Margaret McPhee - A Magical Regency Christmas - Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel

Her chin lifted. ‘Bad news? Not at all. Quite the opposite. My cousin, Tom, is betrothed.’

That brittle voice splintered somewhere deep inside him and all that was left were the most useless, banal words in the language. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t pity me!’

The words exploded from her, and he bit back everything he would have liked to say. Pity? It was more like rage. Rage that there was nothing he could do to shield her from the pain she must be feeling. Rage that the Eliots, instead of protecting Polly, had cut her adrift. Rage that the world was like this at Christmas when such love was coming into the world that it could barely be contained.

‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Polly, still in that tight, controlled voice. ‘My aunt must be delighted. It’s Miss Creed, you know. A very eligible connection. She is an heiress.’

This time there really were no words. Instead, he reached out and took her small, cold, mittened hands, and just held them, contained them in the protection of his own. Sometimes words were inadequate things. Touch was better.

* * *

She thought if he had not done that, had not enveloped her cold hands in the warmth of his, she could have held herself together. As it was, the gentle strength shredded the threadbare cloak of pride, thawed the frozen place where she had interred all the pain, until her eyes burned and spilled over. She swallowed. Oh, damn! One powerful hand loosened and she wanted to cry out in protest, but his arm came around her and drew her close to rest against his shoulder.

Still he said nothing. No soothing words, no injunction not to cry. Just his solid strength to lean against for a moment, the sort of unspoken sympathy that made the wretched tears flow faster, and his arm about her. She knew he meant only to comfort, but her foolish, wanton body was dreaming of so much more than that. Dreaming of what it would be like if he truly took her in his arms, and not to comfort.

She must be a very wicked girl to entertain such thoughts. Wicked to feel this burn and dazzle in her blood at the gentle clasp of his hand. Wicked to wish that his arm might tighten, that his mouth... Well, it was a sheer miracle that a thunderbolt had not obliterated the schoolhouse with what she was thinking. But then it might have obliterated Alex and she supposed God would not want that.

I’m wicked to think such things.

He snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’

With a shock she realised that she had spoken aloud.

‘Wicked to be angry at injustice and hypocrisy?’ asked Alex. ‘Well, that makes two of us.’ He lifted their linked hands and the grey eyes smiled, full of understanding. ‘Linked in the heinous sin of disapproving of the social order.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Thank you, God, that he didn’t realise what I was really thinking.

The crooked half-smile—the one that turned her insides to jelly—twisted his mouth. ‘For what? Wanting to kick your cousins into the middle of next week for hurting you?’

He did? Her throat ached.

For being kind.

For understanding.

Her heart full, insensibly eased, she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said softly, and set one hand on his shoulder, feeling a flicker of muscle beneath the broadcloth. ‘For being you,’ she said and reached up to kiss his cheek.

* * *

For being you. As though he were a gift, when God knew he was nothing of the sort. His heart blazed, and his whole body tightened at her nearness, her fragrance—intoxication itself—and the light touch of her fingers through layers of cloth, the sweetest torment, a burning. The knowledge that she was going to kiss him—only on the cheek, but still the loveliest gift he’d ever been offered.

Then her lips were there, such peach-silk softness, a featherlight caress on his jaw that he should accept as it was meant—but somehow his head had turned—not at all what Christ had meant by turning the other cheek—and his lips had captured hers, his arms drawing her against the burning ache of his body.

Her startled gasp he took gently, even as for one soul-shattering moment she remained utterly still in his embrace. His conscience gave one last, feeble flicker. He must release her, apologise...but her lips moved hesitantly against his and he was lost.

Every nerve, every sinew and muscle leapt to flame as his arms tightened of their own accord, as his mouth returned her shy kiss and took more. Shaken to his soul, he tasted the fullness of her mouth—sweet, so sweet—and her lips parted. His mind reeled, his tongue dipped, found milk and honey, and tasted again and again, while his resolution dissolved, mind and body awash with delight as her tongue met his in hesitant wonder.

This. Just this.

This delight of a woman’s body in his arms, her lips and mouth tender under his, and this burning, this singing in blood and bone that could steal a man’s senses as surely as any siren.

Desire. His body recognised it and responded, hardening, tightening his arms around Polly, drawing her in to the consuming heat, cradling her closer. And she came, soft and willing, body and mouth yielding, melting against him. One hand found the supple curve of her waist, drifted higher against the swell of her breast and he tasted the surprise in her soft gasp.

Desire. A maelstrom threatening to sweep everything away. Sense, honour, both gone, and reason fast fading. One floundering scrap of reason found a foothold, a touchstone.

Polly. This was Polly.

Somehow he broke the kiss, drew back a little, breathing hard. A little more reason surfaced. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he might remember why not...

You’re the rector, for goodness’ sake!

That hit him like a bucket of icy water. He stared down at Polly, dazed. She looked dazed, too. And her lips were damp and swollen. Pink and ripe. Because he’d kissed her. Even as he looked, all the reasons he shouldn’t be kissing her closed in, accusing.

Surely only a complete blackguard kissed a defenceless girl like that? When all she had offered was a sort of sisterly peck on the cheek.

‘I...I have to go,’ he managed. Because God only knew, if he didn’t, where this would end. His gaze fell on the alcove holding Polly’s bed and gave him back the lie. He knew perfectly well where it could have ended. That, right there, in that shadowed alcove, was the natural end for such a kiss.

Somehow he forced his hand to withdraw from the fall of her hair, now tumbled around her shoulders. Had he done that? His fingers shook at the silken caress. With even more difficulty he dragged the other hand from her waist.

‘Polly,’ he whispered. Lord, had he only just seen her? Seen what was in front of him. ‘I’m—’

‘No.’ The luminous golden eyes pleaded. ‘Don’t apologise. Please, just...just pretend there is a little bit of mistletoe above us.’

Mistletoe? God help them both if he’d had that pagan incentive above him!

He was the rector and Polly had confided in him, turned to him for comfort. He swallowed, brutally aware of aching need. Wanting to cast discretion and propriety, not to mention his vows, to the four winds.

He forced himself to release her and stand up, away from the warmth that was Polly. But his eyes—his eyes remained on her face, lost, and somehow found. Until her gaze fell and scarlet mantled her cheeks.

‘I’ll...I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’

Polly. Her name lay unspoken on his tongue like honey, as sweet and intimate as her mouth itself.

He swallowed. ‘Miss Woodrowe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll bar the door behind me?’ What the hell would he do if she said no? Refuse to leave until she did?

‘Yes.’

Thank God.

‘Well. Ah, goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’