Katie Oliver - Christmas At Pemberley - And the Bride Wore Prada

Helen was taken off guard by his apology. She really thought the man despised her. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, and shrugged. ‘I understand.’

‘No, it’s not all right.’ His scowl deepened. ‘I’m a miserable sod. Alanna told me so often enough.’

She was silent, absorbing this titbit of information, holding it greedily to herself like a rare jewel. ‘What was she like?’ she asked a moment later, curious. ‘Your wife.’

He didn’t answer right away, and Helen thought perhaps she’d gone too far, and he’d closed himself off again.

‘She was beautiful,’ he said finally. ‘She wore her hair in a plait down her back, and she had the devil of a temper. She didn’t have much patience with my moods. After she and the baby died, I just...shut down.’

‘I felt the same way after David died.’ Helen fiddled with the belt of her robe. ‘I couldn’t bear anyone’s company. I still can’t, really.’

‘And what about my company, Miss Thomas?’ Colm asked gruffly, and came closer. ‘Can ye bear to be around the likes of me?’

She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. They were a lovely green-gold. ‘Sometimes,’ she murmured, right before his arms came around her waist and his mouth found hers.

His lips, tentative at first, grew bolder, and her hands slid up and over his shoulders. Helen made a sound low in her throat as he deepened their kiss and explored her mouth with his tongue.

Colm dragged his mouth from hers and met her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, lass, I shouldna be doing this—’

In answer, she took his face – his angular, dark-ginger-stubbled, perfect face – in her hands and pressed her lips hungrily to his. His arms tightened around her and they clung together, kissing and muttering low, incomprehensible words. She loved the feel of his stubbled jaw beneath her fingers and the firm, sure warmth of his lips against hers.

She wanted him with a desperation that shocked her.

They grappled together, clawing and yanking at one another’s clothing in their mutual impatience to remove any and all barriers between them. Colm pressed her hard against the wall, his mouth devouring her lips and neck as he pinned her wrists above her head.

They didn’t speak; there was no need. Somehow – Helen couldn’t have said how , exactly – they ended up in Colm’s bedroom, sprawled together atop his bed, their clothes strewn everywhere, naked and desperate to consummate their need for one another.

Everything became a blur of arms, legs, mouths, and skin as they rolled together, limbs entangled. Helen threw back her head and gasped with pleasure as Colm plunged inside her. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like coming home again, after a long absence.

All too soon it was over. Sweaty, breathless, and spent, Helen raised her head from Colm’s chest and regarded him with a quizzical expression.

‘Well, Mr MacKenzie, it seems you’ve been holding out on me. I’d no idea you had this side to you.’

‘What side is that, Miss Thomas?’ he asked, his words husky as he met her gaze.

‘This.’ She drew her finger in slow, lazy circles along his chest. ‘I never imagined you had it in you to be so...amazing. And you haven’t scowled once.’

‘I’ve had no reason to scowl.’

‘True,’ she agreed, and snuggled against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. She hadn’t been with a man, not really, since her husband died. She’d had no desire to be touched, or to touch anyone else.

Until Colm.

‘Promise me you won’t,’ she murmured, and yawned.

‘I won’t what?’

‘You won’t scowl.’

‘I can’t promise I’ll never scowl again,’ he protested. ‘We both know I will.’

‘Then at least promise me you won’t scowl again tonight.’

‘Now, that,’ he said as he stroked the hair gently from her face, ‘I can probably manage.’

‘That’s the last phone call,’ Gemma announced with satisfaction as she rang off and tossed her mobile aside on the bedside table the next morning. ‘All of the wedding details have been sorted. It’s settled ‒ we’re officially having the ceremony and reception here at Draemar.’

Dominic muttered something incomprehensible and drew the pillow more securely over his head.

‘Now, I’ll just send out a mass email to notify everyone on my list of the change of venue, and—’ She reached for her laptop with smug satisfaction, ‘I’m done.’

‘Did you happen to ask Tarquin and Wren and Mr and Mrs C about having the wedding here at the castle?’ Dom grumbled as he sat up.

‘Of course I did! They’re thrilled. Lady Campbell’s offered me full use of the staff, and Mrs Neeson’s had lots of lovely suggestions as to food. The only one who seems to have any doubts,’ Gemma added pointedly, ‘is you.’

‘I don’t have any doubts.’ Dominic flung the covers aside and got out of bed. ‘I have no doubt whatsoever.’ He turned to glare at her. ‘I absolutely, positively don’t want to get married. Not to you. Not ever.’

Gemma lifted her gaze from the laptop and fixed him with a deceptively calm expression. ‘What did you say, Dominic?’

‘I said, I don’t want to get married, Gemma! You’ve turned into a crazed, wedding-obsessed cow, and I can’t take it any more.’

‘Is that right?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is it wrong to want my wedding day to be perfect? No, it bloody well isn’t! A girl only gets married once—’

‘Some get married a bit more often than that ,’ Dom snapped.

‘‒ and I want every detail to be exactly right! Is it my fault this horrid Scottish weather’s conspired against me from the bloody start? Is it my fault your stupid agent didn’t book us a hire car to get us here, or a hotel room? No, it fucking well isn’t!’

‘I don’t care whose fault it is.’ Dominic found his jeans on the floor and thrust one leg in. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like what my life’s become, and I don’t like who you’ve become, ever since we got engaged. Why can’t you make do with a regular wedding gown? Why does it have to be Prada ? You’re demanding and unreasonable, and I’m sick of it. You spend more time with that little blue Tweep bird than you do with me! You’re constantly posting and texting and updating your status, and all of it about the bloody fucking wedding. Well – here’s a status update for you. The wedding is off.’

She stared at him. ‘Social media is very important! Don’t you want our wedding to be the talk of the Internet?’

‘No. I don’t. But you never bothered to find out what I wanted, did you?’ He zipped up his trousers and glared at her. ‘No, you bloody well didn’t, because you don’t care. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to marry you, Gemma. I’m done.’

If Dominic thought she’d crumble, or collapse into a fit of tears, or plead with him to go through with the wedding, he was mistaken.

‘Fine,’ she replied, and put her laptop aside. She got up and swept past him to gather up her collection of bridal magazines. ‘Your loss. Just be advised – the £5,000 deposit on the horse-drawn sleigh is non-refundable. As is the £2,000 rental fee for the matched team of horses to pull the sleigh. Not to mention the £6,000 for my Prada gown.’

‘So?’ he enquired, indifferent. ‘Your dad’s paying for all that crap.’

‘No,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘ you are. Milo couldn’t afford to help out financially; he really wanted to, but he’s still getting back on his feet. So I charged everything to your AmEx card instead. Even if we don’t get married,’ she finished, ‘you’ll still have to pay for most of the expenses, because they’re—’