Slowly opening her eyes again, Emily gazed up at the pure cerulean sky, across which frothed clouds as delicate as a bridal veil. As she studied those gossamer wisps, a flock of swans passed overhead, their snowy whiteness bathed in gold as they winged their way toward the sun. The magnificent sight filled her with bittersweet longing.
Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be able to fly like that, to experience the freedom and exhilaration of soaring above the earth. To do so was her greatest wish, her fondest dream, the deep desire that fueled her passion for kites. Someday she would build a kite that flew so high that it would touch heaven.
That was her fantasy, to touch heaven. After all, if the angels saw such a kite, they couldn’t help but marvel at the virtuosity of its construction, something which would most certainly entice them to follow its line down to earth, curious to see its maker. When they did, she would beg them to carry her high into the sky and to once, just once, allow a mortal to know the grandeur of flight. It was a silly fancy, she knew, but one that was dear to her heart It was what prompted her to incorporate an angel into all of her kite designs.
Contemplating her latest creation now, the one she had been working on the evening Michael had first joined her for dinner, Emily couldn’t help believing that the angels would be impressed were they to see it. How could they not? It was her most beautiful angel yet. It was a perfect portrait of Michael.
Staring at the skillfully painted seraph, with its striking jade eyes and long, dark hair, she found herself wondering what Michael was doing at that moment. Since he devoted most of his mornings to ducal business, she seldom saw him until three o’clock, when they met by the hallway gargoyles for their daily walk together. After an hour or so of strolling about the grounds, they would then retire to Michael’s favorite room, the cheerful summer parlor, where they would play cards or chess, or simply talk and laugh until dinner.
Except, of course, on the days of his treatments. On those afternoons she carried a hot caudle to his chamber, where she sat by his side, gently coaxing him to drink the nourishing brew and doing her best to distract him from his misery.
Sighing her despair at his suffering, she turned her back to the wind and cast the kite into the air, slowly feeding out the line as the wind caught and carried it. Pulling on the string to foster lift, she ran, not stopping until the kite had reached a height where the wind was brisk enough to continue carrying it aloft. As she carefully released more line, watching it soar higher and higher into the endless blue sky, she reflected upon her sickroom calls.
She had been beyond shocked by the sight of Michael during her first visit, something she had thought impossible after the dreadful way he’d looked that evening in the Italian dining room. But he had looked worse, far worse, making her all the more aware of how badly he needed her help. His skin, which had been merely ashen during their first dinner together, had had a waxen, almost cadaverous pallor. His eyes had been sunken and ringed with shadows, their jade brilliance dulled by suffering. And the way he shivered!
Just remembering the sight of him, huddled into a quivering ball beneath a mountain of blankets, his teeth chattering uncontrollably and his handsome face contorted in his torment, had made her long to weep. Truth be told, it had been all she could do to bridle the sob that had risen into her throat at the sight of his wretchedness and go about her sickroom business with a cheerful smile. But smile she had, speaking to him with a blitheness she hadn’t felt and doing what she could to give him comfort.
As for Michael, he’d been initially displeased by her presence, growling and snapping at her attempts to aid him, and finally ordering her from the room. Not that she’d been particularly surprised by his conduct. She knew from being near him and from the bits she had learned about him from her consultations with Eadon that he was a man with a strong sense of pride, one whose illness had robbed him of much of his dignity and had shattered his self-respect. Armed with that knowledge, she’d understood that it was shame that had made him behave so—shame of his weakness and embarrassment at having her see him in such a reduced state.
Though she hadn’t wished to add to his chagrin, something her presence clearly did, she couldn’t bring herself to leave him, not when he so desperately needed the nurturing she knew she could give him. And so she had ignored his demands to be left alone. Stubbornly remaining by his side, she’d serenely countered his peevishness with kindness and wit, wheedling and teasing him until he’d finished every last drop of the caudle she’d brought him and had allowed her to wrap him in a fire-warmed blanket, something which had done much to ease his shivering. By the time she had finally left him, long after he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, he had reluctantly resigned himself to her coddling.
From then on her visits were easier. Not only did he gradually grow more comfortable with her presence in his sickroom, but her efforts to strengthen his constitution were proving effective and he now better tolerated Mr. Eadon’s treatments. So much so, that when she’d visited him after his treatments earlier that week, she’d found him not in bed as usual, but reading in a comfortable wing chair before his bedchamber fire.
Seeing him sitting there in his blue velvet dressing gown, with his hair neatly brushed and his jaw freshly shaven, had filled her with a gladness such as she’d never known before. It was a gladness that had exploded into elation when he’d looked up to greet her. Not only was he smiling, visibly pleased to see her, but his glorious eyes sparkled and his face retained a touch of color, despite the horrendous ordeal she knew he had recently endured. Setting aside his book and the caudle she carried, he’d taken both her hands in his and had quietly, but fervently thanked her for all she’d done.
Oh, it wasn’t the first time he’d expressed gratitude. Not a day passed that he didn’t voice his appreciation for his meals or acknowledge his pleasure in her company. But those thanks by the fire, well, they had been different, somehow more intimate. Perhaps it was the way he’d looked at her, so frank and admiring, his eyes illuminated with fondness. Or his voice. Despite the rasping hoarseness he always suffered in the aftermath of Mr. Eadon’s emetics, his voice had held a profound and touching tenderness that had struck a vibrant chord in her heart.
And that chord still hummed, even now warming her heart as she remembered the moment. Over the past month she had come to care deeply about Michael and had carried him constantly in her thoughts. Thus, when she wasn’t creating a new dish to enthrall his long-deprived palate, she was inventing entertainment for after their walks, or struggling to recall an amusing tale or two to divert him after his treatments. On those occasions when her mind wasn’t occupied with promoting his comfort, it turned to other, somewhat more disquieting thoughts. Thoughts that involved children and the act it took to make them.
She still craved children … even more now, since they would be sired by Michael. How could she not? With him as their father, they were bound to be beautiful, and witty, and utterly charming. Well, at least they would be if they ever had the chance to be born.
Tugging on the line to urge the kite yet higher and to guide it more squarely into the wind, she wondered if he ever gave the matter any thought. But of course he did, she decided in the next instant. He was a nobleman, and all noblemen wished for an heir to secure their family name. No doubt he was waiting to regain more of his strength to ensure that he was physically equal to the baby-making act before broaching the subject with her.
And when he did?
Emily fed the kite another length of line, watching as it rose almost out of sight. She would, of course, encourage him, again expressing her eagerness to bear his babes. As for the act itself, well, except for her brief wonder about it on her wedding day, she’d never really given it much thought … at least not any serious thought.
Like every other girl she knew, she had a natural curiosity about the ways between men and women, and had listened intently when the subject was giggled
about among her set of friends. For the most part, however, she’d assumed that her husband would know what to do and would simply go about it. But now, with Michael, she suddenly wanted to know everything. Not only did she want to know what to expect from a man, she wished to know what to do with his male parts when they made the changes that Judith had mentioned.
Releasing yet more line, Emily wondered at her sudden thirst for carnal knowledge. Never once during her engagement to any of her three fiancés had she speculated about the act… how it would feel or what it would be like to lie naked in their arms. She most certainly had never imagined how they would look without their clothes on. But with Michael, well, she found herself thinking about such things more than she cared to admit … especially at night.
Many nights of late, as she lay in that safe, twilight place between consciousness and slumber, she found herself picturing Michael naked, her belly taut and her private place growing damp and achy as she imagined the feel of his bare flesh pressed against hers. Judging from the satiny smoothness of his face and the flashes of body she’d glimpsed beneath his nightshirt the times she’d wrapped him in heated blankets, his skin would be beautiful … as would his form. True, he was still too thin, despite the fact that he had gained some flesh during the past month, but his natural physique was splendid, so he was certain to please the eye.
As for how it would feel to actually engage in the act, hmmm, considering how close she and Michael had become, it might not be so very bad. Indeed, she no longer found the notion of him touching and caressing her female differences embarrassing, nor was she flustered by the notion of fondling his male ones. Truth be told, she rather relished the idea of doing so.
Smiling her bemusement at her newfound wantonness, Emily let out several more feet of line. Come to think of it, the only thing she knew about the act that gave her any alarm at all was the thought of him sticking his male part into her female place. That was bound to hurt terribly, considering how small she was down there and how large she knew men to be. But if that was what it took to make babies, she would gladly endure it. Besides, knowing Michael as she now did, how kind and thoughtful he was, she had no doubt whatsoever that he would be gentle. Besides that, just having him near, holding and coaxing her as he would most certainly do, would make the whole ordeal easier. In fact, she couldn’t think of anything she couldn’t endure if he was near. To her Michael was … was … everything.
Everything? Stunned, Emily abruptly ceased in feeding the line, causing the kite to take a perilous dive to the left. Oh, heavens! Could it be … was she … falling in love with Michael? For several horrified moments she considered the possibility, weighing what she felt for him against her feelings for her hapless fiancés. When she’d finished, she heaved a long sigh of relief. No, she couldn’t possibly be in love with him. She had none of the symptoms she always experienced when in love.
First off, she felt none of the giddiness she had felt around her fiancés. Nor did she suffer the delirious sort of infatuation that had made her feel as if she were walking on clouds whenever they were near. She also didn’t waste her time imagining Michael in romantic vignettes, as she’d done with Jonathan, Luke, and Russell. Unlike those men, whom she’d delighted in casting in fairy tale roles, Michael wasn’t a knight in shining armor. Nor was he a prince to sweep her off her feet, or a dashing buccaneer to save her from Barbary pirates. Michael was … well, he was simply Michael. And what she felt for him had nothing whatsoever to do with romance.
In contrast to her fiancés, all of whom had desired her but had never really required anything she had to offer, Michael needed her. He was so sad and lonely, and suffered such terrible anguish, both inside and out. How could her heart not respond to him?
And respond it had. Powerfully. Seeing his suffering had awakened a potent sense of protectiveness within her, one that had fostered an almost desperate urge to rescue and nurture him, an urge she’d never felt with any of her fiancés. The result of her acting upon that impulse was the creation of an intimacy unlike any she’d ever known. It strengthened and empowered her, making her feel like a real part of Michael’s life, a vital one, rather than a mere decoration whose consequence lay solely in her beauty and her ability to say the proper thing at the correct moment. Michael had made it clear that he liked and admired her, no matter what she said or did, or how she happened to look on any given day. And she felt the same about him. Theirs was a relationship with only one condition, and that was that they put no conditions on their caring. They accepted each other for what they were, flaws and all, and in their eyes the other was perfect.
They were friends, Emily decided, tugging on the line as her kite made another erratic dive. The dearest of friends. Theirs was an alliance made up of the best and purest elements of every friendship she’d ever had, one fused by a bond as strong as the one she shared with her brothers. As for her physical attraction to him, well, as she’d pointed out to herself a million times before, Michael was a gorgeous man. What woman wouldn’t desire him?
As she continued to rationalize her view, her kite made several quick loops, followed by a violent flip, then spun into a sharp, uncontrolled spiral toward the earth. Frantic to save her masterpiece, Emily ran across the wind, letting out extra line in a desperate attempt to create drag. Sometimes the drag would return the kite to the correct flight angle, thus allowing it to stay aloft. And if she could get it to remain stable for a short time, she could reel it to safety.
For several moments the kite seemed to respond to her rescue measures, making a sudden lift and straining at the line. Then it took another dive from which Emily was unable to recover it. Her heart sinking, she watched it crash upon the moors, far in the distance. From what she could ascertain from where she stood, it had fallen near or among the tall grouping of tors that loomed on the near horizon.
Though she knew that the kite would most probably never fly again, that it might even be smashed to bits, considering the dizzying height from which it had plunged, she couldn’t bring herself simply to leave it. Not only might one of the moor animals become caught in the line and be harmed, the thought of abandoning anything bearing Michael’s image was unthinkable.
Mindful of her promise not to venture onto the moors alone, Emily hastily located Josiah, a plump, jovial man of middle years who had accompanied her to Rebecca’s cottage on several occasions during the past month, after which they set off. Using the line as a guide, which Emily neatly wound around the attached spool as they went, they soon located her fallen angel. It had indeed plummeted upon the tors and now dangled forlornly from the tallest one. As she stared up at it, wondering how in the world to retrieve it, a hand appeared and snatched it from sight.
For several beats she merely gaped, uncertain what to make of the theft. Then her spine stiffened with outrage … this was no ordinary kite, this was her Michael angel … and she hollered, “You! Return that kite this instant! It is mine!” As she stood glaring at the tor, her clenched fists braced upon her hips, a blond head appeared. Instantly recognizing that head, she expelled, “Mr. Eadon? It that you?” Apparently Mr. Eadon was quite skilled in climbing rocks, because he was already halfway down.
“Your grace,” the man responded with a polite nod.
“Who is it, Eadon?” called a voice she would have known anywhere, followed by what sounded like the splash of water.
“Michael?” Emily ejected in surprise.
“It is your wife, your grace, and Josiah,” Mr. Eadon informed his master.
There was brief pause, during which there was more splashing, then, “Emily?”
Smiling her delight, Emily handed the spool of line to Josiah, then slipped through the arched opening between the tors, following her husband’s voice. There was a pool within the stone circle, a hot one, judging from the rising steam, fed by a spring that bubbled up from the stones at her left and spurted forth in a misty fall. Standing half-subme
rged at the far end was Michael. The instant she saw him, her eyes widened and her gay cry of greeting strangled in her throat.
He was naked. Well, at least the top part of him was, and she had been right. His body was beautiful, even more so than she’d imagined. He was lean, yes, but stripped of his ill-fitting clothes, which emphasized his devastating loss of flesh, he no longer appeared unhealthily thin. No. He was all trim lines and sleek, chiseled muscle … a born athlete, judging from the natural definition of the muscle beneath his smooth, taut skin. Stunned that he would look so after being an invalid for two years, Emily couldn’t help gaping at his impressive form.
His shoulders were broad and capped with starkly delineated muscles; his arms were sinewy and strong. As for his torso, what could she say? It was perfection with its wide, sculpted chest and rippling belly. She had just dropped her fascinated gaze lower, brazenly trying to penetrate the water and steam to see if he was naked below, when Josiah shouted something to Mr. Eadon.
Snapped back to time and place by that shout, Emily promptly looked away, mortified by the blatancy of her ogling. Uncertain what to say or do in the wake of her immodest display, she stood awkwardly staring at a spray of golden gorse that sprouted from a fissure near her feet, her face growing progressively warmer. It was Michael who finally broke their tense silence. “I am sorry, Emily.”
Emily glanced at him sharply, frowning, taken aback not only by his apology but by the fractured harshness of his voice. His shoulders were tense and his features rigid, with bleakness reflecting nakedly in his eyes. “Sorry? For what?” she softly inquired, advancing a step to the edge of the pool.
“For—for—this!” He more spat than uttered the words as he brusquely indicated his naked torso. “I know how shocking I must look to you.”
Bewitched Page 21