Chapter 12 #2
“They sound quite special indeed. If you wish, I suspect we could teach Cook to create one of these cakes for us. We could share it with the staff. Or we could keep it for ourselves. Perhaps I would have the greater chance of becoming lucky,” he chuckled.
“Truly, Pedro? I would be so delighted if we were to make one!” Ana could already imagine tasting the softness of the brioche cake, the sweetness of the cream, adorned with the gummy, tart fruit. Delighted indeed!
Peter wrapped his arm around Ana’s shoulders and pulled her toward a building echoing with light and laughter. “Come inside. Let’s warm ourselves for a minute with some drinking chocolate before we journey back to Abbeygate.”
Delightful tingles spread down Ana’s spine at his touch, and she did little to subdue them.
They heated her chest delightfully and made her fingers ache to reach out for Peter and pull him closer.
If his touching her had such irresistible results, Ana would begin finding every opportunity to invite such attentions.
She ducked inside the doorway of the cozy tavern.
Small tables were scattered about the room, each bustling with joyful guests.
In the middle of the space hung a lovely sphere of evergreens, twisted twigs, bright berries, and shining, pink apples. What could it be?
She turned to Peter, “Qué es eso?”
“This is a kissing bough,” Peter said as amusement and embarrassment married on his face.
“Kissing . . . como un beso?”
“Precisely.” His lips were pursed as his eyes scanned the room, and his hands stayed hidden, deep in his pockets.
“Aye, Mr. Peter Ashmore!” a man called from the other side of the counter. “Ye ought to give yer sweet bride a kiss beneath the kissing bough. ’Tis tradition.”
“Aye!” the townspeople agreed with hearty cheers and whistles.
Ana chuckled at the crowd’s reaction, but then her gaze slid over to Peter. His eyes were darting about nervously, his cheeks abnormally reddened, and not merely because of the crisp winter air. Clearly he was not comfortable with the prospect of kissing his wife.
“Estoy bien, Pedro,” she whispered. “You do not need to.”
But he waved a hand to the crowd and stepped closer to Ana, grabbing her hand and pulling her beneath the kissing bough.
His face lowered closer and closer until she could nearly count the rough whiskers already budding on his jaw.
Those light, celeste eyes met hers and then darted down to her lips.
Ana’s breath choked in her throat and her shoulders jerked involuntarily as another man, another kiss, suddenly flashed in front of her.
A whimper squeezed out of her, and she wobbled.
Peter’s eyes flashed, his brow folding in a familiar look of concern. But instead of pulling away, his ever-approaching lips darted to the side and brushed ever-so-slightly against her cheekbone. Ana’s heart ached but not with relief—with disappointment.
The pair waved to the crowd, quelling their laughter.
Ana bowed her head and patted her chest, as if to signal that she was the shy one, that Peter was acquiescing to her wishes.
Ana stepped away from the scene, but not before noticing Peter pluck a round, red berry from the bough and slip it into his pocket in a disguised, discreet manner.
Whatever could he be saving a single berry for?
Soon another couple was beneath the kissing bough, and the crowd was caught up in its reverie again.
Ana’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Peter’s hands tightened around hers, squeezing twice, and his eyes were locked on hers again.
“I’m sorry,” his voice rasped.
“No, Pedro. I am so sorry. The people, they wanted a kiss de verdad.”
“It likely won’t surprise you to know that I don’t care in the slightest what they want. I only care what you want.” He paused, then whispered under his breath, “Or in this particular case, what you do not want.”
But she did want to be kissed by Peter. He was everything warm, safe, and comforting.
He made her laugh, even when she felt oddly melancholy.
And he was beyond thoughtful, despite his seemingly calloused exterior.
Sí, Ana wanted to be kissed to dispel the dreadful memories of her previous kiss by that dark, wrongful man—if she could even call it a kiss.
Would that memory forever keep her from happiness with her husband?
“The hour is getting late. We should return home.”
Ana sat silent for the remainder of the ride, trying to make sense of what had happened.
They had enjoyed such a lovely day together, and at the end of it all, Ana had desired that closeness with Peter.
She would not have protested if he had kissed her, despite her initial panicking.
But how could she show him that she was beginning to heal?
That she desired that entirely new type of trust and safeness between them?
Soon Abbeygate rolled into view. Once Ana stepped out of the carriage, something faintly touched her head. She turned toward the light of the house and was frozen in delight.
“Pedro! Mira!” she pointed, begging him to look. Small, lacy fluffs of white were meandering down from the sky in lazy patterns. “Es nieve? How you say?”
“Snow. Yes, that is snow, my dear,” Peter said, a broad, free smile warming his face as he tilted it upward to meet the falling flurries.
“I never seen nieve en mi vida,” Ana exclaimed, her mouth hanging open in wonder and her eyes filling with tears.
“You have never seen snow? It can be quite magical on Christmas, so today is the perfect day to see it. Perfect indeed. But after December, it can get quite wearisome. Turns into sludgy stuff and sticks around far too long.”
“Oh, I will never grow weary of this beauty. Me encanta! I love it!” Ana reached her hands out to catch the snowflakes. Two large, velvety flakes alighted on her hand, momentarily pressing their cold into her palm before melting into the tiniest spots of water.
“It is beautiful,” Peter agreed. “And so quiet.”
“This is the noise of peace,” Ana whispered, her eyes closed, face still tilted upward. “No explosions. No muskets. No screams or yells. Just todo el mundo silent, sleeping.”
When they arrived at the top steps, Ana reached for Peter’s hands and pulled him close to her until her rounded midsection brushed the front of his coat. For once, he did not stiffen or pull away.
“This is the most happiest day de mi vida in England. I thank you so much.”
Peter smiled, “I wish to bring you many more happy days. You deserve all the happiness the world can possibly offer.”
Ana’s heart sped rapidly, her breath puffing out in small clouds before her. She stared into his blue eyes as they gleamed in the bright winter light. Could she be so brave to try to put to words the way he had made her feel today?
“You bring me this felicidad, Pedro. I have all the happiness when we are together.” She leaned closer to him, imagining how it would feel to have his lips pressed against hers.
A slight wave of nervous tension laced his face and then released as open honesty widened his eyes and curved his lips into a smile.
“Ana . . .” he said, his eyes traveling down her face to her mouth. Ana’s heart leapt to her throat, and she bit her bottom lip. Was this to be a blessed second chance at their disastrous kiss from earlier? Would he really kiss her?
True, they had never spoken of how to navigate such a circumstance.
He had been so uncomfortable with their first kiss at their wedding that Ana assumed they might never share a kiss again.
And then on their way to Ivybridge, he had a very jumbled, indirect manner of telling her that there would be no physical affection shown in their marriage.
At the time, Ana had felt relieved—once she managed to sort through translating in her head and understand what he’d been trying to say.
But now she wondered if such an agreement had been a huge mistake.
If Peter’s strict honor hadn’t required him to say such things, what sort of marriage would they have had?
Would they have learned to find comfort and healing in one another’s arms instead of doing so much separate searching for the same conclusions?
Was it too late to wish that she could change this marriage of convenience into a marriage of compassion?
The warmth of Peter’s hand in hers, sending tingles up her arm, told her no.
But as she looked into his eyes and saw wariness, she wavered.
But why wasn’t he moving? She leaned closer, hoping her posture would signify that she welcomed the moment. They were married, after all. Wasn’t it a sort of responsibility of hers to kiss her husband on Christmas Eve? Ana bit her lip to quell a nervous laugh from escaping her.
A loud creaking of the front door echoed through the cushioned silence of the snow-filled yard. “Ah, Mr. Ashmore and Mrs. Ashmore, you’ve returned!” Mr. Burnsey said.
Ana and Peter jumped apart, their faces heated. How she wished she could press snow against her cheeks to calm their high color. But should she really be embarrassed to be caught nearly embracing Peter? He was her husband, after all.
“Please, come in and warm yourselves,” Burnsey said. “Oh, and Mr. Ashmore, there’s a letter come for you from London.”
“Could it be your mother?” Ana asked, a friendly smile lighting her face, hoping to dispel the awkwardness lingering between them.
“No, I don’t believe so.” Peter’s eyes met hers, but they were glazed over, his mind clearly elsewhere. “I apologize, Ana, but I must remove myself to review this letter. I’ll meet you in your dressing room for spiced tea later, if you wish.”
“Sí, that would be lovely.”
And with that, Peter hurried away to his study. His shoulders were knitted together with tension, his fists clenched tight. What could be in this letter that he would anticipate with such distress?
“May I take your cloak, Mrs. Ashmore?” Burnsey asked.
“Yes, gracias,” Ana said, shrugging the snow-watered garment off her shoulders. “And would you send for a tray with spiced tea, por favor? In my dressing room está bien.” She would do just as Peter said and prepare for their nightly tradition.
A sudden chill wrapped around Ana. It seemed that she could feel Peter’s absence like a warmth that was ripped from her, and not only because they had been standing so close.
Only months ago, she had wondered how they would get along as virtual strangers turned spouses and then parents.
And now she found she nursed a deep ache at the thought that Peter might receive a letter at any time that he would need to read in seclusion, away from her.
Would they ever achieve the complete, open honesty in which husband and wife shared the entirety of their lives together?
Not just their kisses and embraces but also their dreams and devastations?
She hoped so. More than she could say.
Ana had changed into her thick, white nightgown and wrapped her deep, purple dressing gown over the top, knotting it tightly.
She arranged the padded chairs near her desk in their nightly positions long before Peter finally came up to the room.
When he opened the door, his posture was slumped, defeated, and his eyes were trained on the floor.
Ana’s heart plunged as she reached out to him. “What is it, Peter?”
“The army has called me to London.”