by Marie Harte
He pulled her suddenly to him, clasping her against his chest as she trampled any number of blossoms underfoot. She quickly ceased to worry about the damaged blooms as he brushed her lips with his, parting them as soon as she responded, sliding his tongue over hers and into the sweet hollow of her mouth.
They separated reluctantly after a few moments, each turning with a flushed face to explore the field’s bounty, a treasure chest of jewel-toned blooms, dotted here and there by their softer pastel companions. Caitlin bent to smell a particularly appealing blossom, closing her eyes as she did so. She found it all too easy to imagine the flower’s petals as Aaron’s lips, as soft and pink as they were, and wonderfully warmed by the sun. She nearly jumped when a similar sensation brushed against the back of her neck; a warm, sensual touch, accompanied by a burst of heated breath. She turned, her lips still parted for the flower’s soft edges, to face Aaron.
Their lips locked, fitting together as perfectly as the wildflower’s petals. Aaron wrapped an arm around Caitlin, cradling her as they fell slowly to the ground in a soft rush, sending a ripple through the blanket of blossoms. There they lay together, their hearts beating against one another’s, their hair entwining. The perfume of the flowers crushed beneath their bodies was pleasantly fragrant, and loose petals clung to their hair and clothes, covering them with the scent. Caitlin imagined herself a hummingbird, breathing the perfumes of petal and nectar as she slid her tongue past Aaron’s petal-soft lips, undeniably hungry for his sweetness.
“You know,” Aaron breathed, their lips barely parted in a brief intermission, “you taste like the jam you make from the peaches in your family’s orchard.”
“Oh?” Caitlin said. “You’re not sick of me then, are you?” Her mother never let a guest go without a liberal helping of jellied bread, and Aaron, who was no exception, had practically eaten his weight in it, as often as he’d been visiting.
“Hardly,” he replied, tracing the edge of her lower lip with the tip of his tongue before pausing to speak again, “but I do think the taste is better served this way than on bread.”
He didn’t tease this time, but let his tongue flow past her lips as he untwined his right hand from her hair, slipping down to cup one of her breasts instead.
Caitlin’s nipple hardened in response, springing up at once against the palm of his hand, pressing against the decidedly thin barriers of a summer homespun dress and shift. He traced it reverently with his fingertips and moaned.
Caitlin sighed, her breath sending locks of his hair flying about his face like stray wisps of flame. When he touched her that way, it made her ache, the desire for him to continue, to peel away the fabric barriers between their bodies and touch her bare flesh, almost painful in its intensity. She knew it made him feel the same way—his cock was throbbing against her thigh, as hard as stone with his urgency. The feel of it caused heat to blossom between her thighs, intense and dampening. Seized by the moment, she reached down, tracing the smooth planes of his chest and stomach with her fingers until they touched that length of wanting, warm even beneath the cover of his breeches.
He groaned in earnest when she traced the length of his erection with her fingertips, sliding them from the tip in search of the opposite end, driven by longing and curiosity alike. Having found the base, she closed her hand around it, letting strengthened desire take hold somewhere in the pit of her stomach, its roots snaking down to her core even as it bloomed with startling intensity. At its mercy, she moved, pressing her mouth desperately against his as she continued to grasp his cock, her tongue and her hand equally insistent.
He kissed her eagerly and deeply back, flexing his hips to press more of himself against her palm, the portion of his cock that wouldn’t fit in her hand rising hard against her belly. Suddenly lightheaded, she gripped his erection harder, her lips going soft and her tongue retreating, its submission welcoming him deep into her mouth, where his every movement made her quiver from head to toe. Her nipples tingled as he kissed her, straining the homespun dress she wore as he caressed her breast, squeezing. When he pulled his head back, tearing their mouths apart, a pervasive sense of loss settled into her bones, urging her to seek his kiss again. She moved her hand up and down his shaft, liking the way it made him moan and regretting that their skin was separated by clothing.
“Caitlin, you mustn’t,” he said, clearly with considerable effort, reaching down to remove her hand from where she’d begun to cup his testicles, driving him to grasp her breast so tightly that his knuckles had gone faintly white. “You mustn’t.”
She reluctantly let him prise her hand away, relishing the last brief moment in which her fingertips still brushed the stiff evidence of his intense desire for her.
“Why not?” she gasped, left a little breathless by his attentions.
“Because I can’t stand it,” he said, casting a reproachful look down at his crotch, where his breeches were tented so severely that they appeared in danger of bursting at the seam. “I can’t stand it. If you don’t stop I’ll have you here and now. I’ll have to, if you touch me like that again.” He still gripped her breast, his knuckles deathly pale as he made his admission.
“Let me, then.” She reached up to bury a hand in his hair and stroked it flat against his skull. She’d never behaved this way with a man before, but Aaron silently begged it of her. Every hard line and subtle curve of his body was a temptation, the gleam of his eyes and the sheen of his hair intoxicating. The sound of his voice made her entire body tingle from head to toe. Hearing him moan with pleasure when she touched him was the best feeling in the world. She’d gladly let him take her.
He exhaled sharply, his breath hitting her face in a hot, frustrated blast. “No, I couldn’t stand that, either—having you once without knowing you were mine forever. I swear I couldn’t bear it.”
“Aaron,” Caitlin said, taking his head between her hands and holding it there so he had little choice but to meet her eyes, “I am yours—for as long as you want me. Every breath I take shall be taken with the knowledge that my heart and body are yours, until I breathe my very last. I swear it.”
With his cock still dangerously firm against her hip, he bowed his head to press a kiss against her lips. “Then let’s go,” he said when it ended, pulling Caitlin to her feet. “I’ll ask your father for your hand in marriage this very day.”
* * * *
Caitlin paced anxiously, her heart pounding as her family’s humble home blended further into the background with each step. Aaron was inside with her father, discussing his wish to marry her. She didn’t think her father would refuse him—not really. Her parents had been thrilled when Aaron had asked permission to court her, and what father within a hundred miles wouldn’t want his daughter to marry the O’Brien heir? Her parents, farmers with a modest lot of property, had never imagined that one of their daughters would become an O’Brien bride. She’d heard them discussing the matter one night, exclaiming over their luck. There was no reason for her father to refuse Aaron—the asking was more a formality than anything. Still, her heart fluttered nervously as she wandered aimlessly, her anxiety taking her down a zigzag path that brought her to the edge of the woods.
As she stared at the trunk of a poplar, a surge of guilt assailed her. Her sister was out gathering peaches from the orchard, taking advantage of the last hour of daylight, while her mother was boiling jam inside, creating a fresh supply with which to ply her family and visitors alike. Caitlin could return home and help either of them, and yet… Well, a man only asked for your hand in marriage once. At least, she hoped her father wouldn’t make him wait and ask again. She couldn’t bear to return home and hear the murmur of thoughtful voices, her stomach in knots as she prayed for a favourable resolution. And so she had wandered to the edge of the woods, where the only sounds were birds mourning the last vestiges of daylight as twilight descended on the world, cooling the hot, vibrant colours of daytime with its violet light. Aaron would come for her when he was ready, wra
p her in his arms and relate the good news with a kiss.
God, let it be so.
A row of violets grew in front of the outermost trees, standing tall against the trunks like miniature sentinels wearing purple caps. The twilight flattered them, its light blending with the natural hue of the petals, making them seem to glow. She bent to touch one, testing the silky coolness of a petal with her finger. Something flashed brightly from somewhere around its stem, and she gently parted a cluster of flowers to reveal the source.
A metallic object lay among the violet bed, silver but reflective, so that it took on the purple of the violets. She stared for a moment, perplexed, then plucked it carefully from the ground, sending a wave of gentle disturbance down the row of flowers. Holding the object in her palm, where it was washed freely in faint moonbeams and what sunlight still lingered in the sky, she realised it was a comb. It was finely made of surprisingly heavy silver and set with a winking amethyst jewel. It was decadent, and definitely not the property of a McCarthy. Someone must have lost it, but it gleamed, pristine, not looking at all as if it had been lying forgotten on the ground for any significant length of time. Perplexed, she turned to hold it to the moon, which was peeking from behind wispy clouds and promised to be bright that night. Instead of finding answers in its silver light, she found darkness, sudden and absolute, and crumpled to the ground, the scent of violets her last memory.
* * * *
Aaron strode from the McCarthy cabin’s front door, the warm weight that had settled in his stomach somehow making him feel paradoxically lighter. He knew his face was flushed, probably half as fiery as his hair, but he hardly cared—let the whole world see how excited he was! He and Caitlin were now officially engaged. Caitlin had left the cabin when he’d sat down at the table with her father, and he searched for her now. He would find her, perhaps lingering by the horses’ paddock to stroke Boulder’s neck or gathering a few last peaches from the orchard as night banished the light from the evening sky. And then he would kiss her.
He could hardly wait, and the idea of pausing to speak before drawing her into his arms, pulling her warm, soft weight against his body, seemed unfathomable. His cock stirred in his breeches as he recalled lying with her only hours ago in the field, the way she’d touched him…
He was starting to swell noticeably, but it was impossible not to think about it. Soon she’d be all his, and he’d let her run her hand up and down his shaft for all eternity if she wanted to. His lips tingling with anticipation, he rounded the cabin, where Boulder and one of the McCarthy horses grazed contentedly in a split-rail paddock.
She wasn’t there. Lips burning and cock throbbing rebelliously, he made for the rear of the house, behind which the orchard began.
She wasn’t there, either. He searched for her behind every tree, breathing the heavy, sweet perfume of the peaches as leaves brushed his face and shoulders. Each time he was disappointed, finding only emptiness and the occasional fallen peach.
Lips positively aching for hers, he abandoned the orchard, taking long strides across the uncultivated parts of the McCarthy land as he called for her.
“Caitlin?”
His cries were met with a silence that quelled the growing stiffness in his breeches. There was a distinct feeling of wrongness in the air, and it made the hair on his forearms and the back of his neck stand up.
He stopped when he reached the edge of the woods, his heart pounding as he imagined the worst. Had she met a hungry beast—perhaps a bear or a catamount? There were abundant numbers of wild animals in the nearby mountains, as their encounter with the coyote had demonstrated, and though they didn’t usually bother anything bigger than a sheep, they did on occasion turn their sights to humans. The thought caused his knees to wobble as blood roared in his ears, and he forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly. She was probably somewhere nearby. Yes—h ere, something reminded him of her. Shutting his eyes against distractions, he thought.
Of course! It was the smell of violets that had triggered his memory—he’d forever associate the perfume of the tiny blossoms with her and the basket of them she’d been carrying when he’d met her along the road for the first time since their fateful Beltane kiss.
Opening his eyes, he saw them—a row of flowers, faintly purple in the moonlight. A few were slightly bent, as if someone had touched them, ever so carefully. He remembered Caitlin fretting over trampling flowers underfoot, and was suddenly sure her touch had bent them.
“Caitlin?”
Nothing.
He stepped into the woods, pushing branches aside and crushing brush underfoot. He searched for any sign of her as he went, scanning his surroundings for some trace of a footprint, perhaps, or a few strands of her silky hair caught on a branch. He found nothing.
By the time he reached the stream, his heart was pounding in his throat. Half afraid to look, he walked the muddy banks, keeping a sharp eye out for tracks. The stream wasn’t very foreboding when it wasn’t flooded, but an eerie sense of dread was slowly settling over him, whispering that he’d never find her.
When he’d walked the banks for nearly half a mile in each direction, the moonlight revealing only the trails of deer and raccoons, he turned back, mindless of the branches that scratched at him and snatched stray strands of his hair as he sprinted towards the McCarthy cabin. Maybe she’d returned home.
He knew as soon as he opened his mouth that Caitlin was not there. His enquiry was met with blank stares and the same statement from her mother, father and sister—‘I thought she was with you’. He felt the colour drain from his face, the joy-induced flushing of an hour ago nothing but a distant memory. Fighting a vague but growing sensation of nausea, he hurried out into the night again.
He had no real idea of where he was going, now that he’d already looked everywhere that seemed reasonable. Regardless, her name remained on his lips as he ran, lingering like the traces of the peach jam her mother had plied him with when he’d first arrived and asked to speak to Caitlin’s father. The food he’d eaten lay in the pit of his stomach, an unwelcome weight as he ran. He wasn’t surprised when he found himself back at the edge of the woods, where the violets grew. He shut his eyes against the night and breathed in their perfume, letting himself pretend for one brief moment that she was there. Then, lips trembling, he collapsed by the wildflower bed, a rush of scent freeing the rush of tears he’d been suppressing since Caitlin had promised herself to him.
Chapter Four
“Aaron, this must stop! Ye must rest!”
Aaron grimaced, shaking off his mother’s attempt to throw a blanket over his shoulders. He was dripping onto the foyer’s tiled floor, and doing so brought back painful memories. Where was Caitlin, sopping alongside him, her skirts muddied and her face pink with exhilaration? If she were there, his lips wouldn’t be icy, and he wouldn’t be fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. But then, if she were there, he wouldn’t have gone out in the storm in the first place.
“I only came back to change horses.”
He already regretted his decision to come inside the house to change boots, too, though his had become filled with frigid water when a muddy bank had given way beneath his feet, plunging him thigh-deep into the stream that ran between the O’Brien and McCarthy properties. Water spilt from his boots and puddled on the floor as he leapt aside, dodging the blanket that his mother was waving at him as if she were a determined matador and he an errant bull.
“It’s nearly dark,” his mother said, pleading.
“There’s still an hour left, at least,” he replied. Seeing his mother’s pained expression he added begrudgingly, “I’ll come back when night falls.” He hated to stop searching, even for a few hours, but he’d stayed out looking for the entire night several times before, and it had been impossible to see anything in the dark. With the pouring rain and slick ground, any horse he rode after dusk tonight would probably slip and send him falling to his death.
This concession appeared to do littl
e to ease her, so he hurried past her before she could protest, leaving a damp trail up two flights of stairs. He sighed softly as he entered the third floor hallway, feeling suddenly even colder than he had outside in the rain. The extra bedroom Caitlin had spent the night in was the first he passed, and even the sight of its closed door filled him with a fresh rush of the desperate heartache that had been his constant companion over the past week. The one night Caitlin had spent in his house out of necessity had been enough to transform it, imprinting each facet of its structure with her memory. Every staircase spanned a journey to the depths of his misery, and an agonising recollection waited behind each door; a sudden flash of the exact shade of pink her cheeks went when he kissed her, seen by his mind’s eye, or a memory of her hair brushing his cheek, so vivid he almost thought it was real. Shutting his eyes against the sight of the hall where they had walked together, he pushed open his bedroom door. Here, at least, was a place she hadn’t been.
Of course, he couldn’t say that particular truth comforted him. What would he give to have her there, in his bed, his bride? Anything, he knew.
A memory flashed before his mind, as sudden and vivid as they always were now, of her pressing her mouth firmly against his, her tongue rushing past his lips as her hand drifted to his erection as they lay in the wildflower field. His cheeks burnt as a paralysing jolt of sensation shot up his leg and into his crotch, where his cock tingled beneath his rain-soaked breeches, swelling as he remembered her touch. He’d stopped her, then.
He knew now that he’d lost that ability when he’d lost her—to see her would be to hold her, and to hold her would be to make love to her, passionately and at once. Still, he wasn’t sure he regretted his decision not to take her that day in the field, when she’d asked him to. To have done so—to have felt every inch of her soft skin, to have lost himself in her body, then to have lost her the very same day—he strongly suspected that might have killed him. Not that it stopped him from feeling as if he’d let her slip right through his fingers, gone now—wherever she was—to a place where he couldn’t touch her, a place he just couldn’t find, despite the fact that he was trying his damnedest!