O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,286

her single candle lighting her way.

Reaching the door of the main bedroom, she scratched gently on the wood.

Whipping open the door, he pulled her inside and closed the door softly behind her. Before she came to her senses, she was in his arms and being kissed. She had no time to protest and, after a moment, she had no desire to.

His kiss was sweet and gentle rather than fierce and passionate. She experienced mild surprise that he didn’t ravish her. Placing her hands against his chest—his very broad chest—she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “You said we would talk.”

“And so we shall. Come.” He took her to the fire. Two chairs were set there, either side of it, a small table by each. The fire made the large chamber cozy. Two tumblers of brandy scented the air around her as she took her seat. As did he. Frederick had an aroma, a mixture of soap, cleanliness and pure masculinity. One she could not adequately describe, but she would know that intoxicating scent anywhere. If she could somehow distill it, bottle it, she would take it with her wherever she went. A reminder of him.

Her gaze traveled down his body to his feet. She hadn’t meant to linger, but she clearly saw the wooden foot in the slipper that matched the one on his fleshy foot. She gasped.

He followed her gaze. “Look your fill.” He flipped back the long skirt of his silk robe. Now she knew why he’d lit every candle in the room, sending light as bright as day over him. He wanted her to look.

She did. About two inches below his knee, he wore a carved wooden replica of a leg. A finely shaped leg, much like the one that rested on the floor. The foot was attached to the calf with a joint, the kind used sometimes on dolls, or puppets. It meant he could move it enough to climb stairs, and walk properly. Straps fastened it to the flesh above, a kind of harness. “Oh, God!” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Who did that to you?”

“The enemy,” he said.

“You lost your leg?” She forced herself to say it. Such pain, such agony he must have suffered.

“Someone shot it off. The horse died,” he added, more regretfully than the brisk tone he used about his leg. “He threw me clear when he went down, otherwise it could have been worse.”

He could have died. She’d have lost him forever, then.

How could she bear that?

“I hold no grudge,” he continued. “I would have done the same or worse, if I’d had a chance. The bone was shattered, so they amputated it.” He leaned forward, rested one elbow on the knee of his good leg. “I don’t remember much about it, which I hold as a blessing. They did what they had to, and took good care of me. All I could think was ‘I could be dead, I should be thankful’. But I wasn’t. Not until your face swam into my thoughts. Your face as it was, not as it is now. You wear your hair in a tight knot these days, trying to make yourself look older than you are.”

“I’m thirty,” she said defiantly. “An old maid.”

“Then I’m a wizened old man of thirty-two. I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense!” His voice softened. “You are more beautiful than I remember. Take off that thing on your head.”

“It’s a nightcap,” she protested, but she couldn’t resist his request. He’d exposed his leg to her, and at some cost. She knew him too well to ignore that extra glistening in his eyes, the husky tone of his voice. Small signs, but as obvious as a bolt of lightning to her. If he’d expected her to reject him because of that injury, he was sadly mistaken.

Untying the neat bow under her chin, she watched him as she lifted the cap clear and tossed it on the floor. Her nighttime braids swung down.

“How long is your hair?”

“Longer than is fashionable.”

“Show me.”

She didn’t object, but set to unraveling the dark braids. Candlelight brought out the red tones in the dark brown, the touch of fire she worked to hide. A housekeeper should be discreet.

“I always loved your hair. I’m glad you haven’t cut it. What do you think of the leg?”

His casual question didn’t fool her. “I think it’s a tragedy that it happened, but you manage it very well. I didn’t notice when you arrived, only