For a brief moment, Drogo wished the harpies hadn’t imprisoned the nymph in this tent of whalebone and wire. In her simple attire, he could have thrown up her skirts and joined her without the delay of hooks and laces and acres of silk. Instead, he lowered his hands to the hooks of her bodice.
Ninian’s awe-filled gasp as he released her bodice and his knuckle brushed the underside of her breast repelled any urge to hurry. Despite the burning urgency of his body, his mind functioned clearly enough to want this to happen slowly, seductively, and for the rest of the night. He needed to fill his hands with her flesh, taste of her skin, revel in her softness.
In the flutter of light and scent of a dozen candles, with the nurturing pour of rain from the skies, he could almost convince himself this was the woman who could swell with his child.
His mind danced past that thought as shadows danced past the curtained bed. He wanted her, and she wanted him. For the first time in a long time, that was enough.
“I give you this last chance to say no,” he warned, releasing her mouth to draw his finger inquisitively over a pouting pink nipple. It drew up tighter, and he smiled. Her body answered more clearly than her words, he noted in relief, since he didn’t think he could stop. For the first time in memory, he acted on instinct alone—the instinct for survival. If he did not have her, he surely would not survive. He cupped the fullness of her breast and stroked again, feeling the tug in his groin that she must feel in her womb.
“It’s not right…” she protested weakly. Her breasts flushed with color at his attention, and her fingers dug more firmly into his shoulders, giving the lie to her denial.
He located the tapes of her skirt and loosened them, knowing there were things he should be saying, yet unable to form the sentences logically. The wire baskets at her hips collapsed on the floor, taking the lengths of silk with them.
She froze as he removed the soft lawn of her chemise, and she stood naked before him. Light played against skin finer than cream, unmarred except by a beauty mark where thigh met hip. No hollows or planes or hard angles here, he observed with a connoisseur’s satisfaction, only rounded curves and a pillowed softness a man could lose himself in. He slid his thumb along the curve of her breast and waist, down to her hip until it rested just above her mound. His, his muddled mind declared, focusing on the welcoming entrance between her legs.
She tried to cover herself with her hands, but he caught them and spread them wide to better observe her.
“Exquisite,” he murmured. “You were meant for better than sheepherders.”
“My grandmother would kill me,” Ninian whispered in one final protest, though she felt the power of him drawing her in already and knew the futility of words. Thousands of protests jumbled through her mind, but she could voice none of them. A creature of instinct, she could only act.
“Your grandmother would not know unless you bear fruit, and then she would be the happiest grandmother in the kingdom.” He released her wrists to throw off his coat. “Everyone knows Ives men only produce sons, so I would be honor bound to marry you.”
His waistcoat fell to join his coat, and Ninian stared at Lord Ives in wonder as he loosed his jabot. In shirtsleeves, the earl stood tall and wide shouldered, muscles rippling beneath his fine linen. Every arrogant inch of him screamed nobility and privilege. Only a man accustomed to riding the swiftest horses, gracing the most elegant drawing rooms, indulging in the idle games of archery and fisticuffs, could develop the easy grace and power he possessed. Here was no studious scientist but a stallion in the prime of life, willing and able to service any mare he cornered.
But then his mocking comments regarding sons and marriage sobered her. If their joining produced a child, he would marry her, and a Malcolm would once again occupy Malcolm Castle. The ghost’s appearance seemed strangely prophetic. Was the ghost warning her against mating with an Ives? Her grandmother had said to be true to herself and avoid all Ives. But right now, being true to herself meant forgetting everything and everyone but this Ives.
“Ready to try your luck at becoming a countess?” he taunted, dropping his shirt on the floor.
Ninian gaped at his chest in awe. “No, that’s not what I want,” she whispered. Unable to resist, she ran her fingers through soft dark curls, and pleasure surged through her at his sharp intake of air.
“Good, because it’s not likely.” Without warning, he grabbed her by the waist and dropped her on to the downturned bed linens. She sank into the feathers and did not have time to struggle up before he fell beside her, pinning her with a leg still clad in breeches.
“Does your skin taste as rich as it looks?” he asked, tickling her ear lobe with his tongue. His hard, dark body leaned over her, trapping her until her breasts tightened and her flesh tingled with his nearness. But instead of touching what she wanted, nay, needed touched, he continued his exploratory kisses along her throat, to her nape.
Just when she thought to scream a protest at his teasing, the earl claimed her mouth again, and his tongue took another intoxicating foray that left her breathless.
“If not for the storm I would continue this in my tower, under the stars,” he murmured as he released her lips and pressed a trail of kisses down her throat. His tongue lapped gently at a nipple so achingly hard with neglected need that Ninian practically launched off the bed in pleasured surprise. “But then, perhaps a storm is appropriate for this night.”
His mouth fastened more fully over her breast, and Ninian uttered a primal cry of joy and deep, powerful desire. Moisture pooled in her womb, and her body readied itself for this act she’d never expected to know.
As if understanding the strength of the tug between breast and womb, Drogo slid his hand between her thighs and spread her until she cried and shuddered beneath him. “You are as eager for this as I am,” he said with satisfaction, rubbing lightly with the heel of his hand. “It’s good to know it’s not just the promise of wealth and title you crave.” The feverish gleam in his eyes belied his words, as if he struggled to separate mind and body—and his body was winning.
“I… never… wanted that.” She gasped as pinwheels of light spun behind her eyelids, and she realized she had no control over her own limbs. They spread wider at his urging, recognizing only the demands of the earl’s questing fingers.
“Ahhh, but you can have that, all for the price of a babe in your belly. Imagine that, will you? A simple thing, one any woman can do.”
Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Ninian knew the fallacy behind his seemingly casual comments, but she had no interest in his worldly temptations. She wanted only the joining that would seal her fate and put her forevermore under his mastery. She knew the fallacy of that, too, but no longer cared.
As his thumb deepened the pressure and stroked higher, her back arched, and her hips rose and twisted and sought what only he could provide, until she screamed a protest at his delay and drove into his hand. Only then did he lower his head to suckle at her breast and apply the strokes that released the tension throbbing in her loins, in her womb, in every thread and nerve of her body.
She cried as her world exploded, and through her sobs, Ninian heard his chuckle of satisfaction. She couldn’t react. She floated somewhere outside herself, unable to sort right from wrong, reality from illusion. She only knew—it wasn’t enough.
She muttered an objection as he took his hand away, and he brushed a kiss against her cheek in response. “A moment, greedy moonchild.”
The bed shifted, but lethargy held her too firmly in its grasp for her to turn and see where he went. She felt empty, deprived in some manner, but too content to question. This wasn’t the form in which her grandmother had warned devils staked their claim.
“My turn,” he announced from somewhere above her.
With difficulty, Ninian opened her eyes and stared straight up—into the dark features of a completely naked Lord
Ives. Through the open bed hangings, lightning still flashed in the windows framing him. Thunder roared, and rain poured. Candle flame glowed and billowed in the cold drafts from the walls. Shadows played across flesh darker than hers, flesh covered in a soft down of black hair, muscled flesh that rippled with tension as he kneeled between her spread legs. He loomed enormous, his curled eyebrows drawn down in concentration as he studied her while she studied him.
Gulping, fighting a shiver of panic at the irrevocable claim he would make next, she lowered her gaze to the arrow of hair on his chest as he leaned over, trapping her between corded arms. In the dim light, she could see the gleaming jut of his man’s part, and even as terror spread, she opened her legs wider and lifted her hips to welcome him, understanding the reason for the ache of emptiness there.
“Ah, you know your place well, moonchild.” Kissing her lips, teasing her breast into readiness, he positioned himself. “Do you wish to chant a spell for good luck?”
He didn’t give her time to answer. In one powerful stroke, he penetrated her moistened passage, ruptured the barrier, and planted himself deep beneath her belly.
A cry of mixed rapture and pain tore from Ninian’s throat.
Drogo hesitated.
Then, with a curse, he withdrew and pumped again, driven by the consuming hunger between them.
She was too narrow, and he was too big. Only a devil would split her asunder like so. Ninian dug her fingers into the strong arms trapping her, but she couldn’t pull away any more than he could stop. Instead, she opened wider still and met his thrust.
Driven by the urgency of the madness they’d plunged into, he stroked deeper, filling her more completely, claiming her in the eyes of God and man.
She wanted to scream but couldn’t. She wanted to cry, but only a whimper emerged as he plundered her body with a sureness she no longer thought to escape.
The wind picked up outside, dousing the candles one by one. The strain and determination on her lover’s taut features didn’t falter as he drove her harder, forcing her back to the glorious heights through sheer strength of will.
Her hips lifted, and he growled approval deep in his throat, thrusting so high he carried her with him. Once started, she couldn’t stop. She matched him stroke for stroke, taking him deeper, accepting his domination, giving up some piece of her soul in trade for the changes he promised.
“Yes!” he sighed through his teeth. “Now!” he commanded, caressing her urgently with his thumb, using the trick he’d already taught her.
And well taught, Ninian exploded all over again, inside, outside, through every racing particle of blood as he penetrated the hollow beneath her belly and poured his life force deep inside. He shuddered and groaned with the power of his own release, and Ninian’s muscles contracted to hold him tighter.
For one brief moment, his soul touched hers, and joy poured through her at that brief whisper of knowledge. She saw inside of him, felt him, like a flicker of warmth… and then, it was gone, leaving her bereft.
Moisture trickled down her thigh as she slipped from full consciousness. She was aware of the man leaning over and suckling at her breast—the devil, if the legends were to be believed. She’d succumbed to temptation, and now he’d only to beckon and she must obey. His teeth grazed her nipple, and the connection returned, the tug between breast and womb, the pointed reminder of what a woman’s body was designed to do. She had no doubt he’d done it, she realized sleepily as his mouth released her but his spell did not. The moon was in its proper phase. Her body had been primed and ready, and Malcolm women were always fertile. Too fertile, her grandmother had said. And they always bore witches.
What had she done?
Lord Ives—Drogo—rolled over beside her, letting his hand play sensuous games with her breasts.
She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t seem to care what she’d done, what she would do again, given a chance. Perhaps he was right, and Sarah had actually found an herb that would act as aphrodisiac. She didn’t think so though. This connection was more than just of the body. It burned through her soul, as if she were truly possessed.
“I apologize.”
Startled, Ninian found the strength to turn her head. He didn’t look remorseful. He looked remarkably pleased with himself as he rode his hand over her belly and examined the birthmark on her hip.
“For what?” she asked, for lack of better response.
“For not believing you a virgin.” He collapsed back against the bed, forming a pillow with his hands as he stared up at the canopy. “I was a dolt.”
“A drugged one,” she suggested.
He shrugged, and she admired the play of muscle in his broad shoulder.
“Not unless I’ve been drugged for days. I generally avoid virgins, so I suppose I convinced myself you weren’t one.”
She smiled. The studious professor was returning. “I’m well past the usual age of bedding,” she admitted. “And I’m not inclined toward virginal simpering.”
“That’s it. You obviously deluded me into making an ass of myself.”
He leaned on his elbow over her. He didn’t look angry or menacing, so she decided he was teasing. It was hard to tell with a man who wore his face like a mask.
But the play of his hands on her flesh conveyed a message she could not mistake, nor deny. She arched beckoningly beneath his touch.
“I’ve always wondered what it was like.” She caressed his bristled cheek, sampling this male texture she’d never encountered in her all-female world. His jaw twitched, but he did not pull away. She smoothed the ribbon hanging loosely from his long dark hair as it fell over his shoulder. “It was a trifle difficult counseling young girls when I knew nothing.”
He nodded. “Glad to be of service. Anytime you like, I’m at your command.”
He had to be teasing. She stroked the moisture of his lower lip. “Now?”
He tensed, obviously struggling again in the battle between mind and body. This time, however, his strength of will won. “You’re sore and still feeling the effects of Sarah’s mischief-making. I’ll not take advantage of you again.” Reluctantly, he pulled the covers up around her. “I’ll put out the candles.”
When he swung his legs over the side of the bed, she could see he was fully aroused again. Yawning, she admired the pride of Lord Ives until the candles smoked out. He was a very big man, in more ways than one.
With the rain still pounding on the roof, she snuggled into her pillows and slept.
Drogo carried the last candle to the bed and looked dispassionately down on her golden curls. He’d given up thought of wife and child many years ago. Cynicism had arrived with the events of the past year. Women would do anything for a title. This one did not strike him as so conniving, or desperate, but then, neither had the last one.
It was simpler and more productive to immerse himself in the mathematics and astronomy he loved than to indulge in painful human relationships.
But just for one night, he’d known real passion again. He would thank her for that.
And in the course of things, when he left here, as he knew must, he would see her taken care of, as he took care of all the people in his life.
Ten
Ninian woke to a cold dark bed. The heavy draperies had been pulled around her to prevent drafts, so she could see naught, but she knew it was still night, and she was alone.
She lay still, contemplating her new status of fallen woman. She’d not been brought up to consider human mating more than a natural extension of the earth’s fecundity. One plowed and planted in spring to bring forth fruit in fall. Society placed impediments on this natural cycle for good reason, she supposed. Human children needed years of care and protection before they could go out on their own, so society required a man to protect the woman and the fruit they produced.
But Malcolm women didn’t need a
man’s protection. Malcolm women took care of their own.
Uneasiness stole over her. She didn’t mourn the loss of her virginity. She’d never expected to marry, and she had enjoyed the lesson he’d taught her. But the thought of bearing the child of an Ives…
Pulling the heavy covers more tightly around her, Ninian tried to recall words they’d uttered through the veil of passion. Ives men always produced sons, he’d said. Yet he’d said he wasn’t married, and Lydie had indicated her child wasn’t his. Did that mean Sarah’s children weren’t his either? Did he have no children?
Although women were always called barren when children didn’t arrive, her grandmother had explained that it was not always the woman’s fault. Perhaps Lord Ives had infertile seed. That would be best for both of them. She could enjoy the lessons he provided without the burden of worrying over her cursed fertility. Her aunts had provided enough females for the Malcolm legend to continue without her duplicating their efforts. She really didn’t need to be arguing with an earl about heirs and titles and all those worldly concerns she’d rejected when she’d chosen to stay here with her grandmother and accept her responsibility as the Malcolm healer.
Shivering at the enormity of the problem, deciding she couldn’t worry over things that couldn’t be undone, she sat up and pulled a heavy blanket with her as she sought her chemise.
She had to depart in the morning. She didn’t like wasting what remained of the night.
***
Drogo didn’t hear her enter. He looked up from his desk to see her standing there in the moonlight, her golden curls tangled around her face, only her thin chemise protecting her bare shoulders above the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. She looked the part of enchantress she claimed to be, and he smiled.
She looked vaguely startled that he’d smiled. So innocent. He wished he could believe that innocence would last, but it really wasn’t necessary. She’d given him what no other woman had, and he was properly grateful.
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