He was nothing at all like she had thought him back on the Southampton docks. What an admirable leader he was, commanding respect without being harsh. Everyone had come to rely on him. He was intelligent, sometimes sweet, and his flashes of humor… He fit well with this family of her heart.
Yesterday, clinging to the rope while the river tried to pull her under, it had not mattered at all what her future held. She had nearly had no future. So why had she been so determined to hold to a course she detested?
Suddenly the sky was too bright, the wind too gentle. She wanted to laugh and weep at the same time.
“I love him,” she whispered.
She had been a fool not to admit it before.
Because her future did not allow it, she had pretended it was not happening, that she was not falling beautifully, hopelessly, in love with James.
There was no way she could wed Lord Buckley now. Not when her heart had veered in an entirely different direction. Marriage to him would be a sham, one she would regret each bitter day for the rest of her life.
The horse’s hooves clattered over loose scree as she guided it around the stones. There must be room in some corner of the empire for two wayward hearts. She would begin a life with James somewhere else, and as long as he was beside her she would be content.
Ahead, Uncle Edward drew rein and leaned precariously over. “Orchis Italica! A perfect specimen. Higgs, bring my trowel and the Wardian bottle.”
The head gardener rummaged through the equipment and removed a bulky specimen jar. Drawn by her uncle’s enthusiasm, the party gathered and watching as Uncle Edward carefully excavated around the base of the small pink flower.
“The jar is hermetically sealed after the specimen is placed in it,” he said, carefully taking it from Higgs. “Ingenious, really. Revolutionized collecting. Now the entire plant can now be safely transported. No need to rely on seeds or delicate cuttings. Here we are.” He lifted the orchid. Bringing his hand lens to bear, he inspected the leaves, and then moved on to the myriad small petals making up the conical flower head. “Fascinating. On closer inspection, one can see that the petals do indeed form an anatomically correct male figure.”
“Really, Edward!” Aunt Mary drew Isabelle back.
“Sorry, my dear.” He tried to tuck the plant away, but Richard leaned forward, catching his father’s arm.
“It is, by Jove. Who would have imagined?” Richard grinned as his father nestled the plant into the jar and closed the lid tightly.
Lily tried to look uninterested, but she wondered. Did it really look like, well, what her uncle had implied? She glanced about casually, hoping to spy more of the low-growing pink blooms beside the path. James caught her eye and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.
When the party rode on, the trail flattening out into a broad valley, James brought his horse next to her.
She glanced over. “Whatever will my uncle find next?”
His eyes laughed down into hers. “Who would think a flower could be so indiscreet? Exposing itself right beside the trail.”
“Obviously not a native English plant.”
His grin held a touch of wicked humor. “I assure you, the resemblance was not as striking as you might think.”
“It’s in the eye of the beholder, I suppose. Though I didn’t get a good look, I suspect the proportions are not quite accurate.” She recalled the feel of his hard body against her, the heat of him in her hand—what she had felt could hardly be classified as a blossom of any sort. She glanced away and smiled secretly to herself. If he wished to further instruct her in the ways a man and a flower differed, she would not refuse him.
His voice grew serious. “Khalil says the village we are seeking lies ahead. Someone there may be able to point us to the valley we seek.”
“Then we are close?”
“Very close.” He guided his mount even nearer. “Lily. If we find what I hope to, then everything will be different. And I would ask you something important.”
She looked up at him, hardly able to breathe.
Yes.
She wanted to shout it, but before she could speak he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. The feel of his soft kiss lingered there as he released her and spurred his mount up the trail.
Lily gazed after him, a wash of heat spreading through her. What did he wish to ask her? She hardly dared imagine, but the possibility made her spirit soar.
The village, when they reached it, was no more than a collection of small houses built of stones scavenged from roads and ruins. Goats bleated at the approaching travelers and children clustered to whisper and stare. A delegation of men waited beside the dirt track.
“Stay here.” James slid to the ground. “Khalil and I will see if we’re on the right path.”
They went forward, exchanging greetings with a craggy-faced old man wearing dark robes. After an animated discussion, James returned.
“The headman is curious about what brings foreigners to his village.” He opened the flap of one saddlebag and removed a leather wallet. From it he drew several folded sheets of paper. “I want to see if this is familiar to him.”
“Capital idea. Show him the drawing,” Uncle Edward said.
“What drawing?” Richard asked.
Isabelle prodded her mount up beside Lily. “What is it?” she asked, with more interest than Lily would have expected.
“I don’t know. It looks like a letter.” Was it the one Lord Rowland had questioned her about in Cadiz?
“The map,” Isabelle said. Her horse sidled nervously beneath her.
So, James had had a clue to their destination all along, one that his cousin had wanted to lay his hands on. But why?
“Buried treasure,” Isabelle whispered.
Could it be? No wonder Lord Rowland had been so eager to learn of it. It would explain James’s words, as well. If his fortunes were about to be changed…
They watched James lift one of the sheets and show it to the headman. Lily’s breathing quickened. The man gestured toward a peak visible in the distance, and James nodded, a quick grin flashing across his face. It seemed they had found their way at last.
They followed a narrow track out of the village, winding higher into the foothills. The air felt cool and the sky overhead was the color of ripe plums. She had never seen James so happy—joking with the men, riding off the trail to bring back cuttings for her uncle. And when he looked at her—her blood caught fire, for his eyes held a sultry promise she could not misread.
The sun was low when James halted the party to make camp in a fold of meadow. Lily could not resist the bold light and stark lines of the ridges. She set her easel up a short distance below the tents and began to paint. The shadows here were nearly cobalt against the spice-colored earth.
One of the men was whistling, and the smell of frying onions floated down from the cook fire. Tomorrow they would reach the valley, and the whole camp seemed to share James’s excitement.
He came toward her, hands in his pockets, his hair tousled by the breeze. A wide smile lit his face when he saw her watching him. “The best of evenings to you, Lily. Your aunt asked me to tell you the bathing tent has been set up and will be at your disposal after supper.”
“A bath—how divine. I could use a good soak.”
He sniffed the air. “You certainly could.”
“Wretch. You need one more than I do.” Lily tucked her brushes away. “Please, do me the favor of standing downwind.”
“If that’s your opinion, then perhaps I ought to visit the bathing tent after supper, myself.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find it occupied, and the tub is hardly large enough for two.”
“Are you quite certain about that?”
Oh my. The sudden memory of him rising over her, naked chest gleaming, made her feel giddy—and bold. “If you appear, there will be nothing for you but to scrub my back. It’s so much easier with help.”
His expression grew intent. “If I appear, I w
ill do far more than scrub your back.”
Goodness. Was that a threat or a promise? The way he looked at her made it difficult to think of a properly witty retort. She swallowed. “We’ll just see about that.”
He raised a roguish eyebrow and then broke into a grin. “Supper is almost ready. If you want to be fed before you are bathed, you’d better hurry.”
***
The water was pleasantly hot. Lily lay back in the bath with a sigh and wiggled her toes in contentment. Lamps shed a soft, golden glow inside the tent and the scent of lavender and roses wafted up in the steam. They may have all laughed at Aunt Mary, but Lily was thankful for the small luxuries that existed only because of her aunt’s insistence—and this was no small luxury.
She supposed James was not coming—not that she had really expected him to. It would have been daring in the extreme. He had been teasing, of course. But with the flickering lantern light, the breeze moving against the tent, her own nakedness, it was easy to imagine that she was waiting for a lover. She closed her eyes and slid deeper into the water.
The sound of footsteps approaching outside roused her. She held her breath, listening as the tent flap whispered open.
“Lily?” His voice. He had entered the tent, but could not see her, screened as she was by the silken privacy hangings.
She closed her eyes and remained very still. He had come. She almost did not answer, but a wild and careless excitement thrummed through her.
“I’m here,” she called softly, the knowledge of her choice making her tremble.
She heard the hush of silk. Then silence.
James stood there, one hand holding back the curtains. The linen of his shirt outlined the muscles beneath, and his open collar showed the sun-darkened skin at his throat.
She met his eyes. Being exposed to his gaze made her feel reckless, wanton. She lifted one knee above the water, the skin glistening where droplets ran down, and watched his attention focus there.
“You are perfect, Lily.” His voice was low as he stepped forward.
The look in his eyes took her breath—desire tempered with a tenderness that made her feel cherished beyond compare. The lamplight burnished his features and sparked glints of gold from his hair.
He stood over her a moment, and she knew the translucent water provided no concealment. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands. The naked passion revealed in his face was ample reward for her boldness. Then he knelt beside the tub and lifted his hand to her cheek, a touch light as the finest sable brush.
She smiled at him. “Have you come to wash my back?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward, grazing his lips against hers. She sighed and felt him smile against her mouth.
“How many times I have dreamed of this,” he murmured, then kissed her.
The wetness of their mouths echoed the sensations of the water buoying her, lapping her skin. He deepened the kiss then nudged her head back to rest against the tub’s rim, her throat exposed to his questing lips, his tongue flicking against the smooth, moist skin.
“Shall I get out?” It was difficult to speak. The combination of his kisses and the water moving gently around her body was intoxicating.
“No.” He breathed the words against her neck. “I’d rather… assist you… with your bath.” Each pause in his words was punctuated by a kiss, making delightful shivers course through her.
He stood and stripped off his coat, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to bare tanned, muscled forearms. Taking up a washcloth, he settled on the low stool beside the tub. “Let me begin with”—he directed a lazy, dangerous smile at her—“your arm.”
He drew the rounded bar of soap slowly down from her shoulder to her fingers, and then retraced the slick path with his palm. The wet washcloth followed, sending rivulets of warm, scented water tickling down her skin.
He turned her hand over and rubbed his soap-slick thumb lightly against her palm, then laced his fingers with hers, sliding them gently back and forth. She stirred, sending ripples against the side of the tub.
He lavished the same attentions on her other arm, leaning over, his linen-clad chest just above the naked peaks of her breasts.
“I must do a thorough job,” he murmured.
Letting his fingers skim lightly over her body, he moved down and lifted her ankle. Lily lay back in the water and let the sensations wash over her—the smooth slip of soap, his warm, strong hands, the rougher nap of the cloth. Her breath caught as he worked his way up over her knees to the soft skin of her thighs. Where would he stop?
Her center began to pulse with anticipation of his touch. She had not forgotten how he had made her feel the last time he had touched her there.
Her nipples tightened and puckered, lapped by the water.
Finished with her legs, James slid the soap between his palms, working up a lather. He leaned forward and placed his palms flat against her collarbones, his touch smooth and firm. With excruciating slowness, he drew his hands down. She nearly forgot to breathe as he slid them over her breasts and traced her curves. He cupped her in his hands and brushed his thumbs across the slippery, sensitive peaks. Pleasure streaked through her as he caressed her, his hands slick against her skin.
The wet cloth was almost too rough. At her gasp he drew back, cupped water in his hands, and let it trickle over her, gently rinsing her body.
“I believe it is time to scrub your back,” he said. “Lean forward.”
She did, wanting his hands on her, wanting him to touch her everywhere. He worked with his bare hands, smoothing across her shoulders, following her spine down then coming to rest on the curve of her hips. She held her breath and released it on a sigh as he leaned forward and set his lips to the back of her neck. Bent forward, she felt both vulnerable and adored.
“If you’d care to rise?” He reached for one of the thick white towels and held it ready.
Frustration stabbed through her. The juncture of her legs throbbed, still waiting for his touch. Did he know what he was doing to her? From the wicked light in his eyes, she suspected he did. Lily stepped, dripping, from the tub, and let him enfold her.
He rubbed her skin with the soft nap, turning her, lifting her clean, wet hair and drying it.
“I have a gift for you,” he said.
“Really? What does one bring to someone just out of her bath?” Suddenly modest, she clutched the towel to her when he would have let it drop to the floor.
He handed her a parcel. “Open it and see.”
Lily untied the string, folding back the wrapping to reveal a swath of blue-green cloth shimmering in the lamplight. She shook it out—a length of dusky sea woven of supple, silky fabric.
On a whim she let the towel slide and instead wound the sumptuous length of cloth around her. It clung to her thighs, her hips, outlined her breasts. She felt transformed—not a proper English lady at all, but some wild, sensuous spirit.
“Gods.” He stared at her, fire in his look, and then stepped close. “I also brought you this.” A simple teardrop turquoise pendant set in silver dangled from his hand. “I found it in the market in Tunis.” He fastened it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin. The stone settled between her breasts. “Now I believe you are properly dressed.”
“For what?”
“For being carried off to my lair, of course.”
“I wasn’t aware you had one.” Her voice came out in a whisper.
“Yes. For what I have in mind, I definitely need a lair.”
“And a captive?”
“A willing one. Are you willing?”
For answer, she covered his mouth in an urgent kiss. When she finally pulled away, they were both breathing raggedly. In one smooth motion he caught her behind the knees and lifted her into his arms. They were out under the stars almost before she realized he was moving. James strode quickly up the slope, surefooted in the darkness. She clutched his shoulders.
“Is this the way to your lair?”
&nbs
p; He didn’t answer, but Lily could see the white flash of his smile. They rounded a tumble of rocks and he knelt, laying her down in softness.
Rustling, the clank of metal on stone. Light blossomed from a shielded lantern to illuminate a sheltered hollow walled off from the camp by a tumble of boulders. The light revealed the unexpected wealth of the cushions and coverlets she rested on, gold and garnet fabric shimmering in sharp contrast to the rough, elemental backdrop of rock.
Above them Lily could see the night sky filled with constellations, and between them farther stars, glowing faintly, and behind those soft lights, even dimmer stars stitched to the darkness.
She reached up and touched his face. The way he looked at her made her feel poised on the edge of a warm, cherishing sea. His features—she had traced them so often that his face was more familiar to her than her own
She had dreamed of this, lying in his arms, the two of them removed from the world. Yet all the world, everything that mattered, was here, cradled in cushions, the solid embrace of the stones, the pulse of the earth beating with impossible slowness beneath them.
He slid down beside her and their lips met, lingered, opened. The thin fabric was hardly a barrier between them—she felt the strength of him over her, wanted him closer. She drew him close, reveling in the feel of his body pressed against her.
“I want to see you,” she breathed. “All of you.”
He knelt, pulled off his coat, and then drew his shirt over his head in one motion. The soft glow of lamplight lay over his chest and broad shoulders. His hands went to his waist, and he stripped his trousers off. Lily’s breath caught. Against the backdrop of the night he looked like some elemental god formed of fire and darkness. His manhood, freed from the restraints of clothing, rose up.
“May I… touch you?” His body was so different from her own.
He nodded, his eyes hooded. She reached, wrapped her fingers gently around the shaft, amazed again at his heat, his smoothness. He tensed.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “It pleasures me.”
Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1) Page 22