A Pirate for Christmas: A Regency Novella Page 9

  He lifted his head and regarded her with a searching expression that pierced her soul. She was beyond pretending and made no attempt to hide her impatience. She had no truck with pride or prudence. All she wanted was Rory.

  “Please?” she whispered with every ounce of longing in her heart. “Please don’t stop.”

  For one fraught moment, desire’s clinging web held them captive. Breathlessly she waited for him to proceed, to initiate her into this ultimate mystery. His hands were hard on her hips. His body was big and powerful above hers. His face reflected her unbearable hunger.

  Then in the space of a heartbeat, his expression closed and he turned into a stranger. Behind his eyes, shutters slammed down upon all that heat and desire and need.

  “Rory?” she asked shakily, cupping his jaw with an unsteady hand. Briefly, he remained motionless under her touch, and she wondered if she’d mistaken his withdrawal. Then he angled his head away and shifted until his body no longer touched hers.

  Ice encased her soul as he reached across and tugged her shift over her breast. “Bess, this can’t be. I’m sorry.”

  As the beautiful unrestrained ardor in Bess’s face faded to hurt bewilderment, Rory’s heart cramped into a hard nut of regret. Regret was a sour taste in his mouth, too, when only seconds ago, all he could taste was Bess Farrar.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked, her face pale where before she’d been flushed with pleasure.

  Knowing he couldn’t trust himself so close to temptation, he rolled off the bed and stood up. “I had to.”

  She pushed into a sitting position. Temper replaced the devastation in her eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Aye.” He backed away until his legs hit a chair. He collapsed onto it. Frankly, he wasn’t feeling too steady. “I shouldn’t have let everything get so far.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she bit out.

  Shaking fingers making a mull of the mundane action, she buttoned her bodice. But it was too late. The memory of her breast under his hand would haunt him until he died. He sucked in a jagged breath and battled for composure. And wished this damned hut was the size of Blenheim Palace. Bess remained dangerously within reach, and his honor barely clung by its fingertips.

  Rory bowed his head and stared unseeingly at the rough timber floor. Looking at her hurt him.

  How he cursed his inconvenient conscience, but he couldn’t argue with its conclusions. Every principle he had recoiled at giving Bess Farrar her first sexual experience in a shabby hut with no promises exchanged.

  He’d sinned before. Of course he had. But ruining this shining girl was a sin far beyond any he’d committed in his turbulent, swashbuckling life.

  When he’d looked down into her lovely face, he’d read unconditional surrender. Once, he’d thought that was what he wanted from her. But it turned out he wasn’t nearly as selfish as he’d believed. Caught up in her first taste of passion, she lost all sight of her welfare.

  If he took her now, he’d show her pleasure. He’d treat her with respect and care.

  It would still be a grievous wrong.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me. I didn’t behave like a gentleman.”

  Her lips tightened. “In my opinion, you’re behaving too much like a gentleman, my lord.”

  No sweet whispers of Rory now, he noticed, hiding a wince. His refusal of her breathtaking generosity clearly stung. He could endure her anger. Her pain left him feeling like she eviscerated him with a blunt butter knife. Every word he spoke only seemed to widen the gulf between them.

  He longed to take her in his arms, but he was grimly aware how precariously he maintained control. If he touched her, Miss Farrar would face tomorrow as a fallen woman. This wondrous, bright, new feeling that grew between them would become a thing of shame and secrets.

  He couldn’t bear that.

  He repeated what he’d recognized when, eager and reckless, she’d begged him not to stop. Bess Farrar deserved better.

  “Bess…”

  She sighed, a sound of such misery it made him want to howl like a motherless bairn. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a witch.”

  Blistering sexual frustration didn’t leave him feeling too jolly either. He wondered why doing the right thing made her furious and him wretched. Where was the justice in that? “No.”

  He’d never seen so much effort put into a smile to such little effect. His hands fisted against the urge to catch her up against him. Because while he might set out to comfort, that wasn’t how everything would end. Damn it all to hell.

  “You’re trying to be kind.” Dull eyes leveled upon him. “You’re a good man, my lord.”

  If she knew the demons of lust warring for ownership of his soul, she wouldn’t say that. “No, I’m not.”

  She managed a choked laugh. “I’m not a witch and you’re not a good man? We can’t seem to agree on anything.”

  She struggled to make the best of a situation which had no best in it. By God, she humbled him. “Please listen to me.”

  Except what the devil could he say? How could he form a coherent explanation from this churning maelstrom of contradictory impulses? And if he started reassuring her in words that he wanted her and he’d pulled back for her sake, he knew he’d go on to demonstrate that desire in actions. Next time he wouldn’t find the strength to stop.

  “No, not now.” Her voice cracked and her hands dug into the thick gray blankets. He loathed that he’d pushed this vivid creature so close to the edge of breaking. “Lord Channing, I’d be most grateful if we didn’t discuss this anymore. I find…I find I’m very tired.”

  “Bess, for pity’s sake…”

  “Yes, for pity’s sake, my lord, please…please leave me in peace.”

  “Very well,” he said grimly. Despite the risk to his control, he ached to talk to her, to explain what had happened, to make her understand. But she looked so exhausted and sad, he couldn’t bear to push her.

  She flopped down on the bed and turned her back. For a long moment, he stared at her eloquently hunched shoulders, suffering a roiling mixture of longing and remorse. He knew he made a complete bloody mess of this, but he didn’t know how to fix it.

  Eventually with a heavy sigh he stood and fed the fire before he tugged on his greatcoat. When his fingers snagged in the rip Daisy had made in his sleeve, he swore under his breath. The reminder of the first time he’d kissed Bess wasn’t exactly welcome just now.

  He banged the chairs together to form a makeshift bed. Nowhere near as comfortable as the one Bess occupied in bristling silence. But even if she allowed him to sleep beside her, he knew better than to test his willpower.

  Rory leaned back against one chair and propped his feet on another. The iron-hard wood beneath his arse served as yet another reminder of the price of virtue. But whatever his wicked self wanted, he knew in his soul he’d done the right thing.

  If only Bess thought so, too.

  He drew out his pocket watch. It was only just past nine o’clock. He felt like he’d lived a lifetime in the last hour. His thoughts strayed toward those miraculous kisses, but he brought himself up short. Things were difficult enough already, without torturing himself about what he could be doing right now, instead of trying to arrange his long body in a way that wouldn’t leave him hobbling tomorrow.

  Outside the wind shrieked like a banshee. Contrary to Bess’s optimistic predictions, the storm showed no sign of abating. It was going to be a hell of a long night.

  Chapter Eight

  Rory woke from his restless doze to see the door opening. Stretching painfully, he raised one hand to rub his stiff neck. He wouldn’t recommend sleeping the night on two chairs.

  “Ned?” he asked wonderingly when his friend came into the hut, stamping snow from his boots. “What the devil are you doing out in this blizzard?”

  Ned shut the door behind him. “It’s now a beautiful night. You’ve chosen a dashed unpredictable place to settle.”

  Rory realized that the wind
no longer howled. “How did you find us?”

  “When you and Miss Farrar didn’t come back, people were worried, but couldn’t go out in the weather. Once the snow eased, I came after you. When I found the sledge, I knew you couldn’t be far away.”

  Bess had stirred when Ned came in and now she sat up without sparing Rory a glance. She looked disheveled and exhausted. Rory’s gut contracted with stabbing guilt when he saw tearstains on her cheeks. He’d hurt her when he’d brought that wild encounter to an end, and that had never been his intention. Damn him, he should have let her down more gently, but at the time, he’d been a million miles from equanimity himself.

  When Rory tore his gaze from Bess, he caught a speculative glint in Ned’s eyes. She looked like she’d survived a blizzard. Unfortunately she also looked thoroughly bedded.

  “Are you on your own?”

  “Yes, I tried to get here ahead of the crowd. But they’re not far behind me.”

  Ned’s words were a warning. Rory and Bess had been alone for hours, and unless he was careful, they’d be irretrievably compromised. He wanted her to marry him, but not because she had to. And he couldn’t bear to think of people sniggering about her.

  “Good evening, Mr. White,” she said, standing and smoothing her hands down her creased skirts. “Thank you for coming to find us.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Miss Farrar.” Ned liked Bess, and he appreciated her liveliness and competence. Neither of which would save them from scandal if the villagers chose to interpret this evening’s events in a prurient light. Guilt stabbed Rory anew as he recalled how close he’d come to making any prurient thoughts reality.

  “What time is it?” Bess ran her fingers through her tumbled hair and divided it into three strands for plaiting. Her movements were quick and deft as she confined the rumpled golden mass. Rory’s fingers itched to touch that lovely mane. His tiresome principles didn’t stop him wanting.

  “Just past midnight,” Ned said, straightening his spectacles.

  Rory looked squarely at his friend. “If people know we’ve been together all this time, there will be the devil to pay.”

  Bess moved around the hut, tidying away traces of occupancy. Despite their dire circumstances, Rory found her quiet housewifery mesmerizing. Any man would be lucky to come home to such a wife as Bess. Good and faithful and bright.

  And right now, a million miles out of reach, even if she stood mere feet away.

  “I’ll say I saw nothing untoward,” Ned said.

  “Not good enough.” Rory studied his friend’s scholarly features. “A lady’s reputation hangs by a thread, and I swear Miss Farrar is as pure now as she was when she stepped into the hut.”

  It was almost the truth. But as she straightened the bed and folded away the blankets, Bess’s shoulders stiffened.

  “What would you like me to do?” Ned asked.

  “Tell people you found me in the hollow of a tree or sheltering under a bank, and you and I arrived together at the hut to find Miss Farrar. I’ll say she and I were separated in the storm. All hell was breaking loose, so there’s no reason for anyone to doubt our story, especially if you back me up.”

  “Of course I will.” Ned smiled at Bess who had stopped to watch them both with a troubled frown. “I’ll never allow anyone to question your virtue, Miss Farrar.”

  She managed a smile for Ned. Again she avoided Rory’s eyes. “Thank you, Mr. White. You’re very kind.”

  Ned turned to Rory. “Go and roll in the snow until your coat’s wet. Nobody will believe a word of this story if they see you looking so warm and dry.”

  Rory bit back a sardonic laugh. If only Ned knew how close he’d come to diving headfirst into the snow after he abandoned Bess at that crucial moment. Grimly he headed outside and tugged at a low-hanging branch. The freezing wet snow that cascaded down his neck seemed suitable penance for his trespasses.

  By the time their rescuers arrived, the hut was pristine, and Bess and her two companions sat around the table, the picture of innocence. Only Rory noticed that when she shared a lighthearted narration of her adventures with the villagers, not once did she glance in his direction.

  Bess’s subdued air hadn’t lifted by the time the participants gathered at the Abbey the next day for the Christmas Eve procession. Rory, coming downstairs ready to play St. Joseph, felt a very unsaintly urge to smash something when he saw her drawn, tired features. The woman dressed in Mary’s sky blue robe looked like she’d travelled a long, hard road to reach Bethlehem.

  She’d been working with his servants this morning, supervising placement of the lush greenery to mark the Yuletide, and checking arrangements for tomorrow’s party. But she’d kept at least a room away from him. He could only assume by choice.

  Wisdom indicated that with scandal hovering, discretion was the best course, even if he itched to corner her and make her tell him what was wrong. After holding her in his arms, it was torture pretending they were mere acquaintances. Was she shy after last night? She’d been an innocent after all, and he’d done more than enough to shock a virginal vicar’s daughter.

  “Miss Farrar, are you all right?” Rory asked under his breath as everyone else crowded around the blacksmith’s wife, and her baby who was the play’s Jesus.

  “Perfectly,” Bess said in a flat voice, without looking at him. He was devilish tired of that opaque blue gaze skating across him as if he was another piece of furniture.

  Worse. Bess always paid attention to the furniture.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Well, that’s…good,” he said, not believing her for a moment. He eyed the mistletoe suspended above her head and wondered how she’d react if he caught her around the waist and kissed her. She’d probably say “perfectly” in that polite little voice that didn’t sound at all like the woman he knew.

  Dr. Simpson, dressed as the innkeeper, approached to ask a question and she turned to him with barely hidden relief. Rory slouched discontentedly against the wall and observed proceedings with a jaundiced air. He wasn’t yet in costume, but seeing he only had to pull a striped robe over his shirtsleeves, he wasn’t bothered.

  His gaze tracked Bess as she moved around the cast, straightening a crown on a Wise Man, reminding the chief shepherd of his lines, checking with the choirmaster. Children and villagers milled about outside the house. They’d sing Christmas carols accompanied by recorders and drums as the procession wound its way through the village.

  Everything except Bess Farrar was in cracking shape. The house smelled like a forest, fresh and green and sharp with aromatic pine sap. Thank heavens yesterday’s foul weather had cleared, and Christmas Eve dawned clear and cold. Through the open doors, Rory saw how the sun struck the snow to blinding white.

  Bess spent several minutes calming the Angel of the Lord who had the longest part. Sally Potts was counted the village beauty, and this was her first year in a speaking role. Perhaps Rory was biased, but he couldn’t help comparing her to Bess. Even today, when his darling looked like she hadn’t had a wink of sleep, she was still the prettiest lass he’d ever seen.

  The only player who escaped a few words of encouragement was the lord of the manor. Did Bess mean to convey the impression that nothing untoward had happened in the hut? This morning he’d noticed a few speculative glances, but so far their story was generally accepted.

  He puzzled over her attitude. Bess might be angry with him, or disappointed. Although surely now that the heat of passion faded, she must realize that he’d done the only thing a man of honor could.

  Except that what he saw when he watched her—and he watched her as closely as a cat watched a bird fluttering in a bush—wasn’t pique, but a valiantly hidden unhappiness that made his gut clench with remorse.

  He desperately needed to talk to her, to find out what went on inside her lovely head. Two years with his stepsisters had taught him that when females got a notion, their minds could whisk them away to the edge of
doom before a man recognized he’d made a minor mistake.

  The hell of it was that even if he could get Bess to accept his apologies, he wouldn’t have a second alone with her all day to make them. So he lingered, worried and frustrated, on the edge of a crowd which excluded him even as it embraced Bess.

  “It’s time to go outside,” she said with a cheerfulness that struck false in Rory’s ears. “You’ve all been marvelous in rehearsal, so I’m sure this will be a special year.”

  Dr. Simpson smiled at her, then sent Rory a meaningful glance. “It is indeed a special year. We welcome a new earl, and I couldn’t be more pleased that his lordship is already an indispensable part of our small community.”

  To Rory’s surprise, everyone in the room burst into applause before a ragged but enthusiastic rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” with three resounding cheers to follow.

  Touched, he stepped forward. He’d been wrong to feel excluded. His head was all over the place today with the chill between him and Bess. At least she’d joined in the song, he hoped not just for appearance’s sake.

  “Thank you, Dr. Simpson. I couldn’t ask for a warmer reception. I’m happy that I’ve dropped anchor in Penton Wyck. For my money, there isn’t a finer lot of people in England.” He paused. “Or in Scotland either, which I never thought a true son of the Highlands would say.” Everyone laughed. Even Bess managed a smile. He gestured toward where she stood half a room away. “I’d like to thank Miss Farrar. Without her, I’d never have discovered the joy of preparing for a traditional Christmas, or had a livable house—or met the charming Daisy.”

  Another laugh and three more cheers for Bess who looked damnably on edge. If she didn’t settle down, she’d be the nerviest Mary in history.

  Rory signaled to the two footmen standing by the door. Within seconds they were circulating with trays of mulled wine. The players had a long afternoon ahead, mostly in the open. A wee bit of extra cheer wouldn’t go astray. The scents of cinnamon, cloves and oranges from the fragrant brew rose to combine pleasantly with the tang of pine.