Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(59)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Bertie went hot, dizzy. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“You would mind it, when you understood, lass.”

He was wrong. Bertie wanted to stay inside this bubble—like a scene in one of the snow globes Cat had. They’d be dancing, frozen in time, while the rest of the world went on around them. Bertie and Sinclair would remain together forever, and this joy would never end.

“Happy Christmas!” someone shouted.

The orchestra ceased playing, and cheers erupted through the ballroom. The crowd rushed to the huge foyer, where the flowers Bertie had helped fold were being released, the light things floating down from the landings above. Sinclair caught one and handed it to Bertie—pink, one of the ones Beth had done. Bertie took it reverently, as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

The guests streamed outside—into the freezing cold and snow, no less—to watch fireworks bang and sparkle against the sky. The children, allowed to watch from windows in the gallery, shouted from above, and the dogs, somehow freed from their kennels in the stable yard, barked and flowed among the guests.

This was the perfect time for Sinclair to turn Bertie around in the dark and kiss her, but they were jostled apart. Bertie was swept away by excited ladies she didn’t know, who didn’t notice there was a governess in their midst.

Bertie looked around for Sinclair and saw him captured by his brothers, Steven’s hand on his shoulder. They made a fine sight, the three McBride men in black coats and blue kilts, fair hair pale in the darkness.

Sinclair caught sight of her and smiled. Didn’t matter how much space was between them, the smile said. They were still dancing, pulled tight together, while the world rushed by, doing things that were of no consequence at all.

No one had told Bertie that being a lady of luxury could be so exhausting. She crawled in bed in the wee hours, knowing she had to be up again soon. The children would be celebrating their Christmas morning in the nursery, with all the families, and Ainsley had said Bertie should be there. Andrew and Cat would be disappointed if she didn’t come.

All the beautiful and strange clothes had come off, taken away by Isabella’s maid, while Ainsley’s maid had collected the shoes. Unlaced and uncorseted, Bertie took a deep breath and fell facedown onto her bed. One of the kind maids pulled blankets over her and then left her alone.

Bertie expected to lie awake in her excitement, reliving the dance with Sinclair. She’d not been able to have another one with him, with all the Christmas fireworks, games, and the fairly silly skits some of the ladies and gentlemen had put on. The Scottish families had not done much—the English had done most of the celebrating. Ainsley had explained that in Scotland, Christmas wasn’t the important holiday—New Year’s was. At that time only the family stayed at the castle, but the whole village came up for the festivities, and the revelry would be unlike any Bertie had seen.

Bertie dropped off to sleep almost immediately, however, her body having spent its resources.

She woke again when a strong, warm hand landed on her back. The smell of whiskey and wool assailed her, and the bed creaked, as a man in a kilt sat down on it.

“Happy Christmas, Bertie.”

Sinclair’s voice was low and rumbling. He stroked her hair, now in a loose braid, and slid a tissue-wrapped box under her hand.

“Oh, no,” she moaned. “I didn’t get you nothing.”

His laughter was soft. “You didn’t have to, minx. I thought you might like this.”

Bertie’s curiosity rose as she tugged at the paper. “You shouldn’t give me presents. All the posh people at this do will gossip like mad.”

“Open it, Bertie,” Sinclair said, impatient. “It’s a private gift between us.”

Bertie tore off the paper then opened the lid, looked inside, and drew a sharp breath.

A photograph in a slim frame rested among the tissue paper, a picture of Cat and Andrew. Caitriona sat primly on a chair, every hair in place, her legs in white stockings crossed at the ankle. Her doll smiled serenely from her lap. Andrew sat on the floor with his arm around a large dog—one that lived here at Kilmorgan Castle. Andrew was grinning, and slightly blurry, as though he hadn’t held still during the exposure. But the camera had caught him as he was—sunny-natured and busy, while Caitriona’s smile was quietly pretty.

A sob caught in Bertie’s throat. “It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it always. Thank you. I love them so much.”

Tears came from her eyes. Sinclair gently took the photo from her and closed it into the box, setting it on her night table. “Shh, lass.” He gently rolled her over, the rough wool of the kilt warm through the covers. “Damn it; I keep making you cry. I want to make you smile.”

“You do.” Bertie wiped her eyes. “You always do.”

“Shall I tell you what you do to me?” He lowered himself to her, his body warm with his clothes. “I’m a bit drunk, so I might say too much. I tamed myself, so I could have a family, do everything right. But it went too far, and there was nothing left of me. And then you charged into my life. You ripped the lid from the powder keg. You lit the match. Now I, the model widowed father, want to run rampant like a crazed youth. If you think Andrew unruly, he has a long way to go before he surpasses me.”

Bertie started to smile. “I’d like to see that.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve made me live again, Bertie, you wonderful, beautiful woman.”

He kissed her mouth, a swift, rough kiss before he pulled Bertie up with him and yanked away the blankets. She hadn’t bothered with her nightdress, so she was bare, nothing between her and the wool of his kilt.

The kilt held his warmth, but didn’t keep out the fact that he was hard underneath it. Bertie, as she kissed him, wormed her hand under the wool, until she found the length of his shaft.

“Damn.” Sinclair lifted his head, frowning fiercely, but he kissed her lips again. “What are you doing to me?”

“What you do to me.” Bertie stroked his cock, loving the way he groaned as though he couldn’t stop himself. “You make me want you.”

“And I want you.” He made another sound in his throat, and shifted his position so she could reach more of him. “Tonight, I wanted to dance you into a corner and peel off that pretty dress, didn’t matter how many people were in this bloody house.”

“Did you think it was pretty?” Bertie asked, wistful.