His Christmas Pleasure (14 page)

She didn’t think she was beautiful.

He did.

Even more amazing, the longer he knew her, the more he liked her.

He moved to take the kiss—

Suddenly she turned her head away, ducking.

Andres pulled back in time. Otherwise he would have foolishly kissed her hair or an ear.

“What is the matter?”

“I don’t think that wise,” she said.

Andres had never had a woman refuse his kiss.

Beyond his immediate annoyance was confusion.“Why not?” he asked, his voice harsh with lust.

She reacted to that tone, her back stiffening. “I’m not ready yet.” Her eyes were pleading as she looked up at him. “Can you understand? I know we must consummate the marriage … but everything has happened so fast. I need just a bit more time.”

Andres leaned back into his corner of the coach. Their knees touched. The interior was so close that they couldn’t help but be constantly aware of each other. Time. He’d never had a woman ask for patience.

He took in her high cheekbones, that mouth he’d wanted to kiss, her curves—and decided he could wait.

Abby was a woman of substance.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“About what?”

“Tell me of your mother,” she answered. “Was she a strong woman or quiet?

Did she have a pet name for you?”

The question startled a laugh out of him. The only “mother” he’d truly remembered with pet names for him had been the contessa de Vasconia, a woman as spiteful as her daughter. And her names for him were not ones fit to share with Abby. His father had protected him from her only to a certain point. And his birth mother had been young and kept by a series of men.

But Abby didn’t need that story.

He began telling of a mother who was actually probably very much like her own. A mother who cared for her children.

Abby fell asleep listening to him talk. Only then did he realize how long he’d gone on. She slept as if she was exhausted.

He put away what was left of their dinner.

The air was growing colder in the coach. They’d spread the blankets over their legs, and the small pillows softened the hardness of the leather seats for their backs, but Andres did not think she looked comfortable slumped in her corner the way she was.

He reached over and gently pulled her to him.

She gave a start, much like a sleeping babe does when startled, but then she settled back into sleep. She was slumbering so deeply that he wondered if she’d slept at all the night before. He’d been excited but had not anticipated she would be.

More certain of himself this time, he brought her over to rest her head on his chest. Her body molded to his with the languidness of a sleeping cat. He stretched his legs out, taking most of the floor space in the coach, and tossed the blankets and his coat over both their laps for warmth. His booted feet stuck out from the bottom of the blankets, but he made certain she was covered.

Her hair curled around his arms and his hands. He liked that she’d worn it pulled back in a simple manner. He liked it styled high on her head as well.

And he enjoyed the weight of Abby in his arms. Palomita. His little dove.

She was bringing so much more than her inheritance and her person to this marriage. She was also offering a sense of peace.

Andres caught himself smiling, even as he fell asleep.

Abby didn’t wake at all during the night. Her first conscious thought was in the thin light of morning.

She woke, stretching and arching her back as she always did, and found herself on top of the baron’s hard body. She froze, uncertain.

He was still asleep.

A blanket had been pulled over them, as well as his warm, heavy greatcoat.

His body heat had kept her warm throughout the night, and she wasn’t ready to leave it.

Instead, she used this moment to look her fill at this man she’d agreed to marry. He didn’t seem so distant and cold now—or as composed. The shadow of his beard made him appear less perfect. More human.

The barón had a small scar right above the left corner of his upper lip. She’d not noticed it before, but now it stood out against the stubble of his beard.

She wondered how he’d received it.

And he was starting to wrinkle. There were laugh lines around his mouth, although he didn’t laugh often. He also had lines at the corners of his eyes from being in the sun.

He might be a barón, but he’d not had an easy life. She’d noticed that his hands were not white and soft, like those of so many of the noblemen from the Continent. He’d worked hard at one time.

Perhaps they’d gained their strength and callouses from working with horses.

Or dueling. She knew the rumors. This man-who-was-to-be-her-husband was said to be a crack shot and a formidable swordsman.

But she was learning he could also be kind.

His arms rested easily around her waist. He’d joined his hands, and they formed a loose-fitting bond. She lowered her head to rest it against the hard muscles of his chest. He’d untied his neck cloth, and his shirt collar was open. She listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. Within minutes, it seemed as if her heart beat in time with his.

He moved, a sound rumbling in his chest.

“You are awake?” he said, his voice deep with sleep.

“I am.” She pushed away from him and he let her go. She went from being warm and comfortable in his arms to feeling disheveled and brain-muddled.

He rubbed his eyes as he pulled a watch from his pocket and looked at it.

The case was not a fancy one, nor ornate and solid gold, as was her father’s.

But then, Andres was impressing her with how practical he was.

Her father’s vow that he wanted a man like himself for her came back to her.

She wondered if perhaps she had found one.

The thought was so outrageous that it made her smile. Imagine her father being compared to the rake of the Season.

“What?” he asked, then ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Me? I know. I’m a sight.”

“I am as well,” she confessed.

He shook his head, his silver eyes appreciative. “No, palomita, you are beautiful.”

“Palomita.” She tasted the word. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?”

“Dove.” He smiled, as if self-conscious. “It is not so bad, no?”

“You are calling me a bird and think I should be flattered?”

Laughter came to his eyes as he said, “I could call you loraita.”

“What does that mean?”

“My little parrot. Another kind of bird—”

“I know what a parrot is. Jonesy, my aunt, has one. He’s a mouthy, rude creature.”

“Whereas a dove is soft and gentle,” he observed, holding up his hands as a sign that he was teasing about the parrot. “She brings a sense of peace wherever she goes.”

Abby melted. “And you think that of me? No one has ever compared me to something so lovely.”

“It’s the hair,” he predicted. “Red hair makes people think you are spicy and stubborn.”

“I can be,” she allowed.

“Then I shall keep you happy so that you remain peaceful,” he promised.

“Besides, in some places in Spain, redheads are thought to be so wicked that if you pass one in the street you are to spit on the ground and turn around.

One should never cross a redhead.”

For a woman who was rather self-conscious and worried that her hair made her stand out, his admiration eased long-standing doubts. “I haven’t seen you spit yet,” she challenged.

“That is because I am not a superstitious man. And I like vibrant women.”

Vibrant. The word made her feel beautiful. The shield of pride and doubt Abby wore began to disappear. In its place grew a tiny sprout of trust.

“You’ll do,” she said. “You might very well be an excellent husband.”

“You’ll do, as well,” he echoed, reaching up to brush her unruly curls back from her face, letting them slide through his fingers.

If he’d tried to kiss her then, she would have let him.

To her disappointment, he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “We changed horses in the middle of the night, but it is about time that we should change them again.” He started to sit up, and she had no choice but to take her place on the seat beside him.

The world was a cold place without his body heat.

He opened the window and questioned the driver about where they were.

The driver called down that they were coming up on the inn where the barón had scheduled the next stop and would arrive in a few minutes.

Andres closed the window and began repairing his wardrobe. He retrieved his neck cloth from where he’d folded it and looped it around his neck, his fingers deftly tying it into the knot Freddie had admired so much.

“You hardly gave that any thought,” she observed.

“Gave what any thought?” He combed his hair back with his fingers.

“Your famous knot in your neck cloth.”

Her comment made him laugh. Some men chuckled, some giggled—a sound Abby thought silly—and some just smiled, never unbending to open themselves up to laughter. Abby had thought the barón would be one of the latter.

He now proved himself to be one of the rare men who enjoyed a good, hearty laugh. He shook his head. “I don’t know what they are talking about when they say special knots. I tie it so it looks decent.” He shrugged. “And I started a craze.”

The coach was starting to slow down. Abby took a moment to put herself in order.

Looking out the window, the barón said, “I think we shall rest here a bit.

Perhaps have our breakfast?”

“I would like that very much.” The idea sounded like heaven to Abby, who reached for her embroidered bag with her small stash of personal items.

“I packed a few things you might need,” he offered, and retrieved his bag from under the boot. He had tooth polish and soap and a good brush. Abby tucked them into her bag.

“Is it possible I could use a part of your valise?” she asked, then confessed she was wearing several layers of clothing.

He laughed. “I thought you looked plump. Of course we will share.”

Because that was what a man and wife did, she realized, pleased.

Fortunately, the inn was not busy this early in the morning. When they arrived, they were met by a driver who had been hired to take over for the one they’d had. The barón told him to see to the horses while they enjoyed their morning meal.

Inside, Andres hired a room for their use. “You freshen up first,” he told Abby.

“How much time do we have?” she asked.

He shrugged. “The weather seems as if it will hold out. We’ve traveled fast.

An hour or two should not be bad. I’ll have the innkeeper send up hot water.”

Abby happily agreed. A half hour later, she felt like a new woman.

The barón then took advantage of the room while she sat in front of the fire in the common room, sipping strong black tea. The barón did not take as long as she had, but when he came down the stairs, he was freshly shaved and, to her eyes, more handsome than ever.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused and took a moment to look at the coins in his pocket.

She hadn’t thought about money. She’d left all the arrangements to him, as she would have to her father. But now she felt a touch guilty. The man was marrying her for money because he admittedly didn’t have much. She sensed he knew the value of a coin, as well as how to be frugal—something she’d not had to think on.

Well, as soon as they were married, he’d not have to worry again.

The barón spoke a few words to the innkeeper before crossing the room to join her.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

He seemed taken aback, as if he sensed she’d caught him counting his shillings. “Yes, of course. I spoke for our breakfast. And I see you have tea?”

“Yes, let me pour you a cup,” she offered, not wanting any awkwardness between them.

The barón had good looks, but the things about him that stood out in her mind were his manners, his kindness, his earnestness.

Breakfast was a leisurely affair. They shared likes and dislikes about food. He was not fond of any green vegetable. She couldn’t abide fish. Small pieces of information that people who were married knew about each other.

They were on the road again before she wished it. Andres had brought along a deck of cards, and they passed the time that way. In fact, Abby was having so much fun that she began wondering if she ever wanted the ride to come to an end.

They were scheduled to arrive in Scotland late the next morning. Their stops grew longer. They enjoyed a good dinner together when they changed horses and drivers for the evening.

This time, when they prepared to sleep, he reached for her to snuggle against him—and she didn’t hesitate.

Andres. His name was romantic. It rolled off her tongue. She didn’t think she’d ever tire of saying it.

And she liked the way he said her name—his accent harder on the first syllable. His palomita.

The next morning was much colder than the first. They’d reached Yorkshire.

The Scottish border was only hours away. Over breakfast, Andres asked the innkeeper if he had ever heard of Stonemoor, adding, “It’s close to Newcastle.”

“No, can’t say I have,” the innkeeper answered, his broad North English accent almost harder for Abby to understand than Andres’s Spanish one.

“Newcastle is a right far distance from here.” He hurried on with his duties of serving the other party of patrons at the table across the small room from them.

Andres leaned across the table toward Abby. “What did he say?”

She laughed and interpreted. “They say some Scots have accents so thick, their English is unintelligible.”

“Just so we understand the priest,” Andres commented.

The word “priest” caught her.“Are you Catholic?”

He shrugged. “There is only one religion in Spain.”

“Are you religious?” Abby had not thought about these things. She did know some Catholics. They seemed no different from herself.

“I believe in el buen Dios—the good Lord,” he said.

“As do I,” Abby agreed.

Their eyes met, their gazes held. He understood what she was thinking when he said, “We are not so different, are we?”