Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages) (15 page)

She thought it was a romance. The title said something about the birds and the bees. It turned out to be a farmer’s guide. And even worse, the letters were all messed up on some of the words. If she skimmed and read fast, her mind kind of filled in the blanks and she understood a little bit. But her mind wasn’t working all that fast. It kept stalling, getting distracted by how absolutely pissed she was.

Of course she wasn’t pissed, she was hurt. But pissed was a lot easier to pull off because she wasn’t going to walk around sniffling, and she’d be damned if she was going to lock herself in that bedroom for two days. So pissed  worked.

She hadn’t spoken to him all afternoon. She’d gone through the library looking at every publication date she could find. But she eventually gave up hope. She was, quite possibly, spending her holiday in 1806 Scotland and she wasn’t freaking out because it was the second best explanation if she was not being punked. It would be a relief, having so much explained and accounted for. And she had to admit, she would be relieved that Heathcliff wasn’t actually insane.

There were a lot of things it didn’t explain, though—like Angeline.

The girl knew American Sign Language.
American.
And it sure as hell wasn’t around in 1806. And the French version? Half of that made no sense in English. Was the girl from the future too?

Oh, wow. She was not even going to suggest that to Heathcliff. He was going to freak out enough if she ever came up with proof she was from 2012. And if the coachman showed up with her handbag...

Crap was going to hit the fan at midnight. She could feel it. And if she ended up in a different century, then there was no sense letting Heathcliff know how she felt about him. It would only make it harder on them both.

While she scoured the library, Laird Gorgeous had wandered around the castle holding Angeline’s hand. The child hadn’t seemed to notice there was anything wrong, so she continued with the silent treatment. In fact, she only spoke when it was time to put Angeline to bed. Since
Goodnight Moon
had become the girl’s favorite story, Bree recited it again from memory, then kissed the little girl and said goodnight.

McKinnon asked what a balloon was. She walked out of the room as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Sucks to be you,” she whispered as she headed for the stairs.

“I heard that.” He sounded so smug. What did he think, that if she spoke to him the silent treatment would end?

What an amateur.

* * *

“You forgot to turn the page,” he said, from his spot on the chaise. He’d turned the couch so it faced her, like he thought it would make her uncomfortable to know she was being watched. Silly man.

She was back in her gnawed-off jeans, a button-up shirt, and a cardigan. She knew that most of the time, he was just staring at the two inches of her calves that were visible above her rain boots. Apparently, showing flesh wasn’t proper. But she couldn’t just let him get away with staring at her all night.

She closed her book. He put a foot on the floor. What did he think, she was suddenly going to run out into the snow and disappear? She turned, so he could have a nice view of her profile while she stripped off the cardigan. She could hear him swallow from twelve feet away. Not giggling was the hardest thing she’d done all day.

She sat down again and opened her book. Flipped through a few pages as if she was trying to find her place, then settled in to read again.

“The book is upside down,” he said.

But it wasn’t. She just ignored him.

Did he think this was strip poker? That she’d shed another piece of clothing every time he caught her doing something dumb?

She turned her head and gave him the once over. Of course that’s what he thought! She snorted and went back to reading. He started fidgeting with his fingers.

“I’m sorry if my proposal frightened ye.”

She didn’t even blink.

“I am content to woo and win ye at a slower pace, if that would put ye at ease.”

She turned the page.

“I beg your forgiveness in any case.”

His brogue stirred her insides, so she decided to stir his. She put a toe to heel and pried off one boot. She could hear him breathing, feel him watching. She slipped it off, wiggled her toes, then took of the other. She straightened her ankle socks, then went back to reading.

“There is a large insect in yer hair,” he said.

Without looking at him, she leaned down, picked up a boot, and chucked it at him as hard as she could. Then she went back to reading. Words. She was pretty sure there were words on the page. She just couldn’t see them.

He jumped out of his seat. She jumped out of her skin. He ran toward her and she pulled up her leg in self-defense, than started slapping at him, doggy-paddle-style.

“Be still. I’ll remove it,” he grumbled, trying to stop her hands.

“Remove what?” she yelled.

“The insect, ye contrary, fractious woman!”

Bree screamed, then whimpered while trying to hold still enough for the creature to be caught.

“I have it,” McKinnon claimed, then stomped to the fire and tossed something in—or pretended to. He turned to her. “It was only a beetle. Ye were nay harmed.” He took a deep breath. Then another. “Ye are far too precious for me to allow ye to be harmed, lass.”

She realized that last part had nothing to do with the bug, and she suddenly felt herself falling to pieces. She was caught off guard, and the self-pity she loathed snuck in and took her by surprise. And she burst into tears like she had the first time he’d left her in the water closet.

He walked toward her, his hands out like he was walking up to a skittish horse, like he wanted to comfort her.

“Don’t touch me,” she said. She didn’t need his comfort.

He kept coming. She thought crying would have scared him away.

“I said, don’t touch me!”

Then he did. He tried to comb his fingers through her hair. She swatted at his hand, but it just came back. She jumped off the chair and started slapping him with both hands again.

Okay, so maybe she could have hit him harder, but she didn’t really want to hurt him. She just wanted him to stop touching her! She only had to get through one more day in this oversized loony bin and she could go home and forget about him. Forget about Scotland and the whole crazy nightmare. She just had to get through one more day! She just had to stay on her side of the room for 24 more hours.

She wiped her nose on her sleeve because she had nothing else. Then she slapped the tears from her cheeks and pointed at the chaise. “Get back on your side of the room and forget I’m here!”

He pulled her against his chest, trapping her hands between their bodies. Looking down into her face, he whispered, “I doona wish to forget, lass. Heaven help me, but I doona.”

And there he was, stealing another kiss. He deserved to get his face wet.

His hand came up behind her head, to let her know that this time, it might take a while. As soon as he let up, she was going to argue with him, tell him to keep his lips to himself. But he didn’t let up for a good long while. And when he did, she forgot what she was going to say.

He scooped up her legs and carried her back to the chaise.

Oh, boy was he going to be disappointed when she told him
no.
Her dates usually were. Some even got pretty pissed, but she’d already dealt with McKinnon’s angry side. He wasn’t such a badass.

He laid her on the velvet, then sat down and kicked off his boots.

She opened her mouth to tell him he might not want to bother, but he laid a finger across her lips. The gentle touch felt like another kiss and when he removed it, she sat very still and waited for him to do it again.

This is so stupid...

...feeling so silly, losing the ability to think about anything but kissing the man, and having him kiss her back. But somehow, years before, she’d been able to get her brain programmed to say
no
, no matter what her body was thinking—or rather, wasn’t.

Man, was he going to be disappointed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They’d wasted time—precious time. They’d had an entire week, now they had but a night and a day.

Heathcliff tossed his second boot aside and reclined next to Brianna, trapping her between himself and the high end of the lounge. Protecting her from the heat of the fire, but determined to keep her warm just the same.

Behind the fog of passion, there was a wary look in her eyes that told him she would not lie with him willingly. He wished she knew him well enough to trust him, but she would soon enough.

Did he know her enough to trust her? Of course he did. She’d been in his keeping for over a week and except for that business in his room, she’d never behaved as a sneak thief. He trusted her with Angeline, so he could trust her with anything. Even his heart.

He rolled toward her, pressing his body against her, and just as expected, her hand came up to his chest, not in a caress, but in order to stop him. But he would woo her with words, not kisses. She already knew, from their Christmas kiss, they were well matched.

He scooted back one inch, then two, but no more before he decided a kiss was a grand way to start the conversation. She must have thought the same as she gifted him with a wee smile just before their mouths met.

The press of her hand lightened, but he moved no closer. Moments later, an eternity cut short, he ended the kiss and rolled onto his back, pulling her to his chest as if he’d just finished claiming her for his own.

“So,” he said, his voice gruff in his own ears. “Tell me of this Heathcliff and Catherine.”

“Wuthering Heights,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “The book, it’s called Wuthering Heights.”

“Will ye tell me that tale?”

She took a deep breath and relaxed against him. Even she couldn’t deny they fit perfectly.

“I’ll try. I mean, it’s basically a love story.”

Her fingers began drawing invisible lines on his shirtfront, weaving around the buttons, numbing his skin and setting it afire at the same time. He had to struggle to listen to the telling.

“Mr. Earnshaw finds this boy, named Heathcliff, living on the streets and brings him to his country home. The guy’s son gets really jealous. Heathcliff and the daughter, Catherine, become good friends. When the dad dies, the son, now the master of the house, starts treating Heathcliff like a servant and makes him start working in the fields and stuff. But Catherine doesn’t seem to mind that he’s no longer her equal, and he loves her for that.

“The complications start when Catherine gets hurt and ends up staying at a neighbor’s house while she recuperates. While she’s there, she starts learning how to act like a lady, and she turns into a bit of a snob. Then, when she goes back home, she starts treating Heathcliff badly, which was really mean of her since he’s been going out of his  mind worrying about her and getting jealous of the neighbor, who also likes Catherine.

“So of course, Heathcliff turns mean.”

She paused in her telling, and Heathcliff wondered if she was making some connection between his own terrible treatment of her and the actions of this fictitious Heathcliff. No doubt she worried that he might revert to that distrusting ogre she’d met when she arrived.

“There is no excuse for such behavior,” he said.

“Oh, but there was.” She paused again. Was she trying to tell him that she understood and forgave him?

“To which Heathcliff do you refer, Brianna?”

He stilled his muscles, resisting the urge to squeeze her tighter to him, to influence her answer.

“Get over yourself. Do you want to hear this story or not?”

“The story, if you please. We can discuss our own story afterward.”

Our own story
. He liked the sound of that, nearly spoke the words aloud again, but bit his tongue and waited for her to remember where she’d left off.

“Well, Catherine got meaner too. She decided Heathcliff was below her, so she married the neighbor. Heathcliff was in hell. Catherine died in childbirth—”

“This is what ye call a love story?”

“Well, I didn’t say it was a fairy tale,” she said. “But it didn’t end there. Catherine haunted Heathcliff after she died. She haunted the moors, where they used to play.”

He snorted. “Not terribly romantic. I do not care for this woman. If she’d but married Heathcliff, she may not have died in child bed. God punished her for punishing him. Make that a lesson to ye, lass. Never think to punish anyone named Heathcliff.”

She laughed and her tickling fingers stopped. He was both relieved and disappointed.

“But tell me, Brianna, what is so romantic about this tale?”

“Well.” She drew the word out and left him anxiously awaiting her next words. “I guess Catherine wasn’t a terribly romantic character. Not really bright. Or maybe the writer didn’t want us to like her very much. But Heathcliff’s love for her was...intense, consuming. It ruled every decision he made. When she said he wasn’t good enough, he ran off and made himself a success. When she was mean to him, he was mean to everyone else, but only because his heart was broken. He couldn’t see straight. Completely not his fault. He just had poor taste in women.

“But in the end, when he died, he was reaching out for her ghost. He froze to death, or died of a broken heart, begging her ghost to come haunt him. And after he was buried next to her, their ghosts ran around on the moors, together.”

She sighed.

“I believe I would prefer a fairy tale. Could you not recite one of those? I would end this night with something cheerful on my mind. I dare say it would be a fine change.”

“You don’t usually have something cheerful on your mind when you go to bed?”

“The onerous life of the laird of the manor, and some such. I don’t usually have someone else to speak with in the evening. I would make the most of it, ye ken?”

“Oh,” she said, and perhaps the disappointment he heard was of his own making. “Well, I guess I can stay up and talk for a while.”