Mistletoe Marriage (Harlequin Romance) Page 10

  He found his heart catching unexpectedly at odd moments, like when he’d caught a glimpse of her striding over the moors, muffled in a shapeless coat and garish scarf, her hair blowing about her face. Or hauling the accumulated junk of generations out of that filthy barn, careless of the dirt and the dust. Standing at the range where his mother used to stand, humming tunelessly to herself as she stirred a pot. Watching the fire, legs tucked up beneath her, her face pensive and a little sad as the flames threw dancing shadows over her.

  And every time he would remind himself that it was just Sophie, just his old friend, the same girl he had known for years without once wondering what it would be like to peel off those layers and pull her down beside him. Now he wondered all the time.

  He would never know as long as Sophie was consumed by thoughts of Nick, though, and Bram found himself hoping that when she finally came face to face with him again she would discover that her love for him was not quite as strong as she remembered it.

  He often wondered whether his own love for Melissa was based on a wonderful memory rather than the reality of her as a woman. With Melissa it was hard to get past her beauty to the person underneath. Bram couldn’t remember what Melissa was really like. He wasn’t sure that he had ever known. All he remembered was how dazzled he had felt when he was with her.

  But now…now he didn’t know how he felt. The only thing Bram was sure of was that Sophie was his friend. It was easier—safer—to revert to being ‘just good friends’ than to risk spoiling the friendship they had by thinking too much about what it would be like if they were something more than friends.

  In any case, there was no point in thinking about it, Bram told himself, until Sophie was over Nick—and that might still be a very long time. In the meantime, he would stick to being her good friend and he would stop looking at her mouth, or the curve of her shoulder, or the inviting hollow at the base of her throat…

  He would try, anyway.

  Sophie’s mother picked her up the next morning and drove with her usual efficiency to the Park and Ride outside York, so that they could get the bus right into the city centre. Cars were banished within the city walls, and Sophie had often enjoyed strolling along the old streets without having to worry about the traffic.

  Not today, though. Her mother was on a mission. Having done her research for Melissa’s wedding, she bore Sophie off towards a bridal shop in the maze of twisting streets at the heart of the city. ‘I’ve made an appointment,’ she said. ‘They were so helpful over Melissa’s dress that I’m sure we’ll be able to find you the perfect wedding dress.’

  ‘I’ve found it,’ said Sophie, stopping dead and staring.

  The dress was so stunning that it had been given the window to itself. Cut low over the shoulders and close around the waist, it fell in a flurry of chiffon layers in gold and copper and bronze and red. It glowed like a flame, so warm and so vibrant you could almost hold out your hands and warm yourself on its richness and its colour.

  Sophie took one look at the dress and fell in love with it. Now, there was a dress to be married in—a dress that would make you feel joyous and sexy and vibrant. Surely the way you should feel when you were getting married. Even if it was to an old friend who was still in love with your sister.

  Still talking, Harriet had walked on some way before she realised that Sophie wasn’t with her. Backtracking, she tutted her annoyance. ‘We’ll be late.’

  ‘Look.’ Sophie pointed. ‘There’s my wedding dress.’

  Her mother looked. ‘That’s not a wedding dress, Sophie,’ she said with distaste. ‘It’s red!’

  ‘There’s no law that says wedding dresses have to be white, is there?

  ‘I was thinking more of ivory,’ said Harriet. ‘You have been living together, after all, and white wouldn’t be flattering to you. You’re too sallow.’

  ‘This dress would be flattering,’ said Sophie, knowing without even trying it on that it was a dress made for her.

  But her mother wasn’t having any of it. ‘Whatever would people think if you went up the aisle in that? A red dress like that is quite inappropriate for a church.’

  Well, what did it matter really? Sophie asked herself with a last longing look at the dress as her mother dragged her on. It wasn’t as if it would be a real wedding. She and Bram were entering into a marriage of convenience. If they were just going through the motions what difference would a dress make?

  So she let herself be swept into the bridal shop, where she stood and was measured and eyed up while her mother consulted with the immaculate assistants. After a lot of discussion they settled on a very simple dress in ivory silk. It had long chiffon sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, with a tight bodice from which the skirt fell in elegant folds to the floor. Even Sophie had to agree that it was beautiful, and very flattering, but it didn’t make her feel the way she knew the flame-coloured dress would have done.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Bram asked her when she got in that evening. He had started making the supper, and had been trying not to think about how empty the kitchen felt without her, when Sophie burst through the door and collapsed into a chair by the fire with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

  ‘I’m exhausted!’ she told him. ‘I’ve been run over by my mother’s will so many times today that I’m surprised I can stand up at all! I was very good, though. I did as I was told and I’m going to look the perfect conventional bride—complete with long white dress, matching shoes and a tiara. You’ll be glad to know that I drew the line at a veil. But, oh, Bram! I saw the perfect dress.’

  She told him about the dress that had made her think of a flame. ‘You know I’m not much of a girl for dresses,’ she said, ‘but that was a dress that would make you feel a million dollars.’

  ‘It sounds like the kind of dress you should have,’ said Bram.

  ‘Well, I’ve agreed on the traditional one now,’ said Sophie, resigned. ‘I couldn’t afford to buy it myself anyway, and it probably wasn’t suitable to get married in. But it was so beautiful!’

  She got up and began laying the table, and Bram said no more, but when he got back from feeding the stock the next morning he asked her if she had any plans for the day.

  ‘Not really,’ said Sophie. ‘We could do with some more shopping, so I might do a supermarket run, but apart from that I was just going to carry on with the barn.’

  ‘We’ll do the supermarket on the way back,’ said Bram.

  ‘Back from where?’

  ‘We’re going to York.’

  ‘But I was only there yesterday,’ Sophie objected. ‘What do you want to go for?’

  ‘We’re going to get you that dress,’ said Bram.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘COME on,’ he said, after one look in the window the next morning. ‘You’re going to try it on.’

  ‘We don’t even know how much it costs,’ said Sophie feebly. ‘It’s probably terribly expensive.’

  But Bram was already inside the shop. An assistant who couldn’t have been more than a size six was despatched to find a dress in Sophie’s rather larger size. Her gaze had flickered dismissively over Sophie, in her jeans and bulky jumper, but had lingered with more interest on Bram.

  When Sophie was in the changing cubicle she could hear the assistant chatting up Bram outside. Some girls had no shame, she seethed inwardly. And Bram ought to know better than to encourage her. He was an engaged man. He had no business flirting back and giving the impression that his options were still open.

  Sophie’s lips tightened jealously as she unzipped her jeans and pulled off her jumper, but it was impossible to stay cross when she stepped into the dress.

  It slithered over her, clinging in all the right places and swinging and swirling away in the ones you were less keen to draw attention to. The material was whispersoft, its touch like a caress against her bare skin, and the colour was like a shout of joy. Standing there in her bare feet, without a scrap of make-up, Sophie felt incredibly sexy, even
powerful in that dress.

  Pushing open the cubicle door, she stepped out, and Bram and the assistant fell abruptly silent.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Sophie, losing her assurance with every second that the silence lengthened. Were they trying to think of a polite way to say that she was much too fat for a dress like this?

  Bram swallowed. ‘We’ll take it,’ he said to the assistant, without taking his eyes off Sophie. She looked incredible, warm and vibrant and voluptuous, the rich colour making her skin glow and throwing the clear grey eyes and the tangle of dark curls into relief.

  The assistant’s glance was more critical, but there was surprised approval in her expression too. ‘She’ll need shoes,’ she said, suddenly coming to life. ‘Let me see what I can find.’

  She was back a few minutes later with a selection of high-heeled shoes which she made Sophie try on with a firmness worthy of Harriet.

  ‘I can’t possibly walk in those,’ Sophie protested, and then stopped as she saw the pair the assistant was lifting out of the box. ‘Oh,’ she said on a long, drawn out breath.

  They were a coppery colour, with a frivolous peep toe and a floppy bronze bow on the side. Sophie slipped them on, teetering slightly at the unaccustomed height of the heel, and did a little pirouette. The chiffon layers swirled and floated around her and she smiled at the sheer silliness of the shoes and the sensuous feel of the dress. She was still smiling as she spun back to meet Bram’s eyes.

  The expression in them made her heart stumble, and she faltered inelegantly on her heels, unable to do more than stare dumbly back at him as her smile faded. Her heart was slamming suddenly, painfully against her ribs, and her lungs hurt until she realised that she had forgotten to breathe and gulped in some oxygen.

  Bram was having trouble with his own breathing. In, out. In, out. He had never had any difficulty with it before, but the sight of Sophie spinning slowly, smiling, had caught him totally unprepared. He was used to her bundled up in the shapeless jumpers and trousers she usually wore. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her in a dress—Melissa’s wedding, probably—but even in his wildest fantasies he hadn’t known that she could look like this: alluring, gorgeous, deeply sexy.

  He hadn’t known that he could want her so much.

  He hadn’t known that he could love her so much.

  Of course he loved her. Bram looked at Sophie and knew that she could never again be just his friend. It was a strange feeling to fall in love with someone you already loved—a bit like putting in the last bit of a jigsaw, standing back and being able to see at last how all the pieces made sense when they were put together.

  That was how it was with him. He still loved Sophie as a friend, but he wanted her as a woman—wanted her with a fierceness and an urgency that shook him out of his habitual steady practicality and left him floundering.

  He hadn’t loved Melissa like this. Melissa was someone to be adored, so fragile, so lovely, that you feared she might dissolve into a dream if you reached out for her. But Sophie—Sophie was a real, warm, earthy woman for loving. She was a woman you could touch and hold and laugh with, a woman you could get down and dirty with, a woman to share your life with.

  As the last certainties about how he felt about Sophie fell away, Bram felt as if he had missed his step and fallen off a cliff. He was still falling, still struggling desperately to get a grip, when he realised belatedly that Sophie and the assistant were looking at him with identical curious expressions.

  ‘Bram?’ said Sophie in concern.

  ‘We’ll—’ His voice seemed to belong to someone else entirely. Bram cleared his throat and tried again. ‘We’ll take the shoes as well,’ he said.

  ‘Where now?’ he asked as they emerged from the shop, armed with a huge paper carrier bag.

  ‘Lunch?’ suggested Sophie, pushing aside the memory of her mother’s lecture on her need to lose weight before the wedding. Yesterday she had actually made her have a salad for lunch, in spite of Sophie’s objections that it was a freezing winter day.

  Bram made a huge effort to pull himself together as they set off in search of a café, but it was hard with Sophie swinging along beside him, and when all he wanted to do was pull her into a doorway and kiss her until she told him that she loved him too, that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, that she didn’t care about Nick any more.

  But Bram didn’t think Sophie would say that, no matter how hard he kissed her.

  Sophie was enjoying herself. It was much more fun being with Bram than with her mother. York was looking at its best, and it was lovely to have the time to wander, looking at the quirky details of the buildings, peering down alleyways and watching the street performers. The Christmas lights were up, and there were decorations in almost every window, while a cacophony of Christmas music spilled out of shops, one song blurring into another as they passed.

  Bram did seem a bit tense, though. Sophie was afraid he might be regretting the expense of the dress and the shoes—she certainly would be if she had had to fork out that kind of money—but that wouldn’t be like him. He was always so sensible, so practical about everything. He wouldn’t buy anything that he couldn’t afford, and he certainly wouldn’t regret his generosity, or show it if he did. He wasn’t that kind of man.

  She eyed him in concern as he stopped to peer at a display of antique jewellery, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, his face intent. He studied the shop window exactly the same way he’d study a truculent ewe during lambing, Sophie thought, watching him with affection.

  As if aware of her gaze, Bram turned his head and smiled at her, and she was conscious of a stab of happiness so sharp that it made everything seem suddenly vivid: the lines around his eyes, the crease in his cheek, the weight of the carrier bag in her hand. It was as if the world itself had snapped into focus, with every brick and stone clearly outlined, every paving slab beneath her feet smooth and solid, every sense in her body alert.

  When was the last time she had felt this alive? Sophie wondered. Not since Nick, and even then her joy had been tinged with disbelief. She had thought that she would never be truly happy again.

  Now here she was, standing in a York street with her oldest friend, while the quartet playing ‘Silent Night’ at the end of the street competed with the strains of ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’ blaring from the gift shop opposite, and she realised she was happy—truly happy.

  She smiled at Bram.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh…nothing,’ she said, not sure she could explain.

  Bram turned back to the window. ‘You should have an engagement ring.’

  Instantly Sophie’s unclouded happiness vanished in a flurry of guilt. ‘You’ve already spent far too much money on me,’ she protested. ‘And you can’t claim this dress as part of the farm assets! I don’t need a ring, honestly.’

  ‘You should have one,’ Bram repeated stubbornly. ‘Your mother and Melissa would expect it. Do you like that one?’

  He pointed to an antique ring, the fine rubies interset with pearls. Reluctantly Sophie came to stand beside him, and leant closer to follow the line of his finger. Bram felt her hair brush his cheek as she craned her head, and the impulse to pull her into his arms was so strong that he stiffened and made himself step abruptly away.

  Sophie felt him jerk away from her and straightened awkwardly, feeling as if she had overstepped an invisible boundary and invaded his personal space. A faint flush stained her cheeks. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  ‘No, it was me…I’m sorry,’ said Bram uncomfortably.

  They both stared desperately at the window, very conscious of the silence heavy with a new constraint.

  Bram could have kicked himself for his instinctive recoil. He could tell that Sophie was rather hurt, but he couldn’t explain why he had pulled away like that. Telling her that he loved her, that he was afraid he might lose control of his feelings and grab her in the open street just hours before she had to face the l
ove of her life for the first time in over a year, was hardly guaranteed to make the atmosphere more comfortable, was it?

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked instead.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Sophie, passionately grateful to him for breaking that awkward pause. ‘But look at the price! You could buy a bull for that!’

  Bram couldn’t help smiling at her logic. ‘We don’t need another bull,’ he pointed out. ‘Why don’t we go in and see if it fits?’

  It was perfect. Cinderella must have felt the same uncanny sense of rightness as the glass slipper had been slipped onto her foot. The ring sat on Sophie’s hand as if it had been made for her finger.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Bram.

  ‘I love it,’ she said honestly, turning her hand to admire the deep glow of the rubies against the cool lustre of the pearls, bound together with warm old gold in an unusual, asymmetrical setting. ‘It’s different, isn’t it? But that’s what makes it special.’

  ‘Like you.’

  Bram had turned away to find his credit card, and he spoke so quietly that Sophie wasn’t sure if she had been meant to hear or not.

  She might not have heard properly anyway. Bram might have been saying thank you to the jeweller. It might have been that. Better to pretend she hadn’t heard at all, she decided.

  Once, she wouldn’t have hesitated to dig Bram in the ribs and ask him what he had said. What do you mean, like you? she would have been able to demand, and Bram would have been able to tell her to mind her own business or to get her ears syringed. I wasn’t talking to you, he would have said with a grin. What makes you think you’re special?

  And Sophie would have just laughed, knowing that she was his best friend and so of course she was special. She would have hugged him and told him not to be such a grump.

  But she couldn’t do any of those things now. Not now that he had kissed her. Not now that she knew how warm and sure his lips were, how her senses shivered at the idea of kissing him again. And especially not now that he had leapt away from her closeness in a way he would never have done before, as if he couldn’t bear to touch her.