It was total accord, passionless, generous, infinite. Until the warmth became a steady heat. Until the shivering drove deep. Until the closeness became a delicate blending of spirits, the instinctive merging of nerves and imaginations, responses and minds. Until the pleasure of it rippled through them and caught them, unprepared, with its splendor.
Carita almost retreated a step, but caught herself. That would do no good; she knew it now, as she had suspected from the moment she faced this man across the fire in the cemetery. As she had surmised when she accepted from him an unbroken vase which she knew had been shattered. As her aunt must have guessed. It had, of course, been impossible to be certain.
Watching the emotions flitting across his face, she thought he intended to ask forgiveness for the intrusion of his nonphysical embrace. She did not want that. Tipping her head, she said with unsteady irony, “Some remedies are more effective than others.”
Laughter leaped into his face, and something more that softened the darkness of his eyes. “There are additional cures,” he said, “some of which may be applied either here or elsewhere.”
“Here?”
He indicated the tall, handsomely painted door beside him with its knocker of silver in the shape of a Pan with pipe. “This is my home, the place where I am staying while in New Orleans.”
Hard on his words, as if at a silent summons, the door opened to reveal a manservant. He was as dark as the night with a grizzled head of silver and a white jacket over black livery. He bowed them inside, took their outer wraps and Renfrey's hat and cane, then stood back for them to precede him along a tunnel-like entranceway.
To enter required no conflict of conscience; Carita had come this far, so might as well go on. She moved ahead of Renfrey along this passage that led underneath the house. Passing through pools of light falling from lamps of hammered silver, walking alongside Italian frescoes in jewel colors highlighted with gold and silver, they emerged in a courtyard.
In that space open only to the sky, Carita discovered the source of the jasmine she had noticed earlier. Its scent permeated the air, along with that of roses and tuberoses, sweet olive and gardenia. The combined perfumes was a mind-swimming assault on the senses.
The walls and columns of the house were warm and golden even in the cool light of the moon. French windows in arches looked down on them with shining squares of lamplight. The stones of the courtyard floor were a mosaic of garnet and turquoise, jade and amethyst in geometric patterns edged with gold. In the center was a porphyry fountain where the splattering water played a soft, Andalusian melody and droplets glittered like falling diamonds. Under the house eaves at one corner, in the deep shade of a great sheltering live oak, turtledoves chortled softly in the darkness.
Their pathway led through the center of the courtyard toward where double doors stood open to the night. Renfrey took her hand and put in on his arm, holding it with a warm clasp as he urged her forward. With the cat following, they skirted the fountain, tread lightly up the low and wide entrance steps, and entered.
There was a vestibule with a floor of rich green malachite and Greek vases on bronze plinths. Beyond was a dining room hung with cloth of gold and velvet the color and texture of spring moss. The floors glowed with an intricate inlay of light and dark woods, while enormous Renaissance mirrors on opposite walls reflected the table laid for a late supper, the food set out on a sideboard, and also repeated the crystal and bronze d'or chandeliers into infinity.
Round, intimately small, the table was centered with roses, sweet peas and lilac. The napery was the finest damask, the serving plates of Aztec gold, the utensils of heavy and deeply engraved coin silver. The crystal glasses had been hand-blown in Venice and were chased and rimmed in gold. Poured into them, waiting, was a vintage wine like liquid rubies, which breathed the delicate and astringent perfume of grape flowers.
Carita came to a halt. Her fingers on Renfrey's arm tightened before she forced them to unclench. The cat circled her skirts and sat down among them at her side where it began to wash its face. The manservant soft-footed his way to a door leading into a butler's pantry and disappeared inside.
Carita moistened her lips. “Lovely,” she said, “and I am impressed; but I fear I'm not dressed for such a sumptuous residence or grand repast.”
“You have no need of further adornment,” Renfrey answered in low tones. “You are the one perfect jewel that has always been needed to give the rest purpose.”
“Nevertheless,” she said.
Inclining his head, he moved with her toward one of the tall mirrors. For an instant, the silvery surface was dark, then it cleared.
Gone was her dull little hat and drab gown. Her hair was dressed high, the silver-gold strands entwined with pearls and diamonds. The creation she wore was of shimmering tissue silk in iridescent blue and gold, exquisitely cut, perfectly fitted— an airy confection piled in layers over a hoop of enormous size. Under it, she could feel the most fragile of silk pantalettes and no more than a wisp of ivory-boned corset.
She stared at herself in fascination. Removing her hand from his arm, she lifted it to touch the fortune in pearls, sapphires and diamonds that sparkled in her ears, at her neck, on her wrists.
Turning slowly from the mirror, she looked up at the man beside her. Her mouth curved into a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
“Presumptuous for a man I hardly know,” she said. “Also paltry. For a warlock.”
4
“I should have told you at once,” Renfrey said. “My only excuse is—”
“Arrogance?” she supplied.
“Vanity, rather, which I like to think isn't quite the same thing. I didn't want you to fall into my arms simply because I was suitable.”
“What,” she said in trenchant inquiry, “made you so certain I was going to fall into your arms at all?”
Exasperation shifted across his face. He thrust his fingers through the dark waves of his hair and clasped the back of his neck. “It was not a foregone conclusion, of course—but, as with royalty, the choice of our kind is not wide.”
“Royalty,” she repeated, diverted momentarily by the comparison.
He turned from her, walking to the window where he stood staring out at nothing. “You yourself pointed out to me one of the possible consequences of looking for a mate who is not as we are. “
He was referring to the fate of her mother. “Yes, certainly. So it was all neatly arranged and our meeting set. I take it you had no expectation of becoming enamored, even if I developed affection for you.”
“It wasn't necessary. The match seemed appropriate.”
“How very convenient for you—a doting consort of the correct lineage.”
“It didn't turn out that way,” he said, clenching his hand on the heavy draperies as he rested his forehead on the cool glass of the window. “I saw you, spoke to you, and was enchanted—more than that, entranced. The future seemed perfectly cloudless. At least for a few short minutes.”
She considered what he had said while watching the portion of his set face that she could see from where she stood. “And what happened to change it?”
A short laugh shook him. “I realized exactly who and what you are, how you think and feel and the depths of love you are capable of giving. And I was consumed by terror.”
“I don't think I understand.” She had some small inkling, but could not bring herself to accept it without confirmation.
“We have spoken of your origins, but not of mine,” he said without turning. “As it happens, both my mother and father have the power. You, on the other hand, are only—”
“Only a warlock's daughter. A half-breed, you might say.”
“It's possible that it matters.”
“A case, I perceive, of correct lineage and royal protocol.” Her voice was constricted.
“You know better!” he said in savage denial. He paused. When he spoke again, he was calm once more. “You should understand it perfectly, since
you pointed out the problem. I saw it from your side earlier, and found it amusing. It never occurred to me to turn it around until just now when—”
“When you took me in your arms.” She was growing used to finishing his sentences for him, and having her own finished. It was the one of the many consequences of over-acute perception.
“In a manner of speaking,” he agreed with the wraith of a smile.
“I am not like my mother,” she said, because it seemed that he might not go on.
“No. And yet, how much difference is there? You were concerned enough for me when you thought that your strength might be a danger to me. You are a potent force, made more so by intelligence and imagination. But I know—without arrogance if you please—that my power can overcome yours. It has been proven.”
“And because of that,” she said slowly, “you are afraid that you are a danger to me.”
“The possibility exists. It is too dire to be ignored.”
The tension between them had teeth and vibrancy. She said against it, “It could be given an ultimate test.”
He turned with careful control. There was a sheen of perspiration across his forehead. “No.”
“Don't you think your concern is excessive? You said yourself that a single night of love could hardly be fatal.”
His laugh was mirthless. “I said a great many things, but—no.”
“Why?” she asked, and let the single word stand as a bald demand.
“I don't want or need the pain of something that must end so soon.”
“It would pain you to end it?” she said softly.
“Rather, such a temporary joining is useless to me. I prefer forever.”
“Forever,” she repeated with light rising in her eyes and the soft, sweet echo of the word ringing in her mind along with her own preference.
“A permanent union being clearly impossible, a few hours of pleasure is a risk for which the penalty may be too dear.”
His eyes, she saw in the brightness of the many candles, were not actually black but a dark and mysterious green. Across them was a near-mortal wash of pain and distress. It gave her courage.
“Only,” she said in quiet certainty, “if you value the thing will you lose too—dearly.”
Renfrey watched her from across the room while his mind raced in cogent thought. He knew he had shown momentary weakness, knew it must be corrected. His decision was made and accepted between one breath and the next.
The words even, he said, “You think I am concerned because I love you? I have admitted to being entranced, and might have been more, given time. But there is none available and my emotions are, in keeping with my kind, imminently controllable. I have a care for you now, but no more than I would take with any moderately pretty lady of the evening who happened to be weak, silly and supplicating.”
The verbal blow was devastating, and meant to be. She had expected something of the kind, however, so did not permit him to see her flinch. Her eyes clear, her tone acid-edged, she said, “It's just as well then, don't you think, that I'm none of those things?”
He tested that declaration, accepted it. When he spoke it was in answer to her thought rather than her words. “You are feeling combative? This is a duel no one can win, a challenge I must refuse. If you will change your clothes again, I will take you home to your aunt.”
“Change?” she said with a lifted brow. “Oh, but I believe I've grown fond of this ensemble; it makes me feel quite—regal. In any case, it was chosen especially for me and I am convinced that it flatters.”
“Keep it, then,” he said shortly. “Shall we go?”
He was anxious to be rid of her. That was promising.
“You know,” she said judiciously, “I don't think we shall. All these exertions have made me hungry, and it would be shameful to waste the midnight supper you so thoughtfully ordered.”
He watched her for long, unblinking moments before he said in pleasantly conversational tones, “I could send you on a whirlwind.”
“No doubt,” she answered at once. “Then who would be throwing a—what was the phrase? Oh, yes, a temper tantrum of the elements?”
“Carita—”
The word, ragged at the edges, ground to a halt. He looked down at his hand that was curled into a fist. By slow degrees he opened it, forced a gesture of graceful acquiescence. “Yes. Well. By all means let us be adult and mannerly and civilized, at least in so far as we are able. You are hungry. So am I. Shall we dine?”
“Sup,” she corrected him. “It's too late for anything else.” She paused, watching him, but if he recognized the allusion to his own declaration, he did not show it.
They took their places at the table. Polite to a fault, stiff with decorum, they began their meal. Renfrey drank too much. It did not make him drunk, of course, but did incline him to morose self-judgment.
He should have forced her to go. She might have fought him, but he had no doubt that he could have prevailed. To be constrained to sit and watch her, knowing that he had only to reach out his hand for her to come to him, was indescribable torture. It was perverse of him to be grateful for every minute of it.
He loved the proud tilt of her chin, the determined set of her lips, the light of battle in the deep and rich sea-blue of her eyes. She had not given up; he knew that. He must and would counter every wile and stratagem she concocted, still he saluted her fiery spirit. Even as it gave him cold chills.
By all the saints of this hallowed eve, but he wanted her. She knew it, because he himself had told her. In exerting himself to convince her that the glory of loving was possible between them, he had succeeded far too well. Now he was determined to convince her otherwise, and all her powers were arrayed against him.
He had, ordinarily, a penchant for irony. This particular incidence of it did not entertain him.
Still, this time could be used for the accumulation of memories. The gleam of the candlelight on her skin. The imperious sweetness of her smile. The perfection of the gown of his choosing. He would not remember, if he could help it, the pleasure of dressing her in it.
Mental perception could sometimes be more vivid than bodily experience. Such as the moment when he had embraced her out on the street. That rare accord had, of course, been shared.
He looked up, startled, to find her watching him. She lowered her lashes at once, but he had seen the dazed satisfaction there. She had, for an instant, slipped into his mind as he had penetrated hers. It had felt like a wondrous completion. Something more to guard against.
It was also, he thought, the first foray in the battle. As such, it was an indication of the tactics she might use. He wondered how strong his defenses were against that kind of insidious invasion.
It did not help, of course, to realize that he had shown her the maneuver himself.
There were methods in her repertoire, he discovered, that he had certainly not taught her. The way she drank her wine, wetting her lips with it and licking the drops with small, delicate strokes of the tip of her tongue. The manner in which she curled her fingers around a bread stick, buttered it with care on one end, and then ate it with tender precision. Her deliberate movements as she chose a small ripe peach, rolled it between her hands while breathing the aroma, then bit into it with small, sharp teeth.
Wincing, Renfrey swallowed hard and reached for his wine glass. It tasted, he found, of peach juice and the fresh sweetness of her lips. Damn her.
How had she known? How had she discovered his most fevered fantasies? She was an innocent. Unless.
Unless she was following the lead of his own licentious thoughts and impulses. No one else, ever, had been able to do that to him. He felt the tops of his ears grow hot.
He was—or had meant to be—a gentleman: impassive, correct, forbearing. This was too much. He focused his attention on her peach.
She exclaimed and spat out the next bite that had become a virulent, poisonous green. Screwing up her mouth, she reached for her water glass.
She drank deep, slowed, tilted the glass at a slight angle. A single, pure drop fell from the base of the crystal stem. It caught the candlelight in prism fire as it struck her chest above her décolleté and rolled, unerringly, over the blue-veined curve of her breast and into the shadowed valley between them.
Renfrey's eyes burned as he watched. The inside of his mouth was desiccated, parched for the taste of that life-giving drop of water. He could feel it on his tongue. He could also feel his tongue on her skin, circling the satin firmness of her breasts, tasting the taut nipples. She was a fountain, bounteous, endlessly flowing, life for the taking.
She had done it to him again. Incredibly. Anger smoldered, rising to heat the top of his brain. He glanced at her fingers on the glass, tipped his head a bare inch.
Her hold on the piece of crystal slipped. Water cascaded. The front of her gown was drenched with icy cold wetness.
She gasped, a sound of shock. She reached for her napkin. Stopped.
Her eyes, as she raised them to his own limpid gaze, were bright with fury. An instant later, they turned fluid, piteous yet rueful. “Oh, dear,” she said. “It seems I'll have to change after all.”
It was a fascinating transfiguration. The gown dissolved into a delicate mist, the jewels disappeared. For an instant, there was a glimpse of rose nipples, a narrow span of waist compressed by a miniscule corset, the slender turn of shapely thighs under pantalettes. The vision evolved, became one of sentient ivory nakedness behind drifting folds of tissue silk. Then she was covered by swirling material forming a simple oriental robe of robin's egg blue edged at the low-dipping neckline with the icy sparkle of perfect diamonds.
He should have looked away, but could not find the will. “Mesmerizing,” he said, and meant it. God help him.
Something must be done to counter the effect of her ploy. Hot, he was so hot; he had to cool off. Yes, of course; that should help. He added with false concern as the temperature in the room began to drop precipitously, “But I hope you won't be too chilly in your light draperies.”
Forbidden Lovers Boxed Set Page 36