Christmas Nights (33 page)

‘I did,’ she confessed. ‘
I
had second thoughts… the day we parted…’ She looked anxiously up at him; his face was unreadable, grave, craven almost, as he watched her in silence.

‘I tried to tell you then,’ she hurried on. ‘I tried to say that I had changed my mind, but you didn’t seem to want to listen and I thought that perhaps you had changed yours and that—’

‘Changed your mind about what?’ Oliver demanded hoarsely, cutting across her.

‘About… about wanting to make a commitment,’ Lisa admitted, stammering slightly as she searched his face anxiously, looking for some indication as to how he felt about what she was saying, but she could see none. Her heart started to hammer nervously against her ribs. Had she said too much? Had she…? Determinedly she pushed her uncertainty away.

‘I knew then that it was just fear that had stopped me from telling you what I already knew… That I
did
love you and that I did want to be with you… I was even going to suggest that I went to New York with you.’ She paused, laughing shakily. ‘When it came to it I just couldn’t bear the thought of not being with you, but you seemed so preoccupied and distant that I thought—’

‘You were going to tell me that…?’ Oliver interrupted her. ‘Oh, my God, Lisa… Lisa…’

Any response she might have made was muffled by the hard pressure of his mouth against hers as, ignoring her protests that he might hurt his injured arm, he gathered her up,
held her against his body and kissed her with all the hungry passion she had dreamed of in the time they had been apart.

‘Lisa, Lisa,
why
didn’t you say something to me?’ Oliver groaned when he had finally finished kissing her. ‘Why…?’

‘Because I didn’t think you wanted to hear,’ Lisa told him simply. ‘You were so distant and—’

‘I was trying to stop myself from pleading with you to change your mind and come with me,’ Oliver told her grimly. ‘
That
was why I was quiet.’

‘Oh, Oliver…’

‘Oh, Lisa,’ he mimicked. ‘How long do you suppose your mother will be gone?’ he asked her as he bent his head to kiss her a second time.

‘I don’t know, but she did say something about going to see an exhibition at the Tate,’ Lisa mumbled through his kiss.

‘Mmm…’ He was looking, Lisa noticed, towards the half-open bedroom door, and her own body started to react to the message she could read in his eyes as she followed his gaze.

‘We can’t,’ she protested without conviction. ‘What about your arm? And you still haven’t told me about the accident,’ she reminded him.

‘I will,’ he promised her, and added wickedly, ‘They said at the hospital that I should get plenty of rest and that I shouldn’t stand up for too long. They said that the best cure for me would be…’ And he bent his head and whispered in Lisa’s ear exactly what he had in mind for the two of them for the rest of the afternoon.

‘Tell me about the accident first,’ Lisa insisted, blushing a little as she saw the look he gave her when he caught that betraying ‘first’.

‘Very well,’ he agreed, adding ruefully, ‘Although, it doesn’t make very good hearing.

‘I didn’t find out until we were back in Yorkshire that you weren’t marrying Henry, but once I did and I realised what I’d
done I broke all the rules and drove straight back here despite the fact that I hadn’t had any sleep for going on three days and that I was jet-lagged into the bargain. Hardly a sensible or safety-conscious decision but…’ He gave a small, self-deprecatory grimace. ‘I was hardly feeling either sensible or safety-conscious; after all, what else had I got left to lose? I’d already destroyed the most precious thing I had in my life.

‘Anyway… I must have started to doze off at the wheel; fortunately I’d already decided to stop at a motorway service station and I’d slowed down and pulled onto the approach road, and even more fortunately there was no other vehicle, no other person around to be involved in my self-imposed accident. The authorities told me that I was lucky my car was fitted with so many safety features… otherwise…’

‘No, don’t,’ Lisa begged him, shuddering as her imagination painted an all too vivid picture of just how differently things could have turned out.

‘Lisa, I know there is nothing I can say or do that can take away the memory of what I did; all I can do is promise you that it will never happen again and ask if you can forgive me.’

‘It did hurt that you could think such a thing of me,’ Lisa admitted quietly, ‘and that you could… could treat me in such a way, but I
do
understand. In a way both of us were responsible for what happened; both of us should have trusted the other and our love more. If we had had more mutual trust, more mutual faith in our love then… Oh, Oliver,’ she finished, torn between laughter and tears as she clung onto him. ‘How could you possibly think I could even contemplate the idea of marrying anyone else, never mind Henry, after you… after the way you and I…?’

‘Even when mentally I was trying to hate you I was still loving you physically and emotionally,’ Oliver told her huskily. ‘The moment I touched you… I never intended things to go
so far; I’d just meant to kiss you one last time, that was all, but once I had…’

‘Once you had what?’ Lisa encouraged him, raising herself up on tiptoe to feather her lips teasingly against his.

‘Once I had… this,’ Oliver responded, smothering a groan deep in his throat as he pulled her against him with his good arm and held her there, letting her feel the immediate and passionate response of his body to her as he kissed her.

‘We really ought to get up,’ Lisa murmured sleepily, her words belying her actions as she snuggled closer to Oliver’s side. ‘The day’s almost gone and…’

‘Soon it will be bedtime. I know,’ Oliver finished mock-wickedly for her. ‘It was very thoughtful of your mother to telephone and say that she’d decided to go and visit some friends this evening and to stay overnight with them…’

‘Mmm… very,’ Lisa agreed, sighing leisurely as Oliver’s hand cupped her breast.

‘Mmm… that feels nice,’ she told him.

‘It certainly does,’ Oliver agreed, and asked her softly, ‘And does this?’ as he bent his head and started to kiss the soft curve of her throat.

‘I’m not sure… Perhaps if you did it for a bit longer,’ Lisa suggested helpfully. ‘A lot longer,’ she amended more huskily as his mouth started to drift with delicious intent towards her breast… ‘A lot,
lot
longer.’

‘H
OW DOES THAT LOOK?’

Lisa put her head to one side judiciously as she studied the huge Christmas tree that Oliver had just finished erecting in the hallway.

‘I think it needs moving a little to the left; it’s leaning slightly,’ she told him, and then laughed as she saw his pained expression.

‘No, darling, it’s perfect,’ she added with a happy sigh. They had been married for eight months, their wedding having preceded both Henry’s and Piers’. Lisa’s parents had both flown home for the wedding and Lisa and Oliver had flown out to Japan to spend three weeks with them in October.

Fergus had been disappointed when Lisa had handed in her notice, but she and Oliver were talking about the possibility of her setting up her own business in the north in partnership with Fergus. It seemed almost impossible to Lisa that it was almost twelve months since that fateful night when Oliver had found her stranded on the road and brought her home with him. Her smile deepened as she glanced down at the Armani suit she was wearing—a surprise gift from Oliver to mark the anniversary of the day they had initially met.

‘Happy?’ Oliver asked her, bending his head to kiss her.

‘Mmm… how could I not be?’ Lisa answered, snuggling closer to him. ‘Oh, Oliver, last Christmas was wonderful, special, something I’ll never forget, but this Christmas is going
to be special too; I’m so glad that everyone’s been able to come—your family and my parents.’

‘We’re certainly going to have a houseful,’ Oliver agreed, laughing.

He had raised his eyebrows slightly at first when Lisa had suggested to him that they invite all his own relatives and her parents to spend their Christmas with them, but Lisa’s enthusiasm for the idea had soon won him over.

‘You really do love all this, don’t you?’ he commented now, indicating the large hallway festooned now for Christmas with the garlands and decorations that Lisa had spent hours making.

‘Yes, I do,’ Lisa agreed, ‘but not anything like as much as I love you. Oh, Oliver,’ she told him, her voice suddenly husky with emotion, ‘you’ve made me so happy. It’s hard to imagine that twelve months ago we barely knew one another and that—I love you so much.’

‘Not half as much as I love you,’ Oliver whispered back, his mouth feathering against hers and then hardening as he felt her happy response.

‘We still haven’t put the star on the tree,’ Lisa reminded Oliver through their kiss.

‘
You
are my star,’ he told her tenderly, ‘and without you I’d be lost in the darkness of unhappiness. You light up my life, Lisa, and I never, ever want to be without you.’

‘You never, ever will,’ Lisa promised him.

‘Hey, come on, you two, break it up,’ Piers demanded, coming into the hallway carrying a basket of logs for the fire. ‘You’re married now—remember?’

‘Yes, we’re married,’ Oliver agreed, giving Lisa a look that made her laugh and blush slightly at the same time, as he picked up the star waiting to be placed at the top of the tree—the final touch to a Christmas that would be all the
things that Christmas should be, that Christmas and every day
would
be for her from now on.

Oliver
was
her Christmas, all her special times, her life, her love.

Dear Reader,

To me, there is no more magical and traditional time of the year than Christmas—perhaps because, as a Sagittarian, a small part of me has always retained my childhood wonder in the specialness of Christmas: its bright shining warmth in the darkest time of the year, a time to celebrate the triumph of hope over adversity and of love over pain.

These are all emotions that are strongly expressed in this story, with its heroine who is my favourite type of woman—strong, gutsy, determined to stand true to what she believes in and yet at the same time endearingly vulnerable. My hero in this story also embodies, I believe, the very best of traditional male values, ‘magicked’ by a special sprinkling of that extra ingredient that makes a man
the
man!

Since my own home is old and traditional, a cosy cottage nestling in the countryside, it is the traditional things in life in which I tend to take most pleasure. The Figgy Pudding recipe on which this story is based is as traditional as Christmas itself—although my heroine, Heaven, has added her own special
extra
ingredients! In bygone centuries every member of the household would have taken a turn in stirring the rich fruity pudding mixture, uniting them all in its preparation. I hope that in reading this story you will share this special sense of Christmas as it unites us all in spirit and in love, no matter how much we may be divided in other ways.

Penny Jordan

(Letter from the original version of this story)

(Makes two large puddings)
This is a traditional English recipe.

110g/1 cup chopped almonds
110g/ ¾cup chopped figs
450g/3 cups raisins
225g/½ lb currants
225g/1½ cups sultanas
110g/ ¾ cup mixed peel
110g/ ¾ cup chopped glacé cherries
110g/ ¾ cup plain flour
2 tsp ground mixed spice
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground nutmeg
225g/1¼ cups firmly packed brown sugar
225g/ ½ lb shredded suet or vegetarian suet
225g/4 cups fresh white breadcrumbs
225g/ ½ lb grated apple (about 2 medium apples)
1 large grated carrot
Juice and grated zest of 2 large lemons
2 tbsp molasses
4 large eggs, beaten
225 ml/1 cup Guinness or milk
4 tbsp rum or brandy

Combine the chopped almonds, figs, raisins, currants, sultanas, mixed peel and cherries. Add the sifted flour, spices, sugar, suet and breadcrumbs and mix thoroughly. Add the grated apple, carrot, lemon juice and zest and molasses and mix again. Stir in the beaten eggs, followed by the Guinness (or milk) and rum (or brandy). Spoon into two buttered casseroles (2½ pint capacity each) and cover with a double layer of waxed paper. Leave overnight to mature. Cover the casseroles with a double layer of foil, pleated down the centre and tied securely with string. Steam for 8 hours, checking regularly to see that the pan hasn’t boiled dry. Remove and set aside to cool. Cover with fresh waxed paper and foil, then store somewhere cool and dark, ideally for 4 to 6 weeks. When ready to be eaten, steam the puddings for an additional 3 hours before turning out into serving dishes. Warm a ladleful of brandy, set alight and pour over the puddings.

‘M
MM
… well, I suppose he’s all right,’ Christabel announced as she looked critically at her less than one-week-old cousin as he lay contentedly in his mother’s arms.

In four weeks’ time it would be Christmas and Heaven and Jon would be going up to the Scottish Borders to spend the Christmas season in their home there, but right now they were still in London where Jon was enjoying showing off his newborn son to his sister, her two daughters and their doting stepfather.

‘What I don’t understand, though,’ young Christabel continued seriously, ‘is why you’ve called him Figgy.’

Over the dark downy head of Charles Christopher Hugo, nicknamed ‘Figgy’, Heaven grinned at her husband.

‘Well, it’s a long story,’ she began ‘and let’s just say that figgy pudding is a very special Christmas treat and “Figgy” here—’

‘I think you’d better stop there,’ Jon warned her ruefully, but his niece, picking up on the very interesting adult messages passing between her uncle and her new aunt, decided she wanted to hear more.

She had just reached the age where adult secrets, adult conversations were beginning to make her curious.

‘Tell me,’ she demanded imperiously. ‘I like stories…’

Heaven laughed into Jon’s eyes. In his mother’s arms Figgy continued to sleep despite his father’s attempts to make him wake up.

‘Well,’ Heaven began importantly, ‘just as figgy pudding is a pudding with a difference, so too is this a story with a difference, and it all began like this…’