by Tessa Dare
Not anymore. The way she defended her tale so stridently, the lively spark in her eyes, the fetching blush staining her throat . . . Luke felt these subtle signals like jabs to his gut.
She was falling out of love with him. And fast.
"I've known Cecily all my life," Denny said from the head of the table. "She's an intelligent woman, both sensible and resourceful. She's also my guest, and I won't have her truthfulness or sanity questioned over breakfast." He propped one forearm on the table and leaned forward, fixing Luke with what was, for ever-affable Denny, a surprisingly stern glare.
Luke acknowledged it with a slight nod. If he must surrender her to this man, it was some solace to see Denny was capable of protecting her. In a breakfast room, at least, if not a cursed forest.
Denny turned to Cecily and laid a hand on her wrist. "If you say you encountered a werestag last night, I believe you. Implicitly."
"Thank you, Denny." She gave him a warm smile.
How sweet. Truly, it made Luke's stomach churn.
Ignoring Brooke's grumbling objection, Luke swiped a roll from his neighbor's plate and chewed it moodily. He ought to be rejoicing, he supposed, or at least feeling relieved. She should forget him, she should marry Denny, the two of them should be disgustingly happy.
But Luke could not be so charitable. For four years, she'd held on to that memory of their first, innocent kiss--and he had too. And he liked believing that no matter what occurred in the future--even if she married Denny, even if an ocean divided them--his and Cecily's thoughts would always wander back to the same place: that graying bench tucked beneath the arbor in Swinford Manor's side garden. He didn't want to believe that she could forget that night. But even now, as she buttered another point of toast, he could sense her mind straying . . . and she wasn't kissing him on a garden bench. She was deep in the forest with a blasted white stag.
Damn it, it wasn't right. When she lay abed at night, she shouldn't see charging boars and violent tussles. She should dream of the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the texture of organdy and the distant strains of an orchestra playing a stately sarabande. As he had, all those freezing, damp nights. As he would, in all the bitter years to come.
What had she called him, last night? An insufferable, arrogant cad. Yes, he was. He wanted Cecily pining for him forever, dreaming she could tame him, yearning for the tender love he could never, ever give. He wanted her to remember the old Luke, not fantasize about some uncivilized beast. And if this "werestag" had eclipsed the memory of their kiss with his gory midnight rescue . . .
Luke just would have to do it one better, and give Cecily a new memory to occupy her thoughts. An experience she could never forget.
*
Denny did not play the pianoforte. No one in his household did. Yet when Cecily sat down to the instrument that afternoon, she found it recently polished and tuned to a crisp perfection. He must have had that done for her, in anticipation of her visit. Always so thoughtful, Denny.
Her fingers lingered over the keys, coaxing a somber melody from the instrument.
"Is that my funeral march?" Luke's deep drawl, from somewhere behind her.
She froze to her fingertips.
"Don't stop on my account," he said. "Melancholy does become you so."
She closed her eyes and drew a deep, slow breath. If he wished to taunt her . . . two could play at that game. Her fingers launched into a jaunty folksong, one she knew he would recognize instantly. They'd sung it that summer, practiced it over and over in preparation for that farce of a musicale at Lady Westfall's estate. She played the introduction effortlessly, from memory--not caring that she would betray the fact that she'd practiced it often over the years, out of sentimental folly. And here came the cue for his entrance, that gay little trill that ushered in his bass. She drew the notes out, extending him a musical dare. Would he sing his part? He'd always had the most beautiful voice, before.
"Enough," he said. "I preferred the mournful dirge."
Cecily dropped her hands to her lap. "So it would seem. You are as devoted to low spirits as bottled ones, these days."
"Quite. I think I've developed an aversion to levity. When you marry Denny, together you will be so revoltingly happy, I shall have to remove myself to another county." He came to stand at her shoulder. "Perhaps another continent."
He would leave England again? The thought gutted her. She knew what it was, to fret endlessly about his whereabouts, not even knowing whether he still lived. It was a miserable way to spend one's time.
"I'm not going to marry Denny."
He paused. "You have told him this?"
"Not yet. I will tell him soon."
"When did you decide?"
"Last night." She lifted her face to his and read pure male arrogance in the set of his brow, the little quirk at the corner of his lips. How like him, to think that disastrous kiss had changed everything. "No, not in the drawing room. I knew it later, in the forest."
He clucked his tongue. "Ah, Cecy. Don't tell me you've fallen in love with the werestag? I fear he will make you a prickly husband."
"Don't be absurd. And stop deriding me for my honesty, while you hide behind that ironic smirk."
His eyes hardened, and he set his jaw. Curse him, he still wouldn't let her in.
Exasperated, she pushed back the piano bench and stood. "Of course I do not mean to wed a werestag," she said, crossing to the window. "But that encounter showed me what I truly desire. I want the man who will be there when I need him. The man who will protect me, fight for me."
"I have fought for you, Cecily." His voice was low, and resonant with emotion. "I have fought for you, protected you. I have suffered and bled for you." He approached her, covering the Aubusson carpet with a lithe grace that made her weak in the knees. For a moment, she was reminded of the majestic white stag: the innate pride that forbade him to heed her commands; the sheer, wild beauty of his form. They were so alike, he and Luke.
Cecily's breath caught. What did he mean, he had fought for her, bled for her? Was he referring to last--
"I have fought for you," he repeated, thumping a fist to his chest. "Risked my life on battlefields--for you, and for Denny, and for Brooke and Portia and every last soul who calls England home. Is that not enough?"
Mere inches separated them now. She swayed forward, carving the distance in half. Her heart drummed in her breast as she whispered, "No."
His eyes flared. "Cecy . . ."
"It's not enough." She lifted one hand to his neck, curling her fingers into the velvety hair at his nape. Yes, every bit as soft as it looked. "I want more."
If their game was taunting, victory was hers. Grasping her by the hips, he crushed her to the wall and kissed her with abandon. And unlike a typical kiss, which started with superficial contact and then deepened by degrees, this kiss began at the end. He devoured her in those first desperate seconds, prying her jaw wide, stroking deep with his tongue; but then he soon retreated to gently explore her mouth. And then he was worshipping just her lips--reverently tracing their shape with his tongue, blessing them with feather-soft kisses as she stroked his hair.
Oh. Oh, sweet heaven.
His hands slid up to cup her breasts. She arched against him, pressing her breasts into his palms, thrilling when he thumbed the hardened tips. He bent and kissed her throat, her collarbone, the tender border of her decolletage. His tongue dipped between her breasts, and she clutched him tight.
"Yes," she said aloud, afraid he might stop. This was what she needed. Yes, yes.
This was paradise.
He would most certainly go to hell for this.
Luke knew it, and he didn't bloody well care. It was all he could do not to drag her down to the carpet, toss her skirts up around her ears and claim her in the most primitive way possible--what remained of his soul be damned.
He wanted to possess her mouth, her body, her mind and heart. To touch every deep, soft and secret part of her: the tender arch of her
palate, the vulnerable curve beneath each breast, the snug corner of her heart where his memory lived.
The mindless wanting surged in his blood, stiffened in his groin, twisted in his chest. It hurt. He ground his hips against hers to soothe the ache, and she shuddered, as though she could glimpse the lewd images cavorting in his mind.
He drew back immediately.
Rein it in.
This wasn't about unleashing his base desires. This was about giving Cecily a new memory of him, to surpass all others. He'd been her first kiss, all those years ago. For the rest of her life, she would have compared every kiss from every man to that one perfect moment--until he lost control and mauled her last night, erasing that legacy completely.
But there were other firsts he could give her. Other experiences she would remember, measure every other man against. He had to restrain his animal urges, excavate whatever remnants of patience and tenderness still remained to him.
He had to make this very, very good.
She trembled as he eased her neckline downward, freeing the luscious swell of one breast.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered.
"I'm not," she said. Then, pleading: "Just touch me."
Now it was Luke's knees that quivered as he stroked her breast, caressing her with the backs of his fingers before taking the plump weight into his palm. So pale and perfect. So smooth and cool against his tongue. He bent to draw her taut nipple into his mouth, suckling her until he pulled a deep moan from her throat.
With his other hand, he hitched up her skirts. A bit of impatient fumbling--he was out of practice, after all--and he found her sex, warm and dewy with excitement. It nearly undid him, to feel how much she wanted this. Wanted him.
Gently, tenderly, he caressed her most sensitive flesh. Learning the shape of her with his fingers, circling her swollen pearl with his thumb. Cecily's breathing quickened, and her eyes fluttered shut.
"Open your eyes," he said. "I want you to know it's me."
She obeyed, looking up at him. "As if it could be anyone else."
God, the unabashed affection in her gaze . . . It punctured all the defenses he'd built around his heart. A flood of emotions swamped him: anger, confusion, fear. And beneath it all, a foolish, sentimental sort of yearning. He hadn't known he still was capable of yearning, for anything.
She made him feel almost human again.
He sank to his knees, pressing his cheek to the cool silk of her inner thigh. "Cecy, my darling. I could kiss you for that."
And he did.
Spreading his fingers to frame the slit of her drawers, he pressed his mouth to her core. She bucked against him, and he clutched her hips tight, pinning her to the wall as he teased and tasted her flesh. Her gasp of delight made his pulse stutter.
Slowly now. Don't rush.
Yes, he meant to give Cecily an indelible memory, but he was also taking one for himself. He drank in her intoxicating perfume--the scents of clean linen and soap, mingling with the sweet musk of her arousal. He stroked her languidly with his tongue, wanting to memorize her shape, her texture, her taste. Most of all, he took his time learning her, delighting in the smallest discoveries: a caress just so made her moan; a kiss to this spot made her hips convulse.
Be it four years or forty--this would be a kiss to remember.
"Luke."
Her peak came quickly. Too quickly. She gave a startled cry of pleasure and clutched his neck. Shamelessly, he slid a finger inside her, needing to feel that part of her grip him too.
Then it was over. All of it, over.
He caressed her until her breathing slowed. Then, with a light parting kiss to her thigh, he rearranged her drawers and petticoats before lifting his weight on shaky legs.
What to say, when she looked at him thus? Her heart shining in her eyes, her taste lingering on his tongue. After what they'd just shared, he couldn't lie to her. He couldn't tell her she meant nothing to him, then callously walk away. No, he had to find some way to make her understand she meant everything to him. And while he still must walk away, there would be nothing callous about it.
"Cecy." He smoothed the hair from her face. And then, in a solemn tone of farewell, "You're lovely."
"No." She grasped his lapel with one hand and reached for his trouser falls with the other. "No, don't go." Cupping the hard ridge of his erection, she kissed his neck and whispered fiercely, "I know you want me. You must know I want you too. Luke, I--"
"Don't." Summoning his last shred of restraint, he tugged her hand from the buttons and brought it to his lips. "You may think you want me, but it's Denny you need. You deserve to be happy, Cecily. Adored, doted upon, surrounded by a half-dozen blue-eyed children. I want you to have that life."
"Then give me that life."
"I can't. Don't you see? Everything's different now. I'm different now. I'm not that dashing, immortal youth who kissed you in the garden all those years ago."
She stroked his cheek. "I'm not the giddy, moonstruck girl you kissed. I'm a woman now, with my own fears and desires. And a heart that's grown stronger than you'd credit. Strong enough to contain four years' worth of love."
He cleared his throat and studied the wood paneling. The whorls of grain twisted and churned as he blinked. "You should have saved it for someone else."
"I've never wanted anyone else." She tugged on his chin until he met her gaze. "Luke. Fight for me."
He shook his head. "I'm done with fighting."
"And I'm done with waiting," she said. "If you walk away from me again . . ."
"We're finished. I know." Tenderly, he hooked a wisp of her hair with his fingertip and slowly tucked it behind her ear. "Marry Denny."
She stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. "What a liar you are. You keep insisting you've changed, but you haven't changed one bit. Toying with my affections one moment, callously discarding them the next. I can't decide whether you're deceiving me or just lying to yourself."
"Don't overthink it, Cecy." Turning aside, he tugged casually on each of his cuffs. "You said it best last night. I'm an arrogant, insufferable cad."
He stepped away, stretching the taut thread of silence between them.
Long moments passed before she spoke. "Very well," she said numbly. "I'll speak with Denny today."
"Cecily! Merritt! There you are." Portia burst into the room, clearly too full of excitement to notice Cecily's mussed hair or Luke's skewed cravat, much less the tension hanging in the air. "I've been searching this whole blasted house for you."
Thank God for rambling old estates. If Portia had found them a few minutes earlier . . .
"Come quickly, both of you. Denny's gamekeeper found--" She made an impatient gesture and ran to Cecily's side, taking her arm. "I'll give you the details on the way. We're off to the woods, all of us."
Cecily shot Luke a strange glance before turning to her friend. "What is it, Portia?"
"Why, the werestag, of course."
Chapter Five
"So you've decided to join us this time," Denny said.
Luke shrugged. "Didn't want to miss the entertainment."
Together the men covered the sloping green in long, easy strides. Luke glanced over his shoulder at Cecily, who walked between Portia and Brooke. Her pale blue muslin gown caught the late-afternoon breeze, pulling against her soft, feminine curves, and he damn near sighed with longing. Things might be finished between them--they had to be--but he'd be damned if he'd let her wander loose in that forest a second time. The devil only knew what fearsome creature she might meet with, or shed her stocking for, next.
"We're going another way this time," Denny explained. "There's a cottage tucked deep in the forest there." Shading his eyes with one hand, he indicated the direction with the other. "My gamekeeper uses it from time to time, and he found something suspicious there this morning."
"Not suspicious," Portia objected, as the other group joined them at the trailhead. "Gothic and intriguing."
"Please," said
Brooke. "A discarded stocking is neither gothic nor intriguing. It's laundry."
Luke's eyes shot to Cecily. "He found the stocking?" He swallowed. "Your stocking?"
"So it would seem." She clasped her hands together. "It was . . . soiled."
"Crusted with blood, you mean." Portia's dark eyes widened as she touched Luke's arm. "Werestag blood. It's positively chilling. He truly must be the most fearsome, violent sort of creature. I tell you, Lord Merritt, if you could have seen the mincemeat he made of that boar . . ." She shuddered. "No one who witnessed that scene could doubt Cecily's rescuer was half wild beast."
All eyes turned to Cecily. Denny laid a hand on her pale blue sleeve, and Luke felt a possessive fury surge through his veins.
Let it go, he told himself. Let her go.
"Portia, he saved my life." Cecily's voice was indignant, and she shrugged off Denny's touch. "Unarmed and unaided, he killed a ferocious boar that would have gored and devoured me. Yes, it was messy. Battles to the death often are. Stop speaking as though he took pleasure in it."
"Your defense is most stirring, Miss Hale." Luke deliberately adopted a formal, detached tone that he knew would only inflame her anger. "You seem to have developed a rather personal attachment to this man-beast."
Tears glittered in her eyes as she glared at him. Tears, and accusations. "He fought for me."
The group fell into an uncomfortable silence. She sniffed and dropped her eyes, and Luke took the opportunity to study her pale expression of distress.
Cecily, Cecily. Foolish girl, to think herself enamored with a beast. She could have no conception of Luke's animal side. There were times during the war he'd been stripped down to it--become a base, feral creature that knew only hunger, sweat and the smells of blood and fear.
She was dreaming after a myth: a gentleman who dallied as a noble beast, rescuing damsels in some enchanted forest. With Luke, she would get a beast wearing the clothes of a man. An uncivilized creature who'd lost all enjoyment in balls and parlor games, who'd forgotten the words to all her trite little songs of green meadows and shepherds and love.
Enjoy your fantasy world, Cecily. Let me visit you there, from time to time.