There were two other circumstances for which he was grateful: the first being their sleigh’s position at the rear of the convoy, and the second, the absence of Miss Harris’s watchful eye. For when Jonathan came to, he found his arm around Claire’s shoulders and her head tucked under his chin—an arrangement which, had she observed it, Miss Harris would have found tremendously interesting.
If it were happening in reality, that was. Perhaps Jonathan was still asleep. Having Claire back in his arms felt more like a dream than real life. Especially when she awakened shortly after him, blinking up at him, their faces just inches apart.
And when her lips curved in a sleepy, contented smile.
And when he raised a hand to her silky cheek, grazing his thumb over her full lower lip. And watched the drowsy look fade from her amethyst eyes, driven out by the same flare he’d seen last night.
Then they were kissing, and though he didn’t know who had started it, that didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was the feel of her, the taste of her, the essence of her. The heat and the sweetness and softness and rightness…
More, was his only coherent thought as he crushed her to him. The kiss turned frantic as his hands roved with purpose, frustrated by all the bulky layers that were keeping them from her. She plunged her own hands into his hair, dislodging his hat, while he worked his way beneath her blanket, inside her cloak, ripping off his gloves to get at the buttons of her pelisse. More…
The clatter of hooves upon the drawbridge broke the spell.
They sprang apart, tidying themselves as the sleigh passed through the gateway to circle the carriage sweep. Finding he’d lost his hat and one glove, Jonathan stuffed the other in his pocket and seized the reins. After doing up her buttons, Claire raised her muffler to hide her telltale rosy lips.
Though a footman materialized to assist the lady, Jonathan insisted on handing her down himself. And if, once Claire had descended, their hands failed to separate, either nobody noticed or those who did refrained from remarking.
They stood shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip as another footman approached, proffering a tray of mugs. They were full of something that steamed and smelled like Christmas. Jonathan accepted a pair and raised his to Claire, who stifled laughter as they clinked in a silent toast.
He held her gaze, drinking deeply. With a good deal of spice and a delicious heat, the drink thawed him from the inside out. He drained the whole mug.
When he called the footman back for another, Claire grinned. “You like my mother’s wassail?”
“I demand the recipe.” He clinked his second cup with hers.
“I’m afraid it’s a family recipe.” Her smile curled at one end. “Not to be shared with outsiders, you know.”
“Ah. That does present a difficulty.” Feigning contemplation, he rubbed his cheek, then his chin. “If only one could join this very exclusive, secretive family…”
“An intriguing thought. I suppose there might be one way. But you may have—horsefeathers!”
“Pardon?” Laughing, Jonathan paused in scratching his chin. “I may have horsefeathers?”
“Jonathan!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Your face! It’s all red and—” She broke off, her own face turning white.
“Is it? Probably chapped from the wind.” Absently he searched for a place to set his cup—until she snatched it from his hand. “Oh—er—thank you. I just must reach this spot on my elbow…” And slipping one hand up the opposite coat sleeve, he began to scratch furiously.
“I think you should sit down,” she said in a tremulous voice.
Though now distracted by an itch inside his waistcoat, he observed her in some alarm. “Perhaps you should sit down; you look distraught. May I ask—oh—confound it?—”
In fumbling with a waistcoat button, he caught sight of his hands—the backs of which were covered with angry red splotches. Though new itches continued erupting all over his body, he suddenly couldn’t attend to a single one.
Slowly, his gaze moved from his hands up to her guilt-ridden face. “Claire,” he said with deadly control, “did you add citrus to the wassail?”
“No!” she cried. “I mean, yes, there’s orange in the recipe, but—argh!” In her fluster, she’d splashed all the remaining wassail down her front.
Regarding her with disbelief, he offered a handkerchief. “I don’t understand how you could do something like this. The Claire I knew would never?—”
“I didn’t! That is, I didn’t mean for—” Appearing near tears as she frantically searched for a place to deposit the cups, she finally dumped them in the snow and, snatching the handkerchief, began to mop the red stain that was spreading on her dress.
“Even if you meant to call it off,” he told her tersely, “that seems small consolation. The fact you ever planned—or sanctioned Elizabeth’s plan—for so malicious a trick cannot but make me question?—”
“We didn’t plan it! This wasn’t one of our tricks—I swear!—but just a mistake. Monsieur Laurent was to make you a special batch without any orange. I don’t know how he failed to—oh!” She crumpled the handkerchief in her fist. “Oh, no. Oh, piffle, it was my fault. I cancelled your special menu, but forgot to omit…” She trailed off into an anguished groan. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”
