The cool night air stroked my bare shoulders as I moved down the pathway between beds of flowers. Long blue-black shadows moved and shifted at my feet, making patterns over the silvered path. Shrubs rustled, and fountains made a soft, splashing patter as water spilled over marble brims. The moonlight created a world of black and silver, blue-black and pewter gray, lovely and peaceful. I walked slowly, inhaling the fragrance of flowers and listening to the quiet night noises. A bird warbled sleepily. A crunching sound, like footsteps, caused me to pause, vaguely alarmed, and then I decided that it had merely been an echo of my own footsteps.
Brence was still in Barivna, staying at the hotel. He had attempted to see me two more times, and both times he had been turned away. I knew that I couldn’t risk seeing him again. I was still in love with him, and that love must be forced back into its prison, contained, controlled, ignored. Once it had almost destroyed me, and I couldn’t afford to let that happen again. I had to be strong. I had to be very strong. Seeing Brence again would be a disastrous mistake. Eventually, he would admit defeat and go back to Sturnburg, and then I could relax.
I paused beside one of the fountains, but as I stood there a feeling of uneasiness gradually stole over me. I was uncomfortable without knowing why. I sensed that something was not as it should be. Moonlight spilled over the white marble tiles, tinting them silver, and the tall shrubs near the edge of the lake swayed gently, a mass of dark shadows. I could feel someone watching me. That was it. That was what caused the uneasiness. The sensation was so strong it was almost physical.
“Who—who’s there?” I called.
I recalled the hatred in Schroder’s eyes when I defied him the day I arrived. He had promised me I would be sorry. What if he had come to take his revenge? What if he had sent one of his men to get rid of Elena Lopez once and for all? It was wildly improbable, but my mind conjured up all sorts of terrifying images. Staring at the shrubs, I thought I could discern a darker form standing in front of them, a tall black form outlined against the grayness behind. I tried to tell myself I was imagining things, but then the form moved, detaching itself from the shadows.
For a moment, I felt stark terror. I was at the very foot of the gardens, far away from the house. If I were to call out, it was unlikely anyone inside would hear me. Cold with fear, I watched as the man moved across the dark patch of lawn and stepped into the moonlight. I could see his features clearly as he moved toward me, and terror gave way to a new kind of alarm, quickly followed by anger. I stared at him coldly, one hand curled into a tight fist. He stopped a few feet away, an amused smile spread across his face as he saw the fist.
“Are you going to hit me?”
“I should!”
“I’ve read that you have a fierce temper.”
“How dare you frighten me like that.”
“I can imagine what you thought. You have a great many enemies in Barivna. You had no business coming out here alone, at this hour. What if I had been someone else?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was waiting for you to return. I’ve been out here in these gardens for at least three hours, and I was prepared to wait all night if necessary. When the carriage pulled up, I planned to intercept you before you went inside, but then you paused on the steps and started toward the gardens.”
“And you’ve been watching me.”
He nodded slowly. “Watching you,” he said, “trying to convince myself that the moonlight wasn’t playing tricks on me, that such overwhelming loveliness wasn’t an illusion.”
His voice was like music, a low, husky caress of sound. I steeled myself against it, thankful for the anger that kept other emotions at bay. I gazed at him with a hard, stony expression.
“You were a beautiful girl,” he continued. “You’re an even more beautiful woman.”
“I’m going inside, Brence.”
“No you’re not. You’re going to listen to me.”
“You shan’t stop me. I’ll call the footmen.”
“Call them,” he said.
“We have nothing to discuss, Brence. I told you the other night that I had no intention of leaving Barivna. I should think that after being turned away from the door twice you’d realize your mission was futile.”
“I don’t give up easily, Mary Ellen.”
“Don’t call me that. No one has called me that in years.”
“You’ll always be Mary Ellen to me. You’ll always be that lovely, vulnerable girl with windblown hair and lightly flushed cheeks and eyes full of secret longing.”
“The girl you abandoned,” I said coldly.
He nodded again. “I’ve never been able to forgive myself for leaving you behind. I tried to forget you—tried desperately. I knew it was foolish to let myself be haunted by you, but that didn’t help. Nothing helped. I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”
“I’m touched.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “I fell in love with you, Mary Ellen. I had never been in love before, and it—disoriented me. It seemed a kind of weakness. I had bold plans for a major career in diplomacy, and—”
“And I didn’t fit into them,” I said. “I wasn’t rich or aristocratic. I couldn’t help further your precious career. I was the bastard daughter of a gypsy, and that wouldn’t do at all.”
“I won’t deny that,” he said quietly.
He was standing very close, looking at me with dark, grave eyes, his cheekbones taut, his full, smooth lips parted. He was so very handsome. I sensed again his disenchantment, the new vulnerable quality not at all disguised by the cynical curl at the corner of the mouth. Once I had run my finger over that mouth. Once I had reached up to rest my palm on that lean cheek. I remembered the feel of his arms closing about me, remembered those lips covering mine, firm, moist, demanding response. I tried to stem the flow of memories, hardening myself against them.
“And so you left,” I said. My voice was hard. “You gave me money in order to ease your conscience, and you left, knowing I was alone, knowing I had no one to turn to.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“John Chapman came to visit me that night, the night after you left. He no longer wanted to make me his mistress. As far as he was concerned, I was damaged goods. He raped me.”
Brence looked stunned.
“I survived,” I continued in that same hard voice. “I put it out of my mind. I put you out of my mind, too, Brence. I grew up, you see. I grew up, and I had no time to weep over the past.”
“I came back for you,” he said.
He moved nearer. I felt a tremulous feeling stirring inside.
“For three months I tried to forget you, but I realized the attempt was futile. I was in love with you, Mary Ellen, and I knew that life without you would be meaningless. So, I took leave from the embassy and returned to Cornwall, praying you hadn’t already found a husband.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“You had vanished. Your house had been sold, and no one knew where you’d gone. I remembered that you spoke of wanting to become a dancer, but I never took that seriously. I never dreamed you’d take off to London on your own. I assumed you’d moved to another village. I spent two weeks searching for you, going from village to village, traveling all over Cornwall, and finally I had to give up and return to Sturnburg.”
I was silent. A deep frown creased his brow.
“It’s true,” he said. “Don’t you realize what I’m telling you? I’m telling you that I’m in love with you.”
“And I’m supposed to melt into your arms and sigh and grieve over all the years we’ve lost? Is that what you expected? I’m sorry, Brence. I’m no longer that naïve. You’re wasting your time—and mine.”
He looked at me with eyes full of puzzlement and pain. Though I wanted to believe what he said with all my heart, I dared not trust him. Nor myself. There was a long silence. The fountain pattered softly behind me, and I shivered as a fresh breeze blew in across the lake. I felt a fami
liar weakness, and I fought it valiantly, knowing I couldn’t maintain my icy composure much longer.
“You have every reason to hate me,” he said quietly.
“I don’t hate you, Brence. I feel nothing at all.”
“I don’t believe you. The other day, when I finally realized who you were, it all came rushing back to me. It was as though there had been no interval, as though all the time between had been a kind of sleep. I know it was that way for you, too, Mary Ellen.”
“No.”
“You recognized me immediately. You were stunned, and you were frightened, but you still loved me.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Please go.”
Shaking his head, he placed his hands on my shoulders. I trembled and tried to pull away. His hands tightened, fingers digging into my flesh, and as I closed my eyes, he pulled me into his arms and covered my lips with his own. I stood very still, refusing to bend, refusing to respond even though every fibre of my being seemed to vibrate with sweet sensation. His lips caressed mine, gently, and his arms tightened about me, drawing me against him. Inside me there was nothing but sweet languor that melted into an aching need. His lips grew more insistent. I held myself rigid, resisting still, clinging to a hard core of resolve.
He lifted his head and peered down at me, his face inches from my own. He looked into my eyes for a long time, and then he kissed my cheek, my shoulder, the curve of my throat, his hands caressing me. I shivered again, feeling my resolve shredding, as he tightened his arms once more, once more lowered his head, kissing me with fervent urgency.
For one more moment I clung to that scrap of resolve, and then my body went limp and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as his lips parted mine. Reality dissolved and blossoms burst in explosions of splendor inside of me. That kiss seemed to last for an eternity, an eternity of splendid torment, and when finally his lips left mine I looked up into his eyes with a strange composure despite the sensations shimmering within me. A part of me seemed to be standing back calmly observing the scene. When I spoke my voice was level.
“Will you leave now?”
“You want me. You can’t deny that.”
“I’m human. You’ve proved that.”
“You love me.”
“It was an automatic response—”
“No, Mary Ellen.”
“Nothing else.”
“You lie. You’re afraid.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve nothing to fear.”
“Everything.”
“I love you, Mary Ellen.”
If only I could have believed it. If only I hadn’t known why he had come to Barivna.
He touched my cheek. His eyelids grew heavy. He parted his lips and tilted his head and he held me close, kissing me a third time, and I told him silently, with my lips, my body, what I had refused to say aloud. Conflicting emotions surged through me. I was sad because I had lost the battle, elated because I would share in his victory, and yet part of me still remained aloof, observing calmly. He removed his lips from mine and smiled, leading me toward the shadows, the soft grass. I drew back, shaking my head. He gave me an inquisitive look.
“The house,” I said. “My bedroom.”
“The servants?”
“My maid never waits up for me. I’ve instructed her not to. And the footmen will remain at their posts. We’ll use the side entrance.”
He nodded and let go of my hand, and I moved as though in a trance, through moonlight and shadow, the transparent spangles on my pink silk skirt glittering. He walked beside me, stern and silent, his cloak lifting in the breeze like dark wings. We passed tall shrubs and neat, formal flowerbeds, finally crossing the drive that led around to the carriage house and stables. We stepped into the dim side hallway and a moment later started up the servants’ stairs.
A lamp was burning in my bedroom. As I closed the door and looked at Brence, I felt a sense of unreality. I seemed to be in the middle of a dream. Reaching up to brush the errant jet locks from his forehead, I rested my palm on his cheek. He smiled and turned his head to kiss my fingers. I pulled my hand away, and he laughed softly and removed his cloak, flinging it over a chair. He was wearing an elegantly cut dark blue suit and a white satin waistcoat embroidered with tiny blue flowers. A black silk neckcloth nestled under his chin. He stood with legs apart, his hands resting at his sides, tall and handsome, dazzling really.
I recalled that afternoon in Cornwall when I had seen him for the first time. He had been dazzling then, too, and I had gazed at him with a kind of wonderment. But there had been something else—a vague, disturbing feeling, like a premonition of danger, telling me that I had come face to face with my fate, warning me to flee. I felt that same premonition now. I paid it no heed. My other feelings were much too strong. I stepped over to turn off the lamp. The doors to the balcony were open. Hazy rays of moonlight streamed into the room, growing stronger, penetrating the darkness.
“I’ve waited so long for this,” he said huskily. “Now that I’ve found you I’ll never let you go.”
Drawing me to him, he kissed my brow, my nose, my cheek, let his lips slide down to my throat. They seemed to burn my skin. He kissed the swell of my bosom, and I caught my fingers in his hair, trembling. Moments passed, and then he straightened up and held my arms and smiled, eyes dark with hunger. He was in no hurry, deliberately delaying the ultimate ecstasy. He squeezed my arms and then pulled me against him and held me tight, kissing my ear lobe, catching it between his teeth. Moonlight polished the floor and caused shadows to dance on the wall.
“I can’t believe I’m holding you in my arms,” he said.
“Nor I. It—it’s like a dream.”
“It’s real, Mary Ellen.”
He pulled the camellia from my temple and threw it aside. His fingers toyed with my hair, undoing the French roll. Pins scattered and long ebony waves tumbled down over my shoulders. Turning me around so that my back was to him, he lifted my hair and kissed the nape of my neck. Cool night air filled the room. I felt it on my skin.
“You’re lovely,” he murmured and held me close.
“I feel lovely now.”
“How could I have deserted you?”
“Enough,” I whispered. “We’ve talked enough.”
“Right,” he said.
“Now is the time to feel.”
He released me and stepped across the room to remove his jacket and waistcoat, placing them on a chair. He pulled the neckcloth away from his throat and dropped it on top of the other garments, and then he sat down on the bed to take off his boots. I recalled those afternoons long ago when we had come into the house after strolling on the beach. It seemed like yesterday. His boots clattered to the floor and he stood up to pull off his shirt. I watched him, feeling love that was new and vibrant and glorious, as heady as fine champagne, as elating, filling me with a delicious dizziness that made me want to weep with joy. I allowed myself to feel it, allowed myself to believe it wasn’t merely part of the dream.
He removed his breeches, and stood naked in the moonlight, a superb statue transformed into flesh and blood. His manhood throbbed, erect, eager. Taking hold of my shoulders, he turned me around to unfasten my gown in back. I felt his hands sliding my bodice down. I freed my arms from the sleeves. Pink silk rustled. Spangles gleamed and flashed. His hands moved over my hips, and the gown fell to the floor. Stepping out of the silken circle, I kicked off my shoes and removed my undergarments. Now, I was naked, too, shivering with cold, shivering with desire.
He lifted me up in his arms and carried me to the bed, easing me down onto the silken counterpane. I raised my arms, and he caught my wrists and smiled a savage smile, kneeling over me. I waited, lips parted, looking up at that face sculptured in moonlight as he leaned down to kiss me. Caressing me gently, he made his entry. It was galvanizing, sending shock waves throughout my body. I moaned, closing my eyes, whirling into a delirium of sensation as he thrust dee
per, filling me with hard, fierce warmth. I put my arms around his shoulders, holding tightly as the breathless descent continued, faster now, both of us caught up in a wild abandon. Together we spiralled into an ecstatic void, and for one shattering instant we hung suspended. I sank my teeth into his shoulder as the instant ended and we plunged into completion, life force jetting out of him in a fountain of fulfillment.
He fell limp, the weight of his body pressing, crushing. I held him to me, cushioning his body with my own, my senses still reeling, the glowing aftermath warm and tingling inside. He groaned and nestled his head on my breasts, and I stroked his back, his skin silken smooth, damp with perspiration. This was right. This was the way it was meant to be, this love, this lover, the two of us with limbs closely entwined. I closed my eyes, holding him, loving him, smelling his flesh, his hair, the wonderful masculine musk of his body. I drifted into a blissful sleep, and when I opened my eyes sometime later the moonlight was brighter and Brence was leaning over me, his full, sensual mouth curving in a teasing smile.
“I—I fell asleep,” I murmured.
“So did I. I’m glad I woke up.”
He lowered his head until his lips touched mine, lightly brushing them at first, then pressing gently and parting my own. He filled my mouth with his tongue, and I wove my fingers into his hair, twining the dark jet locks around them as his lips and tongue continued to tease. Finally, he raised his head. I let my hands slip to his shoulders, and he smiled again and touched his hand to my breasts, caressing. He leaned down to kiss each nipple, and then he made love to me again, slowly this time, lazily, urgent abandon replaced by a tantalizing lethargy, each stroke tender, carefully prolonged to insure the greatest pleasure for each of us. I seemed to be stretched on a rack, and the divine torment went on and on, finally demolishing me in an explosion of delight that seemed to shred my senses.
When I woke up again the room was filled with a hazy pink light that gradually melted into gold. Brence was sleeping next to me on his side, one arm curled around my waist, his right leg resting heavily over both my own. I carefully disengaged myself and slipped out of bed. Brence groaned and stirred and opened his eyes. He struggled into a sitting position, his back against the headboard, a mass of jet locks covering his brow. His eyelids drooped sleepily.
Dare to Love Page 34