by Kitty French
He stirred then, his brow furrowing. What did he dream of? She moved into the room and closed the door, then stepped around the bed quietly so as not to wake him. The mattress was soft and welcoming as she lay down carefully alongside him, content to watch him sleep for a while even though her fingers itched to touch him.
He stirred again, that concentrated frown back on his face as his breathing turned shallower. Whatever was going on in his head, it didn't look restful.
"Sophie."
He breathed her name even though he had no idea that she was there, and it was enough to make her reach out and lay her hand on his cheek. He seemed to settle; the frown melted away and the rise and fall of his chest gentled. She could have taken that as her cue to remove her hand. She could have done, but she didn't. She left it there, letting her thumb stroke his high, proud cheekbone. Lucien seemed to sense her presence then; Sophie could feel him slowly passing from sleep towards wakefulness, until finally he turned his head a fraction and brushed a kiss against her wrist.
"I don't want to wake up and find you're not really here," he whispered, not yet opening his eyes.
"I'm really here."
His chest expanded and contracted as he breathed her in deep, covering her hand with his own for a second before he turned on his side to face her. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear gently, incomprehension in his eyes.
"How?"
Sophie laughed gently. "The way normal people do. Planes. Buses. Taxis."
He looked shell-shocked. "Why?"
The smile slipped from her face. "I heard... about your dad. Figured you could probably use a friend."
Lucien studied her face for endless seconds, his eyes more vulnerable than Sophie could ever recall. "I'm not sure we're friends, Sophie Black."
"No?" Sophie had to force the quiet word past the fear that constricted her throat.
He shook his head and sighed heavily, reaching out for her. She moved into the circle of his arms and clung to him. Or did he cling to her? He crushed her against his chest, and Sophie held him right back. It wasn't just a 'hello' hug. It was a 'thank God you're here' hug. Lucien's hand clasped the back of her head to his chest, and for long moments everything around them stopped existing. There was just this man and this woman, melded together by emotion and relief.
His skin was bed warm under her hands and her mouth, and she only loosened her grip on him when he reached down and tugged her sweater over her head. And then her jersey top. He glanced down finally at her white, long-sleeved thermal vest, traces of amusement alongside the rawness in his blue eyes.
"This is like pass the fucking parcel. Tell me this is the last one?"
"Almost," Sophie breathed, knowing that the final layer would please him far more than those that had gone before. He peeled her vest from her body, and a small guttural moan of appreciation rumbled in his throat as he looked at her breasts clad in ivory chantilly lace.
"I like this," he said, tracing his index finger slowly over the scalloped edge of first one cup and then the other. Sophie closed her eyes, and Lucien dipped his head and kissed her eyelids, his other hand on her bra clasp behind her back.
Her pulse jumped up as he flicked it open, up again when he eased the straps down her shoulders and bared her breasts to his waiting eyes. She could feel his erection through the sheet as he dragged her against him again, skin on skin and all the more intimate for it. It wasn't a 'thank God you're here' hug. It was an 'I'm going to fuck you senseless' hug.
"I've missed you so much, princess," he whispered, filling his hands with her hair as he tipped her head back in search of her mouth.
His kiss scorched her. Tender at first, holding back, and then devouring, as if he was starving and wanted to eat her whole. Sophie met him head on, dragging him closer, tasting inside his mouth with her tongue. Delicious.
He opened her jeans and pushed them down her hips, and Sophie wriggled out of them, along with her lace knickers as Lucien lifted the quilt for her to join him beneath it. God, yes. Yes please.
They both groaned with pleasure as their naked bodies aligned. He was rock hard as he blanketed her body with his own, and Sophie opened her thighs to accommodate him between them. Lucien rested his forearms either side of her head, her hands in his.
"Don't close your eyes," he said as he crooked his knee and tipped his hips forwards. Sophie watched his face as her body welcomed him in. She saw his pupils dilate with intense carnal pleasure, and she saw his hunger for more as he started to move inside her. She had more to give him. So much more.
"Deeper," she said, snaking her tongue over his parted lips.
Lucien's fingers tightened around hers, and she closed her eyes as he pulled his hips back to give her what she'd asked for.
"Open your eyes," he said, and she opened them wide as he thrust himself into her body, making her gasp. "Like this?" He thrust again, lazy triumph mingling with the lust in his eyes. "Like this, princess?" He moved up a little so that his cock slid over her clitoris with every steady stroke.
"Yes..." Sophie's hips rose to meet his each time, to gather him in. "Yes..."
She trembled, pinned down, never wanting to get up again. He knew she was right on the edge, and he lowered his head and kissed her slowly, his gaze never wavering from hers.
"I want to watch you," he whispered. "Let me see."
He let go of her fingers to cradle her cheek as her body tightened and her breathing shallowed, and Sophie could see the fierce concentration in his eyes as he held back his own orgasm to watch hers.
It was too much. She loved him so much. Tears welled in her eyes as her body gave itself up for him, wave after beautiful, pleasurable wave. He kissed her damp cheeks and rocked her in his arms, her name his mantra as his climax rushed from his body into hers.
Sophie was a long, long way from London, yet right here in this man's arms, she was home.
Chapter Thirty-Six
"What is this again?" Sophie asked as she drew the heavy red casserole dish out of the oven in the lodge's huge kitchen. It was well after ten, and they were both hungry for food now that their appetite for each other had been sated.
"Lapskaus," Lucien said, opening a high cupboard and reaching down two bowls. "It's Norwegian stew. You'll like it."
The simple act of preparing dinner together was calming for both of them. Lucien set out cutlery and glasses on the table as Sophie ladled the stew into bowls, placing them down alongside a basket of flat bread and the bottle of red wine that Lucien had just opened.
Divine, hearty smells rose from her bowl as Sophie took her place at the small table.
A thought struck her as she dipped her spoon into the rich stew. "This isn't reindeer, is it?"
Lucien lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "Don't worry princess. You're not eating Rudolph." He twisted a little salt over his bowl. "We'll do that tomorrow. He's delicious."
Sophie didn't mind the gentle mockery. She felt gladdened to hear him sounding more like his normal self. Instead she closed her eyes to savour the heavenly food. Lucien's housekeeper was fast becoming one of her favourite people; not only was she seriously kind, she was a culinary genius.
An easy atmosphere of mutual appreciation settled over them as they ate. They spoke of nothing of any great relevance, even though there was so much to be said. For those few minutes they were content just to share the quiet space and the soul nourishing food, gazing out over the dark winter landscape outside and catching their breath.
Lucien poured two generous measures of cognac into the crystal glasses on the kitchen work surface, his mind on the woman waiting for him beside the fire in the next room. Sophie was here. She'd come to him, even though he'd thrown her love back in her face in London. He knew he'd hurt her very badly, yet still she'd found her way here to stand beside him without hesitation. Up until Sophie's arrival he hadn't allowed himself to stop and acknowledge the magnitude of the situation with his father; he'd become so accustomed to his role as the estranged
son that he didn't know how to be anything other. The idea of going to see him at the hospital filled him with unspeakable dread. Would they even recognise each other? In Lucien's memories his father was larger than life, a big man with an equally big personality, a big and oppressive influence in the background of his life, whether Lucien liked it or not.
He picked the glasses up with a sigh and went through to the lounge, relieved beyond words to have Sophie there. She didn't respond to him as he came through the door, and he stilled for a second. Dressed in one of his shirts because her luggage was still at her hotel in the city, she'd curled up on the end of the sofa to watch the fire and nodded off to sleep.
He wasn't surprised. She'd travelled most of the day to get here, she couldn't have had much rest over the last couple of days. Planes, buses and taxis, she'd said. The idea of Sophie negotiating all of that on her own to get to him blew his mind. She'd joked back in London that she had trouble reading tube maps; how the hell she'd managed Norwegian bus timetables he had no clue. But then she was Sophie Black, the girl who surprised him. He'd never met anyone quite like her before. On first glance she was quiet and unassuming, but scratch the surface and she was spectacular.
He placed the tumblers down and lowered himself to the floor beside the sofa. The last time they'd been together at the lodge had been very different. He'd brought Sophie here then to seduce her, to teach her, and ultimately to free her. Or that had been his perception of it. He saw now that he'd got it wrong, in some parts at least. Seducing Sophie had been a mutual pleasure and she'd proved herself an excellent and very willing pupil, but when it came to freeing her he'd failed dismally. He'd freed her from one cheating man, only for her to fall in love with another who couldn't or wouldn't give her what she deserved.
And there lay the heart of the problem. He didn't want to let her go so that she could find the man who could and would give her all of those things. The idea of another man laying his hands on her made his heart stop and his fists itch. He wanted to keep her for himself. He'd tried to let her go, he really had, but he just didn't have it in him to send her away this time. He wanted her here. Needed her, even. It made him all kinds of selfish, but having her close by made things feel right, even when all else in the world seemed wrong.
He studied her face. Everything about the girl was lovely, from the pink tinge in her creamy cheeks to the full, kissable curve of her mouth. She looked innocent and sinful all at once, because he knew just how capable she was of using that mouth to drive him out of his mind with lust. His need for her wasn't going away. The more she gave him the more he wanted; he was well and truly addicted.
Warmth struck Sophie first, followed swiftly by the touch of Lucien's fingers, a slow upward drift from her knee to the top of her thigh. He leaned in as she opened her eyes, tasting her lips for a few moments, the briefest slide of his tongue against hers that set her body on instant high alert. She stroked her hand down the back of his hair, then eased her head away and scooched up a little. Cradling the cognac glass he passed her, she rested her hand on his shoulder.
"You okay?"
Her words were simple, deliberately so, to give him the option of opening up about his father if he wanted to, or not. He shrugged, sighing heavily as he swilled his brandy around in the glass. It was a while until he spoke again.
"I shouldn't have told you he was dead," he said eventually.
Sophie didn't answer, just continued her steady massage of his shoulder in the hope that it was in some way helpful.
"I haven't spoken to him since I was thirteen years old."
"Wow," she said softly. Her own parents were a constant in her life, a given that she'd never had cause to question or rebel against.
"I found her in the kitchen when I came home from school." Lucien didn't lift his eyes from his drink and the unbearable weight of desolation in his voice broke Sophie's heart. "When I was thirteen years old."
Every fibre in her body ached to reach out and hold him, but she sensed that he needed to get to the end of this story first. So she massaged his shoulder and held her silence, her head full of images of the blonde child from the photograph on Lucien's desk and the horror he'd carried around in his heart for all these years.
"She was cold, Sophie. So very, very cold." Lucien closed his eyes for a few seconds and shook his head slowly. "There were pills everywhere, I could feel them crunching under my boots... I was too late."
This time she couldn't hold back. She slid down next to him, her hand against the warmth of his bent neck.
"You were just a baby, Lucien," she said softly. A million questions raced through her mind. What had happened to drive his mother to such desperate measures? Sophie couldn't imagine ever deliberately leaving a child alone, motherless.
He exhaled grimly. "Not after that, I wasn't. I grew up that day. I still have the screwed up picture of my father that they had to prise from her fingers."
He sighed; a heavy, broken expulsion of air as he scrubbed the heel of his palm between his eyes.
"She was fragile. Gentle." Lucien finally lifted his harrowed, bleak eyes to meet Sophie's gaze. Her heart contracted painfully when he reached out and stroked her hair, his mouth a grim twist. "His affair broke her, Sophie." He paused, agonised. "Love broke her." The slow, tender stroke of his thumb across her bottom lip spoke volumes. "I don't want to break you," he whispered.
The catch in his voice brought an answering lump to Sophie's throat, and she reached out and clasped his face between her shaking hands.
"You won't break me." Tears scalded her cheeks as she closed the distance between them. "You won't break me," she said again, her lips trembling as she kissed him. He kissed her back. The most bittersweet, poignant of all kisses. The kiss of a grieving man. His arms moved around her, gentle and then fierce, his breath a strangled rasp of emotion in his throat. Sophie held him close, wishing she could take the pain for him. It was little wonder the idea of love scared him stupid, he'd carried his burden alone for so long. To him love was destructive and ugly; it had taken away the one person he needed more than anything else in the world at an age when he was far too young to understand.
They held each other for a long time, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Sophie opened her eyes and watched the flames, stroking Lucien's back as she pieced him together in her mind now that she understood his demons. She might not be able to fix the past, but she was willing to spend a lifetime showing him what love could be: beautiful not ugly, uplifting not destructive, and more precious than diamonds.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The universal smell of hospitals assailed Lucien as he made his way through the hushed corridors towards his father's room, a vague whiff of disinfectant to sanitise the less pleasant odours.
Talking things over late into the night with Sophie had given him the final push he'd needed to come here. She'd listened without judging him, offered to read the letter to him, even. After all, he'd come to Norway the instant he'd heard of his father's deterioration; there was little sense in making the pilgrimage if he wasn't willing to see it through to the end. If nothing else, it would give him closure. Completeness, Sophie had called it. He'd turned down her offer to accompany him, but that didn't mean he wasn't bolstered by the knowledge that she was waiting for him back at the lodge.
He ran his hand inside his coat, double-checking that the unopened letter was still there. What would it say? The prospect of reading it weighed like a stone around his neck, but the prospect of not reading it in time weighed heavier still. He'd spoken with the nurse caring for his father that morning and the gravity of her tone when she'd suggested that he come sooner rather than later had conveyed how very sick he was.
He slowed his step, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets as the numbers pinned to the closed doors indicated he was nearing the one his father lay behind.
So this was it. Eighteen years had passed since Lucien had turned his back on his father, and he'd never accepted
any of the olive branches that had been held out in the intervening years.
Where his father was concerned, his feelings hadn't progressed beyond those of that scared, bereaved boy; barely a teenager, yet forced to make life changing decisions. His gut reaction back then had been to lay the blame at his father's door, and the benefit of maturity had done little to mellow his viewpoint.
He paused, cleared his throat, and then pushed the door of his father's room open resolutely.
The nurse attending to his father's drip looked up as he entered the room, startled by the sudden appearance of this outlandishly beautiful visitor to her patient.
Lucien nodded to her briefly, a distracted greeting before he lowered his eyes slowly to the man lying in the hospital bed. His eyes were closed. It was impossible on first glance to know if he was unconscious or merely sleeping. Lucien studied him, trying to reconcile the man in the bed with the man in his memory. Where there had been bulk and muscle, now there was only skin and bone. Where there had been vitality and laughter, there was only dullness and paper-thin skin; the grey death mask of a man barely clinging to life.
"Are you his son?"
Lucien looked up at the sound of the nurse's voice and nodded grimly.
"He's been waiting for you," she said, her soft Norwegian tones carefully non-judgmental. Lucien caught the implied criticism all the same, and swallowed down the instantly defensive answer that burned in his gut. He shrugged out of his coat instead and moved to sit on the vacant plastic chair next to his father's bed, then let his eyes linger on the barely recognisable man prostrate beside him.
He just seemed so small. Had illness reduced him, or was the illusion of time playing tricks? Was it simply that he was looking at his father through the eyes of a man now rather than a boy? Whichever it was, it came as an unnerving shock.