Page 60 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

It was a sweet caress, and for a second time tonight, there was a tenderness in his response that reignited the small ray of hope inside her. Ever so slowly, their kiss deepened into something more passionate, and when he lifted his head to stare down at her, desire blazed in his dark blue eyes.

“You go to my head, Aphrodite.”

“Do I?” she replied as a giddy sensation fluttered through her. She offered him a teasing smile, while an odd look swept across his face. It was almost as if he wanted to say something, but was uncertain about doing so.

“I think the best way to answer that question is to show you,” Atticus said in a husky voice.

His head dropped downward, and he kissed her again. This time, his caress was hot and demanding. It lit a matching hunger in Octavia, and she responded to him with her entire being, each kiss she shared with him a silent declaration of love.

Chapter 17

Brilliant sunshine bounced off the snow-covered ground, making Atticus wish he had the wide brim Stetson hat he’d brought back with him to England. Not only was it comfortable to wear, but it shielded one’s eyes from the glaring sun. Despite the bright sunshine, the temperature was bitter, and his hands were stiff from the cold.

Camulos and Napoleon appeared indifferent to the icy weather as the animals pulled the two-seater sleigh that had been tucked away inside the small barn behind Octavia’s cottage. Atticus was grateful they weren’t riding on horseback. It would have been much colder. While his hands were cold, the rest of him was quite warm given the heavy layer of blankets covering the lower half of his body.

Seated in the sleigh beside him, Octavia had barely spoken more than three words since they’d left the cottage almost four hours ago. In fact, she’d spoken very little from the moment he’d awoken her for breakfast. He’d risen early to pack his painting of Octavia without her seeing it. Instinct told him that if he needed definitive proof to convince Octavia of his love for her, it was the painting. Leaving it behind had been out of the question.

Atticus knew they couldn’t be far from Stapleton Hall, and Octavia’s silence was beginning to feel ominous. Last night, they’d done more than make love, they’d talked and laughed with ease, as if they’d known each other for years. And every time he’d claimed Octavia’s body, there had been a sense of completeness about the act.

But today, she’d wrapped herself up in the same invisible coat of protective armor she’d worn the night he'd rescued her from the rose bushes. He knew it was self-preservation on her part, but the question was, what was she afraid of? A small tremor vibrated off of Octavia, and Atticus glanced at her. Clearing his throat, he kept his eyes focused on the horses.

“Are you cold? I don’t think we’re far from the Hall. You’ll be in front of a roaring fire soon.” The warmth of his breath collided with the icy air to form a white cloud in front of his mouth.

“No, I’m not cold. Thank you for asking,” she replied, her voice soft and polite. She did little more than glance at him before returning her attention to the thick snow covering the road. Teeth clenched with angry frustration, Atticus suppressed an oath.

“What the devil is wrong with you today?” At his harsh tone, Octavia shot him a startled look.

“What? I’m fine.” A frown furrowed her brow. “Why do you think something is wrong?”

“Because you’ve barely said a word to me today.”

“I have had nothing to say.” Exasperation filled her voice, but there was another indistinguishable emotion running beneath her annoyance.

“Nothing? Not even about last night?”

The question was met with silence, and a bolt of fear slid through Atticus. Christ Jesus, did she intend on convincing her father to say she shouldn’t marry him? His mouth tightened at the thought. No, it would be a wintry day in hell before he allowed her to manipulate the situation. He’d make certain he spoke with her father before she did.

Atticus allowed the silence to stretch out between them before he gave a slight tug to the reins to reduce the pace of the horses. She turned her head toward him with a look of surprise.

“Why are you slowing down?”

“Because I can’t drive and look at you at the same time, and I want you to know I plan to speak to your father as soon as we arrive at the Hall.”

“As soon as we arrive?” Octavia arched her eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, I intend to ask him to decide as to my suitability to become your husband before the evening is out.”

“With regard to our bargain, you mean,” she mused with a quiet serenity that sounded almost indifferent.

“If you’ll recall, we agreed to abide by your father’s determination as to my suitability as a husband.”

“Since I’m the one who made it a condition of our arrangement, it’s a point I would find rather difficult to forget.”

The irony in her quiet reply was softened by a note of amusement in her voice. But there was another emotion layered beneath her words, and Atticus stiffened. Was that resignation he heard in her voice? His heart thudded painfully in his chest.

“Christ Jesus, Octavia, marrying me isn’t a death sentence.”

“That’s rather an extreme analogy, don’t you think?” This time, the laughter in her voice was blatant, and Atticus turned his head to glare at her.