Page 51 of The Secret Christmas Library

The wind was still howling; the snow was still up.

‘We can’t go back out in this,’ said Theo, with feeling. He was remembering his time out in the maze, and not with relish. ‘We’ll die. It’s over a kilometre away. In the pitch black and a howling storm.’

‘How you can have a house on your property that is so far away you can’t get to it,’ said Mirren. ‘Every time I think I’ve got my head around it, I forget again.’

‘Nobody’s doing another Captain Oates,’ said Jamie. ‘We’ll get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll look in the morning. All of us, Bonnie.’

Bonnie nodded. ‘Aye,’ she said.

Mirren’s head was whirring. She knew she wouldn’t get a moment’s sleep.

Her fire was burning once again – once again laid by Bonnie, the room made nice by her.

How could she work all hours, looking after this house for ungrateful people who .

. . well, she supposed the grandfather had not been ungrateful; he’d paid for her education, bequeathed her the trust fund Jamie had mentioned, the house that was hers outright; the running joke that she was actually better off than any of the legitimate McKinnon offspring.

But that had not been the real reason, had it? She had stayed to look after her family. Both sides.

Mirren washed up and, as usual, got into her pyjamas, then added socks, two jumpers and a hat before hopping into the four-poster, but it was no use. Even her book was no good. She tossed and turned, and got warm, but not sleepy, not at all.

Above the persistent wailing of the wind, she stiffened. She had heard a creak. Definitely a creak. She sat up, wide awake.

If it was Theo, still chancing his arm after all his nonsense, she was going to tell him a thing or two about backing off. Bonnie would be busy downstairs, or busy downstairs.

Which left one person. Or about five thousand angry ghosts, or a witch, or even that stupid duck, back for revenge. But she didn’t think it was any of those.

Mirren’s heart started beating faster. She got out of bed, glad of the firelight, and picked up her torch again. She advanced towards the door.

‘Hello?’ she said, quietly. ‘Who’s out there?’

There was another creak, very close, but no response.

‘Enough,’ said Mirren and threw open the door.

Standing there, looking sad but defiant, was Jamie.

‘I thought you didn’t creak,’ was all she could think of to say.

Mirren glanced up and down the corridor. He was alone.

‘Is this a bad time? Were you asleep? Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘You were creaking about outside my door!’

‘I know. I figured if you were really asleep you wouldn’t notice, but if you weren’t, you’d hear me.’

‘No,’ said Mirren. ‘I wasn’t asleep.’

‘Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.’ He looked at her pyjamas, socks, hat and two jumpers combo. ‘Although I don’t want to impose on a lady when she’s in her nightwear.’

Mirren looked back at him for a moment. Thought of all the reasons why this was a bad idea; all the reasons it couldn’t work.

And then she told herself, well, if it was just a dream, a break in her normal, quotidian city girl life, then she was going to make it count.

‘You can come in,’ she said and swung open the heavy door.

Mirren drew back towards the fire; Jamie followed her without saying anything.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Me neither.’

He looked at her with those warm hazel eyes and suddenly she knew the answer.

‘I thought we could just talk it through,’ said Jamie. ‘I find . . . I like talking to you.’

‘Well, no,’ said Mirren. ‘We can’t do that.’

‘Oh, okay,’ said Jamie, looking confused. ‘I’m sorry I bothered you.’

‘Because . . . I want to do something else,’ she said. And then he understood.

The flames crackled high in the grate as he moved towards her. He was so tall she had to reach up to meet him; and, just as she had thought about – dreamed about – his lips were soft, even as his long, wiry body was hard.

For the first time in forever her head went blank.

Every thought of everything – her phone, her flat, her family, her job, her Christmas, the book, the messages, everything .

. . everything left her. She was conscious of nothing but sensation, her mind a pure blank with nothing – no anxiety about kissing him, about whether they were doing it right; no worry about how she looked – she was in two jumpers and bed socks, after all.

If she could have seen herself, she would have seen her very shoulders unfurl; her whole body sink into his embrace, until she was utterly languid in his arms, her hair glinting in the firelight, her eyes closed, even as he clasped a strong arm around her waist, the other stroking her face with the gentleness she had noticed in him from the very start.

‘Oh,’ he said, breaking off temporarily, his eyes distant and unfocused. ‘Oh, Mirren, you are the sweetest, the very, very sweetest . . . I have wanted to do that for . . . ’

‘Well, you only met me ten days ago,’ she joked, but her voice was trembling; her legs, she was surprised to discover, were entirely unstable; even her breathing was faster than normal.

‘I thought you were with . . . ’

‘Christ, no,’ said Mirren. ‘And . . . ’ she flushed ‘ . . . he doesn’t compare to you.’

‘Oh, goodness,’ he said. ‘You are the only good thing to happen to me in . . . ’ He shook his head.

‘Shall we talk less?’ said Mirren, so he kissed her again, slowly and gently, as if they had all the time in the world; as if they were cooped up in a Scottish castle, hemmed in by snow, in the depths of the year, on Christmas Eve.

Ordinarily Mirren would be worrying if there had been the right number of dates or what his intentions were or even whether she liked the person that much for quite a long time before she ever slept with them, and even then it could be extremely awkward and sometimes just plain drunken.

Tonight was not going to be like that.

‘Come to bed,’ she said. ‘It’s warmer.’

She expected him to be anxious, apologise possibly, worry that he was taking advantage of her.

He did none of those things. He simply took her hand, took off her ridiculous hat and threw it across the room, then kissed the forehead he had removed it from.

Then, holding her hand, he drew her steadily towards the bed, and she followed, hypnotised, happily surprised, entirely willing, overwhelmingly excited.

Jamie opened the bottom curtains, the ones that faced the fire, so she could see him in the flickering light. They knelt, face to face, and he kissed her lips, then her neck, and started down her chest, so softly, so sweetly that she let out an involuntary sigh, then opened her eyes.

‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘I don’t think anyone can hear you.’

‘I heard you making a tiny creak!’

He smiled. ‘Yes, well, you aren’t one of the wine cellar twins.’

She smiled, and he returned, unhurried, to the matter in hand.

She hadn’t known what she had expected; barely knew what drew her to him so strongly.

But his gentleness, the obvious abhorrence he had for hurting things, showed itself clearly here.

His soft lips were light and teasing, unfurling her like a butterfly, making her push herself towards him, desperate for his teasing lips to return to every part of her body.

Carefully he pulled off her final vest – she wasn’t wearing a bra and he smiled happily.

‘Look at you in the firelight,’ he said. ‘Look at you.’

‘I am mostly goosebumps,’ said Mirren.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can do something about that.’

‘I think,’ said Mirren, her voice muffled, ‘you might be causing them.’

But then he drew her full breast into his mouth, still with that maddening slowness and care.

Mirren found herself thinking about his gardener’s hands, gentle and strong; what an exceptional amount of patience that might require.

Then she found it impossible to think of anything at all; her mind went white, entirely, as his head went lower, gradually kissing down her torso, and down between her legs, and she drew in a breath as she felt his lips slowly move between her thighs.

She let out a small moan, and caressed his head, pulling him closer towards her, hearing the fire crackle, as heat flooded her entire body.

His tongue was searching for something; found it, and she felt her head fall back behind her, the sensation incredibly intense, after so long.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said, then reached down. ‘No . . . later. For now, I want you here. Right here. Now. Please.’

Again with teasing slowness he kissed all the way back up her body, until little spasms of delight were coursing through her.

‘Tell me you were incredibly presumptuous and brought a condom,’ she whispered. ‘Because I don’t think we can nip to the all-night garage.’

He laughed, looked a little rueful, and confessed that he had.

And then they continued, staring into each other’s eyes in the flickering firelight, completely naked and, unusually for Mirren, completely unembarrassed, completely unselfconscious.

He covered her, and, still looking into her eyes, slowly, and totally in control, he entered her, just the tip.

Her eyes widened at the width of him. But he didn’t smile or apologise.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. Just . . . ’

She felt her breath coming fast now, feeling so close to him; he laid his body full-length on hers and she felt his heart beat faster, and a groan escaped him, and suddenly she was sweating all over.

She held on to him closely as he pushed further; breathtakingly deep, all the way inside her, both slippery now, the heat and the pressure overwhelming.

‘Oh, God,’ she said, looking up at him, the two of them caught in a red-curtained four-poster world of their own, and they waited, frozen for a moment, until she couldn’t help moving, her hips urging him forward, until with a huge thrust he pushed them both over the edge, and before she knew it she was clinging to him, muttering words as he crashed down on her like a wave and she followed him, matched him, until they were completely one and she found her back arching, her body completely possessed by another, and slamming down again and again and again, until she felt herself lift, stretch, electricity powering through her veins to the very tips of her toes, even as he roared above her and reared up.

Neither of them spoke afterwards, both a little startled by what had just taken place.

They swapped shy glances, and giggled a little.

Mirren felt sweat drying on her skin but also felt the urge to touch him, again, to stroke his hairless chest, to make sure in a way that he was still real.

And yet even touching him set her off again, astonishingly, once more with longing.

He looked at her, equally astonished, then pulled her back towards him.

He sat back against the back of the bed.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Come and sit on me. I want to see . . . ’

He pulled her on to his lap, astride him, fondled her heavy, swollen breasts, as she squirmed, still flushed with the excitement he awoke in her.

He hoiked her closer, looked up at her, his beautiful sandy hair falling over his forehead, the green highlights glowing in his hazel eyes. She pushed herself against him.

‘This isn’t getting the book found,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood.

‘What fucking book?’ he said, taking her face in his hand once more, crushing her tightly to him with the other hand, refusing to loosen their tight connection until once again, hard against him, she found herself holding one of the curtains, screaming hoarsely as her curls cascaded down her damp back while he rammed her steadily, taking his time, refusing to relinquish his hold, even as she cried out, over and over.

Afterwards, still warm, sore, still feeling as if inside she was entirely melting, Mirren stood up and walked towards the window, conscious he was watching her move, and of the power that it gave her, that she had over him in that moment, even as she knew he must be falling asleep.

She glanced back and the fine eyes were already drooping, the long lashes shadowing on his high cheekbones, and she felt a bolt of both joy and alarm: joy at his beauty; alarm that this might be – would be, must be – part of a short-lived thing, a sojourn from real life, where normal rules applied, where he would marry someone posh and annoying, and she would save up to try to soundproof the connecting wall.

She turned back towards the window. The snow had stopped, finally; finally the storm had blown itself out. Which was good of course but it meant . . . at some point they would inevitably have to go home. This spell would come to an end.

On the other hand, would she have missed it? Would she ever have missed this? An evening that she already knew she would remember for the rest of her life. Would probably, she thought, spend the rest of her life trying to equal.

The moon shone strongly now through the clearing sky, casting its light . . . She moved closer to the window, dreamily taking in the view.

Then, suddenly, she stopped short.

‘Jamie!’ she hissed, loudly. ‘JAMIE!’

‘What?’ came the amused voice, sounding sleepy. ‘I mean, I can probably manage another time. You are just so unbelievably fucking sexy . . . ’

‘Jamie! Come and see! NOW!’