A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel. Margaret McPhee

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      He snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’

      With a shock she realised that she had spoken aloud.

      ‘Wicked to be angry at injustice and hypocrisy?’ asked Alex. ‘Well, that makes two of us.’ He lifted their linked hands and the grey eyes smiled, full of understanding. ‘Linked in the heinous sin of disapproving of the social order.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Thank you, God, that he didn’t realise what I was really thinking.

      The crooked half-smile—the one that turned her insides to jelly—twisted his mouth. ‘For what? Wanting to kick your cousins into the middle of next week for hurting you?’

      He did? Her throat ached.

      For being kind.

      For understanding.

      Her heart full, insensibly eased, she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said softly, and set one hand on his shoulder, feeling a flicker of muscle beneath the broadcloth. ‘For being you,’ she said and reached up to kiss his cheek.

      * * *

      For being you. As though he were a gift, when God knew he was nothing of the sort. His heart blazed, and his whole body tightened at her nearness, her fragrance—intoxication itself—and the light touch of her fingers through layers of cloth, the sweetest torment, a burning. The knowledge that she was going to kiss him—only on the cheek, but still the loveliest gift he’d ever been offered.

      Then her lips were there, such peach-silk softness, a featherlight caress on his jaw that he should accept as it was meant—but somehow his head had turned—not at all what Christ had meant by turning the other cheek—and his lips had captured hers, his arms drawing her against the burning ache of his body.

      Her startled gasp he took gently, even as for one soul-shattering moment she remained utterly still in his embrace. His conscience gave one last, feeble flicker. He must release her, apologise...but her lips moved hesitantly against his and he was lost.

      Every nerve, every sinew and muscle leapt to flame as his arms tightened of their own accord, as his mouth returned her shy kiss and took more. Shaken to his soul, he tasted the fullness of her mouth—sweet, so sweet—and her lips parted. His mind reeled, his tongue dipped, found milk and honey, and tasted again and again, while his resolution dissolved, mind and body awash with delight as her tongue met his in hesitant wonder.

      This. Just this.

      This delight of a woman’s body in his arms, her lips and mouth tender under his, and this burning, this singing in blood and bone that could steal a man’s senses as surely as any siren.

      Desire. His body recognised it and responded, hardening, tightening his arms around Polly, drawing her in to the consuming heat, cradling her closer. And she came, soft and willing, body and mouth yielding, melting against him. One hand found the supple curve of her waist, drifted higher against the swell of her breast and he tasted the surprise in her soft gasp.

      Desire. A maelstrom threatening to sweep everything away. Sense, honour, both gone, and reason fast fading. One floundering scrap of reason found a foothold, a touchstone.

      Polly. This was Polly.

      Somehow he broke the kiss, drew back a little, breathing hard. A little more reason surfaced. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he might remember why not...

      You’re the rector, for goodness’ sake!

      That hit him like a bucket of icy water. He stared down at Polly, dazed. She looked dazed, too. And her lips were damp and swollen. Pink and ripe. Because he’d kissed her. Even as he looked, all the reasons he shouldn’t be kissing her closed in, accusing.

      Surely only a complete blackguard kissed a defenceless girl like that? When all she had offered was a sort of sisterly peck on the cheek.

      ‘I...I have to go,’ he managed. Because God only knew, if he didn’t, where this would end. His gaze fell on the alcove holding Polly’s bed and gave him back the lie. He knew perfectly well where it could have ended. That, right there, in that shadowed alcove, was the natural end for such a kiss.

      Somehow he forced his hand to withdraw from the fall of her hair, now tumbled around her shoulders. Had he done that? His fingers shook at the silken caress. With even more difficulty he dragged the other hand from her waist.

      ‘Polly,’ he whispered. Lord, had he only just seen her? Seen what was in front of him. ‘I’m—’

      ‘No.’ The luminous golden eyes pleaded. ‘Don’t apologise. Please, just...just pretend there is a little bit of mistletoe above us.’

      Mistletoe? God help them both if he’d had that pagan incentive above him!

      He was the rector and Polly had confided in him, turned to him for comfort. He swallowed, brutally aware of aching need. Wanting to cast discretion and propriety, not to mention his vows, to the four winds.

      He forced himself to release her and stand up, away from the warmth that was Polly. But his eyes—his eyes remained on her face, lost, and somehow found. Until her gaze fell and scarlet mantled her cheeks.

      ‘I’ll...I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’

      Polly. Her name lay unspoken on his tongue like honey, as sweet and intimate as her mouth itself.

      He swallowed. ‘Miss Woodrowe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll bar the door behind me?’ What the hell would he do if she said no? Refuse to leave until she did?

      ‘Yes.’

      Thank God.

      ‘Well. Ah, goodnight then.’

      ‘Goodnight, sir.’

      Bonny bounded up from the hearth as he headed to the door. He made a mental note that dogs appeared to be very poor chaperons.

Chapter Five

      As Polly secured the door, she heard his steps retreating, crunching on the frosty street. With a groan, she leaned back against the door, feeling the bar digging into her back. Her heart still raced and her hands trembled.

      She hadn’t known a kiss could be like that. Full of wonder and need and delight. She had let Tom kiss her once years ago. He had seemed to enjoy it, but she had thought it horrid. All hot breath and pawing at her breast. This had been quite different. This had been something joyous and right.

      Right? What was she thinking? She’d kissed the rector! No doubt there would be a letter dismissing her from her post in the morning. And this time she’d deserve it. Never mind that she’d meant it as a mere peck on the cheek, a...a kiss of gratitude. It somehow hadn’t ended up that way. How on earth had she missed his cheek?

      Because you wanted to miss it?

      Because some wanton part of her had wanted to kiss him, had wanted to feel his arms strong about her.

      Her cheeks burnt. At best he’d think her shockingly forward, at worst a depraved hussy...although СКАЧАТЬ