Page 54 of The Winter Companion

Mr. Cross was staring at her, his expression intent. His throat contracted on a swallow. And then he turned his head, scanning the beach. “There.”

A few yards from the path, a rock formation as high as her knees protruded from the base of the cliffs. She crossed the sand and climbed atop it, her skirts clutched in one gloved hand.

Mr. Cross came to stand in front of her. He continued to regard her with that same intent gaze. Alert. As if she were a wild Dartmoor pony who might bolt at any moment.

She was assailed by a surge of self-doubt. “You did mean me, didn’t you? That I’m the one you wish to kiss? I wasn’t imagining it, was I?”

His neck had gone faintly red, and twin banners of color stood out on his cheekbones. He was still taller than her, despite her stance on the boulder. “I meant you.”

Her lips trembled on a faint smile. “That’s a relief.”

She waited, but he didn’t move to embrace her. He merely looked at her. Watchful and patient, just as he was with Betty. So she did precisely what she most yearned to do. She took his face in her hands, cradling it tenderly. And, stretching up, she pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

His arm came around her waist then, and he bent his head to hers. He kissed her back, gently, ever so gently. A sweet, lingering kiss that made her knees go weak.

When at last their lips parted, it was her turn to be at a loss for words.

Mr. Cross loomed over her. He was still slightly red about the collar but otherwise appeared in complete command of the situation. “May I call you Clara?”

“If you like.” She was appalled to hear a quaver in her voice. Goodness’ sake, it was just a kiss. It had scarcely lasted five seconds—a fact which hadn’t seemed to matter to the butterflies rampaging in her stomach. She dropped her hands from his face.

He helped her down from the boulder, and when the dogs came, barking their eagerness to return to the house, he assisted her back up the cliff path, one hand holding hers, and the other guiding her at the small of her back with a touch that was vaguely proprietary.

And she had the sinking suspicion that she’d underestimated him. Or, at the very least, mischaracterized him. That she’d painted him in her mind as some innocent gentle giant who was too good for this world. A handsome, golden Galahad.

And perhaps he was innocent.

But Neville Cross was no boy. He was a man. A great, healthy male, as potentially dangerous to her virtue as any other.

Good lord. What had she begun?

Neville held the basket of tree candles up so Tom could reach them. He stood on a high ladder, wiring them to the topmost branches.

Jenny was similarly occupied with the branches at the bottom. Her silk skirts pooled all about her as she knelt on the floor. “Will there be enough?”

“There’s more in the kitchens.” Lady Helena tied a frosted glass ornament to a branch with a bit of red velvet ribbon. “We have plenty of everything. Don’t feel obliged to stint.”

Neville exchanged a look with Justin. Last year, with their dutiful assistance, Lady Helena had managed to cover most of the surfaces inside the Abbey with greenery, ribbons, and tinsel. There was no question of stinting on anything. She’d been determined to give them a Christmas to remember. And it had been, for both Justin and for Neville.

But this Christmas, he suspected it would be even more so. Not because the celebration was grander in scale, but because all of them were together. Neville, Justin, Tom, and Alex. Reunited for the holidays for the first time in two decades.

And because of her.

Clara.

“It’s a splendid tree.” Mrs. Bainbridge helped herself to one of the candles from Neville’s basket. “The largest I’ve ever seen.”

Clara was beside her, with a handful of gilded acorns and walnuts. Each had a long tack hammered into the end, which she was using to string them into the branches.

“We had a tree in Surrey last Christmas,” Mrs. Bainbridge went on. “A frail little thing that could scarcely hold its ornaments. Our cat, Magpie, was intent on destroying it.”

“You may thank Mr. Cross for the size of this one.” Tom secured another candle with a bit of wire. “He cut it himself. The rest of us only helped to get it into the cart.”

Clara glanced at Neville. Their eyes met for a moment. She swiftly looked away, the faintest of blushes darkening her cheeks.

He was viscerally reminded of their kiss. How she’d cradled his face so gently between her palms. How her lips had clung to his so sweetly. It had sent a rush of heat through him. Had prompted him to put his arm around her waist and to kiss her back.

It had been only a brief moment. A few seconds of soul-stirring tenderness while the raging sea crashed on the shore and the wind whistled all about them.