The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  As though summoning himself out of a trance, he pulled off his jacket and placed it on the ground near the trunk of a tree. She saw the considerate gesture and seemed touched by it, though she laughed softly, "Edward, this dress needs no protection."

  "I was thinking of comfort."

  "And I need no comfort," she replied, her eyes meeting his. "I suffer from a lifetime of comfort and foresee no discernible change in the future." She held her ground about six feet from where he stood, her eyes pleading. "No comfort, Edward, please."

  In addition to the pleading, he saw something else, a determination which seemed to flag now and then, and new pleading as though she were begging him not to let her lose her nerve.

  Now both stood and stared wordlessly at the spread coat. He found her mixture of tentativeness and determination moving and decided to let her take the lead, move at whatever pace she wished. He would follow, at least for the time being.

  Then softly, she asked a strange, unsettling question. Never lifting her eyes, she asked, "Will you forgive me?"

  He looked at her, certain he'd not heard correctly. "Will I—"

  Although he tried to speak again, she interrupted him with just a step in his direction. "How skillful are you at pretending?" she inquired.

  He smiled. "Very skillful. I've done it all my life."

  This seemed to please her. "Then all I have to do is simply tell you that you are no longer Edward Eden?" she asked, the earnest entreaty still on her face.

  "Agreed," he laughed. "Only too willingly. But who am I to be?"

  "Be anyone you like/' she said, her mood brightening, as though she were a child, plotting a game.

  "I shall be a gypsy," she announced. "A band camps occasionally in the far corner of Hadley Park. As a child, I used to see their wagons and the smoke from their fires. I always wanted to go and see them, but I was—forbidden."

  The manner in which she said this led Edward to confirm the suspicions in his heart. He wondered sadly how often that harsh word, "forbidden," had been applied to her instincts. He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, "Don't be afraid."

  Slowly she looked up at him. "I won't be afraid, she whispered, "if I can be someone else."

  In that instant the charade became clear to him. He knew what he must do, the role he would have to play. And he resented neither. Assuming his new role, his tone grew suddenly harsh. "And who do you fancy yourself, gypsy?" he demanded, stepping toward her, encircling her. "A lady? Is that what you think you are, a fine lady? If so, then you give yourself airs."

  Behind her, he waited to be absolutely certain that he had not misread her. With her back to him, he was unable to see her face.

  Then slowly she turned, "I am not a lady," she whispered fiercely. "I am a whore, a gypsy whore," and suddenly she reached out for his arm.

  He was amazed at the strength in her hand as she led him to the center of the glen, arranged him in a manner which apparently suited her. Then she stepped back and commanded full-voice, "Take off your shirt."

  He looked at her, saw the sudden hardness in her face, then obliged. As his fingers moved down the buttons, he never once lifted his eyes from her changed face, the flush increasing as he shrugged the garment off' his shoulders.

  She seemed to be studying him then, her hands, he noticed, kneading the fabric of her skirt. Slowly she encircled him once, then twice, her fingers reaching out for his flesh, brushing lightly across the hair on his chest, then lower across his belly. "How many whores have you known?" she asked casually, disappearing from his view as again she passed behind him.

  The game was on. "Hundreds," he lied, without hesitation.

  "Did you undress before them?"

  "Always."

  "Did it-please them?"

  "It must have."

  Silence. He continued to stand, wondering how long the charade would last, fearful that her new and totally foreign role would slip from her grasp and leave her even more vulnerable than ever. He felt her fingertips lightly tracing the path of his spine and felt the hair on his arms stiffen, a knot form in his groin. Again he sternly counseled himself patience. It was her game, her rules.

  Then softly behind him, he heard her voice again, the breathlessness increasing. "Take off—your trousers."

  A brief smile crossed his face and within the moment, he leaned forward to do as he had been ordered, the boots first, each removed with a tug, then hurled a distance away, then the belt of his breeches, then two rows of buttons, easing the tightness down over his calves, wishing he could look upon her, but holding his position.

  He hurled the breeches after his boots and shirt, then stood erect, thinking with humor of Eden Castle, a scant mile away, the stifling propriety, those good people not even aware of the "gypsies" in their glen.

  Well, then, here he stood as God had made him. Would she be content forever with his spine and the backs of his legs? When after several long moments, she seemed disinclined to either speech or action, he called with mock gruffness over his shoulder, "Well, whore, what do you want of me now?"

  Still it seemed as though all life, all movement within the glen had come to a standstill. He was tempted to glance over his shoulder in an attempt to see her face, but decided against it. "Are you there?" he asked. "Have I disappointed you? It's as God made me. If you have complaints, take them to Him. He's—"

  Then as though to hush him, he felt her close behind him, felt her arms go about his waist, a backward embrace, only her hands visible and locked before him, clearly trembling.

  "You do not disappoint me," she whispered. "I see no need for haste—'*

  Again he was tempted to take the lead, to draw her boldly before him, let her see the visible proof of his need and desire which at that moment threatened to bring him to his knees.

  "Oh God, gypsy, how you torture me," he murmured. "Does it bring you delight to do so?"

  At the moment when he felt he could not endure a moment longer, he was forced to endure a double agony, not only the sweet sensation of her pressed against his back, but now he noticed those trembling hands begin to move downward in a slow descent over his lower abdomen.

  The earth on which he was standing seemed to sway dangerously. Her fingers explored his body as though they had eyes, up, then back again, stopping now and then as though to assess the texture, a sensation as overwhelming as any Edward had ever experienced. She was using her hands like a trained mistress, encompassing him, lifting him, apparently content with limited sensate pleasure for her eyes had yet to see, her face still buried in the small of his back.

  Under the duress of the moment, Edward broke out of the charade. "Sweet God, take pity," he whispered.

  Then abruptly she released him and stood back a distance and issued the invitation that he longed to hear. "Turn, sir, and look upon me as God created me."

  He had never experienced such a turbulence of emotion, had never set about the act with such deliberation. Before turning he felt childlike, felt that this was as Adam and Eve must have discovered each other, with deliberateness and innocence.

  He turned. She received his eyes, then slowly her hands started the long, tortuous path down the front of her gown, buttons released, one after another, an endless row which in his anticipation seemed to grow longer. Before she reached the end, the top part of her gown fell loose from her shoulders, revealing her breasts, lovelier in reality than he had imagined.

  It was while he was still concentrating on her breasts that the gown fell away into a soft brown circle about her feet. As she stooped to lift it, she removed her slippers, and as though mimicking him, tossed all to one side, a small heap now of abandoned garments, hers blending with his.

  "Do I resemble your whores, sir?" she asked.

  "Not in the least," he replied, unable to take his eyes off her, a lovely Grecian statue come miraculously to life, alabaster shoulders sloping from graceful neck to graceful arms, those breasts as perfectly molded as though sculptors had just fo
rmed them, tapered waist, the slight ridge of ribs visible on either side, the full hips curving in semicircles around the belly, that darker mound, then long shapely legs, one turned in as though innately aware of this new vulnerability.

  Now it was her turn to endure his close scrutiny, and glancing back at her face, he observed that she was enduring admirably, the faint flush of embarrassment gone from her cheeks, though her eyes were still down, demurely fastened on her bare feet. With a soft laugh, she informed him, "I may not resemble your whores, sir, but I assure you I feel like them."

  The terrible feelings of desire had returned. For a moment they'd grown subdued in the excess of beauty before him. But now, having looked and catalogued all aspects of her, he found his attention focused on that part which remained hidden. He doubted seriously his ability to merely stand and look much longer.

  "May I take the lead?" he inquired softly. "Will you trust me?"

  "Take what you wish," she countered. "But take it as you would from a whore, for there are no ladies present in this arena."

  He started to protest her last words, but decided against it. In the beauty of their surroundings, in the honesty with which they stood before each other, words seemed to have no place. Yet still he hesitated, wondering for the first time in his life, if he could perform adequately. In the past, all his encounters had been with women who knew what to expect. Even dear Charlotte had known a husband. Now he knew that he stood before a virgin, a virginity made complex by his realization that she was trying so hard to deny it, and made doubly complex by his love for her.

  For just a moment it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn't have led her here, that perhaps they should have waited until they had fled Eden, waited for the wedding ceremony in Edinburgh.

  But something about her now suggested that there would be no waiting, that indeed she'd waited long enough. "Please," she whispered, as though suffering as he had suffered earlier. "Teach me so that I may know what's at the core of this world." She stepped toward him. "The time is so short."

  Time so short! God, how the words cut into him, reminding him in spite of everything that she still was clinging to her foolish notion of a perfect now, five days of bliss before she entered the prison of the future.

  Then this must be perfect. And with that in mind, he lifted his hand to her, inviting her to place hers atop it and in the fashion of a splendid promenade he began walking with her in a slow deliberate manner around the glen, their eyes locked on each other and holding fast.

  After two such circles, which he'd executed for the sole purpose of letting her adjust to her nakedness and his as well, he paused, looked closely into her face to see if he saw the slightest sign of failing nerves. He didn't.

  Then gently he led her to the center of the glen, released her hand, and lay flat on his back, taking the weight of her surprised eyes. "Come," he invited, extending a hand upward.

  Without hesitation, though clearly bewildered, she did as she was told until she was standing beside him, looking down. Still not speaking, never lifting his eyes from her face, he guided her forward until she was straddling him, then drew her down until she was kneeling over him. The first sensation of those smooth white legs parting over him caused him to press his head backward and close his eyes. He had consciously selected his position, afraid that the classic stance of domination and submission might alarm her. Lead her gently, he counseled himself, in spite of the blood racing through his body. Let her control it, gauge it, judge it as she wishes, take as much or as little.

  This she did. She drew herself forward, stopping short for a moment, then lifting herself and with gentle guidance from him, received him, tentatively at first, still supporting her body, her eyes closed, head thrown back.

  His hands were on her hips, still allowing her to gauge and control the penetration. He felt himself going deeper and deeper into that warm country, the sensation spreading to all parts of his body, though still in control.

  Then abruptly she removed her hands from his chest and with a short sharp cry took all of him, her mouth open as though in imitation of her body, her knees wide spread, her hands braced behind her as though to support her in this new sensation.

  Still in control, his hands moved up from her hips to her breasts. Starting at her nipples and using the tips of his fingers, he made gentle round circles, ever-enlarging. He saw her body beautifully arched before him, connected to him at the base.

  She shifted upon him in subtle movements as though to test the sensation. The sight of her before him in the throes of such enjoyment made him impatient to complete the act. But again and with the strictest of self-control, he took his cue from her, watched closely all angles of her face, certain that before long she would require more.

  And she did. A few moments later, the slight turnings of her body had become writhings, her mouth continuously open. Then at last he took the lead with a sense of no turning back, rolled her gently onto her back, angled his body downward between her legs and commenced exploring that dark canal to its very limit.

  At first he was afraid he'd moved too rapidly as he caught sight of her face beneath him, her eyes distended as though shocked by his sudden violence. But as he continued, he felt her hips lifting, her body joining the rhythm, and when his mouth closed about her breast, he felt her arms go around his back and lock him to her.

  Still acceleration, deeper, harder, her hands on his buttocks as though to hold him inside her, her legs lifting in an attempt to receive more of him, her head thrashing from side to side as the moment drew nearer.

  Then without warning she gave one sharp cry, followed by a series of low reflexive moans. He felt her fingernails on his back as she clung to him as though in fear of falling. He permitted his own release as together they held each other for protection against the cataclysmic upheaval taking place in their bodies.

  Edward had never experienced such a sensation, a slow hot shooting forward of such strength and duration that for a moment he felt as though his entire body would be consumed. Even after the peak of ecstasy had been reached, they continued to lie together, their bodies still locked and shuddering.

  He raised himself and looked down upon her and saw something alarming in her pale face, eyes still closed, her forehead glistening with perspiration. He leaned forward and gently kissed her.

  Her eyes opened then, though focused on no specific detail. There was moisture at the corners of the dark lashes, as though the experience had taken her to sublimity, then deposited her on the other side of despair. He felt his own emotions dangerously close to the surface and wanted to speak of his terrible love for her.

  But apparently she was not in the mood for words and merely caressed his face, the mysterious grief in her eyes increasing until at last she lowered his head gently onto her breasts as though she did not want him to see the grief or the tears.

  For an unaccountable number of minutes they lay thus. He felt her arms across his back holding him close, renewing their grasp now and then as though fearful that he might slip away.

  Predictably, locked in the mutual embrace, it was only a matter of time before their passions surfaced again, still unsatiated, a more deliberate progression this time, both of them working to postpone the explosion as long as possible, each providing the other with the greatest possible stimulation, using hands and lips, pressure and sudden lack of pressure in skillful and gratifying ways. As the summit was approached, again the silence was broken with soft moans and cries to God, the instruments of their satisfaction simple and complex, their own bodies, their own hungers, their mutual love.

  The pale green edge of the glen was turning black with late afternoon shadow when sorrowfully, begrudgingly, their bodies surrendered for the first time in long hours. As Edward lifted himself to one

  side, he looked down on her, her legs still spread, her arms outflung, the look of grief still there, not in the least abated.

  He knelt beside her and with his fingertips wiped the mois
ture from her forehead. "My dearest love," he whispered. Having been one with her for so long, the space between them seemed to swell. This disturbed him and caused him to speak with a force and bluntness which he instantly regretted. "Come," he ordered, rising to his knees, "we must leave here."

  She looked up at him. "Why?" she asked. "It's early yet."

  "Not just these woods," he added quickly. "We must leave Eden. Tonight. As soon as you can prepare your luggage."

  He thought he detected a look of pleasure on her face as her hand with great and moving familiarity wandered gently over his chest and toward that part of him which obviously had brought her abundant pleasure. Dangerous sensations there. As the look of pleasure on her face broadened into almost coquettish delight, as her hand found its destination, he drew back and tried to look sternly down on her, though it was difficult, so difficult.

  Slowly, as though to a beautiful child, he repeated, "We must leave here, Harriet. Tonight. We must put as much distance as possible between us and this place—"

  Denied him, she withdrew her hand and stretched, her legs extended, her hands cupped about her breasts, eyes closed as though reliving in memory the recent sensations. "I don't know what you're talking about, Edward," she murmured sleepily.

  He moved closer and held her face between his hands, forced her to look at him. "I'm talking about leaving here immediately in my carriage and traveling as far tonight as the horses will endure. I'm talking about Edinburgh, possibly four days hence, and a wedding ceremony after which you will be my wife."

  Her attention was his now, clearly his, her eyes focused and unblinking. "And then?" she whispered.

  The inexplicable expression of grief had returned to her eyes. But he ignored it and talked on. "And then," he concluded, "a life together, for all time—"

  "Where?" she interrupted, as though challenging him.

  "Wherever you wish," he smiled. "Scotland, Shropshire, London, here."