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She felt his hand at her waist, the other cup her neck as his thumb caressed her chin. The kiss grew deeper, stealing her breath and her reason. Desire flowed through her veins like warm honey, sweet as the taste. Amalie shuddered, lost in the feelings she had only dreamed about.
He released her and peered into her eyes as if looking for something he desperately sought.
“What is it you want?” she gasped without thinking. “Tell me…show me.”
Her question might have been a dash of cold water. He sat back immediately, releasing her and moving away as if she’d suddenly screamed for help.
“Nothing,” he said, his voice curt. “For a moment, I lost my head. I haven’t kissed a woman in a very long time and here you were.”
“Where you put me!” she snapped. “So any woman would have done, I suppose.”
He cleared his throat and avoided looking at her.
“We kissed by the stairs. Have you forgotten that so soon?” She hadn’t, that was for certain. The feel of his lips on hers had disturbed her sleep and a great portion of her waking moments.
He did look at her then. “I didn’t forget it, but it was you who kissed me if you recall. This was my doing.” His voice was soft with a touch of regret. “You’re not entirely safe with me, you know. Everything about me works but one knee. It would be wise of us to have a care or we could find ourselves wed for good and all.”
“What? How else could we be wed? Surely you are not suggesting a silly handfast marriage such as you have in Scotland! That’s absurd! Not even legal here.”
At that, he smiled. “The custom is a bit frowned upon these days, even north of the border. Nay, I’d thought that once you recover the use of your legs, we could arrange an annulment. Unless we…you know.”
“Consummate the marriage?” Amalie asked bluntly.
He blushed. He actually blushed. Fancy that.
Oh, Lord. Amalie realized she was staring at him, shaking her head, giving him the impression she might want to…you know. Well, perhaps she did, but she would never admit as much to him.
It was only curiosity on her part, surely. She had only kissed two men before. Boys, really. She had never even entertained the thought of physical relations with them. But Napier had stirred something inside her that felt rather dangerous and very enticing. Damn him for it!
She tore her gaze from his. “Fine. If that is what you wish, so be it.” How much plainer could he make the fact that he could never want her as a wife? “Would you leave?”
“Of course. I can be on my way directly after the wedding.”
She rolled her eyes. “I meant immediately. Leave the room.” If he did not, she feared she would grab the nearest heavy object, like the marble lamp on the side table, and brain him with it.
Alex snatched up his crutch and hopped over to retrieve the other one. If he had learned anything in his twenty-eight years, it was that a woman in a snit was best left alone. He couldn’t figure what he had done to make her so angry. He was the one suffering for the restraint, not her.
Michael obviously hadn’t discussed the idea of an annulment with her. Once she’d had time to digest it, she would see it was for the best.
He swung the crutches forward a step, loving the feel of being upright whenever and however long he wanted and not having to balance on one foot to do so. If only he could devise a brace of some kind to make his knee stable, he could probably manage a cane. “I’ll find a way,” he muttered under his breath.
Alex had just cleared the doorway of the parlor when he saw her.
“I daresay you will manage,” Mother MacTavish said, her tone bitter. “But for her sake, you should not.”
Alex was so shocked he couldn’t speak.
“Yes, I saw you kiss her. And I just heard you declare you’d find a way,” she declared. “If the girl is fool enough to wed you, she should know what to expect! You have no thought for anyone but yourself and your pleasure! She is a cripple, Alexander. Will you thoughtlessly get her with child?”
He saw the tears in her eyes and knew she spoke mostly out of grief for Olivia. She obviously had not overheard their conversation, only his last utterance and had misinterpreted that. But even so…“This is none of your affair, madame.”
“No? You plan to marry this girl and take David from me to live with you. Of course it’s my affair! I live for that child since you destroyed the only one I had!”
“I loved Olivia, too, you know.”
“Yes, all too well, unfortunately!” she exclaimed. “And yet far too little.” She turned on her heel and marched off down the hallway, leaving him alone to stew in his remorse.
He glanced back into the parlor. Amalie had turned, facing him with a look of compassion. “That was so unfair,” she said. “So undeserved.”
Alex couldn’t answer. In his mind he knew he had done everything within his power to save his wife, but it had not been enough. The fact remained, he had been the cause of Olivia’s travail. Without the stress of childbirth, she would still be alive. He had always loved and wanted Olivia, had adored her first as a friend, then as a husband and lover. Theirs had been a comfortable and expected union, a match both had welcomed and treasured. But his feelings for Amalie were keener, more intense. Somehow deeper despite their brevity.
And here was another young woman, one he desired even more than he had Olivia and deserved even less. Amalie was not ambulatory, her strength depleted by so many months of lassitude. She should not be put at risk of a pregnancy in her condition and he would see she was not.
He needed to think. Obviously, Amalie wanted to wed and expected a real marriage to ensue. Maybe she thought his was the only offer she would ever receive, given her belief that she’d never walk again. If he simply refused to marry her and left things as they were, who would change that belief? She would remain a cripple all her life and that would be his fault.
They must marry. And he must somehow convince her to keep their union platonic.
Amalie puffed out a breath of frustration. What was she to do about Napier and his dratted guilt? Mrs. MacTavish seemed determined to keep it at the forefront of his mind. For some reason, the woman had not yet poisoned his little son’s opinion of the father, though. One would think she would have done so at every opportunity.
Her mother chose that moment to enter the parlor. She carried several swatches of fabric with her and sat down beside Amalie, plopping the samples in her lap. “Which do you think for your gown, my dear? Should it be the pale blue—a color that will surely enhance your eyes—or the yellow to highlight your hair?”
The dress didn’t signify, Amalie thought impatiently. What did it matter whether she made a beautiful bride or not? Napier would probably not notice in any event. “It doesn’t matter, Mama. Whatever you think.”
“I like the blue.” She glanced up from the swatches. “Are you afraid of him?”
The question jerked Amalie from her musing about Napier’s regard. “Afraid? Why ever should I be afraid of him? He’s a perfectly nice man!”
Her mother shrugged as she nervously fiddled with the fabrics. “For a Scot, I suppose. They are notorious for quick tempers. And Mrs. MacTavish has said he was overly…passionate. Before, you know, with her daughter. Your father and I shouldn’t like you to be exposed to such.”
Amalie coughed a short laugh of disbelief that her mother would even broach such a subject. “You and Father discussed this?”
“Of course we did! And he is not so set on the marriage as you suppose. Michael is adamant we go forth, however. I think he fair worships Captain Napier.”
Amalie figured it was time she asserted herself. For months now, she had decided on nothing for herself, letting the winds of life blow her whatever way they would. She had become the very kind of woman she had always pitied before. No more of that. If her life was to be her own, she must direct it.
“I will marry him, Mother, and you are not to worry.” She plucked one of the samples. “I choose the blue, a simple empire style, no embellishment, save a white lace frill at the neckline.”
Her mother frowned. “You are certain? About Napier, I mean.”
“I am certain. He is the one.”
That drew a small gasp. “I should have a talk with you before you’re wed. Your father says I should.”
Amalie patted her mother’s hand. “Unnecessary, I assure you.” Tempted as she was to see just how her mother would address the matters of the marriage bed, Amalie would spare her sensibilities. “I am well-read and observant, too.” She leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek. “And I will muddle through as all women do, I expect.”
She noted her mother’s frowning glance at her immobile legs and the slight shake of her head. Mama said nothing, but she was very obviously wondering how…
“Either we will manage or we won’t. As it stands now, Napier wishes our marriage to be in name only.”
And when that changes, Mama, Amalie thought to herself, you need never know it.
“In name only. My, what a relieving notion.” Satisfied, her mother kissed her cheek and left, humming a little tune. Amalie belatedly recognized it as the off-color song she had played as a poor jest to discombobulate them soon after her betrothal.
Perhaps Mama knew her better than she thought.
Well, Amalie realized if she meant to take charge of her life, there was no time like the present to begin. She envied Napier his mobility. She envied his determination. And she dearly wanted to prove him right about her own ability to walk.
Could she have given up too soon? The truth was, she had never felt she deserved a normal life after the tragedy that was her fault. If only she had not been so set on riding Morgana, the mare Father had warned her not to attempt.
She had made friends with the roan, had her taking sugar lumps and apples out of hand without biting. Amalie had even sat astride Morgana’s back without incident. It was only when she took her out of the enclosure that the poor thing had gone wild.
Then Jem, the stable lad she had known since their infancy, was trampled to death trying to keep the mare from attacking Amalie after she’d been thrown. And Father had ordered the beautiful Morgana put down.
Two needless deaths, Amalie thought with a sigh. Her fault entirely. Did she have the right to recover?
On the other hand, did she have the right not to make the most of her life in recompense for the loss of Jem’s?
She made her decision.
Carefully, Amalie did a half turn, braced her hands firmly on the arm of the settee and pushed herself up. She balanced, stiff, tense, afraid to breathe. But she had barely straightened fully when the muscles in her legs trembled and then, as if her bones turned to liquid, gave way. She fell back to the cushions with a solid thunk.
“So much for will and effort,” she grumbled under her breath. But in that all too brief second or two, she had felt almost whole again and she craved more.
Chapter Six
Plans marched forward for a wedding that would take place just after the holidays. The new year would mark the beginning of Amalie’s new life as a married lady. Mrs. MacTavish would stay on for the ceremony. Little David had been the deciding factor there. She would not leave without him and knew that Napier would not let him go.
Whatever the reason, Amalie was delighted the boy would be there. She grew fonder of the child every day. He was noisy, overactive and into constant scrapes just as her younger brother had been at that age.
It would be such a joy to have a little one about for the holidays. And afterward, too. Perhaps for good if she could convince Napier that they could manage him better than the grandmother.
If only her secret attempts to stand on her own, to eventually walk again, were more successful. Then they could have some semblance of a normal family life to offer David. She knew she would keep trying.
Each time she tried, she managed to balance upright for a few seconds longer. Almost a full minute now, though she couldn’t take a step to save her life. But one day she meant to go skipping about the meadows the way she used to, hopefully with a child or two in tow. The burgeoning hope certainly put her in a holiday mood.
Amalie always considered herself fortunate to live in the country where they celebrated the holidays. City folk hardly ever did, so she heard.
Thankfully, this house always spent the entire month of December festooned with greenery and berries. The mouthwatering smells of baking cakes and puddings filled each day as preparations got well under way.
No one reveled more in the expectations of good things to come than the younger Napier. This evening they would exchange gifts to mark the season. David crouched eagerly beside the fire as Michael helped him roast chestnuts.
“Do you think Grandmama will like these?” he asked her brother.
Michael raked a few from the coals and set them into the pile that was cooling on the hearth. “When you sack them up in that silky pouch you helped Amie to stitch, your grandmama will love it. Marvelous idea you had there, mate!”
David looked so serious as he gripped the bag they had made out of scraps and ribbon. His sooty little fingerprints only added to its charm as far as Amalie was concerned. Mrs. MacTavish had better think so, too.
Amalie thought of the jaunty cap she had made for the boy from a length of wool Napier had snipped from his Blackwatch plaid. A braw bonnet, Napier had called it as he voiced his approval. She had of necessity asked his opinion as to whether it resembled enough the tams that Scotsmen wore. She had added a pom of red yarn to the top and banded the cap with black grosgrain.
Napier had whittled a small wooden sword and carved intricate designs upon it. Michael had driven Mrs. MacTavish to Maidstone earlier in the week on some errand. Amalie suspected the woman had gone to buy something for David. In any event, the boy should have a holiday to remember.
“Will those cool in time?” David was asking Michael.
“Oh, in plenty of time for the gifting. Here, these few are ready now, you see?”
David gingerly picked up the chestnuts and dropped them one by one into the pouch. His smile warmed Amalie’s heart as it always did.
Napier swung into the room on his crutches, a bit more practiced and agile after frequent outings in the garden these past few days. “Good evening,” he said, taking a seat beside her on the settee. “Quite warm out for the time of year.”
She smiled. “It is freezing and you know it, but I doubt a blizzard would keep you inside.” She leaned sideways and surprised him with a kiss on his cheek.
He smiled in response, but the kiss did seem to discomfit him. So much so that he didn’t comment on it.
Her parents entered just then, her father bearing a basket of gaily wrapped gifts. Moments later, Mrs. MacTavish made her entrance with one large gift. When all were greeted and seated, Michael took charge.
“We haven’t a huge yule log, but Father, David and I have provided one that should keep us warm through the festivities.” The two proceeded to dump the oversize section of a tree trunk onto the smoldering ashes in which they’d roasted the chestnuts. He stoked it to a flame, then turned to the boy. “Now, my man, it is time for you to present our gifties whilst I provide music!”
David’s little chest puffed out with pride as he waited for Michael to reach the pianoforte and begin playing softly. “Grandmama, you first, for you are the oldest!”
Mrs. MacTavish quickly erased her frown.
“This is for you from me,” David said, presenting the rather grubby pouch of warm chestnuts. She accepted them with sincerest thanks, commenting on how good they smelled.
Then he reached into a box beside the hearth and turned to her parents. “Milord and Lady Harlowe, new nib pens from Mr. Michael and me. I found the feathers and he trimmed ‘em.” Her mother and father applauded and smiled, accepting their gift.
“Miss Amie, for you,” David said, handing Amalie a small packet of sachets, purchased no doubt from one of the local ladies in the village. She sniffed them appreciatively. “Lavender! My very favorite!”
“And Father,” David said at last. “I made you a picture with watercolors.” He tore off the wrapping himself before Napier could take hold of it. “See, Da? It’s Scotland!”
“Indeed it is. Old Ben Muir,” Napier said, eyeing the bare, purplish mountain with gorse and heather stippled over it in a childish hand. “Well done, David,” he added, his voice thick with pride. “Very well done.”
Amalie saw the tears gathered in his eyes, though he never let them fall. She offered him a smile and he returned it with a sheepish quirk of his lips. She thought she had never loved him more and the very idea shocked her.
She loved Napier. Alexander. The Scot. When had that happened? From the first meeting? No. Later, perhaps, when he met her every insult with humor and equanimity? Did it even matter when? She loved him now with a mixture of such longing, exasperation and need to give that she could barely stand it.
She had only meant to make him like her and to learn to like him. Love was not what she’d always thought it was. Not an easy thing at all. He almost surely had no such feelings for her, and why should he? She had not given him a single reason to feel so. He probably didn’t even like her very much. But he did want her and that was a fact. And it was a start.
He gave her a silver trinket box lined with silk that held a delicate brooch set with amethyst stones. Amalie thanked him rather more formally than she would have liked, then produced her gift to him, handkerchiefs embroidered with his initials. He smiled and complimented her needlework. How proper they were with each other after such an improper beginning.
“Your turn, I believe,” Napier was saying to his son. He presented the beautifully carved wooden sword and Amalie added the tam she had made. Michael and her parents gave David a mechanical bank, a metal monkey that snatched a penny as he raised his hat.
The boy delighted in everything. His manners were impeccable when he remembered them. When he forgot was when he was most adorable, Amalie thought with a grin. Away from his grandmother’s watchful eye, he was a rambunctious little rascal. This evening he was an angel.
She pictured Alexander as being very like him at that age. That made her wonder what his daughters would be like when he had some. She dearly wanted them looking somewhat like her. Little hellions, most likely. At the fantasy, her grin grew wider still.
And then Mrs. MacTavish produced the skates.
David’s mouth dropped open in absolute wonder as he ran his small fingers reverently over the highly polished blades attached to shiny leather boots. He threw himself into his grandmother’s arms. “Oh, Granny! Skates! Thank you, thank you! You knew what I most wished for in the whole world. You always do!”
