Yuletide Treasure (Thornton 1.50)

Utterly incredulous, Brigitte shook her head from side to side. “You’re not going to give an inch, are you? You’re going to let your own anguish destroy that little girl’s life.”

Something inside Eric seemed to snap.

“Celebrate her bloody birthday then!” he stormed, crossing the room to seize a half-filled goblet of brandy from a barren writing table. “Invite the vicar. Bake a cake. Jump in the leaves from dawn till dusk, for all I care. Now get out.”

“And Christmas?”

The goblet banged to the desk. “No.”

“No? No what? No church? No tree? No gifts? No …”

“No Christmas.” He wheeled about to face her. “And that is nonnegotiable. So far as I’m concerned, Christmas does not exist. It ceased to be five years ago.”

“I understand your pain, my lord. But Noelle is a child. Surely—”

“No!” Eric roared, hurling his goblet against the wall.

Brigitte jumped, totally unprepared for the violence of his action. Taking an inadvertent step backward, she watched shards of crystal shatter, cascading onto the oriental carpet in a glittering spray.

Simultaneously, she became aware of her surroundings for the first time. Her unnerved gaze took in the doused lamps, the naked furnishings, the tightly drawn drapes. Grandfather was right, she reflected numbly. It is a mausoleum Other than the pile of books alongside the nightstand and the rumpled bedding, it’s as if no one lives here at all.

“Are you frightened, Miss Curran?” Eric put in, his tone menacing. “Or merely scrutinizing my quarters? Because right now I’d be very frightened if I were you.”

His taunting words found their mark, and Brigitte’s stare returned to his, assessing him, not with alarm but with comprehension. He’s challenging me, she realized. He wants to scare me away. He’s fighting to protect himself.

All her girlhood dreams surged to life, mingling with the compassion and insight afforded by maturity.

“No, my lord, I’m not frightened,” she denied, with a decisive set of her jaw. “I’m also not ‘Miss Curran’—at least not any longer.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not, are you?” Purposefully, he stalked forward. “You’re the Countess of Farrington.” He loomed over her. “My wife.”

“Yes. I am.”

“In name only,” he reminded her. “At least thus far.”

With the innate knowledge that she hovered on the brink of her future—and Eric’s—Brigitte sealed her own fate. “That choice, my lord, was yours. Not mine.”

Anguish tore across his face. “Damn you,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “And damn me for wanting you.”

With that his arms shot out, dragging Brigitte to his chest, trapping her against the powerful contours of his body. Roughly, he seized her chin, lifting it to meet the descending force of his mouth, crushing her lips beneath his before she had a chance to breathe, much less protest.

Physical sensation, coupled with fierce emotion, crashed through Brigitte, taking her under in a huge, engulfing wave. Whimpering, she accepted—no, welcomed—Eric’s assault, her dazed mind wondering how many nights she’d dreamed of this, at the same time knowing no fantasy could ever come close to this incomparable reality. Eric’s lips moved over hers with a burning intensity, urgent, reckless, but more like that of a drowning man than an angry one.

She moved closer, somehow needing to soothe his turmoil. Her fingers uncurled, glided up his shirtfront to rest over his heart. “Eric,” she whispered, a balm against his fevered mouth. “Oh, Eric.”

A hard shudder wracked his body, and his punishing grip relaxed. His fists unclenched, his palms drifting up and down her spine, caressing rather than hurting. Urging her closer, he gentled the kiss, his lips circling hers, lingering, silently demanding hers to part.

Brigitte understood his plea.

With a natural, innocent ardor, she complied, opening to his penetration, quivering with anticipation as his tongue slid in to mate with hers.

And then she was lost.

Eric’s mouth possessed hers with unabated hunger, stroking every tingling surface, awakening nerves that had been forever asleep. Inundated with sensation, Brigitte stood on tiptoe, granting him better access, pressing closer to his powerful frame.

A low groan vibrated from Eric’s chest, and he took what she offered, possessing her in a way Brigitte had never in her wildest imaginings fathomed. His hands moved down to cup her bottom, and urgently, he lifted her from the floor fitting her soft curves against him, pressing the rigid lines of his erection as deep into her as the confines of their clothing would allow.

Pleasure—dizzying, drenching—poured through her body in torrents of liquid heat. Had Eric not been holding her she would have collapsed, her limbs weak with sensation unable to function. As if reading her mind, Eric swept her into his arms, gripping her tightly as he headed toward the bed. An instant later cool air, welcome on her feverish skin, assailed her as he lowered her to the sheets.