Page 25 of The Right to Remain Single

The monk rubbed a hand over his face, then tramped away toward the house.

“Well, well,” said Sam, “look what’s up above you, love.”

Startled, she looked up, and an arm came around her—James’s arm. He swung her out of Sam’s reach and kissed her hard and fast. He didn’t let her go.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Spoilsport.”

James grinned. “Kind of you to point out the mistletoe, Furbelow.”

“Enjoy her while you can,” Sam said sourly, and slouched off after Brother Antoine.

“Thank you,” Thomasina breathed.

James smiled at her. “My pleasure.” Judging by the look in his eyes, he might like to kiss her again.

“We’re still standing under the mistletoe,” she said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Obediently, he put his arms around her and kissed her—lingeringly this time. And when the tip of his tongue probed at her lips, she couldn’t help but respond. Their tongues touched, danced together.

“Oh,” she said, but it sounded rather like a moan. How embarrassing.

“Oh, indeed.” He laid his forehead to hers. “Lovely Thomasina.”

The sound of ghostly clapping brought their heads around. Max danced a jig before them in the snow. He pursed his lips and mimed more kissing, and then did a strange little wiggle with only his hips.

“Io, Saturnalia!” he cried.

* * *

Warily, James eyed the ghost’s bizarre pantomime.

“Oh, he’s back! I feared he would not return for a while,” Thomasina said. “When he becomes too enraged, he vanishes, and sometimes he’s gone for ages.”

“Perhaps he temporarily loses the power to make himself seen and heard.” James wished Max weren’t quite so easy to see at the moment.

“You were right, he does celebrate Saturnalia,” Thomasina said. “I never really listened before, seeing as I didn’t understand Latin, but he says that—what he just said—a great deal at this time of year, and he dances, too.”

Hopefully not as obscenely as he’s doing right now, James thought grimly. He tucked her hand in his arm and turned her toward the house. “Let’s go.”

The ghost appeared in front of them, humping the air and making crude gestures with his hands.

“Stop it, Max,” James said in Latin. “I understand what you’re asking me to do, but I cannot.”

The ghost’s mouth dropped open. He groaned. “You are impotent?”

At first James didn’t understand the word the ghost used, but another gesture from Max made it clear. “No, of course not.” He moved to leave, hoping the ghost would let be, but Thomasina held back.

“He’s trying to tell you something,” she said. “We shouldn’t be rude.”

The ghost was the rude one, but James didn’t intend to enlighten her. “He wants us to join in—in Saturnalia celebrations with him.”

“Oh, how sweet. Hurray for Saturnalia!” She smiled at Max and blew him a kiss, which he caught in his ghostly hand. Then he mimed to her, indicating she should kiss James again.

She laughed, blushed, and obeyed. Growling a little with frustration—for he longed to do precisely what Max suggested—James kissed her back.

“She wants you,” Max hissed in James’s ear. “What in the name of Jupiter and all the gods is stopping you?”

James broke the kiss and glared at the ghost. “Proper behavior. She is not my wife.”