Elisabeth Fairchild (13 page)

He leaned back. “I’ve something most intriguing to tell you.”

She eyed him suspiciously over the fan of her cards. “Do tell.”

He spoke of his gardener, and footsteps in the snow.

She stared at the eight of spades, wondering why he had not brought this to her attention
during the whole of their afternoon together.

“It would seem your dream was not a dream at all,” he said gently, as if breaking
bad news.

She wanted to laugh. Dreams she knew: bad dreams, unfulfilled dreams, an eternity
of dreaming. The kindness of his features stopped her—the concern in his eyes. She
had always dreamed of a man looking at her in just such a way. Who would have guessed
she would find it for Christmas, in the new owner of Broomhill, so late in the game?

She laid her cards face down on the Matrimony table. “A ghost in your garden?”

“Surely a ghost does not leave footprints.” He smiled, ready to be lighthearted.

“You believe in ghosts, then?” His answer was important. “I thought it all a jest
to you—this Christmas gathering—inviting your guests to hunt them out.”

“I have good reason for wanting to believe.”

Of course. His heart.
“What would you do if you caught one?”

His eyes sparkled, full of mischief, amusement, heat. “It would very much depend on
the ghost.”

She was tempted to laugh.

He went on. “I should not much care for a destructive or noisy spirit, or one that
woke everyone with a rattle of chains.”

She nodded. “Nothing worse than spending sleepless nights wrapped in nightmares.”

He leaned forward, his manner urgent. “Do you suffer nightmares, Belinda?”

She rearranged her cards, flooded by memory, the darkness bad and good. “Nightmares?
No.” She would not call them that.

“The staff complain of bad dreams,” he said.

But of course they did.

She stared at the knave of hearts in her hand. “What of you?”

He smiled—a secretive smile—then waved his cards at the room. “I’ve all manner of
dreams. Some even come true.”

Her brows rose.

He shrugged. “That I lived to see this old house renovated was a dream.”

Ah. Daydreams. She had once indulged in daydreams.

He held his arms out to the room. The flickering firelight seemed to reach with answering
arms: in the glitter of the chandelier, in the luster of fine old linen-fold paneling,
across gleaming oak floors. She remembered this room shrouded in spiderwebs, the draperies
in tatters—not so long ago. Her gaze rose from the thick Turkish carpet to a freshly
plastered and gilded ceiling. He had roused Broomhill from its dreams.

“You need to rest.” Her own words surprised her. Did he renovate her as much as he
had the house?

“Do you think ghosts care about their surroundings?” Amusement lurked about his lips.

She fanned herself with her cards. Tendrils of hair drifted like the past across her
vision. “Yes.”

“A romantic notion.” He made his play, cards splayed upon the table, matched kings
and queens, red and black, and all the while he looked at her.

“Is it?” She plucked up a card, made discard, shooting glances at him, nervous glances,
uncertain of his meaning, of the game they played. Their every exchange proved something
new, not at all what she had originally intended. It left her unsettled—uneasy—anticipating.

The irony of it was enough to make her laugh. He left her breathless, when she had
intended it should be quite the other way round.

He dawdled over his cards, rearranging their order in his hand, and all the while
he watched her. “I have heard that two of the ghosts reputed to walk this house still
cross the vestibule two feet above the new sunken marble flooring.” He marked the
air with his hand. “At its old height.”

She must laugh at that. “Locked in the past forever, are they?” Not so very different
from her. The past had dictated her behavior, the desire for revenge—until she had
held him in her arms, his fate, his heartbeat hers to decide.

He made discard and drew another card. “Yes, I suppose. Such an easy place, after
all, to lose oneself.”

His turn to laugh, ruefully, knowingly. He looked at her as if he liked very much
the fact that she entertained him—understood him. She did not know whether to trust
such a look, and yet she could not deny that she liked it.

He played out his hand, the queen of diamonds and knave of hearts. She fixed her eyes
on the line of his jaw, the silvered darkness of his hair, imprinting his image in
her mind, in her soul. He looked at her, eyes gleaming with the interest with which
he met so much of life. “You have yet to tell me how you know so much about the game
of Matrimony.”

“Ah,” She drew another card. “A Copeland taught me everything I know.”

That surprised him. She liked to surprise him, loved the play of curiosity across
lips and brow.

“Not going to tip your hand, are you?”

She shook her head, smiling, with a flourish turned over a queen and king of hearts.
“Not unless it helps me win.”

Chapter Eighteen

That night Copeland wondered if it was his brother or his uncle who had soured Miss
Walcott on marriage. He worried until his eyes no longer remained open. Then he dreamed
of the mystery woman.

She invaded the room slowly—as before. First, the perfumed smell of her—just a whiff—keen
in the nose. Christmassy. Was it no more than the ghost of a smell wafting in from
the stairwell?

He drew a deep breath, testing the air.

No. It was more than that, stronger now. Musky. Definitely a presence. The hair at
the base of Copeland’s neck went prickly. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. There was someone
in the room, watching him.

From the periphery of his vision, white wafted: sheer lawn, lace-edged. A breeze
ran its fingers through his hair. He knew she was there, bedclothes sliding, bed slats
creaking. He tried to turn in the bed, to see her, to look upon her moonbeam face.
But he found himself locked in sleep’s iron clasp, limbs dead to his mind’s suggestion.

Bedclothes lifting, the warm weight of her wrapped him, cradling him, her body pressing
spoon-fashion, a heaven of warmth as they fit, curves and crooks. She whispered unintelligible
answers into his ear as she slid her arms about him, twining vine of a woman made
of moonlight, dewdrops, and dawn. The lawn that covered her breasts softly scratched
his shoulder blades. Lawn-covered legs tucked into his, her fleshly heat comforting.
His buttocks warmed happily in the well of her womanhood, and he wanted to cradle
her thus, their positions reversed, his sword finding the heat of her sheath, but
soothing hands linked across his chest from behind, trapping him in a less sexually
charged position.

She cradled him: heart, body, and soul. All of it wonderful, but for the fact that
she remained a complete stranger to him, his dream lover, and apart from the inconvenience
of his inability to move in any way but one.

Copeland’s breathing slowed, excitement pent at the back of his throat, in the rising
evidence she stirred of his desire.

His heart beat faster, pulse throbbing in every extremity. Heat flared, in ready lips,
in swollen tumescence. He willed his hands to move, to slide behind him, that he might
draw her closer, his grip, oh happy grip! drifting slowly across a ghosting of fine
lawn, the gentle swell of buttocks and thighs.

Her pelvis shifted, sheets sighing, his physical bliss so satisfying and complete
it threatened to push him into sleep’s lulling nothingness. But he could not sleep,
would not fall, must not fall. The desire within him was stronger. It drove him to
hope for more—more than this heaven of holding—close but not close enough.

Did she sigh? Her voice, or his?
He could not tell in the darkness, in the frozen motion of the dream. He imagined
she was Miss Walcott. Peppermint and marzipan. The sweetness of her lips, his for
the tasting. He imagined the shape and size of her in his bed, the touch of her lips
at his neck’s nape.

He tried to say her name, vocal cords mute. His jaw would not move. His hands, only
his hands now seemed capable of action, so he put them to good use, running them slowly
over the curves he could reach, his fingers tugging at folds of lawn. Slowly—so slowly,
he could feel her nightshift rise against his calves, the bedclothes rustling, whispering,
“Yes, yes,” like the jubilant refrain in his head.

No fight from the hands that laced across his chest. No sound of demur. She did, in
fact, slip the button at the neck of his nightshirt. Warm fingers ran along his neck
and into the hair on his chest, sending shivers of desire to the tips of his toes.
He stretched, curved tighter into the shell of her clasp. Her breath sounded softly
in his ear. Her heartbeat reverberated with steady, muffled rhythm against his shoulder
blades, became one with his, an exquisitely intimate sensation.

His ankles bumped hers. The bulge of his calf found silken resistance.

He ached for more, listening for a hitch in her breathing, some sign that she was
as moved as he by this drift of flesh to flesh as her nipples brushed his back, and
the humid, muscular press of her thighs met his flanks. Fold by fold, her gown slid
upward. Her knees were exposed now, perfectly fitted to his—nuzzling tender inner
knee pits.

This was what he imagined it would be like to take a lover—a wife. This was what he
meant to deny himself, his heart.

In tiny, excruciating incremental movements he unwrapped her—his Christmas present
of a dream. His fingertips sought the silk of her thigh, the softness of her bottom,
fumbled to lift the harsher linen of his nightshirt, the cloth’s edge raking hips,
buttocks, and now their bared legs tangled, meeting thigh to toe, the silk and velvet
fabric of feminine flesh proving almost more than he could bear, his heart thumping
so loud in his ears he could no longer hear her breathe.

He must have her. He must, though he could not turn, could not spread her legs with
his and take her, as he wanted more than anything to take her, bodies melding more
intimately than this.

He could not force a single word from his lips, could not put thought or desire into
action. He must be happy with the wonder of his nightshirt now bundled high, the thin
sheath of hers the only thing between the taut curve of his thigh and the moist heat
of secret gifts—most desired.

“Oh God,” he begged, voice gruff with desire and disuse. And at last, wonder of wonders,
his Christmas wish come true, he could speak, he could move!

He rolled over, the sound of his own hoarse cry of despair breaking the horrible peak
of tension, the latent passion in him crushed. He found an empty bed, the warmth of
her slipping away, smoky as the light filtering through the windows, the room a heartache
of emptiness, sheets tangled about bared legs.

He buried his face in the pillow, anxious to recapture what had slipped away. “No!”
came his defeated cry. He pummeled feathers, limbs mobile now, tongue quite capable
of profane dismay, and yet she was gone. He had nothing to touch, nothing to convince
him she was anything more than a dream.

He buried his head in the tangle of linens, despair transforming in an instant, wonder
washing over him. The sheets held her perfume—unmistakable—evergreens and cedar—musky
frankincense, and there, caught between the sheets, a mistletoe berry.

Chapter Nineteen

Miss Walcott acted as if nothing untoward had happened when he bid her “Good morning”
in the breakfast room.

She returned the greeting, pleasant as always, smiling and nodding, as if she had
nothing to do with his tempestuous night. His imagination had conjured the whole.
The real woman played no part in his tumbled dream lover. A poor music teacher from
Andover did not wantonly wander into her host’s bedchamber at night, squandering innocence.

The thought proved all too provocative. He could not take his eyes from her. She had
allowed him to kiss her. Quite freely. Not a dream, merely a conjurer of dreams, desires,
passions he had not known lurked so close to the surface of his safe, orderly life.

“You stare, my lord,” she said. “Have I food on my face?”

“What? No. Not at all. I do apologize.”

“What are we to do with ourselves today?” she asked.

He looked up from his eggs, cheeks hot, all manner of indecent proposals in mind.
He could not think, could not articulate a plan.

“Will you help me to paint the three kings?” she asked. “Or had you something else
in mind?”

Something else in mind, indeed, and yet her reminder of the Season, and its holy purpose,
chastened him.

“I can think of nothing I would rather do . . .” Earthly images rose, her lips to
his, three kings watching. “ . . . than spend the day with you.”

An upward curve took possession of lips he longed to take possession of. He restrained
himself, in front of the servants, content with the promising prospect of the two
of them alone, in the chapel’s echoing confines, none to watch but the dummy boards.

“I am sorry you have been robbed of your house full of friends and relatives for Christmas.”
She peered over the steaming brim of her teacup in a manner most searching.

He considered his losses.

When he replied, each word was carefully chosen. He wanted her to know his feelings
exactly. “A houseful—yes. I thought I wanted that more than anything. And yet, I am
not unhappy with how things have turned out.”

Her brows rose.

“I regret I have not more entertaining ways to keep you occupied.” His words sounded
more suggestive than intended.

She shrugged. “I do not suffer their absence. Indeed, I find it far preferable to
spend my time here than in the manner to which I am accustomed.”

What manner might that be?
His mind took another detour.

She surprised him, asking, “Is there no young lady in your expected party, for whom
you pine in particular?”

Henrietta! Strange how thought of her cooled desires rather than stirred them. Henrietta
had never made her way into any of his dreams, certainly not any sensual dreams. She
would be appalled by the very idea.

He rose from the table without answering, returning her to the topic of the day’s
suggested activity. “We shall require water, paint, brushes.”

He thought of Henrietta as they gathered supplies. He must end things with her before
his heart was completely taken by another.

He followed Miss Walcott up the stairs, distracted by the alluring sway of her hips,
distracted by all manner of illicit ideas.

The chapel echoed when he opened the door and stepped in. This space they would have
all to themselves.

I want to be alone with her.
The thought was fierce, visceral, so very alive. He rejoiced in it, as he had rejoiced
in his dream woman, in the carnal heat and flesh of vivid dreaming. And yet, angels
looked down on him. His inner zeal was swiftly tempered by sight of them watching,
judging.

His guest, unperturbed, went to a side table. She arranged pots of water, a jug full
of brushes, a box of gouache paints, a palette, and a knife.

The dummy boards had been dusted, the broken shepherd and angel repaired. He pulled
two of them close, Henrietta heavy on his conscience.

He rubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead, the bridge of his nose. “Frankincense?”
he asked. “What does it smell like?”

“A young woman in a forest,” Miss Walcott said with calm authority as she plucked
up a brush and tipped a king so that his turbaned head rested in her lap.

He found himself jealous of that king.

“There is a young woman in need of your attentions.” She pointed at one of the angels,
then returned to her work on the elaborately painted box in the king’s hands, the
king who waited patiently as she swirled her brush in water, then dipped the tip in
paint. “Does your young woman wear frankincense?”

“Henrietta?”

Her gray-blue eyes sparkled. “So her name is Henrietta.”

Copeland felt tripped up—rather foolish. “Yes, Henrietta Gooding. I’ve known her for
years.”

Her eyes remained focused on the king, but her questions were pointedly for him. “And
is she as good as her name would imply?”

He reached for the angel. “She is a very good sort of girl.”

She returned her attention to her brush, the king’s casket—how carefully the two did
meet. “Do you love her?”

He dabbed white paint on a wing. “Everyone does. Cannot help but love Hen.”

She said nothing, only sat very still, brush poised.

“She is kind, and generous, and undeniably pretty.” He needed a different white for
the scuffed feathers, a hint of gray in them.

She slid a glance his way. “Marriage?”

He frowned. The color he had mixed was not right. Too pale. “No, not marriage.” The
words came out harshly.

“Never?”

He looked up, startled she should ask.

“No!” How brusque his voice. He mixed black in the white, like life, he thought, all
shades of gray now that he knew he had not much time left. “I did mean to marry her,
once upon a time.”

“But, you said you love her.”

“Yes, and I begin to feel affection for you, but I would warn you, I’ve no intention
of marrying.”

“Twice now you have said as much.” The calm of her voice was soothing. “Why so averse
to a union?”

He tapped his chest with the handle of his paintbrush. “Is it not obvious? I would
not leave my wife a young widow.”

“Ah.” She cleaned her brush, took her time, doused it thoroughly in water, dried it
on a rag. “How noble of you.”

Was that what it was? He liked to think so. But before his chest could swell she said,
“And how selfish.”

“Selfish?” A deflating pronouncement. He did not think self-sacrifice at all selfish.
He certainly had not intended it so.

She moved the king, setting to work on his scuffed sleeve. “Your Henrietta might cherish
that year, or two, as opposed to not having you at all.”

He stared into the angel’s eyes. “Would you prefer it?”

She looked for a moment, as startled as the painted shepherd, who stood leaning on
his crook behind her, gazing heavenward. “Had I the option,” she said fervently, “I
would cherish every minute.”

“Minutes painfully few? Are you sure?”

“All things end. And in my opinion, far too swiftly.”

“She lost a brother in May . . .”

She mixed fresh color with a palette knife. “And now you would deprive her of a husband?”
Passion added heat to her voice, vigor to her movements.

“She will be free to marry another.”

She made a disgusted noise and threw down the knife. “And if there is not another?
If you are soul mates? Your love eternal?”

He frowned and turned the angel to the light. “Soul mates? Do you believe in such
a thing?”

She rose, lifting the king, crimsoned brush at the ready. “I should like to, but thus
far I have no proof of it.”

He dabbed at the angel’s halo. A hint of melancholy troubled the angelic gaze, as
if God’s messenger looked upon a babe in a manger and knew from the start the painful
end to his beginning. “A tempting notion, but I fear I will not live long enough to
discover the truth of it.”

Regret softened her voice, like the angel’s gaze. “I beg your pardon. It is only . . .”

“Go on.”

She tilted another king in her arms, took up her brush.

He thought of being gathered into her lap, an angel’s lap, the lap of God, an eternal
love of a different kind. His brush clinked against the lip of the water jug. Her
voice held the same music, a ringing sound, as if she would wash misconceptions from
his mind. “I sympathize deeply with any woman who finds eternal love in such hopeless
circumstances. You speak of torment after no more than a few minutes uncomfortable
questioning. Imagine instead, her torment, which may last years—as she questions why
she should be so foolish as to love a man who would reject her love.”

Pain in her voice. The troubled face of the angel echoed her anguish.

“You speak from experience.” He did not ask. He knew.

She studied the king with critical eyes. “I do.”

“Love everlasting?”

“No. As it turned out. Misery everlasting.”

He rose, lifting his angel. What was Belinda’s story? This mysterious music teacher
from Andover. Would she ever reveal the entirety of it?

He took up the dummy board of Mary and Joseph. What had Joseph’s reaction been to
discover Mary with child? A child he could not claim his own? Had Mary suffered his
rejection, as Belinda had suffered, as he meant to make Henrietta suffer?

“We are a sad pair,” he said. “Unlucky in love.”

She nodded, hair shimmering in the candlelight. “Unlucky in what we choose to do with
it.”

“You would encourage me to reconsider? To hope for a soul mate, and love everlasting?
No matter how short everlasting may be?”

Belinda bent to her task, brush busy. Her cheek, in the candlelight, pale and smooth,
echoed the painted cheek of Mary. “Whatever your decision,” she said, “you must live
with the consequences.”

Not for long,
he thought.

As he made Mary’s cloak look like new, he thought of the consequences of the scene
the dummy boards depicted, of what a young man had accomplished in a life cut short.
He wondered if his decision not to marry Henrietta was a cowardly one—unworthy of
either of them.

And then he glanced at his companion, his gaze caught by the careful tilt of her head
as she worked, and he knew it was not Henrietta he wanted to marry. In remembering
mistletoe kisses as the three kings were made resplendent again, and the shepherd’s
painted crook repaired, he wondered if it was possible to fall in love with a woman
on the third day of knowing her? Soul mates? Could his failing heart open itself to
such hasty possibility?

Mary, who had given birth to far greater possibilities, held out her wooden hands
to him in supplication.