A Gift of Love

by A Gift of Love (lit)

  "They didn't know it was my birthday. The only person who knew the date was Uncle— He's the one who told me I was born on Christmas Day. 'Course, my name is Noelle, so I kind of guessed. Which is good, 'cause he didn't really want to tell me. I just pestered him 'til he did. But he never told anyone else. And as for parties, Uncle never celebrates anything, 'specially the day I was born, which he tries to forget."

  That did it. Brigitte's final heartstring snapped.

  "Noelle, it's time for you and Fuzzy to rest." Tossing down the towel, she guided Noelle from the bathroom into the blue bedchamber, pausing only to draw the newly hung curtains. "We've been racing about since we finished your morning studies. A short nap will do both you and Fuzzy good—especially Fuzzy, who's probably exhausted from the ordeal of his first bath."

  Noelle settled herself beneath the bedcovers, blinking her huge eyes at Brigitte. "You're going to see Uncle, aren't you?"

  Had she truly hoped to fool her brilliant young charge?

  "Yes, Noelle, I am. It's time he and I had a talk."

  "You've been here two weeks without talking. In fact, we've only seen him three times. But he's seen us a lot more."

  Brigitte's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

  "'Xactly that—we've only seen him three times," Noelle repeated patiently. "Once, when we came in the back door after collecting our groceries, and twice more in the kitchen when we were preparing dinner. You remember—he disappeared the instant he saw us." She cradled Fuzzy to her cheek. "You were right, you know. Fuzzy looks ever so much nicer now that he's clean. And he didn't mind the bath nearly as much as I thought he would."

  "I'm glad." Brigitte perched on the edge of the bed. "I know we've only seen your uncle thrice. What I meant was, why did you say he'd seen us a lot more than we've seen him?"

  "Because it's true. He watches us from his window whenever we play in the woods."

  Brigitte's spine stiffened. "Are you sure?"

  "'Course I'm sure. I spy him all the time. He only watches for a while. Then he goes away."

  "Does he now…?" Brigitte's mind was racing. So Eric wasn't as immune to his niece as he liked to pretend. He did care—whether or not he wanted to. "Noelle, thank you. You've just given me the ammunition I needed."

  "Ammunition?" A puzzled frown. "Isn't that for guns?"

  "Only sometimes," Brigitte retorted. "Sometimes it's for people." Leaning forward, she smoothed the blanket beneath Noelle's chin, gently kissing her brow. "Now, go to sleep. Fuzzy, too."

  Noelle nodded, her eyes sliding shut. "Good luck with Uncle," she whispered. "And don't use too much ammunition when he chest-izes you. He really likes you an awful lot."

  Five minutes later, Brigitte silently contested Noelle's assessment.

  "I apprised you that my chambers were never to be violated," Eric snapped, glaring at Brigitte from his doorway.

  "I didn't violate them. I knocked. I intend to see you. Where we speak is entirely your choosing."

  His eyes flashed like glittering chips of obsidian. "Seeing and speaking to me are not part of our arrangement."

  "Nevertheless, I aim to do so." Brigitte stared up at him, undeterred by his towering height and formidable temper. Further, she could see beyond the harsh features and unruly appearance, beyond his bitter facade. The man who'd ruled her girlhood dreams was still there, buried deep inside this dark, caustic stranger. "You won't succeed in frightening me, my lord," she informed him. "I wasn't afraid of you before, and I'm far too upset to begin now. So you might as well let me in. I have something important to say, and I don't intend to leave until I've said it."

  With a stunned expression, Eric eased open the door. "Make it brief."

  Brigitte stalked in, too troubled to feel awkward about the fact that she was in Eric's bedchamber for the first time. She whirled about to face him. "It concerns Noelle."

  "In that ease, it does not concern me. Good day."

  "Cease this absurd pretense, Lord Farrington. It's pointless. You're fooling neither of us."

  "What the hell are you rambling about?"

  "About you. About this supposed loathing you feel for Noelle. And about the nonsensical myth you insist on furthering that you're a blackhearted tyrant." She paused to catch her breath. "You're a fraud, my lord. A fraud and a fool. Both of which are your doing. Nonetheless, if you choose to retreat from life, that decision is yours to make, so long as it hurts only you. However, in this case, it hurts Noelle more. Thus, I've given up waiting for you to come to your senses, and decided to intervene."

  Eric looked torn between disbelief and eruption. "Have you gone mad?" he thundered, slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. "Has a fortnight with my niece stripped away your senses?"

  "Quite the contrary, my lord. A fortnight with your niece has enlightened me beyond my wildest expectations. She's a brilliant, sensitive child—but of course you wouldn't know that, would you?" With a quick prayer, Brigitte pressed onward. "In fact, you don't know her at all."

  "Nor do I intend to, you insolent—"

  "I questioned Noelle about the type of birthday celebration she prefers," Brigitte interrupted. "It appears she's never had any celebration whatsoever."

  A sardonic laugh. "That doesn't surprise me. The small amount of time she's spent destroying each house in which she's resided left little time for festivities."

  "Whose fault is that?"

  His jaw clenched so tightly Brigitte feared it might snap. "I'd suggest you watch your tongue, Miss Curran."

  "With due respect, my lord, I'm not the least bit interested in what you suggest. I'm interested in Noelle, and her well-being. She needs a normal life, not just studies and discipline, but a family, strolls in the park, other children to play with. Why do you think she's so attached to Fuzzy? Did it ever occur to you he's the only constant in her life? She's been tossed from house to house like an unwanted object since the day she was born. Now she's a virtual prisoner at Farrington. All she wants is a real home—friends, laughter…" Brigitte paused. "Love."

  "Are you quite finished?" Eric bit out.

  Utterly incredulous, Brigitte shook her head from side to side. "You're not going to give an inch, are you? You're going to let your own anguish destroy that little girl's life."

  Something inside Eric seemed to snap. "Celebrate her bloody birthday then!" he stormed, crossing the room to seize a half-filled goblet of brandy from a barren writing table. "Invite the vicar. Bake a cake. Jump in the leaves from dawn till dusk, for all I care. Now get out."

  "And Christmas?"

  The goblet banged to the desk. "No."

  "No? No what? No church? No tree? No gifts? No…"

  "No Christmas." He wheeled about to face her. "And that is nonnegotiable. So far as I'm concerned, Christmas does not exist. It ceased to be five years ago."

  "I understand your pain, my lord. But Noelle is a child. Surely—"

  "No!" Eric roared, hurling his goblet against the wall.

  Brigitte jumped, totally unprepared for the violence of his action. Taking an inadvertent step backward, she watched shards of crystal shatter, cascading onto the oriental carpet in a glittering spray.

  Simultaneously, she became aware of her surroundings for the first time. Her unnerved gaze took in the doused lamps, the naked furnishings, the tightly drawn drapes. Grandfather was right, she reflected numbly. It is a mausoleum. Other than the pile of books alongside the nightstand and the rumpled bedding, it's as if no one lives here at all.

  "Are you frightened, Miss Curran?" Eric put in, his tone menacing. "Or merely scrutinizing my quarters? Because right now I'd be very frightened if I were you."

  His taunting words found their mark, and Brigitte's stare returned to his, assessing him, not with alarm but with comprehension. He's challenging me, she realized. He wants to scare me away. He's fighting to protect himself.

  All her girlhood dreams surged to life, mingling with the compassion and insight afforded by maturity.

>   "No, my lord, I'm not frightened," she denied, with a decisive set of her jaw. "I'm also not 'Miss Curran'—at least not any longer."

  Eric's eyes narrowed. "No, you're not, are you?" Then he purposefully stalked forward. "You're the Countess of Farrington." He loomed over her. "My wife."

  "Yes. I am."

  "In name only," he reminded her. "At least thus far."

  With the innate knowledge that she hovered on the brink of her future—and Eric's—Brigitte sealed her own fate. "That choice, my lord, was yours. Not mine."

  Anguish tore across his face. "Damn you," he muttered through clenched teeth. "And damn me for wanting you."

  With that his arms shot out, dragging Brigitte to his chest, trapping her against the powerful contours of his body. Roughly, he seized her chin, lifting it to meet the descending force of his mouth, crushing her lips beneath his before she had a chance to breathe, much less protest.

  Physical sensation, coupled with fierce emotion, crashed through Brigitte, taking her under in a huge, engulfing wave. Whimpering, she accepted—no, welcomed—Eric's assault, her dazed mind wondering how many nights she'd dreamed of this, at the same time knowing no fantasy could ever come close to this incomparable reality. Eric's lips moved over hers with a burning intensity, urgent, reckless, but more like that of a drowning man than an angry one.

  She moved closer, somehow needing to soothe his turmoil. Her fingers uncurled, glided up his shirtfront to rest over his heart. "Eric," she whispered, a balm against his fevered mouth. "Oh, Eric."

  A hard shudder wracked his body, and his punishing grip relaxed. His fists unclenched, his palms drifting up and down her spine, caressing rather than hurting. Urging her closer, he gentled the kiss, his lips circling hers, lingering, silently demanding hers to part.

  Brigitte understood his plea.

  With a natural, innocent ardor, she complied, opening to his penetration, quivering with anticipation as his tongue slid in to mate with hers.

  And then she was lost.

  Eric's mouth possessed hers with unabated hunger, stroking every tingling surface, awakening nerves that had been forever asleep. Inundated with sensation, Brigitte stood on tiptoe, granting him better access, pressing closer to his powerful frame.

  A low groan vibrated from Eric's chest, and he took what she offered, possessing her in a way Brigitte had never in her wildest imaginings fathomed. His hands moved down to cup her bottom, and urgently, he lifted her from the floor, fitting her soft curves against him, pressing the rigid lines of his erection as deep into her as the confines of their clothing would allow.

  Pleasure—dizzying, drenching—poured through her body in torrents of liquid heat. Had Eric not been holding her, she would have collapsed, her limbs weak with sensation, unable to function. As if reading her mind, Eric swept her into his arms, gripping her tightly as he headed toward the bed. An instant later cool air, welcome on her feverish skin, assailed her as he lowered her to the sheets.

  "Brigitte."

  It was the first time he'd said her name, and her heart sang at the sound.

  "Brigitte."

  "What?" Her lashes fluttered open.

  "Are you sure?"

  Sure? She'd been sure forever.

  "Yes. I'm sure."

  His breathing was harsh, strained, and he leaned over her, bracing himself on his forearms. "Do you understand what's going to happen?"

  No coldhearted man could ever be this tender.

  "Yes, I understand."

  He swallowed, every tendon in his neck strained, taut with need. "If you want to change your mind, do it now. Because once I'm in this bed, once I have you under me, there will be no turning back."

  She reached up, her palm stroking his bristled jaw. "I don't want to change my mind. Make love to me."

  Those mesmerizing eyes narrowed into piercing obsidian chips. "Love? This has nothing to do with love," Eric cautioned, dragging air into his lungs, clearly struggling to regain a control that was far beyond his grasp.

  With a hard shake of his head, he capitulated. "I'm a bloody bastard for doing this to you." Fervently, he tunneled his fingers through her hair. "You're a beautiful, romantic innocent who believes that what we're about to do is rooted in some miraculous emotion. It's not, Brigitte. It's based in physical need. I want you. I'm insane with wanting you. I've wanted you since the moment I saw you outside the church. My body is screaming to be inside yours, to pour an eternity of pent-up hunger into your womb. But that's lust, my softhearted bride, not love. So, I repeat, if you want to leave, do it now. Because nothing is going to change if you stay, not even after we've burned each other up in bed. Not our lives nor the barriers that divide them. Nothing."

  Liquid heat shimmered through Brigitte's veins. "Burn each other up? Is that what we'll do?"

  "That—and more."

  "Show me." Brigitte's arms curled about Eric's neck, her fingers lacing through the long hair at his nape. "I don't care about the rest."

  "You might later."

  "If that's the case, the burden will be mine. Just as the decision is now." She gazed up at him, seeing the fine man Eric deemed dead and gone. "I'm your wife. You can hardly be accused of ruining me. Further, since I don't believe in infidelity nor want to exist without ever knowing passion, you're the only man who can offer it to me. Please, Eric, I know what I'm doing."

  "Do you?" he demanded, lowering his weight onto hers. "Because, Lord help me, I don't."

  His kiss was consuming, his hands blindly unfastening her gown, tugging it away from her body. With awkward fingers, she unbuttoned his shirt, parting the edges to explore the warm hair-roughened skin of his chest.

  With a muttered oath, he pushed her hands away, flinging his shirt to the floor, dragging off her undergarments in several hard, fierce motions. He moved away only long enough to shed the rest of his clothes, devouring her with his eyes in a way that made Brigitte feel as beautiful as he'd claimed she was.

  He came down over her, his whole body shuddering at the first contact of their naked flesh, his mouth capturing her moan of pleasure.

  Brigitte couldn't form a coherent thought, so intense were the physical sensations coursing through her. She clutched at his arms—desperate to please him, uncertain how.

  Eric raised his head, staring down at her.

  "Teach me," she beseeched, more demand than plea.

  The harsh lines about his eyes softened; an odd light flickered in their inky depths. "You need no teaching. I'm already undone."

  "But…"

  "Hush." He brushed each corner of her mouth with his, muttering, "Let me." His hands moved to cup the silky weight of her breasts, a sound of pure male satisfaction rumbling from his chest as he felt her inadvertent shiver.

  "This, at least, I can give you. Let me, Brigitte. I want to watch those incredible golden eyes of yours shimmer with the wonder of discovery." His lips found the pulse at her throat. "I want to feel you shudder with a pleasure you never dreamed possible. Brigitte—let me."

  She tried to answer, but at that moment his thumbs found her nipples, teasing them with featherlight strokes until Brigitte couldn't speak or think or even breathe. Oblivious to anything but feeling, she sank into the bed, eyes sliding shut as she wordlessly gave Eric the permission he sought.

  He sensed her surrender, and acted on it.

  Lowering his head, his mouth replaced his thumbs, and Brigitte had to fight to keep from screaming as he surrounded her nipple, bathing the sensitized peak with his tongue, tugging it rhythmically with his lips.

  "Eric…" It was the only sound she could muster, and it emerged like a strangled sob.

  He didn't answer. Not with words. Instead, he shifted to her other breast, lavishing it with the same seductive caresses as he had the first. His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her waist and hips, savoring the softness of her skin. His knees nudged her legs apart, settling in between to grant him the access he sought.

  At the first brush of hi
s fingertips on her inner thighs, a floodgate of desire erupted inside Brigitte. Disregarding the tiny inner voice that branded her a wanton, she parted her legs wider, whimpering as he traced erotic circles higher and higher up her trembling limbs.

  "Open your eyes, Brigitte."

  Her lashes lifted at his command and, by doing so, discovered something even more wondrous than the exhilaration of his touch.

  He was as affected as she.

  Damp wisps of hair clung to a forehead that was slick with sweat, his features whip-taut with desire. Most wondrous of all was the inferno blazing in his eyes—an inferno rooted in something entirely different from anger.

  "I want to watch you," he muttered thickly, his thumbs stroking the sensitive area where her thighs ended and joined her torso. "From this moment on, I want to see the beauty of your passion as it unfolds." His thumbs crept a fraction closer to where her entire being screamed for him to be. "Show me, Brigitte."

  Reaching out, she clutched his wrists, urging him higher, her gaze wide and fixed on his.

  It was enough.

  His fingers opened her, found her, and he made a rough sound deep in his throat as he explored the velvety folds. "Perfect," he managed, his breath coming in shallow pants.

  Brigitte cried out, undulating against his hand, pinpoints of pleasure radiating out from her very core. Eric was watching her intently from beneath hooded lids, and he deepened his caress, somehow knowing just where to touch, how to heighten the ecstasy. Engulfed in sensation, Brigitte tossed her head on the pillow, certain she was dying and not giving a damn. She was already as close to heaven as one could get.

  Until he stopped.

  "Eric?" Her dazed eyes searched his face—needing a reason.