A Stockingful of Joy (19 page)

It would be much easier if he wasn't near her, but she couldn't be so selfish. "You'll freeze on the floor," she said in her most practical governess voice. "The bed is quite large enough for two." Then she rolled onto her side away from him, pulling the blankets protectively around her in an unmistakable sign that she would not welcome any amorous overtures.

She heard the rustling sounds of undressing. Before dinner, she would have peeked so she could admire him. Not now.

He put out all the candles except the one in the window, which had a tin reflector that sent most of the light outdoors. Then the mattress sagged as he lay down.

Though he didn't touch her, she was acutely aware of his nearness. Her husband. It was entirely within her rights to roll over and cuddle up against him. Perhaps he would draw her close and tell her how lovely she was, and how he was much happier to be with her rather than Cecilia…

She shouldn't have thought of Cecilia. Now the image of her husband and the woman he had loved was burning in her brain. He had never looked at Emma like that. With brutal honesty, she recognized that he probably never would.

It had been a mistake to try to build a new marriage at Harley. They were surrounded by too many ghosts, not all of whom were dead.

Swallowing hard against the painful lump in her throat, Emma closed her eyes and ordered herself to sleep.

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Hours passed, and Anthony's breathing had long since become slow and regular, but Emma still couldn't sleep. Never having shared a bed with a man in her life, she was painfully conscious that Anthony's warm, very male body was mere inches away. With one half her mind on him and the other spinning ever more depressing visions of what her marriage might be like, sleep was impossible.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she slipped from the bed. The room was chilly, so she quietly put another scoop of coal on the fire. Then she went to the window. The light snow had intensified into huge soft flakes floating thickly through the windless air, covering the world with a pristine white mantle.

Unable to resist, she detached the Christmas candle fixture from the sill and set it aside. Then she opened the casement window and leaned out. The air was fresh and pure and stimulating, cold but not unpleasantly so. She inhaled deeply, feeling refreshed.

An outrageous idea struck her. She'd always loved both snow and the roofs of Harley. Why not go out? The roof wasn't really dangerous in this area because a low decorative balustrade ran along the edge. Between the angled roof and the balustrade was a two-foot wide walkway. She could easily step down onto it and go exploring.

She glanced back at Anthony. Her husband was sleeping as if he'd been drugged. He'd never know that she was gone.

The idea of going outside seemed somehow right. Being a little outrageous would make her feel less like plain Emma Stone, and more like the dashing Lady Verlaine that she wanted to be.

She felt her way to the wardrobe and located her cloak and half boots. After sliding her feet into the latter, she tossed the cloak over her nightgown. Then she clambered out the window. The snow was three or four inches deep.

Loosely closing the swinging casements behind her, she set off along the narrow walkway, her cloak swirling around her ankles. The slanting roof was to her right, and the vast open spaces of the night on her left. It was wonderfully quiet. The snowflakes caught and magnified the subtle light, turning it into a pearly, otherworldly glow. Her worries began to dissolve, leaving her with a sense of serenity.

After walking across the long straight central block she came to an awkward corner where the east wing met the main building. Rather than risk scrambling across it, she folded down into the corner. The sheltered position gave her a splendid view of the snow-covered planes and angles of Harley. Seen from this perspective, the great house was strange and lovely. Haunting, in fact.

Alone in the night, she was able to relax in a way that had been impossible in the bedchamber. She thought about Harold Greaves, lying in a new grave beside his wife. Was the snow also falling over their resting place in London? Mr. Evans had said they were close as only a childless couple could be.

She closed her eyes and offered a prayer that Mr. Greaves had been reunited with his wife in some better place. Every day she made at least one such prayer. It seemed the least she could do. Strange how her life had been changed utterly by a man she would never meet.

She wrapped her cloak closer. The cold was slowly seeping into her, but she wasn't ready to go inside again. Later. For now she would simply let her mind drift…

Anthony awoke when something banged hard nearby. The wind had blown open the casement windows and snow was swirling into the room. It took a moment longer to remember where he was. Harley. Emma. The tower room.

Where was Emma? Not beside him in the bed.

He sat up and scanned the room, but the faint light of the fire did not reveal her. He rose from the bed and lit several candles. No Emma, yet the door was still latched from the inside. How could she have left?

His gaze went to the open window, and he stiffened. The Christmas candle had been removed from the sill. Oh, God, no. Earlier she had talked about her childhood fantasy of flying from the roof and soaring over the hills. She couldn't possibly have been so upset about his encounter with Cecilia that she would have jumped. Could she?

Cold with fear, he threw open the casements and looked down into the courtyard, terrified that he would see a broken body far below. He could see nothing unusual… but if she had jumped, the snow might have covered her by now.

His hands locked on the sill until his fingers whitened. If she had done something terrible because of him… may God have mercy on both their souls.

Then he noticed faint marks on the narrow walkway below the window. Footsteps, perhaps, though so full of snow as to be almost invisible. But why the devil would she be out on the roof in the middle of the night?

Rather than struggle with boots, he slipped his feet into a light pair of evening shoes. Then he threw his cloak over his nightshirt and climbed out onto the roof. The snow was about six inches deep, and the same rising wind that had blown the window open swirled clouds of icy crystals around him.

Grimly he started walking. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the unearthly beauty of the scene. Instead he moved along the slippery walkway as quickly as possible, his attention divided between his footing and the ground far below.

He was nearing panic when he finally found her huddled in a corner. In fact, he almost fell over her. An inch or more of feathery snow covered her cloak, making her almost invisible in the white night. She was so still, he feared that she was dead.

Heart hammering, he dropped to his knees beside her. Lacy flakes coated her face and dusted her dark lashes. Taking her hands, he said urgently, "Emma! Emma, are you all right!"

Her hands were like ice. He began chafing one of them between his. "Emma, damn it, wake up!"

Her lashes fluttered open, and she stared blankly at him. Praise God, at least she was still alive. He said sharply, "Can you walk?"

She blinked at him, dazed. "Anthony?"

"Yes, it's me. What the devil are you doing out here in the middle of a snowstorm?" He stood, then took both her hands and pulled her up. She didn't fall, quite, but she swayed badly. He caught her around the waist.

Her tall body sagged against him. "I… I think I fell asleep."

"Idiot," he said brusquely. Half carrying her, he started the long trek back. The walkway that was adequate for one was hazardous for two, especially covered with soft, sliding snow. He took the outside edge himself, keeping one hand on the top of the balustrade and the other arm locked around his wife.

The trip back seemed three times as long as the one out. Emma moved stiffly, sometimes slipping on the soft snow. Once her feet went out from under her, and they both almost went over the edge. She seemed unaware of how close they had come to death, but Anthony was sweating with strain by the time they reached the tower room.

Knowing this last bit was the most dangerous, he braced one foot against the balustrade, then scooped Emma up and maneuvered her through the window. After setting her on her feet inside, he climbed through himself and latched the window tight.

He dropped his cloak and kicked off his ruined shoes, then turned to his wife. Emma was shivering uncontrollably. He tossed aside her cloak and seated her in a chair by the fire. After throwing coal on lavishly, he brought a branch of candles close and examined her. Though she seemed barely aware of her surroundings, he couldn't find signs of frostbite on her face or hands or feet.

He hesitated, considering what to do. Putting her in a hot bath would probably warm her quickly, but finding servants to heat the water would take time. Too much time. Even locating brandy would take longer than he wanted. She needed to be warmed up immediately.

The best way to warm her was probably with his own body. He found a heavy pair of his socks and put them on her icy feet. Then he drew her upright. "It's back to bed, my girl."

He tugged her nightgown up over her head. She didn't resist, except for a faint squeak of protest.

Under other circumstances he would have paused to admire the lush femininity of her body, but not this time. He tucked her into bed and pulled the blankets over her, adding the spare from the wardrobe. Then he snuffed all but one candle, stripped off his own garments, and slid under the covers.

Lying on his side, he drew her into his arms so that her spine was pressed into his stomach and her bottom was against his groin. Damnation, but she was cold. He breathed warm air on the back of her ear and began rubbing the chilled length of her arm.

"What… what are you doing?" she said, sounding more aware.

"Trying to keep you from the death by freezing you so richly deserve." He slid his knee between her icy thighs.

She stiffened and tried to wriggle free, which only pressed her icy but shapely rump into him harder. He tightened his arm around her and began massaging the cold curves of her hip and thigh. "Hold still. The sooner you warm up, the less likely you are to come down with lung fever."

"Why… why didn't you just leave me out there?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"Because losing my wife after less than a fortnight of marriage would look like damned carelessness on my part," he retorted.

"It would have been worth a little gossip," she said hazily. "I have another forty thousand pounds in trust for me and my children. If I died now, you'd inherit the lot."

His hand stilled. Christ, did she realize what she was saying? "If I understand you correctly," he said acidly, "you didn't trust me enough to reveal the truth about your fortune, and you're now suggesting I should have murdered you for your money. Why the devil would you marry a man you find so contemptible?"

"Better the devil you know…" she muttered as she tried to writhe away again.

As he caught at her, his hand came down on her breast. The soft weight fit his hand perfectly. She inhaled sharply, and they both became very still.

He released her breast with reluctance. She may or may not be getting warmer, but he certainly was. "So I'm the devil you know. How flattering. Remind me to thrash you someday when the circumstances are more appropriate."

"You wouldn't dare!" she said indignantly, sounding more herself.

"I restrain myself only because my mother taught me never to strike a female, no matter how richly she deserves it." Though his voice was dryly humorous, he was uncomfortably aware that she would not have made her bizarre suggestion about leaving her to freeze if she didn't secretly fear that he didn't want to be married to her.

If she had died through no fault of his own, would he be relieved to be rich and free again? The answer in his head was an instant, vehement
no
. It was time to be an adult. To take on responsibility, to build a family. And if Emma was not the wife he would have chosen, she was the wife he had, and he was not displeased by that. Not displeased at all.

He began rubbing her again. She was noticeably warmer. As his concern receded, sexual awareness became impossible to suppress. He had a beautiful, naked female in his arms, and she was his wife. Or almost.

He wanted, rather desperately, to make love to her. Yet on a level beyond arousal he sensed that this was a critical moment. What he did now would influence the rest of his life. He moved his hand from her side to the front of her body, stroking from magnificent breasts over curving torso down to her soft belly. Her skin was satin smooth and blessedly warm.

"Your view of my character is rather unflattering, and I can't say that I blame you for that," he said quietly. "I've been an irresponsible, frivolous fellow most of my life, and you and I married for mutual convenience, not love. But I assure you, Emma, I do take our marriage seriously."

He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her as he tried to shape what he wanted to say. "I will do my best to fulfill the vows I made on our wedding day, as I trust you to honor the ones you made to me. If we do that, perhaps in time love will come. If not love, surely we can manage caring and respect."

She rolled onto her back and looked at him. In the dim light of the single candle, her eyes were a smoky gray, and fully aware. Their gazes held for a long, long moment.

Then she raised her left hand and touched the side of his face with gentle fingers. "Caring and respect are easy, Anthony," she whispered. "You already have mine."

He did not deserve so much from her. Turning his head, he tenderly kissed the shiny new wedding band he'd slid onto her finger the week before. That, at least, he had bought with his own money. Softly he said, "With this ring I thee wed."

He laid her hand on the mattress. "With my body I thee worship." Then he leaned forward and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and soft and welcoming.