Page 121 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“I think it’s high time I taught you how to take me upside down.”
Locke awoke to see the barest hint of dawn easing in through the windows. He could see gently falling snow. The children would be delighted. His father would no doubt take them outside to build a snowman.
Snuggling up against his wife’s warm body, he buried his nose in the curve of her shoulder, inhaling her jasmine scent. After all this time, it still had the power to incite his desires. If she hadn’t worn him out the night before—
Suddenly he became aware of two things. The howling wind was not the high-pitched shrieking he was accustomed to, which was odd, as it was always worse in winter.
And a ticking clock.
Alarmed, he shot straight up in bed, threw back the covers, and rolled to his feet, crossing over to the mantel. The time showed twenty minutes past seven.
“What is it?” Portia asked sleepily.
“The clock is ticking and the time”—he looked toward the window—“the time could be accurate.”
He crossed the room, snatched up his clothes from the floor, and began to don them.
“Killian, what’s going on?”
“Go back to sleep. I just need to check on something.”
“Your father.”
He stilled. Deep down in his heart, he knew what he was going to find. “Something’s not right.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He wanted to argue with her, urge her to stay in bed, where it was toasty warm, but if he was correct, he was going to need her. When they were both dressed, they went down the hallway to his father’s room. The door was open, the room empty.
“I think he’s gone to her,” he said quietly.
“He could be downstairs playing Father Christmas.”
He shook his head. “No, he’s gone to her, for the last time. That’s why the clocks are ticking. He started them up before he left.”
He headed back to the bedchamber, grabbed his coat and her pelisse, and held it out to her. “You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”
“I’m not going to let you face this alone.” She turned and he draped the heavy cape over her shoulders.
They went down the stairs. In the foyer, the grandfather clock gonged the half hour. Taking Portia’s hand, he led her outside. The wind and falling snow whipped around them as they trudged toward the ancient oak tree and his mother’s grave.
And there was his father, lying prone over the mound of earth, one hand resting against the headstone as though he’d been caressing it. He was covered in a light dusting of snow. He hadn’t been here long, not long enough for the cold to have done him in.
Crouching beside the body, Locke pressed his fingers against his father’s throat. There was still a hint of warmth, but no pulse. “I think his heart gave out.”
“Do you think he knew it was time?” she asked softly. “Was his starting up the clocks a parting gift to us?”
“Perhaps.”
She knelt beside him and leaned against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know this is hard. No matter a person’s age...” She tightened her grip on his arm. “Killian, look at his cheek. It looks as though he was kissed by an angel.”
On his father’s cheek was a spot where the snow was not quite as thick, a spot whose shape very much resembled the outline of a mouth. “It’s a paw print.”
“There are no others on him or around him. I think it’s as he always said. Your mother was waiting for him.”
“Ghosts don’t exist.” Although he couldn’t deny that the wind was quieter than he’d ever heard it.
“If I were to die before you, I wouldn’t leave. Believe it is the mark of an animal if you wish. I choose to believe it was your mother welcoming him back into her arms.”
