by Lois Greiman
“Perhaps slow is impossible,” she breathed, and in that moment he crushed his lips to hers. Fire burned between them. She pushed against him, hot and firm and wet against his aching desire.
He pressed her against a tree. She arched back, but reality struck him suddenly, and he broke away, breathing hard.
“Holy God, lass, I will not make that mistake again.”
“Mistake?” she queried.
“To rush the magic.”
“I don’t believe—”
“But I do,” he said, and turning quickly, gathered up their clothes. When he straightened, she was staring at him, eyes wide as twin moons. Was there anger there? Was there frustration? Dare he hope there was disappointment?
Nearly smiling, he spread their garments on a mossy stretch of lawn beneath the oaks, then raised his hand for hers.
Understanding lit her eyes. She took a step forward, and he clasped her fingers in his, drawing her onto the makeshift mattress. Beneath their feet, their bed was springy and alive. She faced him in the moonlight, and he kissed her.
“Slowly,” he murmured.
“If we must,” she whispered, and the real magic began when they slipped down onto their garments.
She was like sunlight in his hands, like dreams and hopes and happiness. He kissed every inch of her, her face, her neck, her breasts, the firm hollow of her belly. And down, lower, until she writhed beneath him. Until there was no longer any question of waiting. Until she tugged him up and arched against him, hot and wet and demanding, pulling him in, swallowing him whole, squeezing around him.
He groaned at the ecstasy of it, caught in her eyes, in her heated embrace as she rocked against him.
There was no longer any hope of delaying. She arched her head back. A shaft of moonlight sliced between them, gilding her breasts, making his cock ache with need.
The tempo increased, driving them on, pushing them higher. Her nipples thrust toward the sky, rigid and ruddy. She clawed at his back and climbed, squeezing him between her knees until he released with a growl and a shudder, almost drowning her shriek as she jerked against him one last time.
Spent and breathless, he collapsed, rolling to his side, careful not to crush her. Her hair felt damp and soft and cool beneath his shoulder. Her face shone with perspiration. Their hearts thundered along in unison.
But her eyes were closed. Almost as if she were denying the magic, as if she were hiding. As if she were ashamed.
Worry crowded in. “Ella?” he whispered, and touched her face.
She lifted her lids, found his face, eyes dark magic in the moonlight.
“Are ye well?” he murmured, and she smiled.
“Perhaps slow is not so terrible either,” she breathed.
He pressed the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “You are hot.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Her chest rose and fell in the moonlight, nipples dark against her ivory skin. “Ladies of quality do not get hot.”
“You’re sweating.”
She gave him a glance from the corner of her eye. “Ladies of quality do not—”
“Come,” he said, and rose with an effort. She glanced up, and for a moment he feared she would refuse, but when he reached for her, she took his hand and stood beside him.
It was only a short way to the silvery pool. The grasses felt coarse against his feet, the cobblestones rough, and the water, when they stepped into it, was as soft and cool as satin on his skin. He moved deeper, and she came along slowly, like a doe just testing the depths, every step careful until the waves lapped over the silky curls between her trim thighs. She shivered, and he drew her into the shelter of his arms, kissing her, because she was magic, because he couldn’t resist. Then they ventured deeper, letting the silken waves lap at their bellies, their ribs.
“Relax,” he murmured finally, and folded his arm across her back for support.
“This is madness,” she said, but he shook his head.
“This is magic. Trust me, lass,” he said, and she did, easing back onto the waves, breasts pale and lovely in the glistening moonlight, hair framing her entrancing form, seal-soft as it flicked against his arm, his chest, his belly.
It was no great hardship to teach her to float, to turn in the water like a selkie, to swim, not well, but a little until he could no longer resist lifting her into the shelter of his arms and kissing her again, sweet curves slippery-soft against his body.
She shivered against him, skin cool against his.
“Are you chilled?” he asked.
“No.”
“Liar,” he said, and carried her back to their nest. She dropped her feet to the earth, and he kissed her slowly, thoroughly. Trapped by the sight of her, the feel of her, he lowered himself to their garments and pulled her down beside him, where they sat facing each other. He couldn’t help but ease his hand down the curving waves of her, across the valley of her waist to the swell of her hip. She shivered, but from desire or cold, he could not tell.
Reaching for his shirt, he dried her face, her breasts, the length of her legs.
His erection pulsed between them, and he found, despite everything, that he wanted her again. “My apologies,” he whispered.
Her eyes were enormous in the moonlight. “I think I can forgive you,” she murmured, and kissed him.
He touched her face when she drew back. “Perhaps…” He paused, knowing he should not speak, should not interrupt the enchantment. “Perhaps you could forget the miller’s son…if only for a spell.”
“Drake—” she began, but he touched a finger to her lips, shushing her, not wanting to hear, to know, to feel the magic crumble beneath him. He trailed his finger lower, loosing her mouth.
“How long have you been widowed, lass?”
“More than ten years. We were not wed long before he was…” She paused, glanced down. “Before he was taken from me.”
He nodded. “And you yet miss him?”
Her eyes were troubled, showing a dozen expressions he could not guess. “Why do you ask?”
He studied her, trying to understand. “Why else would you not marry again?”
She glanced away for an instant, as if wishing suddenly to be elsewhere, then lowered her gaze to their clothing. “Perhaps I simply enjoy my freedom. Is that so difficult to believe?”
He studied her, trying to understand. “Aye,” he said. “It is.”
She raised her gaze with a snap.
“Forgive me, lass,” he said, “but you do not seem to detest the act of…” He couldn’t quite find a suitable word for the wonder they had shared. “The union between a man and a woman,” he ended poorly.
She blinked.
“Do you?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“So I must assume you enjoyed the same…” He found it difficult to force out the words, to think of her with another. “With him.”
She was watching him, eyes wide and enticing in the moonlight.
“Did you not?” he asked.
She shifted her gaze downward. “Yes, of course.”
He swallowed the jealousy, knowing it was foolish, trite, childish. “Then why have you not married again?”
She glanced toward him again. “Do you think it enough?”
He shook his head, uncertain of her meaning.
“This.” She swept a hand toward the trees, toward the pond. “That we have just done. Is it so important? Important enough to spend the rest of your—”
“Aye.”
She laughed a little at his intensity, touched his face. “In truth,” she said. “He was not…” She paused, seemingly searching for words.
“Was not what?”
“He did not do it nearly so well as you,” she breathed, and kissed him. The caress was as sweet as a promise, and when she touched his chest, he nearly pressed her back onto the grass, but he found, to his surprise, that he wanted more than the heated rush of her closing around him.
“But you were happy?” he asked, ignoring the a
ching crush of a jealousy he would not admit. “With him?”
“Yes, of course. Why would I not be? He was a count. And handsome. Everyone agreed.”
Was there something in her voice? A bitterness maybe? Or did she but miss her late husband and feel the sting of his loss, even now, moments after lying in Drake’s arms.
“Is that it then?” The idea scorched him, but he pushed aside the ache, for he would know the truth. “Was he so wondrous that you can find none to replace him?”
Placing a hand on his chest, she slipped her fingers downward. He closed his eyes to the caress. “I’m not certain,” she said. “Let us try again so that I might better assess.”
Her fingers closed over his hardness and he shivered, but he caught her hand, pulled it gently away.
“I would know, lass,” he said, and kissing her fingers, held her gaze. Still, she hesitated for a moment before speaking.
“As I said, he was a count.”
“I have known several counts,” he said. “Some were decent men. Some were…” He thought of the words slung about aboard ship. “Not,” he finished lamely.
Her lips quirked up for an instant. “He wooed me,” she said. “Brought me flowers. Sang me ballads.”
He concentrated on resisting the scowl. If a tune could be shoved into a sea trunk, he could, perhaps, manage to carry it. “And the singing…that is important to you?”
She watched him so closely, it felt as if she were inside his very soul. “At the time, perhaps.”
“No more?”
“My mother died when we were yet young. Perhaps I needed…” She shrugged. “Tenderness. Or what passed for the same.”
What did that mean? he wondered, but another thought struck him. “We?” he asked.
Emotion shone in her eyes for an instant, then flashed away. “I had a brother,” she said.
“You have not mentioned him,” he said, watching her face, trying rather desperately to read her expression. “He is gone also?”
“As is my father.”
“So you were alone in the world.”
“Yes. Or at least, I felt that way. And Verrill…” Her tone was steady. “He was very thoughtful.”
“And a count.”
She gave him a nod. “But he was not wealthy.”
Pieces of the puzzle slipped quietly into place. “And you were.”
She sat very still, very straight. “Perhaps my father was…was not the best of parents, but he used his money wisely.”
“And you had no relatives with whom to share the wealth.”
She seemed stiff, but when she spoke, her tone was steady. “I was well set after my husband’s death.”
The picture seemed clear suddenly; she did not avoid marriage because her own had been so marvelous, but because it had been so dreadful. “I am sorry,” he said, and watched her. There was hurt, almost hidden, in her eyes, but it did nothing to diminish her beauty. “That he mistreated you.”
She started the slightest degree. “I did not say that he did.”
He remained silent, thinking, then: “How did he die, lass?”
She fiddled with a fold of fabric beneath her. “’Twas a hunting accident. He fell…from his horse.”
He touched her face, because he could not help himself. “Then he is twice cursed.”
She gave him a quizzical glance, her eyes very bright.
“He could neither ride nor appreciate the miracle of you.”
She exhaled softly. As if she’d been holding her breath. “On the contrary, sir, he was an excellent horseman.”
He scooped his hand down her shoulder. “I am sorry,” he murmured again. Her gaze met his, drawing him in, pulling him closer. He kissed her.
And then there was no stopping. No way to resist. They made love one last time, slowly now, breathlessly, meeting, joining, reveling in the slow burn until they fell into bliss and she was nestled in his arms, sated and warm.
He watched her sleep for nearly an hour, marveling at the mystery of her, the beauty, the strength. But finally she shivered, trembling in her slumber, and he woke her gently. Her eyes were sleepy when she sat up, and he could not help but kiss her again. Slipping her gown over her head, he escorted her down the curving footpath. Beneath the sweet-smelling arbor, they kissed again, before turning the corner and strolling to the arched front door.
One last kiss, one more caress, and he forced himself to leave.
Chapter 18
Ella watched Drake disappear into the shadows. Her feet were bare, her gown askew, but it mattered little. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the magical memory of his hands on her skin, the musical feel of her name on his lips.
She smiled dreamily, then chided herself for her girlishness, but she could not quite contain her smile as she turned toward the door. It was then that the familiar sensations struck her. Familiar, but not quite so.
She turned, searching the shadows. “Madeline?” she called softly.
There was a moment’s delay, a heartbeat of silence before Jasper Reeves stepped from the darkness.
“What are you doing here? Where’s Maddy?” she breathed.
He gave her a strange glance. “I believe she remains at Lavender House.”
She searched the darkness behind him. “Are you certain? I thought…”
He was watching her, and she realized suddenly that she should not have admitted she had mistaken his presence for her sister’s. Admitting a weakness was a veritable sin amid Les Chausettes.
“I worry about her,” she finished lamely.
“She is safe,” he said, but his voice sounded strange, almost as if he felt some sort of emotion.
“Then why have you come?” she asked, and found that she was angry again, fidgety, even before she remembered the noise in the garden. The memory struck her hard. Had he been there? Had he seen her with Drake? Dear Lord, had he been watching her? Watching them? The idea made her feel a little sick somehow. As if her father had seen her naked. “How long have you been here?”
“I only just arrived. Why?” Was he telling the truth? His face was shadowed, but it hardly mattered. Jasper gave nothing away. Still, she passed her hand over a nearby lantern and watched a pale flame flicker to life behind the rounded globe.
Reeves stared at the tiny flame, then shifted his gaze to her. “There is reason to believe Grey has…powers.”
She felt her heart stutter. “What?”
“Grey,” he repeated. “The man who seduced Sarah. Who caused her death.”
“I know who Grey is.” But she had been temporarily distracted, as if her time with Drake had wiped all problems from her mind. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind. “What kind of powers?”
He shook his head.
“Magical powers?” Perhaps it was what she believed herself, but she had never put a word to it. Never allowed herself. She paced the narrow footpath restlessly. “You think Sarah was hexed?”
“Perhaps,” he said. Cautious. Always cautious.
“No.” She twisted her hands. “She was young. True. But she was intelligent. And strong. Stronger than you know.”
“As are you.”
She stumbled to a halt.
“And yet you believed every word that fell from his tongue,” he added.
“Who are you talking about?” she whispered.
Silence lay between them, then: “Your husband,” he said. “Of course.”
She drew a careful breath. “He wasn’t magical,” she said. “That you can believe.” In fact he was evil. Evil and conniving and ungodly cruel. He had pretended love, and she had bared her soul to him. Had told him secrets she had shared with none but her sister—that she was gifted, that she could adopt others’ features, could mold her own. He had been skeptical at first, then fascinated. But never horrified. Never scandalized. Not until the day Dr. Frank had arrived from La Hopital. The day he had proclaimed her to be mad, possessed by demons, a danger to herself and others.
“Ro
samond went through the ashes at the house on Gallows Road. She felt a whisper of something.”
Rosamond could feel things others could not. In that regard, she was the most gifted of the thirteen. But Ella refused to believe.
“Sarah would have left a residue. Perhaps it was her gift that Rosa felt.”
“She couldn’t breathe. I had to take her from the house. To get her outside.”
Ella tightened her fists, loosened them. “She sensed evil.” It wasn’t a question. She knew each of her sisters well. Had catalogued their gifts in her mind. Priscilla could judge the truth in a speaker’s words. Beatrice had an unearthly affinity for the beasts of the field. And Rosamond could feel the emotions left behind after a person’s departure.
“What do you know of Drake?” Reeves asked.
Ella jerked at the question. “What?”
His expression was implacable. “Sir Drake,” he said. “I was told you have been seen—”
“That’s ridiculous.” She was pacing again.
He watched her in silence. “Many things are.”
“He didn’t know Sarah.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes.” But why had he been on Gallows Road in the small hours of the morning?
“So you feel no power in him?”
She stared at him, saying nothing, for Drake did have a power. An incredible, bone-tingling magic. The kind that drew her to him. That made her ride by his town house when she hoped none would see. But he was not evil. She was certain of it. “No,” she said, but Reeves refused to turn away from her direct stare. Their gazes clashed. He could not read her mind, she reminded herself. Had never been able to. Though at times she had felt differently.
“Are you in love with him?” he asked.
Her heart jolted at the question, but she kept her voice steady. “I would have you remember that I am no longer in your employ, Reeves,” she said. “Neither am I a child. Indeed, what I think or feel or do is entirely—”
“You’re a Chausette. It is my duty—”
“I’m not a Chausette!” she rasped, feeling breathless. Worn out. “Can’t you understand that?”
“You cannot leave the coven. Not truly.”
“Well, I have left.”