Winter’s Desire

by Amanda McIntyre, Charlotte Featherstone

  Swallowing hard, Kieran replied, “I will.”

  “It was not easy for you to allow me in tonight, I saw that in your eyes.”

  “You gave me a chance to have her—I owed you the opportunity to say goodbye.”

  “You have not even questioned how I have come back, how it is possible for me to be here with you.”

  “There are things in life and death that we are not meant to understand. I accept that. I also understand that when the heart has unfinished business, it cannot rest in peace.”

  “This heart is satisfied now. It has felt love once more and can rest easy. You deserve her,” Pembrooke murmured as he touched the shape of Sinead’s face. “Treat her well, Thompson.”

  Pembrooke kissed her, then pulled away. “She has released me this night. She is yours now.”

  “Wait!”

  But he was gone, a shadow amongst shadows.

  Sinead awoke to the feel of Kieran’s callused fingers skimming along her hip. She exhaled deeply, sexually replete and satisfied by the lusty lovemaking they had shared. She thought of all the arousing things he had shown her, the things she wanted to do again. She thought of David and the coming together of both men to pleasure her. Kieran, commanding and strong, encouraging her to let go of her fears. David had been soft, reverent, accepting of her feelings for Kieran, while sharing her one last time.

  She half wondered if it hadn’t all been a wicked dream, but the sensitivity of her nipples and the soreness between her thighs told her that last night had been real.

  Cocooned beneath the bedcovers, Sinead was becoming aroused by Kieran’s persuasive hand. His hot, naked chest pressed into her back, and his heavy thigh was draped over her legs. Through flickering lashes she saw slate-gray streaks of light peering through from the heavens. It was not yet dawn, not yet the solstice. But waking up next to a man like Kieran, and having his hands roam over her body as though he worshipped her, was all Sinead needed. There was peace here in this bed. Harmony. There was love here.

  Without a word, he flipped her to her stomach and mounted her, covering her back with his chest. His arms came around her and he hugged her close to his body, which was taut with sexual tension.

  “Accept me.”

  It was not a question or a plea, but a command. Raising her hips off the bed, Sinead silently answered him, and he thrust into her. She took him all, meeting him, accepting him.

  There were no words, just the sounds of their bodies mating while outside the world slept. To Sinead, she felt as though they were the only two people on earth. Just her and Kieran, and he was making love to her, giving her body such pleasure. Her heart soared and she clutched at his fists and brought her mouth to his knuckles as he changed his pace from lazy and slow to harder and faster, threatening to make her fall into a blinding orgasm.

  “Sinead,” he whispered, dropping his head against hers. “Mo muirnin.”

  My beloved…

  Her tears trickled onto his hand as she clutched him harder, fearing that she might come fully awake and realize that he, too, was gone.

  “I am here, Sinead, can you not feel me?”

  She could, but she wanted more, a contact with him that she would feel the day through. That would sustain her, like breath.

  He knew what she needed. He would always know.

  Lifting her hips, he brought her to her knees and curled his large form around hers until there was no inch left of her body that was not touched by Kieran’s.

  Slowing his pace, he built her up in a slow rise. He stroked her breasts and rolled her nipples. He whispered love words in her ears and kissed her shoulder. He let her feel the trembling that rippled through his body, and when he stroked her clitoris and fed her his cock, she let herself go, knowing that Kieran was indeed with her. She felt him everywhere, but most of all, she felt him in her soul. It was beautiful and right. And the tears that fell from her eyes were not tears of pain, but of utter joy and fulfillment.

  “You have made a wanton of me,” she said on a laugh as she traced Kieran’s lips with her fingertip.

  “No, I merely allowed it to come out. It was there all along.” He kissed her finger and gathered her close to his chest. Together they watched the sky slowly lighten and the snow fall silently to the ground.

  She hardly knew what to say next, whether to mention David or not.

  “We need to go to the stones, mo muirnin, for there is something that must be done.”

  Nodding, she slipped from his arms and the sheet dropped to her waist, baring her breasts. Kieran stilled her and traced her tender nipple and areola with the pad of his thumb.

  “I will never grow tired of looking at you, Sinead. I…can hardly believe…” He swallowed and looked away. “Are you mine, Sinead?”

  Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she forced him to look at her. “I am yours, Kieran, as you are mine.”

  “I’ve always belonged to you, Sinead. I always will.”

  The stones could wait, she thought as she bared herself to him and straddled his lap. It was her turn to show him the ways a woman could love a man.

  He moaned, a shaky sound from deep within, and slowly came to rest against the pillows. “Yes.”

  It was all he could say as she proceeded to make love to him.

  EPILOGUE

  THEY STOOD TOGETHER AND WATCHED THE BRIGHT orange disc rise above the clouds and the snow-laden trees of the woods that lay to the east of the standing stones.

  “It’s such a beautiful sight, is it not?” she asked.

  Kieran reached for her gloved hand and squeezed it. “I never thought I’d be here with you, watching the sun rise. I feel as though I’m in a dream, and when I wake up I will be back in that muddy trench alone.”

  “No.” Resting her head on his shoulder, Sinead looked up at him. “Neither of us is alone anymore.”

  The sunshine filtered through the stones, illuminating his face. The darkness was still there in his eyes, but there was vulnerability, too—a softness that had not been there before last night. He looked down at her, tweaked her nose and laughed as the first snowflake landed on her cheek.

  “Shall we?”

  Sinead reached for the wooden box that Kieran had carved. It was engraved with the Celtic tree of life, a symbol for everlasting life and prosperity. In it, they had placed the cloth the little girl had given her, and between the stones, she tucked the box and gave thanks to the priestess for the wonderful gift she had bestowed upon her.

  When she stood, it was to have Kieran bring her to his chest and hold her tight. “Look beyond the stones, muirnin.”

  She did, and saw the image of David standing there, looking back at them. His face was glowing as if he was at peace. Kieran held her tighter, so close in fact that she could feel the heavy beating of his heart beneath his coat.

  “What do you see?” she asked Kieran, wondering if he saw David, as well.

  “Do you not see him? That magnificent stag just beyond the stone—and look, a doe has come out of the woods. Can’t you see them?” Kieran asked with a laugh.

  “I see them,” Sinead whispered as she watched the girl who had given her the cloth emerge from the snow and take David’s hand in hers.

  “’Til we meet again,” she whispered to David. He nodded, hearing her, and then looked down at the child and allowed her to lead him off into the sunrise until they disappeared.

  “What are you thinking?” Kieran asked as he tipped her chin up and brushed aside a tear that slipped down her cheek.

  “I am thinking that the world is, indeed, in perfect balance. Light and darkness, death and rebirth. It is because of you, Kieran, that I have been reborn.”

  “Come, let us go back to bed and hide away from the world in your little cottage. And when you open your eyes, there I will be, looking down at you, loving you. And when I come home to you, there you will be waiting with arms ready for me.”

  There was love and peace and pleasure, so much pleasure. Amongst midnight
whispers on the winter solstice both of them had been reborn.

  LOVER’S DAWN

  by

  Kristi Astor

  1

  Dorset, England, 1909

  “HERE,” AISLING SAID, SHOVING A STACK OF PAPERS onto Jack’s lap as she perched on the sofa’s rolled arm beside him.

  Pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, he pulled out a page at random and began to read aloud.

  “His lips, warm and moist, traveled from the swell of her creamy, rose-tipped breasts down to her stomach. Onward they moved to her navel and then below, tracing slow, wet circles upon her goosefleshed skin. Her back arched off the settee in wicked anticipation, her entire body quivering with need. At last she felt the tip of his tongue part her slick, wet folds, teasing the nub of sensitive flesh ’til she cried out in pleasure…”

  “Good God, Aisling! This is positively scandalous! We’ll make a fortune with this one.”

  Aisling arched one brow as she reached for her cigarette case. “Do you really think so? It’s not a bit over the top, is it?”

  “Of course it is. That’s what makes it bloody brilliant.” Jack’s cheeks reddened. “I’ll read the rest later.”

  “Of course.” Aisling fiddled with the jeweled case, deciding that she didn’t really want a cigarette, after all.

  Jack removed his spectacles and laid them down atop the manuscript. “I don’t even want to know where you get your inspiration, Ash,” he said, shaking his head. “Honestly, if Mother knew—”

  “It’s called ‘using one’s imagination,’ dear brother. You should try it sometime. And Mother is never going to know. Unless you tell her, of course.”

  Jack looked positively outraged. “And why would I do that? Devil take it, Aisling, you’re my cash cow.”

  “I should probably box your ears for such a sexist remark as that.” She rolled her eyes heavenward as she stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirts. “Anyway, the usual plan. You’ll take it to the Boudoir when you’re in London this week, collect the fee and deposit half into my account.” She sighed loudly, trailing her fingertips over the couch’s plush, plum-colored upholstery. “Honestly, I don’t know why I give you half. They’re my stories, after all.”

  “Yes, but without me, you’d have nothing.” Her brother rose, unfolding his impossibly long legs and striding over to his desk where he deposited the manuscript with a thunk. “It’s not as if you could peddle your stories yourself—they wouldn’t let you past the front door of the Boudoir’s office. Anyway, just promise me that it is your imagination fueling these stories, and nothing more. I’d hate to be forced to defend your honor. You know what a terrible shot I am,” he said with a grin.

  “Of course it is,” Aisling murmured. She wasn’t a virgin, not that she’d ever admit that to Jack. But her one sexual experience had been lackluster at best—rushed and hurried, with no attempt made at pleasuring her at all. Aisling grimaced, remembering Thomas Esterbrooke’s wet, sloppy kisses; his damp palms and unimpressive member as he’d writhed and grunted atop her. She couldn’t help but shudder at the memory.

  No, her stories were nothing like that. Instead, they were full of passion and longing, of expert lovemaking and deeply felt emotions—all things twenty-three-year-old Aisling Wainscott had never once experienced in her life.

  God, but she was bored. Sick of Dorset, sick of Bedlington and everyone who lived there. Sometimes Aisling thought she’d go mad with boredom, if not for her pen and the escape her imagination provided.

  “I suppose I should get back to the books,” Jack said, a tinge of regret in his voice. “Don’t forget that I’ve invited guests to join us tonight for dinner.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, some friends of mine are in the area, visiting family. Roger and Edmund Dalton, you remember them? We went up to Eton together.”

  “Vaguely,” Aisling said with a shrug.

  “I thought we’d play cards later,” he continued, “so I’ve invited Will Cooper—you know, to even out the numbers. He’s in Bedlington for a fortnight, spending Christmas with his mum.”

  Aisling couldn’t help but groan. “Not Will Cooper!”

  Jack’s blond brows drew together. “What do you have against Will, the poor chap? It’s not his fault that his mother is a washerwoman. Besides, everyone knows his father was a gentleman.”

  “Yes, but which gentleman?” She shook her head. “Anyway, something about the way Will looks at me makes me uncomfortable.”

  “But you haven’t seen him in years, not since he went up to Cambridge.”

  “It was all well and good to be friends with him when we were children, but now? Educated or not, he’s still, well…not exactly our sort, is he?”

  “Why, you little hypocrite,” Jack accused, though he smiled delightedly. “Who would have thought that you, of all people, would be such a snob? All for the voting rights of women, even common women, yet you think the son of a washerwoman isn’t ‘our sort.’”

  Aisling scowled at her brother. “He watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, and he’s far too full of himself, besides.”

  “It’s true, then,” Jack crowed. “You are a snob.”

  “Do shut up.” She headed for the door. One hand on the brass handle, she turned back toward her brother. “Better a snob than a pompous ass like you.”

  “You shouldn’t swear, Ash. It isn’t at all becoming.”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself,” she called out, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she let herself out.

  She could hear him sputtering in indignation as the door swung shut. As she headed toward the stairs, she passed a long, gilt-framed mirror and winked at her reflection in smug satisfaction. It was far too easy to one-up her brother.

  Minutes later, she’d retrieved her gloves and coat and hurried through the foyer, past the enormous Christmas tree that was decorated with red bows and colorful blown glass, its small electric lights just waiting to be lit. Mother loved Christmastime and left no hall undecked, no mantel undecorated.

  But for Aisling, Christmas simply marked another year’s passing, each one no different from the one before it. There’d been no Eton for Aisling, no years at university like Jack had enjoyed. Just season after season, year after year here in Dorset, with only brief jaunts to London to relieve the monotony. Brief because Father had Mrs. Gaylord in London, of course, and how he hated his wife and family intruding on his time with his mistress.

  Aisling let herself out the back door and skimmed down the stairs, buttoning up her coat. It had grown colder, and her breath made puffs of smoke in the wintry air as she hurried away from the house, toward the graveled path that led toward the now-frozen swimming pond and beyond.

  I’ll never be like Mother, she silently vowed. Someday, Aisling would be free. Exactly what that meant, she wasn’t certain. Just that she wouldn’t necessarily be dependent on a man, particularly one who didn’t put her needs equal to his own; who would leave his wife and children rotting away in the country while he lived it up in town.

  Shaking her head in frustration, she picked up her pace, veering off the path and through the copse of trees, toward the circle of standing stones in the distance. It was her favorite spot, just beyond the eastern border of Wainscott House’s property, in a shady little clearing. In the summer months, she would sit with her back against the largest of the stones and write. The almost mystical atmosphere seemed to fuel her creativity, and she’d written some of her best work there. She liked to think of the stone circle as hers—her own private retreat, her refuge.

  But now, as Aisling stepped out of the trees’ shadows and into the clearing, she saw a lone figure in a cloak standing there, watching her approach. The hood’s folds obscured the intruder’s face, concealing the features, yet Aisling felt sure that the figure was a woman’s. Dark, unbound hair escaped the stranger’s hood, dancing on the breeze that caused the heavy woolen folds of Aisling’s coat to flap noisily ag
ainst her limbs. Icy snow began to swirl about, stinging Aisling’s face.

  At once the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, casting an eerie red glow on the tallest stone. In the blink of an eye, the bloodred light moved across the stones like a serpent, undulating around the circle once before melting away on the snow-dusted ground, leaving nothing but a grayish-lavender twilight behind.

  It’s the winter solstice, Aisling realized with a start, a shiver working its way down her spine.

  Her eyes scanned the circle—once, twice, searching for the strange, cloaked woman. Nothing. “Miss?” she called out, then tried again, louder this time. “Miss? Hello?”

  The woman was gone. Vanished, in what had been no more than a heartbeat’s time. Aisling dashed into the center of the circle, noticing that the wind had grown quiet—in fact, everything was quiet now, as silent as a tomb. Snow continued to fall softly, silently, making the ground at Aisling’s feet look as if a carpet of glittering crystals covered it.

  A queer feeling rushed over her, raising gooseflesh on her skin. It seemed as if the stones themselves were holding their breath, watching, waiting…

  And then she saw it, there atop the tallest of the stones. Something that wasn’t there before—something that didn’t belong. A box. Aisling’s feet seemed to move involuntarily, taking her closer. Before she knew it, the box was in her hands and she was staring down at it, her heart thumping noisily against her ribs.

  Swallowing hard, she ran her fingertips over the lid, brushing away the dusting of snow to reveal an unfamiliar symbol—Celtic, perhaps—etched into the wood. She took a deep, fortifying breath, allowing the cold air to fill her lungs as she summoned the courage to lift the lid and see what lay inside.

  A bone-and-leather fastening held it closed, and it took a bit of work to undo it, especially with fingers that trembled as hers did. She had to remove one glove, exposing her fingers to the chilled air. At last she accomplished the task and slowly raised the lid, holding her breath in anticipation.