Twelve Kisses to Midnight: A Novella (The Oxenburg Princes) by Karen Hawkins
He tossed his shirt aside, and her breath left her in a whoosh as she saw his broad shoulders and the muscled lines of his broad chest. But even more intriguing was his stomach, rock hard and flat, with the crisp curls that covered his chest narrowing to a thin trail that thinned down his stomach and disappeared under the band of his breeches.
The coolness of the room faded, replaced with an inner heat that stole her breath and muddled her thinking. She wanted him so badly, her body ached with need. But he’s made it plain he does not wish to tread that path.
Afraid she might reveal herself should he look her way, she turned and hurried to the door. “I must go.”
“Go?” Marcus’s voice deepened with surprise. “Where?”
“Downstairs.” Now. Before I do or say something I shouldn’t.
“Nonsense. Stay here and try on the gown. I will leave and you can have the room to—”
“I’ll try it later. I-I-I’ll wish to bathe first, which will take more time than I have now.”
“Time? We have plenty of that. I’ll—”
“Perhaps later, thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you downstairs.” She hurried out to the landing, dashed down the stairs, threw open the door to the sitting room, and then closed it behind her. Leaning against the door, she pressed her cheek to the cool panel and waited for her breath to slow.
Chapter Seven
An hour and a half later, Kenna stabbed the needle into the embroidery pattern. She’d been fortunate to find both another hoop and several other patterns in the basket; otherwise she’d have had nothing to do.
Marcus hadn’t returned to the sitting room since her awkward flight, and she was glad. It gave her time to think of a reason to explain her actions: she’d tell him she’d felt ill from the stew. That was certainly believable. She even practiced the telling of it, looking at herself in the mirror to make sure she appeared sufficiently distressed.
But Marcus hadn’t granted her the opportunity to perform; he’d left her alone as the sun outside slowly slid out of sight.
What is he doing? She eyed the closed door curiously. Immediately after she’d retreated to the sitting room, she’d heard him make his way to the kitchen, where he’d stayed for almost half an hour. After that, she heard him walking back up the steps, and then—a very short time later—back down to the kitchen. That had happened a dozen times or more. What was he up to? Perhaps he was avoiding her, too?
She frowned, a bit miffed. Should she find out what he was doing? Join him in the kitchen, under the pretense of wanting something to eat? But no, that might seem as if she were trying to woo him. She wasn’t, of course. Their relationship was over; he’d made that abundantly clear. She was just . . . curious. Yes, curious.
She sighed, her breath fluttering the thread in her unused needle. Perhaps he merely wished for some time alone. Perhaps he finds the situation as difficult as I do. It’s so awkward.
She stabbed at her embroidery as she heard his tread upon the stairs yet again. It was truly an agony, being so close to him but separated. He was a man made for touching, and she was realizing how, over the years, she’d missed that aspect of their relationship. Her lips still tingled at the thought of tracing his jaw with kisses, of sliding her hands over his flat, firm stomach, of the heat of his skin against hers—None of which will happen if I sit here like a lump on a log and wait. I must make an effort if I wish this relationship to—She wasn’t sure what she wished their relationship to do. Certainly she’d like to be friends. But if she were honest, she wanted more, too. She wanted to move past this frosted, awkward friendship (if it could be called that) and rekindle the passion they’d always had. Marcus said passion isn’t enough, but it’s a beginning. And perhaps all we need is another one of those.
She put down her embroidery and stood just as the door opened, and Marcus strolled in. His coat was gone, his fresh shirt unlaced to reveal his throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing his powerful forearms.
She hurried to sit back down, snatching up her embroidery and pretended great interest in the stitches, few as they were.
He walked to the fire, clasping his hands behind him as he faced her, his gray eyes shadowed by his lashes. “I see you found another embroidery hoop.”
“There were several in the basket, as well as more patterns.”
“I’m glad I dinna deprive you of your needlework.”
“No, I have plenty to do.” I just wish I were kissing you instead of embroidering. “I heard you go to the kitchen. Did you have supper?”
“Nae. I ate an apple, but I was too busy to eat more.”
“Busy doing what?”
“I was heating water. You said you wished for a bath, so I drew one for you.”
“You . . . for me?” She blinked. “All those trips up and down the stairs . . . you were carrying heated water.” She was so surprised, her voice squeaked on the last word.
Marcus decided to ignore her obvious shock. He sat in a chair by the fire, stretching his legs out toward the warmth, feeling oddly pleased with himself.
“You heated the water and filled the tub all by yourself?”
She still looked astonished, and some of his delight diminished. “Of course I did it by myself. Who else is here?”
“I know, I just . . . I didn’t imagine you’d—” She caught his scowl and flushed. “I’m sorry. It was very kind of you. Thank you.”
“It was, wasna it?” he agreed, trying not to feel slighted. Did our previous relationship so marr her opinion of me that she doesn’t believe me capable of even a small show of good will? Bloody hell, I hope not. “Your bath is ready, so go and use it. It willna stay warm for long.”
“A warm bath . . . I—I—Thank you.”
Her voice was warm with gratitude and his earlier pleasure returned. “You’re welcome.”
She put her embroidery away, her face aglow with anticipation. She stood and moved to the door. She’d just placed her hand on the knob, when she stopped and stood still. After a second’s hesitation, she looked back. “You have been very thoughtful. I—I—” She wet her lips. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”
He went still, his ears unwilling to accept what he’d just heard.
She flushed, smoothing the palm of her hand on her skirt. “It . . . it is a large tub.”
He managed a nod. It was a large tub.
“If we wished, we could easily fit in it together.” She peeped at him through her lashes, uncertainty and hope mingled on her face. “You and I.”
Dear God, I’m so tempted. Every fiber of him hummed with yearning and desire. The image of the two of them in the tub burned through his mind, a vision of wet skin and her full breasts rising from the steaming water. His hands sliding across her lush hips and more.
He was clasping the arms of his chair so tightly, his fingers were growing numb. This is how it began before—a glance and a smile, a suggestion followed by a touch, fueling a desire that became impossible to quench. If I go with her we will consummate our relationship again—and when we part this time, what will be the cost?
For part they would. They had spent two days together, snowbound in this small cottage, and still they hadn’t fully addressed their past. Either he was unwilling, or she was. We avoid what we know will pain us. What we know is unanswerable.
She’d changed, yes, but not enough. She still looked anxious when she mentioned her father, still ran from honest discussion. Worse, he himself was guilty of the same. Neither of us is capable of following this to a good conclusion. We are both too flawed.
He met her gaze and saw her longing and the faintest flicker of hope. Drawing strength from the simple knowledge that he was right, he yanked his gaze from her and turned them instead to his boots. “Nay, lass. ’Tis best if you bathe alone.”
Even to him, who burned with his own desire, the words sounded cold and disinterested.
He heard her swallow, and then there was a click as she ope
He listened as she climbed the stairs, holding his breath until he heard the bedchamber door close. “You’re welcome,” he whispered back, his heart aching anew.
♦ ♦ ♦
An hour later, washed and wearing the altered gown, Kenna descended the stairs. The blue gown was almost the right length, but the bodice was a touch tight across her breasts. She’d combed her hair beside the fire in the bedchamber for the better part of half an hour, but she’d grown bored before it had dried, so it hung damp about her shoulders, loosened from its pins, a chestnut brown mass of curls.
The bath had been heavenly; the hot water had soothed her pained soul. She would never understand Marcus. One moment, he looked at her as if he would devour her whole. The next, he rejected her without a bit of care.
Her face burned to think of it. She was done hoping, wishing, wanting, and not succeeding. He’d managed to make her realize the hopelessness of their situation, and for that she could only be grateful. Still, they must talk. And in that talk, they had to face their histories, their faults, and their shortcomings. It would not solve anything, it was too late for that; it might even make things worse. But it had to be done. Once they were gone from this place, they would melt back into the patterns of their lives and might never cross paths again.
She paused outside the sitting-room door, her hand resting on the knob. What would she say? Would he even listen?
She dropped her hand to her side. It was one thing to know an unpleasant task was at hand, and another to gather the courage and face it. Just get it over with. March inside and tell him it is time to put our ghosts to rest. And yet the door remained closed.
When her stomach rumbled noisily, she almost sighed with relief. Of course they needed supper first; neither of them could discuss anything while hungry and ill-tempered. Filled with purpose, she turned on her heel and hurried to the kitchen.
A half hour later, she returned with a repast. It took all of her balancing skill to open the door while carrying the heavy tray, but she managed, shoving it closed with her hip.
Still in his chair, Marcus made no move upon her entry. She carried the tray to the small table where they’d had lunch and, fixing a pleasant smile on her face, turned to him. “Marcus, come and e—”
He was asleep, his head resting against the high back of the chair, his legs still stretched to the fire. He looked so peaceful, his thick lashes resting on the crests of his cheeks, his hands open and relaxed on the chair arms. Between chopping wood and fetching water up and down the stairs, he’d had an exhausting day.
She crossed to where he sat and watched as the firelight caressed the planes of his face and the strong brown column of his neck. A dark bruise could barely be seen under the fall of his hair over his temple, a remanent of the accident that had stranded him here.
Her fingers itched to smooth his hair from his brow, but she curled her fingers closed and kept her distance. She’d leave him to rest. Unwilling to examine the emotions roiling through her heart and mind, she turned away, went to the table, and sat down to eat. She’d brought more of the ham and bread they’d had for their luncheon. For variety, she’d sliced some of the small apples, obviously a recent gift from someone’s greenhouse. She’d also made tea, so she filled her teacup with the steaming brew. She ate quietly, watching Marcus as she did so. She’d just finished and had reached for the teapot when—thump!—a branch landed on the roof.
Marcus sat straight up, his gaze locked on the ceiling.
Kenna poured her tea, her cup rattling against the saucer.
Marcus turned her way, blinking. His gaze flickered to her damp hair, and down to her mouth, her shoulders, and finally to where the blue gown stretched across her breasts.
She held her breath, waiting, hoping.
He flushed and looked away. “Damn tree limbs.” He rubbed his eyes. “That was startling.” He gazed past her to the table. “It seems I missed supper.”
“Your plate is here.” She pointed to it. “Should I pour you some tea?”
“Nae, thank you. But I will have some ham.” He stood and stretched, rubbing his shoulder before he came to sit at the table. Soon he was eating, his gray gaze flickering over her and then away, only to return a moment later.
She sipped her tea, trying to think of a way to start a conversation, but none came. He was quiet this evening, and because of that, so was she.
He finished his supper and then stood, wincing.
“You are sore from all of your tasks,” she said.
“Verrah.” He collected the dishes and placed them on the tray, then threw his napkin over them. “ ’Tis time for bed.”
She put down her cup. “I’ll sleep here, on the settee.”
“We canna keep a fire burning in two rooms—nae withoot one of us losing sleep. We will sleep in the master bedchamber. I will take the settee, and you will have the bed.”
“You won’t fit on that settee. It’s half the size of this one.”
“It’ll be better than the floor, which is what I had last night.”
“Hm. We’ll see.” She put down her teacup, wiped her hands on her napkin, and picked up the tray.
He frowned. “Leave that until morning.”
“I’d rather do it now.” She carried the tray to the door. “We will need extra blankets; ’tis blowing icy cold and the windows leak cold air with each rattle.”
“There were some blankets in the trunk at the foot of the bed. I’ll set them oot.” He opened the door for her, his gaze dark and questioning.
She wished she knew how to answer that look. She was the one with questions, not him. She’d put all of her wants and desires upon the table, and he’d rejected them, and her. If anyone had the right to toss out questioning looks, it wasn’t Marcus.
Muttering to herself, she returned to the kitchen. It took her longer to wash and put away their dishes than she expected, so when she finally made her way to the bedchamber, almost forty minutes had passed.
She entered the room, where the crackling fire provided the only light. There were extra blankets piled upon the bed, but there would be no further discussions, for Marcus was already asleep, draped over the settee, his boots sitting side by side before the fire.
She tiptoed past him, pausing to look at his sleeping face. He’d taken off his shirt but had left on his breeches. A blanket covered his chest but left his broad shoulders and muscular arms exposed, his tanned skin warmed by the flickering firelight. One leg was draped over the end of the small settee, while the other was stretched out straight, his stockinged heel upon the floor.
A log in the fire fell to one side, pulling her gaze away from Marcus. The fire would die down over the night, but he’d stoked it enough that there would still be coals when they awoke in the morning. Still, as the fire diminished the room would cool, and he’d given himself only one blanket.
She crossed to the bed and picked up two more blankets. She carried them to the settee, unfolded them, and covered him from neck to feet. As she did, her knuckles brushed the stubble on his chin, a hot tingle shooting up her arm.
She yanked her hand away, her heart careening wildly at the innocent touch as she stared at him. She’d once loved this man and had planned to include him in every aspect of her life. What had happened to them? What had gone so awry that they’d stormed away, neither willing to admit their fault? Perhaps they’d just been too young, too foolish? Or had it been pride?
Kenna slowly reached out and brushed her fingers over his firm jaw.
He murmured in his sleep, his lips parting, though he didn’t move.
Encouraged, she did it again, letting his whiskers tickle her fingertips before she slid them along his jaw to his neck where his damp hair curled. He must have washed before going to sleep, for she caught the the fresh scent of soap. Even though he’d made it abundantly clear that there was no room for her in his life
Sadly, the settee was barely large enough for Marcus, much less the two of them. Sighing, she straightened and went to the wardrobe, where she collected a night rail of fine lawn and went behind the screen to dress. Then, with a final glance at Marcus, she made her way to the huge empty bed, shivering as she climbed between the cold sheets, dismally aware of the emptiness that surrounded her.
♦ ♦ ♦
The piercing light of the morning sun pulled Marcus from a deep sleep. He frowned and tried to turn over, almost falling off the settee in the process. He caught himself in the nick of time, planting a foot firmly on the floor to maintain his balance, tangled in an amazing number of blankets.
Muttering curses under his breath, he kicked off the blankets, grasped the back of the settee, and pulled himself upright, assailed with sore muscles, a stiff back, and a stomach that growled hungrily. He couldn’t have felt worse if he’d drunk himself blind the night before.
Tick. Tick. Tick. He scowled at the clock on the mantel, but it had stopped. Where’s that sound coming from? He glared around the room, his gaze finally finding the window. A large icicle hung outside, water dripping from its tip. The snow is melting. And quickly, from the looks of it. He leaned back against the settee, feeling like a sail that had lost the wind.
They would be rescued soon. Certainly sometime today. That should cheer me up, shouldn’t it? But it didn’t. Instead, he found himself gritting his teeth as, with a kick at the blanket about his feet, he stood.
His back protested the movement. Kenna had been right; he didn’t fit on the settee. He turned to look at the bed, but it was empty, a small indention showing where she had slept. She was so tiny and the bed so big. She was lost in that huge bed. And I let her be.
Irritated anew, he crossed to the washstand and splashed cold water on his face, then met his gaze in the mirror. His face was shadowed with the beginning of a beard, and he rubbed his chin with a sigh. Back to civilization.