Oliver began to move, subtly at first. Shallow thrusts soon gave way to more fervent movements. And she was with him for all of it, catching the rhythm easily, and her hips arching beneath him to meet each thrust. Placing one hand behind her knee, he hitched it just a bit higher, changing the angle ever so slightly. The pleasured sounds that had escaped her suddenly took on a note of desperation. He could feel her thighs tensing and quivering beneath him. And when he felt the first spasm of her release, her sex clenching rhythmically about him, Oliver was simply lost.
He thrust deeply, once more, and then a second time. Then his own release swept through him, leaving him trembling and breathless, their bodies tangled together in her narrow bed.
EIGHT
December 18th—morning
Cecil stared at the man before him with pure rage coursing through him. “How dare you, sir! Do you know who I am?”
“You could be Jesus himself, and my answer would be the same. I’ll not jeopardize my team by driving you anywhere till the snow melts!”
Cecil growled low in his throat. Had he been a more physically impressive specimen, the sound might have been more menacing than laughable. As it was, it was terribly ineffectual. “It’s a sleigh, man!”
“Aye. It is. And in four inches of snow, or even six inches of snow, I’d be happy to take you. But there’s nearly a foot of the stuff and it will have to melt off considerably before I’d even think of taking my horses out in it. The road markers are covered, sir. If we go off track and one of them steps into a hole, that’s the end of us all.”
“I need to get to Mansford Hall!” Cecil shouted, all but stamping his feet.
“Then I suggest you start walking. It’ll take the whole of the day to reach it in this weather.”
Cecil was still sputtering with indignation as the man walked away, his sleigh and team of horses remaining firmly inside the local livery. Resolute, Cecil stared at the snow-covered roads. Could he make it to Mansford Hall? Did he have a choice? If he didn’t provide some sort of barrier to Polly and the solicitor forming an attachment, all would be lost.
Reluctantly and with no small amount of resentment, Cecil set out on foot, marching toward Mansford Hall. The marching was a necessity. It was the only way to get his feet clear of the snow.
“Curse you, Polly. Curse you and your blasted brother who had the audacity to let you run your own household as nothing more than a girl! He’s made you feel invincible and I, if it’s the last thing I do, will show you that you are not!” he vowed.
* * *
It was nearly noon.Polly was in the kitchen, preparing the ingredients for a mince pie that she would make for Christmas. It was one of Claymore’s favorites and she wanted it ready for him upon his return.
No new snow had fallen, but the accumulated mass of it remained stubbornly on the ground, refusing to melt in the continuing frigid temperatures. The dreary and overcast skies were no help at all as even the sun was proving uncooperative.
Of course, it wasn’t as if Polly really wanted the snow to melt. In fact, she’d have let it remain there forever, keeping the two of them cocooned in their own little bastion of warmth against the raging winter, but for one thing. The longer she remained with Oliver, the harder it would be to let him go. And letting him go was a foregone conclusion, sadly. He was not, despite his apparent willingness to engage in hard labor, not a farmer. Nor was he the sort to live quietly in the countryside. London was his home and when he spoke of it, there was a longing in his voice that was undeniable. But for herself, the opposite was true. How could she exist in such a place? The crowds of people, and the lack of open space—with no way to gather her herbs or grow her own garden—was an anathema to her.
Thinking of Oliver prompted one very vital thought. Where had he gone? He had said that he intended to go to the stables and feed the animals, and yet he should have returned already. Concerned, Polly wiped her hands and removed her apron. She was just reaching for the heavy woolen cloak that hung on a peg by the kitchen door when she heard the little bell at the garden gate tinkle.
Relieved, she opened the door and found herself face to face with the snow-dipped branches of a Scotch Pine. The tree was taller than Oliver and wide enough that she feared it would not fit through the door. “What are you doing?” She demanded with a breathless laugh.
“It’s a Christmas tree,” he said breezily. “Now, hold the door so I can get it into the parlor.”
“We’ve nothing to put on it.” Through her dismay, Polly could hear something else in her voice. Excitement. Try as she might, she could not keep it at bay. It was such a silly and extravagant thing, and yet the idea of scrounging through the house for things to deck the tree with filled her with a kind of giddiness she had never known.
No. She had known that giddiness, but not since she was a very small child. Certainly not since her parents had died. Even when she and Claymore had moved to Mansford Hall and it had finally been just the two of them, with no judgmental relatives to tell her she was going to hell for things she could not change about herself, she hadn’t been truly happy. Only relieved.
He peered around the branches at her, grinning in a manner that was more carefree than anything she had witnessed from him to date. “We will come up with something, I am sure.”
Polly sighed. “I do have some lengths of ribbon in my sewing box. Clay bought them for me in the hopes that I would make some effort to spruce up my wardrobe.”
“What’s wrong with your wardrobe?” He asked.
Polly looked down at the drab gray dress she wore. It was serviceable. She chose colors that would not show dirt as she did much of the cleaning and gardening herself. Recalling Mavis’ admonishment that she should have made more effort and donned her red dress, Polly sighed. “I’m not sure if your lack of notice is a credit to you or a disservice to me.”
He had already nailed boards to the bottom of the tree to hold it upright. When he settled it into the corner of the parlor, Elspeth raised her head from her pillow in front of the fireplace and barked at them in a very disgruntled fashion. Immediately after, she turned in precisely five circles and settled down once more.
“Get your ribbons and baubles, Polly. Let us decorate this tree and enjoy our Christmas together.”
Polly smiled at that and then left to go get her sewing box. It would be the most pleasant Christmas she’d had in many years.
* * *
