Courting the Witch

by M. J. Scott

  His father's eyes narrowed. "It's my job to ensure that the estate lies in safe hands."

  Jean-Paul snorted. "Don't try that angle. At this point you need to either accept that you did your job in raising me to be a duq or throw me over for one of my brothers."

  His father humphed. "I raised you to be smart. To see beyond the lure of a pretty face. Bed her if you must. But just remember where your true duty lies."

  Chapter 16

  Jean-Paul's apartment was not so much an apartment as a small jewel of a townhouse in Coteau-Arge, one of the wealthy areas of the city that shared a boundary with the palace grounds. Nowhere a mere major could afford to live. A reminder instead that he was a duq to be. Wealthy and powerful. And not hers. At least not after tonight.

  He certainly hadn't wasted any time bundling her into a carriage once he had returned to the ballroom. There had been a certain tightness to his expression when he'd found her, but it eased when she had taken his arm to let him escort her away. The ball was still in full swing, and it was too early for the court to be leaving. But Jean-Paul didn't seem to care about that. As soon as the carriage had gotten well away from the lights of the palace forecourt and reached the dimly lit road that led through the grounds to the main gate, he'd lifted her onto his lap and kissed her again.

  Which had driven all lingering doubts from her head. It was only the shortness of the journey that had meant they hadn't progressed much further than kissing. She'd never had sex in a carriage, and Jean-Paul's was certainly large and luxurious enough that it would have been possible, but she wanted to savor him more if they were only to have one night.

  They'd separated as the carriage had come to a halt, and the door to the townhouse had been opened by a manservant who had vanished when Jean-Paul told him he wouldn't need any more assistance for the night.

  She had no idea if there were other servants. If there were, they didn't make themselves known.

  And now she stood near shivering with wanting as she watched Jean-Paul pour them both a glass of campenois and wondering why he was wasting time with alcohol.

  Still, she took the glass when he offered it and sipped politely. No doubt it was good—she hoped the son of a duq wouldn't serve bad wine—but her senses were too focused on him to spare the liquid bubbling over her tongue much effort. Jean-Paul rushing through her blood was headier than any wine she'd ever drunk.

  Though she feared the aftermath may be as painful as the aftermath of an excess of alcohol.

  But she'd set her feet upon this path, and no rational thought could stop her now.

  Jean-Paul gestured at the wall, and the earth-lights there brightened.

  She sent her magic searching down for a ley line. Of course there was one close to hand. A branch of the main line that ran below the palace. It answered her call, and power shimmered through her. She let go of the control of the sight and let herself see him with his magic. He didn't gleam bright as strong mages did. The light that shimmered over his skin, marking his power and his connection to the ley line, was subtler but somehow certain, as though rooted deep in the land. Solid. True. Earth magic and blood magic both, she thought. Which made sense for a warrior and a noble.

  He would fight for what was his. And keep it close.

  Well, she was never going to be his for long, but tonight she would savor him. She'd heard of strong powers that blended during sex and of mages using sex to deliberately combine their powers. She’d shared a bed with a strong mage or two in her time, but none of their kisses had ever made her feel like his.

  Power wasn't what she wanted from him anyway. Tonight, she was more interested in passion.

  She pushed the magic away, sending the lingering excess she'd pulled up from the line through the earth-lights, making them flare momentarily brighter. Careless of her. She knew how to shift power gracefully. But it seemed he had her off-balance.

  Jean-Paul's brows lifted. "Did you like what you saw?"

  Ah. She was discovered. He'd known she was looking at his magic. Had he sought hers as well? "Did you?"

  "I don't need magic to like what I see when it comes to you, Lieutenant."

  "Imogene," she corrected. She liked the way he used her rank. Teasing, yet respectful. But she wanted her name on his lips now. Wanted him to say it again, the way he'd said it when he'd first kissed her.

  "As my lady wishes," he said. "Come here, Imogene."

  That voice. It stroked her like rough silk. Commanding and enticing. She moved to him without thinking.

  He took the glass from her hand, putting it and his aside. "What shall we do now, Imogene?" He brushed a curl back from her face.

  She turned her head, nipped at his fingers. "I'm going to kiss you again. And then you're going to take me to bed."

  "I like that plan."

  "Good." She rose to her toes and put her hands around his neck, tugging his head down to hers. She wasn’t short, but he was tall enough that she needed his cooperation if she was to avoid having to find a footstool to climb on to kiss him.

  She smiled at the thought and he paused, his face close to hers.

  "Something amusing?"

  "I was just thinking of ways to get around you being so tall," she said.

  His mouth curved, too. "Well, as to that. I find the best way is for you to get me to lie down."

  "Do you respond to commands?" she asked.

  "Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes I give them. Kiss me, Imogene. And we'll see who winds up on top."

  "Is it a battle, then?" she breathed.

  "A skirmish, perhaps," he said. "If we do it right."

  A skirmish. She could handle that. A good way to think of it. A limited engagement. Not serious. And she would be the one to fire the opening shot. "Stop talking now," she said and kissed him.

  As soon as his lips touched hers, she knew she was lost, though. Hopefully he would be, too. The best she could hope for was a draw, perhaps. Mutual satisfaction before they had to part. His mouth was warm and firm on hers, and she made a noise of pleasure.

  That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. He lifted her as easily as she might lift a child and carried her through the darkened house, earth-lights flaring to light his way. She dimly registered the lights and the fact that they were moving upstairs, but as Jean-Paul apparently had a goddess-granted ability to walk, carry her, and kiss her at the same time, she paid little heed to anything but his mouth.

  She made another murmuring sound of protest when he stopped kissing her to set her down at the foot of his bed, but given that letting go of her gave his hands freedom to roam over her body, she quickly became distracted again.

  His fingers found the buttons at the back of her dress. "Buttons," he muttered. "Why do clothiers enjoy tiny buttons so much?"

  She laughed. "Perhaps they wish to remind you men to take care when you have a woman's buttons to hand." Then she recalled the size of his hands and the size of the particular shimmery round buttons that graced this dress. It had taken Dina a few minutes to do them up, and she was well practiced with women's clothing.

  "Do you need some assistance, my lord?" she asked.

  "I can manage buttons," he muttered, but he did sound a little exasperated. "Or I have a pocketknife."

  "This dress cost a small fortune," Imogen said. She clutched the bodice as it started to loosen. Obviously he had made some progress. "If you come at me with a knife, you'd best be prepared to defend yourself.”

  "Savage little thing, aren't you?"

  "When it comes to defending the honor of my wardrobe, yes," she retorted. "I spend enough time in uniform that I appreciate wearing something pretty now and then."

  "And I appreciate seeing you in something so lovely. But right now, I'm rather eager to see you out of it. Ah!" He made a pleased sound as his fingers stilled. "All done."

  "Good." She let go of the bodice. The dress, with some small assistance from a wriggle of her hips, slid to the floor. Jean-Paul tugged at the ribbons that f
astened the layers of petticoats to her waist, and they slid down to join the dress.

  She took a breath, her heart pounding hard enough that she was somewhat surprised her corset strings didn't snap. But before she could worry too much about that, Jean-Paul's fingers skimmed down her back, and then he set to work on her corset as well. It took him less time than the buttons before he eased it apart, leaving her with only a shift and her underwear.

  "So many layers," Jean-Paul murmured from behind her. "You are like a gift to be unwrapped, Imogene."

  Right then, she felt more unraveled than unwrapped. As the heat of his hands grew more palpable with each layer of clothing he removed, she felt as though she might just melt down to become a puddle on the floor like her clothes.

  She wanted him. Wanted him under her mouth, beneath her hands, wrapped around her. Wanted skin and sweat and sensation.

  "I was never much good at unwrapping gifts," she said, turning to face him. "Too impatient. My mama used to call me greedy." She tugged her corset away from her body and shimmied it off. "Right now I'm greedy for you."

  She'd never known that gray could be warm. But his eyes were, their depths inky and deep. His chest was rising and falling fast, too. It was still hidden from view beneath his shirt—he'd taken off his jacket when they'd arrived—but it seemed he was impatient, too.

  She reached out and put her hand flat on his chest, seeking his heart. It might never be hers, but she would have the memory of it beating hard to her touch.

  "Take me to bed, Jean-Paul."

  Chapter 17

  He kissed her then. Wild and free and as greedy in his seeking of her as she was for him. Imogene fell into his touch, all else melting away as she tasted him, a sensation like coming home after a long absence, the sense of rightness almost shocking before it was burned away by desire. After that, he seemed more storm than man. A force of nature near overwhelming, blinding her to anything but him. She didn't know where the rest of her clothes went or how he had managed to divest himself of his. She didn't know how she got to the bed. All she knew was the need for him, the ache of it between her legs and at her breasts and spiraling through every inch of her.

  There was no gentleness to it, and for that she was thankful. She didn't want gentle. Didn't want him to crack her defenses any more than he already had. No, she just needed him to be hers, to drown her in pleasure for a time.

  She urged him on with eager hands, pulling him down to her, spreading her legs and catching them around his hips as he kissed her again. He was large, the sheer size and weight of him making her feel delicate in comparison. His cock, as it slipped over her, was large, too. The sensation of hard over soft only fed her need. She arched up to him, but he put one hand on her hip, strong enough to hold her where he wanted her as he feasted on her, making her mindless with him.

  Just when she was close to cursing his name for the delicious torture of it, he relented. Moved up over her again and slid home with one certain thrust that had her bowing beneath him with delight. She rode the storm then, let him take her as he willed, too caught up in the pleasure of him to do more than follow his lead. It was wild and fast and noise and fury as they moved together, until finally the pleasure burst and the lightning spiked behind her eyes and she came with his name on her lips like a revelation.

  Afterward, as they lay panting and replete, side by side on Jean-Paul's huge bed, it took Imogene a few minutes to fight her way clear of the fog of satisfaction and be able to think again. And all she could think was that it would be near impossible to leave his bed when the sun rose and resume being sensible Imogene Carvelle.

  She turned onto her side so she could watch him as he lay staring at the ceiling, a smile playing over his face.

  "Do you have a question, Lieutenant?" he asked, not moving.

  "No. Just looking." There was plenty to see. Naked, he was all grace and muscle. She wanted to run her hands over that body. To get to know it even better. To burn it into her memory.

  "I hope you like what you see. Though you may have to grant me a few moments’ rest before I can satisfy your urges again." He turned his head on the pillow, eyes alight with amusement.

  "My urges are well satisfied," she said softly. "For now." Her heart twinged. Now was all they could have. This night. Perhaps another, though she knew it would be safer if they did not. He was too much. Too overwhelming. Too good at what he did with those big hands and that clever mouth and the rest of him. Too...right.

  When he could only be wrong.

  Another taste and she might become fatally addicted to something she could never truly have.

  He frowned at her then, as if he had some inkling of what she was thinking. "You look overly thoughtful for a woman whose urges have been satisfied," he said, his voice light but cautious.

  "Should a woman not think?" she said.

  "A woman should do whatever she chooses to do," he said. "And she should not waste a quick mind or clever hands or whatever other skills the goddess may have granted her. But I'd prefer if she looked as though her thoughts were happy ones when she's in my bed. And I thought we took care of your worries back in the palace." He rolled to face her. "Is something wrong?"

  "No." She had to catch her breath a second before she could continue the sentence. The pang of anticipated loss grew stronger with that lying “No.” Just as well that Jean-Paul wasn't a Truth Seeker, to know lie from honesty when he heard it. She turned her attention to his body again, worried he could read her too clearly if she met his gaze. The light in his bedroom was dim, only two earth-lights above the bed shining down on them. But that soft light gleamed over his skin and played over the muscled planes of his body almost lovingly.

  A pretty sight.

  As was the elaborate silk embroidery that covered the paneled hangings above the bed and the heavy quilt now half tumbled to the floor. Shades of blue and golds and green in fantastical sea creatures and flowers that didn't belong together but combined into something as glorious as the man himself.

  The pale linen sheets set off his olive skin admirably and highlighted the sheer size of the bed itself. Undeniably the bedroom of a rich man. A powerful one. One who would, by happenstance of his birth, come to wield only more power and play the games of politics throughout his life. Unless he did something catastrophically stupid—after all, nobles did occasionally fall into disgrace—his place was certain. A place his family had fought and striven for over centuries, no doubt. But part of the machinery of the empire. What would he do to protect it?

  "You're not still worrying about Andalyssians, are you? I told you I spoke to the emperor. Nothing will happen."

  Was it nice to have such certainty? Was that also a by-product of his sure knowledge of who he was in the world? It could easily turn to arrogance, perhaps, but in Jean-Paul, it felt more like solidity. Like there was a foundation under his feet that couldn't be shaken, that let him just be who he was.

  It almost certainly wasn't that simple, of course. No one had a perfect life. The lands that belonged to the du Laqs were large, almost a small kingdom of their own. Eventually the lives of thousands of people would be impacted by every decision Jean-Paul made. That wasn't an easy thing to come to terms with. Power. She remembered when her magic had first manifested. How her life had been uprooted and reformed in an instant. Even though she'd been raised in the hope that that moment would come for her, she hadn't been ready for just how different she would feel. Would she be remade once more if she bonded with a sanctii?

  Perhaps. But this time she would be a little more ready for the change.

  She hadn't been ready to meet Jean-Paul. Wasn't ready to acknowledge the true depth of loss she was feeling, knowing she would be gone from his life again in the morning.

  In another life, it would have been nice to stand with him on such solid ground and feel such certainty. But looking at him now, she knew, regrets or no regrets, that she had to find solid ground of her own before she could think about sharing it
with another. And that other would have to be willing to accept her for who she was. Including accepting her sanctii, should she succeed. And try as she might, she couldn't remember any of her history classes mentioning a duquesse who had a sanctii.

  So. Her ground was not his, and he was not to be hers. She would slip away out of his life again. Leave him to find another with that same sense of their place in the world to stand beside him and guard the responsibilities he held. To wield that shared power for good.

  She should. And she would. But she could steal a few more hours of him first.

  "I hope not."

  He smiled at her. "Trust me. All will be well." His hand drifted to her shoulder, skimmed down an arm. "Stay the night," he said. "Or two."

  Her foolish heart twinged again. "I can stay tonight. But only that. I have an assignment out of town." She didn't want to tell him what it was. A sanctii was her choice. No one else's opinion mattered.

  "So soon?"

  "Only for a few weeks."

  "When you return, perhaps?" he said. His voice was light, but there was a hopefulness to his tone that only deepened the knife pricking her emotions.

  "Oh, you will have met some other pretty face by then." She tried to keep her tone light in return though the words were not easy to say.

  "Lieutenant, I think you underestimate your charms."

  Damn it. She had underestimated him, that much she couldn't deny. "Maybe. But I cannot ignore the reality of who you are. You're a duq to be, Jean-Paul. I'm a nobody. There's no happy ending to this story."

  His expression darkened. "You're not nobody. Don't say that. I—"

  She stopped his words with a finger to his lips. "Don't. You can't change my mind. I knew this before I agreed to come here with you tonight. You knew it, too. Neither of us has to like it, but we have to accept it. We are...only what we can be. And what we can be ends when I leave in the morning. So, my lord, you can storm and be angry at me, and I'll leave now and save us the aggravation. Or you can kiss me again and we can take what we've been given and enjoy it a little longer. Your choice."