Beyond the Dark

by Angela Knight

  She shooed her attacker away.

  The floor rippled under Trevelyn, forcing him to lurch out of the morning room on a run and through the hall. The curtains swung forward violently, wind hissing in their folds, and snapped at his heels. Candles extinguished themselves around him, making a trail of smoke to mark his departure. The paneling groaned like a bull-baiting crowd booing a loser. Carey and the maids held fast to the staircase’s balustrades, their clothing billowing around them.

  The massive front door flew open, and Trevelyan rushed out, tumbling across the portico and down the stairs. The ground heaved and cracked, then snapped together again. His horses reared in alarm and bolted for the gate, his coachman barely able to hold on to his perch as the coach jounced wildly down the drive.

  Trevelyan managed to reach his feet, one hand bracing himself on the ground and a great bruise rising on his forehead. He glared at them down the hallway.

  “Do not think we’re through, Emma Sinclair,” he shouted, the words echoing through the house. “Or you, Owen Bentham! You belong to me, and this land will bend the knee to Bonaparte.”

  She shrank in on herself but didn’t flinch. Her gallantry nearly broke Owen’s heart. She had to maintain this until Trevelyan had left Trethledan House’s land, thereby closing the spell. Otherwise, the magick would recoil on her and probably kill her.

  Risking his own life by completely entering the circle of power around a mage working a great spell, he wrapped his arms around her waist, giving her all the knowledge of magick contained in his mind, bones, and blood. If he’d only taken those damn classes, he’d know exactly how to help her, instead of having to use animal instinct. I am here for you, sweetheart.

  She leaned against Owen, her curls brushing his chin.

  “You have outstayed my patience, Mr. Trevelyan,” she commented and brought her hand down in a quick chopping motion.

  A storm of gravel shot up from the drive and pelted him. He screeched furiously—only to be cut off when the ground heaved under him, tossing him toward the gate. He came to his feet half-running, half-limping, and cursing at the top of his lungs, all the while chasing his departing carriage.

  The door slammed shut on him, cutting off sight or sound of his tirade. Carey and the maids straightened themselves cautiously.

  Emma collapsed, sliding through Owen’s arms like water.

  He caught her up against him.

  Her heartbeat was almost too faint to be heard.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Owen kicked the door open into Emma’s bedroom, caring for none of its feminine elegancies, not with his fragile lady barely breathing in his arms. The only thing that had kept her alive this long was wrenching his blasted coat and shirt open, so her fingers could touch his bare skin and gain his heartbeat.

  Now she needed to be restored to full health. God help them both, only a mage could do that.

  Where would be best? A rosewood bed hung with linens that matched the window draperies faced the door. A graceful chaise longue, gilded and carved in the Egyptian style, offered a resting place near the French windows.

  Owen sniffed the air, silently checking for the strongest confluence of magick—and found it coming through the windows. He set Emma gently down on the chaise longue, forcing his hands to remain steady.

  Stepping back, he began to yank his neckcloth off, cursing every iota of his ignorance.

  Mrs. Keverne cleared her throat from the door. Even the curls under her cap seemed to bristle with indignation. “May I inquire as to your intent here, sir?”

  She hurled the last word at him like a sharpshooter’s bullet, before crossing to Emma’s side.

  Owen flung the neckcloth aside and went to work on his waistcoat’s buttons, ignoring the first two’s loud pops and hasty retreats under furniture. He gave Emma’s oldest friend the truth. “A mage’s lifespan is determined by her loved ones’ strength.”

  Emma’s old nurse went still, stark terror running across her face. Her hands fell away from Emma’s skirts, where she’d been smoothing them into respectability. “Is she that close to death?”

  Owen nodded once, sharply, and jerked off his waistcoat.

  “She should be tended by those who love her!”

  “She walks now at the far edge of any path. Do you have the strength to bring her back?” he countered ruthlessly, cursing all ruffles which camouflaged buttons. God knows, if he didn’t have to rip his life’s foundations apart to save Emma, he’d be far happier. Even a courtship would be simpler.

  Mrs. Keverne flinched, her face turning white. But she recovered as quickly as any dragoon wrenching his saber free to face a new enemy.

  “Do you have the love to save her?” she challenged him.

  Owen stiffened at hearing his choices presented so starkly, caught with his braces halfway down his arms. He would have died before he’d have done this to keep himself alive—linked with another mage, yielded all his magick, risked forming a permanent bond.

  But for Emma? Dear gallant, generous, adorable Emma?

  If anything happened to her, he would not be able to face life without her, God help him.

  His world shifted into a new pattern, and he shoved his braces off. “Yes.”

  Mrs. Keverne studied him, clearly seeing more of his motives than he knew himself. “I’ll inform the General you’re tending Mrs. Sinclair,” she said finally. “He may ask for you both in the morning.”

  Owen inclined his head and went back to his damn buttons. Emma’s recovery would come faster with the fewest barriers between them.

  Mrs. Keverne bobbed a curtsy. “Sir.”

  Startled by her respectful tone, Owen lifted an eyebrow. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Keverne.”

  She closed the door softly behind her.

  What had happened to evoke that reaction? He had no knowledge of the fairer sex to decipher it with. He’d always avoided close ties with women and had never kept company with one for any amount of time. But that would change now with Emma—or he wouldn’t live to see the next day.

  He yanked off his shoes and socks.

  Her chaise longue might be a “long chair,” but it had been so extended and curved that it was shaped more like a flattened S. It rolled gracefully up from the floor, stretched smoothly to a pillowed slope, canted perfectly for a lady to recline against. Lion’s feet upheld it, while a wooden armrest, upheld by carved Egyptian goddesses, stood along one side. Its tufted silk upholstery was enriched with tassels and fringe worked in gold and Nile green silks.

  It was a throne fit for Cleopatra. But Emma lay silent and still on it, with only the faint rise and fall of her breasts giving her life. His gallant lady, who’d somehow brought him out of the storm and off the beach. Who’d risked her life to save them all, as valiantly as any dragoon on a battlefield. His dear, beautiful lady.

  Owen prayed for strength to the god he no longer entirely believed in, before sinking down onto the chaise beside her.

  He’d never taken the classes at mage school on how to link and share magick. He had only instinct and the merest fundamentals of magick theory. Emma had to believe in every iota of her being that he loved her, if he was to pour his magick into her and keep her alive. But how to build a bridge strong enough and to do it quickly? The fastest and most certain way was through intense physical contact. In other words, carnal relations. If they’d already been bonded, they’d have only needed eye contact.

  It had to happen now, or she’d die, her life slipping farther and farther away the longer her magick was gone.

  He lifted Emma’s hand to his lips and brushed his lips over her knuckles. Her pulse was almost invisible. “Emma, dear heart.”

  His voice broke, and he pressed a kiss into her palm, unable to speak.

  Her fingers fluttered for an instant against his cheek.

  WARM skin rubbed against her hand, with hard bone underneath. Emma instinctively fanned her fingers to explore further and found a man’s cheek, roughened by the first tou
ch of late day stubble and built upon the strength of a stubborn jaw.

  He choked and went quite still under her touch.

  She stretched a little farther, her fingertips gliding over his cheekbones and her thumb touching the corner of his mouth. A warm, curving—sensual?—mouth.

  “Emma,” he breathed and lightly kissed her thumb.

  Warmth crept over her skin. “Owen,” she sighed, recognizing him instantly.

  “Dearest Emma,” he answered, catching her hand in his and kissing it tenderly.

  Something deep inside her fluttered happily.

  Her eyelids lifted slowly, fighting against gravity, to survey him. Amazingly, he was dressed only in a shirt and breeches, without so much as a neckcloth or a waistcoat, or even a banyan for respectability. They were in her bedroom, but she lacked the energy to inquire about that. More importantly, he was making a poor attempt at a smile.

  She patted him on the arm. “Steady there, Owen. Steady…”

  She was so very tired that her eyes were slipping shut.

  “Emma!” He caught her by the shoulders. “Sweetheart, stay with me.”

  She blinked at him in surprise but didn’t struggle. Why wouldn’t he let her go to sleep? “Owen, it’s been a very long afternoon,” she began. “Surely a nap…”

  He shifted his hold, lifting her up and sliding one arm around her waist. “Remember how we watched each other in the Long Gallery?”

  Fireflies of light and heat danced along her skin and into her bones from where they touched. She could have sat up on her own, but she didn’t, happy to feel his warmth enveloping her.

  She nodded, bemused. She was pressed against him from her chest to her hips, acutely aware of his iron-hard body and his lack of respectable clothing.

  Hunger curled through her, bringing both the eagerness and the ability to satisfy it. She slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder, fascinated by how her slightest touch could make him shudder.

  “If we become lovers,” he whispered, “you’ll regain your strength.”

  Logic was slipping away every time his heartbeat increased its pace to match hers. “Lovers? Truly?” she muttered, heat sparking into her veins.

  She lightly stroked his neck, exploring the hard juncture between throat and shoulder, which had always been hidden under his shirt.

  He tilted his head to offer himself more openly to her caress, his eyes slitting with pleasure. “I promise. And any danger will be mine, if our magick isn’t properly connected,” he murmured.

  “Yes to anything and everything,” she murmured, not much interested in risk at a time like this, and slid her hand over his shoulder. Her breasts were tightening, her nipples hard and rubbing against her stiff corset. If only she had the energy to seize him and demand he take action to fulfill them both…

  He kissed her, tenderness and passion swirling through his touch. She moaned and pressed against him. Fire leaped and sparked between them, danced off their clothes, dived into their veins, and delved into their bones.

  “Beloved Emma,” he whispered and pressed her closer, his hand stroking her back restlessly. She fondled him, his every aching gasp and ragged pulse thudding through her and filling her like spring rain into an estuary. His hair was the finest silk in her hands, while he greedily filled his fingers with her curls.

  He kissed her throat, making her arch off the chaise longue to encourage him. It took him but a moment to shove down her sleeves and lift her breasts out of her dress, freeing them from her stays.

  She blinked, startled at his disregard for the niceties of ritual undressing.

  His golden head bent low and he tasted her, circling his tongue around and around her areola, until she thought she’d go insane with lust. She clutched his head close and moaned, cream gliding over her thighs. How could such frantic need and the strength to support it arise every time he suckled her? Surely his mouth should be outlawed for making a lady so desperate she’d curse and claw a man’s back, when he insisted on keeping to oral ministrations!

  She bucked against him again and again, on fire for his possession. Her skin was taut, almost crackling over her bones. The room seemed to swim around her, and the curtains fluttered, as if it too danced with hunger.

  “Emma, my dearest,” he crooned, rubbing his cheek against her hip through her thin dress.

  She tensed at Edward’s favorite endearment. Could she yield herself to the risk of loving again—to a near stranger, especially when losing Edward had nearly shattered her?

  “My angel,” Owen murmured. He teased her skirt and the shift underneath upward, his calloused fingers a delicious contrast to her aching flesh. Cream glided to meet him, her core softening and melting in welcome.

  Her man, her lover.

  Higher her skirts rose, their fragile folds easily managed by his big hands. Yet still he stroked and fondled her legs, his thumb sweeping over the long muscle, paying knowing attentions to the sensitive points behind her knees—why hadn’t she realized before that spot could become a source of so much arousal?—always moving closer and closer to her aching center.

  He kissed her thigh at the junction, nuzzling her dark curls as if she alone meant homecoming. He slipped a single finger between her writhing, tightly clamped legs and ruffled her folds. “Darling, I will do anything to keep you alive.”

  He turned his head, his hair sweeping over her and sending a hot pulse jolting through her womb and into her breasts. Need spun through her, for love and life—again, with this man, no matter what she risked.

  Her fingers sank into his scalp and pulled him closer, demanding more—insisting on completion of his promise.

  He choked, half laughter and half grunt of answering lust.

  His fingers delved between her legs, teasing and petting her private flesh. He found her pearl with a single, talented finger—and she arched harder against him, almost sending him off the chaise longue. “Hurry, please hurry, Owen.”

  He chuckled, his face a mask of desperation. He was sweating and his breathing was a ragged, hoarse echo of its previous smoothness. His cock was a burning brand barely restrained by his breeches. Yet his iron will kept both of them to the tempo he chose. Two years of marriage—and most of that with her husband at sea—hadn’t given her the experience to break through Owen’s discipline.

  “How much do you want this?”

  She gasped, fighting for breath—and logic—enough to answer him. She writhed, driving herself down on his skilled hand—but he still wouldn’t take her over the precipice.

  “How much do you want me?” His fierce blue eyes watched her, as if worlds waited on her reply.

  “With all my heart.” She didn’t need any additional reasoning to answer that question, not when she knew it in her bones. She’d taken him from the tides, and he belonged to her.

  Owen’s eyes flared, light sparking between them. He shifted—and only an instant later, knelt over her, her skirts tossed up, and his breeches undone.

  She licked her lips in anticipation, thankful and impatient to welcome a mage of his talents. Eagerness and energy raced through her, her exhaustion long since forgotten in her hunger for this man.

  Owen came into her smoothly, like the fast, hard sweep of a tide’s first wave. She shuddered, her channel rippling and clenching him in welcome, lust pulsing through her spine and swirling through her veins.

  His brilliant blue gaze caught hers, edged with desperation and pure willingness to give her anything and everything she wanted.

  He thrust again slowly. She tightened herself around him with everything she had, her channel, her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck—and her eyes locked on his. “Please, Owen. Come to me.”

  His eyes flared. He moved faster and faster, still holding her with his gaze. She yielded utterly to him, always letting him see how much he meant to her and how much her strength grew. Everything in the world was narrowed to just the two of them—the harsh, wet sounds of their intimate flesh slapping a
gainst each other, their groans and sighs, his sweat-slicked hair hanging over his forehead, and his broad shoulders straining under her fingers, while he fought to ratchet her excitement up another notch. Her lungs, her loins, every inch was an impossibly tight knot, soaking wet and fiery hot in readiness.

  She was incredibly alive, as if all the world existed only to help the two of them enjoy this moment.

  She clawed his back, desperate for another position, another touch, anything to bring them both to the pinnacle—and shifted, bringing his cock deeper into her.

  He shouted her name, startled, and climaxed, flooding her with his hot cream. His eyes turned molten gold, infinitely irresistible.

  She shouted for joy and spun into orgasm with him in a fury of joy. It tumbled her end over end, like leaping into a waterfall, golden magick blasting through her in a fiery effervescence, carving her into a new person.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Owen tightened his arms around Emma, gasping for breath. Magick danced behind his eyes in brilliant cascades of light, like shooting stars transformed into waterfalls. He’d opened himself to Emma, allowing her ancestral lands’ power to pour through them both. It still flooded his blood and bones.

  Her heart thudded against his chest. She sighed and pressed closer, her curls teasing his throat, and her leg sliding between his. She delicately caressed the nape of his neck. “If this is the aftermath of one visit from Mr. Trevelyan, perhaps we should invite him back tomorrow.”

  Owen gave a rough snort of laughter before rolling over, freeing her from his weight, and drew the sheet up over her shoulders to keep her warm. She lifted an eyebrow at him quizzically.

  He smoothed back a tempting lock from her forehead, wishing they could linger like this.

  “Relax, sweetheart, while I try to send a message. There’s a better chance now, with so much magick still running between us.” Surely he had enough magick now to slip a few words through Trevelyan’s wall. Heaven forbid it require more than what they had just shared, which was far more than Caroline Spencer had taken from him at Villers-en-Cauchies. Because if it did, he’d need to rip open his heart and soul to Emma—and he didn’t think he could refuse her.