and two tea cozies.

  Wesley tucked his hands behind his head and leaned back against the warm stone. “You must be an insatiable reader.”

  A sideways glance gave her away; surely no one else saw her crestfallen expression? Mary Cavendish was not at all pleased to receive a pile of books for Christmas, but clearly her family expected her to be. Then he remembered how pleased she’d been when old Tom Hart at the hospital had given her a bell carved from field maple.

  Two-year-old Jacob Cavendish ran to Mary — crashing into her knees — babbling something about the model sailing ship she’d gifted him. She lifted her nephew to sit on her lap, and he leaned back to nestle in her bosom, swinging his legs in contentment. Wesley had seen him come to Mary to be held twice already that morning. How motherly she looked, and how loved Philip Cavendish’s motherless little boy was. Mary seemed to be his favorite aunt.

  Jacob offered Mary a soppy half-eaten bonbon from one of his contraband crackers. “No thank you, love. It’s all yours.” Did she pause to smell the wrapper, sniffing the chocolate?

  “Where’s Lisa?” he said.

  Mary answered, “In Austria, my love.” It took Wesley a moment to discern they meant Alysia Villier, their family friend and his colleague. Lord Preston, her lover and purportedly a great friend to the Montegue and Cavendish families, was conspicuously absent while his younger brother, Christian Tilmore was at Rougemont visiting. “I miss her too.”

  “Master Jacob,” Wesley said, and the boy regarded him in curiosity. “That is a fine ship.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Shi
p!”

  “Is it like your father’s?” Wesley pointed to the mainmast. “Does Papa command a ship like that?”

  Jacob furrowed his brows, wearing an expression that made him look like a miniature copy of his father. He sprang from Mary’s lap, apparently to consult Philip if it was indeed like his ship.

  Mary asked, “I understand you served in the Navy with Philip?”

  Wesley nodded. “We ran patrols in the Baltic and supplied the troops in Bhutan.” Everyone knew their fleet had also policed international waters, with the occasional pirate skirmish. Wesley had been knighted for his trouble, and Philip had been made captain since he was already a baronet.

  “Philip and I were first and second leftenants, respectively. Your brother was an insufferable show-off,” Wesley added fondly. “Don’t do it now, or he will know I put you up to it, but one day ask him why a sailor would hide in the galley when the cannons fire.”

  Mary arched a brow, and he chuckled.

  “And old joke,” he explained.

  “A bawdy one?”

  “Of course not.”

  She toyed with a purple ribbon in her lap. “What a disappointment it must have been for you, being named to the Order of the Garter.”

  Hopefully he betrayed no surprise that she’d followed the same obtuse logic as he. Great minds… “Why so?”

  “Because, Sir Wesley, a man like yourself would much rather hear the ladies call him Mr. Darcy. Every girl’s fantasy. And you even look like him, as far as I can tell.”

  Or perhaps they’d not followed the same logic at all. “Is that your fantasy?” He tilted his jaw, purposely lowering his eyes at her. “Have at it, sweetheart. Call me whatever you want.” He resisted pointing out that his family line had owned the name far longer than Jane Austen’s famous character.

  “Can’t. My upbringing prevents me from using such language.”

  He allowed a smile. “A shame, because only my old mates call me Darcy these days. I would much rather hear it from you.”