He moved slightly against her hand. She thought itwas a shake of the head, but then he said, “I have long assumed that Rothgar was behind this plan, and that Molly was his puppet. The plan had a suitably devious design. If I succumbed, then I would end up married to a woman I had come to dislike, accepting as my child, possibly my heir, a baby who wasn’t mine. If I resisted, I would offend the king, perhaps even to the point of being cast into the darkness, from where I could trouble Rothgar no more. I came here prepared to force him to right the wrong.”
“With what?”
“That, Genova, you do not want to know.”
“The mistletoe bough?” she asked, wishing he’d tell her. When he stayed silent, she said, “And if he had nothing to do with it?”
“Then I need to get my hands on Molly Carew.”
“Until then?”
He touched his nose to hers. “Enjoy Christmas. Try to understand my cousin more. Test the air. Be betrothed to you…. So, Genova Smith, what do you think of me now?”
She cradled his head in both hands. “I think you are an honest man, Ash, and there is nothing more noble than that.”
She kissed him, turning her head to find just the right angle, exploring and tasting as if for the first time. The passion was there, the passion that had burned from the first, but their new closeness was more powerful than showy flames and sparks. It glowed in the deeps, under control.
Then denying that belief, her whole body clenched, a shaft of need piercing her. He murmured, “Genova,” and pressed closer, a hand claiming a breast through cloth and stays.
She teetered, trembling, then found strength to put a hand to his chest and push. “No, Ash, don’t. Please….” He stilled, and she added, “It’s not because I don’t want it.”
He laughed shakily. “I know that, love.”
He straightened, restoring her shawl, breathing as deeply as she. His hands lingered near her breasts as he gathered the shawl together there.
They had talked at length and in depth, and he had revealed himself to her as to no other woman, she was sure, but he had been honest about everything, including his belief that he could not marry her.
Whatever she did about that, she needed to end this encounter. “I’m cold,” she lied. “Time to go inside.”
He didn’t protest, but opened the door for her.
The once chilly hall seemed hot in a way the glowing Yule log couldn’t explain. Brandy, spices, and oranges played games with Genova’s senses, and merry music spilled out from the magical ballroom.
He took her hand and led her across the hall and up to the doors. “The night is young,” he said softly. “We can dance.”
Through the doors, Genova saw illusion. Cottages with cozily lit windows nestled among trees at the base of glittering mountains. Couples danced and laughed beneath the great chandelier. If she stepped in there, she knew, she was lost.
“I’m ready for bed.”
Wrong words! Wrong words!
She saw him register them and let them pass, but he raised her left hand and kissed her knuckles by the ring.
She pulled free. “I wish you hadn’t given me this.”
“It seemed a necessary part of the play.”
“It’s wrong.”
“Cast away scruples. There’s no reverence attached. That ring was my mother’s. She wore it under protest and abandoned it when she left. When you reject me, you can keep it. In fact, why not put it to the baby’s care.”
She saw the implications of that. “No more kisses?”
“It seems safer. Remember, Genova, I’m not a saint.” He kissed her hand. “Good night, my dear, and may Christmas bring you joy.”
Genova looked down at the quiet hall, where theYule log burned steadily and thepresepesat beside it, in pride of place as it was meant to be. She hadn’t made her wish on thepresepe, or on the Christmas Star.
There were many things she could wish for, but one spilled out and would not be denied.Let this man find peace and joy, and strength to be the man he’s meant to be.
