A Snow moon christmas

Stealing a kiss

*Merida*

With my heart pounding, my entire body quaking, I drop to my knees, more because of our weakened state than the man sprawled on the floor. Have I killed him? Dear Goddess, my father abhors scandal, and I can't think of anything that would set tongues to wagging faster than murder. I can envision myself traipsing toward the gallows with my father berating me the entire way for bringing shame upon the family.

"Chester?" I place my palm against his cheek, feel the stubble prick my tender flesh, and fight not to compare it to the stiff baize over which I trailed my fingers only moments before. I much prefer the warmth of his skin and the bristles that are thicker than I imagined and a shade darker than his hair. He should appear unkempt. Instead, he looks very, very dangerous, and something that greatly resembles pleasure settles in the pit of my stomach. Why don't I ever feel this liquid fire that spreads into my limbs when I'm in Lightfoot's presence?

I lean lower and inhale Chester's bergamot fragrance mingled with Scotch. I consider pressing my lips to his, just for a taste. How often before he shifted his attentions to Miss Anne had I longed for a turn about the garden with him that would have resulted in an illicit kiss? It's my shameful secret, my dark fantasy that in a shadowed part of a garden he would cease to be a gentleman, and I would no longer act as a well raised she-wolf.

I had wanted so much with him that I haven't wanted with other admirers. I wish he hadn't come here, that his presence wasn't reminding me of all my silly imaginings. I want to marry Lightfoot, to be his mate, his Luna eventually after his father passes.

Yet, if I'm honest with myself, Chester stirs something deep within me that Lightfoot has yet to reach. And that acknowledgement terrifies me. Will I make him happy if my thoughts can stray so easily to another?

As he groans, Chester opens his eyes wide, blinks, and rubs his jaw. "You have got quite the punch," he mutters.

Now that I see he's going to be all right, irritation swamps me. "You have a jaw like glass. None of my brothers would have gone down that easily or that hard. It's a wonder you didn't shake the foundation of the residence. What the devil were you doing here, sneaking up on me?"

"It's the gentlemen's room, so the question, sweetheart, is what are you doing here?" He asks.

I settle back on my heels, not quite ready to leave until I see him firmly on his feet, although a small part of me is wishing I had killed him. "Not that it's any of your business, but I was having difficulty falling asleep. I was looking for the library so I might find a book to read."

He has the audacity to give me a wolfish grin that does nothing to settle my riotous thoughts. If anything, it only makes me want to kiss him all the more. Whatever is wrong with me?

"But once you realized you weren't in the library, you didn't leave. I think you purposely came here." He says.

"Think what you want." Rising to my feet, I turn to leave.

"Are you meeting someone?" he asks.

I spin back around. "Of course not. I'm a well breed she-wolf. I don't…"

I abruptly cut off my protest. I have been alone with a gentleman, and I am alone with one now. I know I should leave, but the truth is that I came here to play billiards. I'm quite disappointed that I won't have the opportunity to do so because of his presence. He does little more than constantly bring disappointment into my life. "I hear that Alpha Wexford is quite put out with you."

He shoves himself to his feet. In the shadowed room, he seems larger, broader, more devastatingly handsome. "Facing his wrath was well worth the dance."

"Who do you think he thought he was going to meet?" I ask.

Chester leans his hip against the table and crosses his arms over his chest. "I haven't a clue. You seem to know more about the gossip than I. Who do you think?"

I shrug, wondering why I'm prolonging my visit. I have always felt most comfortable with him, even when my thoughts have turned down dark corners where they shouldn't. Even now, I recall the feel of him behind me, the warmth of his breath on my neck as he whispered in my ear. "I don't know, and I don't suppose it matters. I should go."

"Play billiards with me."

His eyes hold a challenge that I know has little to do with the actual game. He's daring me to stay, to risk being with him. Does he know how much I'm drawn to him, how very dangerous he is to me?

"I'll teach you," he says.

I angle my chin haughtily. "I already know how to play. Lightfoot taught me. What do I gain if I win?"

"What would you like?"

"For you to leave immediately."

He furrows his brow. "The room?"

"The manor, the estate, the shire." I know the challenge is now in my gaze, and I can see him considering it, perhaps wondering how truly skilled I am.

"And if I win?" he asks, his voice thrumming with an undercurrent that should frighten me off. "What do I receive?"

"Our last night here, there is to be another ball. A dance. Whichever one you want. I shall let you sign my card first."

He picks up my cue stick and studies it as though he's trying to determine how it has been made. "A kiss." He shifts his gaze over to me and captures me as though he's suddenly wrapped his arms around me. "As soon as I sink my last ball."

"That would be entirely inappropriate."

He gives me a devilish grin. "Which is why I want it."

"You always struck me as quite the gentleman."

A shadow crosses his features. "Not tonight. I've spent too much time contemplating past mistakes. You were one of them, you know. If I had to do it over, I would not have hurt you."

Not exactly what I want to hear. If he had it to do over, I want him to kiss me madly, passionately in the garden, to court me properly, to perhaps ask for my hand on bended knee. But he has never declared any feelings for me, so I have little right to be hurt. "You overstate your importance to me. A kiss from you will have no effect upon me, so I accept the challenge."

His eyes darken, and I am left with the impression that I've made a terrible mistake.

"You may break," he says.

Yes, I think, I very well might. My heart, at least. Where he is concerned, it had once been close to shattering. Then I scold myself. Silly chit, he is talking about the bully.

While he goes to the wall to examine the selection of cue sticks, I pick up mine, move to the end of the table, and begin to position myself as Lightfoot had taught me.

"Still not quite right," Chester says, his voice coming from near enough that I realize he is no longer at the wall.

I don't dare give him the satisfaction of glancing over my shoulder to discern exactly where he is, but when I take a deep breath, I fill my nostrils with bergamot. Close then, very close indeed. "Oh?"

I am quite pleased that I don't squeak like a dormouse. My nerves are suddenly wrung tight, and I can't decide if I want the satisfaction of besting him or the gaining of the knowledge of what his kiss is like. I don't know why I am suddenly obsessed with the thought of his mouth on mine.

Lightfoot has kissed me, so I know very well that the pressing of lips leaves a great deal to be desired. I have always thought there would be heat, but all I felt was the cold. Perhaps it is because we were outside, the evening was cool, and the arrival of my father and brothers abruptly ended any stirring of embers.

"Allow me to show you," Chester says.

I am tempted to ignore him and smack the balls, but it is better to let him believe I know not what I am doing so my victory will leave him flummoxed and feeling quite the fool. "All right."

I begin to straighten.

"No, stay as you are."

I still as his arms come around me. Lightfoot certainly didn't take this intimate approach to teaching me. He didn't touch me at all. He merely explained the rules in a serious, endearing manner as though he were preparing to submit them to a newpaper to be included in an upcoming edition since the publication has yet to explain how billiards should be played.

As the length of his body nudges against mine, I become acutely aware of the fact that I am wearing little more than my chemise and drawers beneath the dress.

After my maid had prepared me for bed and I had difficulty finding sleep, I wanted to slip into something that I could manage on my own. At home, I would have simply gathered my wrap about me, but one doesn't traipse through a guest's home in her nightdress, although now I am questioning the wisdom of doing it with so little to separate me from Chester. His warmth seeps through my clothing to heat my flesh. His large hands close over mine, and I realize how capable they appear. He possesses strong, thick fingers with blunt-tipped nails.

His roughened jaw teases my neck. His hair tickles my temple. I was correct with my earlier assessment. It is curling with wild abandon, and I ache to slip my fingers through the feathery strands.

"Relax," he murmurs into my ear, and within my slippers, my toes curl as though he is giving attention to them.

"I am relaxed." Liar, liar.

"You're as stiff as a poker. I'm going to position your hands, your stance."

"I think you're wrong. I think they are exactly as they need to be."

"Not if you wish to beat me."

Turning my head to the side, I meet and hold his gaze. "Why would you assist me in giving you a sound thrashing and miss out on your kiss? If you truly wanted it."

"Oh, I truly want it," he says in a silken voice. "And I intend to have it."

Suddenly, one of his hands is cupping my cheek, while his fingers plow through my hair. He somehow manages to twist and bend me slightly so I am cradled in his other arm. He lowers his head, and his mouth plunders. No soft taking this, but an urgency. He ravishes with his tongue as though he would die if he didn't taste me, as though he would cease to exist if he left anything unexplored.

This is exactly what I have imagined kissing him would be like during the months when we had flirted, danced, and strolled about. I expected heat and passion. I had instinctually known that within him is a smoldering fire that once set ablaze would be difficult to extinguish. Working one hand beneath his waistcoat, I feel the solidness of his muscles beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Wanton that I am, I want his coat, waistcoat, and shirt gone. I want the feel of his skin against my palms. I want to scrape my nails over his bare back.

Guilt slams into me. I felt none of these things when Lightfoot kissed me. His had been pleasant, tame, proper. Nothing about Chester is proper at this moment.

His guttural groans reverberate through his chest, vibrating into me. I run my free hand through his sandy locks, feeling them wrap around my fingers as though they intend to hold me captive as easily as his mouth does.

He drags his lips along my throat, and I find myself arching up toward him, offering him more.

"You haven't won," I say breathlessly. We haven't even started to play.

Raising his head, he gives me a dark grin. "Oh, but I have."

With as little effort as though I weigh no more than a pillow, he lifts me up and lays me on the billiards table. I am vaguely aware of the balls scattering. Leaning over me, he braces his arms on either side of my head, his gaze intent.

"Don't marry him," he urges, his voice low and sensual until it more closely resembles a caress.

"I have to."

"Because of the kiss in the garden?"

My heart slams into my ribs. "What do you know of the garden?"

"Only rumors. The rest of your life shouldn't be determined by a kiss."

Yet here I am thinking that if I weren't betrothed, the kiss he has just delivered would have been the guiding star for the remainder of my life. No one else's would ever measure up.

A broken betrothal... Lightfoot would sue. My father wouldn't allow that sort of scandal to happen. "You're being a bit hypocritical. You're asking me to change the direction of my life because you managed to steal a kiss that left me breathless. You had your chance with me, Chester. You chose another. Now so have I."

"I can explain."

"It doesn't matter. You may be in the habit of hurting people, but I'm not." Rolling away from him, I scramble off the table. "I was handling the cue properly. I would have beaten you, and I think you know it. Please accept that things are over between us."

"Things never really got properly started between us. If we had more time.."

I shake my head, grateful that is all that is required to silence him. So few lamps burn. The fire on the hearth casts dancing shadows around him as he stands tall and straight, but I am left with the impression of someone trapped in hell. "But we don't have the luxury of time, Chester. Christmas is almost here, and then I'll be married shortly after."

Turning on my heel, I march from the room before he can object. When the door is closed behind me, I race down the hallway and up the stairs to my bedchamber. I fling myself across the bed and press my fingers to lips that still tingle from his ravishment. I have always believed that Christmas is a time for miracles, but at that precise moment, I am not certain exactly what I wish for.