Read UNDER A CHRISTMAS SPELL for Free Online Page B

every other man in the house—guests and servants alike—from eyeing her with helpless lust. Except Val, who took to fixing his dark, smouldering gaze on the remaining younger ladies, with the result that another family found an excuse to cut their stay short.
    Lucille threw herself into the pleasures of the season: food and drink, charades, rides in the countryside, walks in the grounds, and a visit to the abbey ruins. Lord Westerly had discovered the remains of a Roman villa under the ruins, and had dug a great hole near one of the walls. He neglected his duties as host, spending every spare moment there. But the weather was crisp and clear and the company pleasant for the most part. It was almost like the Christmases she had spent in England as a girl.
    If only she could sleep well! Dark dreams invaded her mind—memories of the Revolution, of soldiers taking her parents, of her life as a foster child in France, Spain and England, of five dead husbands as a spy...and, over and over, of Valiant’s sneer and his scornful eyes. He was ruining everything! If it hadn’t been for their senseless, futile missions, he wouldn’t have been here, and she could have enjoyed herself... They’d never been asked to do anything so ridiculous before. It felt like a cruel jest. It was certainly a waste of time.
    After a night or two, better dreams began to nudge their way into her sleep. Their gentle eroticism comforted her, reminding her of the leisurely days and nights after she’d nursed the wounded Valiant back to health. If they were from him, what was he trying to do? He was supposed to be sending dreams to Theodora, so why would they come with such force to Lucille instead? Some effect on others was to be expected, since succubi and incubi tended to inflame everyone in their vicinity—but not to this extent. Besides, he felt only contempt for Lucille. He wouldn’t send her thoughts and images suffused with tenderness and love.
    One night, she found herself trapped in a dream so fraught with memory that it could only have come from Val. They were in Paris, a city perilous to them both, and he’d laughed at the danger and made her laugh, too, infecting her with a mad, delirious joy. She gave in to the dream as she had to the reality, letting his hot, skilled hands and relentless tongue carry her to ecstasy again and again.
    How could she resist such a contrast to her nightmares, such seductive power and utter abandonment to vibrant, sensual life? During her wakeful hours she couldn’t stop thinking of him, recalling their times together, reliving the heady excitement of forbidden lovemaking, remembering with both joy and tears the languorous pleasure of weeks they’d spent on leave in a villa in southern Spain, playing at being husband and wife.
    Then she realized she wasn’t just remembering—she was responding to the dreams he’d sent her, offering him her memories, reminding him of their love, if only in his dreams. He would recognize what she was doing and scorn her for such tactics. She stopped herself at once.
    The last day of the year was filled with plans for a most bizarre event. “We perform two wassail rituals here,” Lord Westerly explained. “The first is on New Year’s Eve. Men from the village and nearby farms come to cleanse the house of evil spirits.”
    Lord Valiant rolled his eyes. “They do the same at my father’s estate. A pack of idiots stomp about the house, then gorge and drink themselves into oblivion. My mother hated all the dirty boots and loud, uncouth behaviour, but because it was the custom, she had to put up with it.”
    “I understand your poor mother’s feelings, but one must keep up the traditions,” Lady Westerly said. “As one must carry on the family name.” She cast a darkling glance at her uncooperative nephew.
    “What is the other wassail ritual?” Lucille asked.
    “That one takes place in the orchard on Twelfth Night, to drive the evil spirits away from the apple