Blood Rhapsody

by Nancy Morse

  I’ll never let you touch me again. Yet even as the oath formed in her unconscious mind, she was reaching for him, pulling him closer and wrapping her slender legs around him, desperate for the shocking intimacy of his hard, driving body.

  The hardness of him entered her, filled her up, pierced so far inside that it took all of her breath away, forcing her head up against the headboard with every savage thrust.

  Yes. Oh yes!

  With her legs locked about him, her hands clawing at his back, weeping miserably, she let him take her to that place again, that place of humiliation and dark longing, to the very center of the fire from which there was no escape and which scorched her with pulsing pleasure down to her soul.

  Pru opened her eyes and squinted against the darkness. What a dark and terrible dream she’d had. So unsettling was it that she forcibly pushed it from her mind. Yet though the thought of it was banished, the physical excitement of it lingered. Reaching beneath the covers, she stifled a gasp at the wetness against her inner thighs. A sudden rush of embarrassment flamed her cheeks in the dark. How was it possible for a dream to feel so real, its effects so powerful? She was afraid to turn over and fall back to sleep, lest the shameful dream reappear, so she lay there, her breathing staggered from the nightmare. At length, weariness overtook her and she slept again, this time with no dream to haunt her slumber.

  Something, she knew not what at first, awakened her, not with a start, but gradually, like the dawn that tints the eastern sky with pinks and purples as it breaks over the treetops. Her eyelids fluttered open, but instead of finding daylight piercing her bedroom through the heavy drapes and hearing the chirping of birds outside her window, the room was dark and still. The long case clock in the hallway struck the midnight hour. Daybreak was still hours away. That was odd. She could have sworn she heard…

  Music.

  The vibrant strains of the violoncello lured her fully awake. But how? Who? It could only be Papa. A wild surge of hope filled her heart as she threw the covers aside, lit a candle and went to the door.

  Cupping the candle’s flame, in her bare feet she followed the sound to the music room where the soft glow of firelight seeped from beneath the door. She stood outside for several minutes, listening. She recognized the piece Papa had begun composing, the very one he had entrusted to Nicolae. The music filled her with hope. Oh, could it be that Papa was beginning to get well? Tears hazed her eyes, summoned by the joy of hearing Papa playing his beloved instrument again, and by the sheer rhapsody of the piece. She leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes as the music filled her like a cup that spilled over with love. But just when she expected it to stop at the point where he had finished composing, it went on, building in emotion, until she felt the aching in her soul and realized that what she was listening to was not Papa’s creation, but Nicolae’s. How this was possible, she did not know, but in Papa’s delicate condition, it wasn’t wise for him to exert the kind of energy the piece demanded. Grasping the handle, she opened the door.

  “Papa,” she began warningly.

  Her mouth fell open and a thousand thoughts careened through her brain when she saw Nicolae seated behind the instrument, Papa reclined in a wing chair before the fireplace, a blanket thrown over his legs.

  The flames leapt up to greet her as she came in, orange, blue and blood-red dancing in the soft breeze that followed her through the door. Sudden clarity chased all doubt from her mind. It wasn’t Papa she’d heard playing at all. It was Nicolae. She glanced quickly at her father who sat with his eyes closed, his head swaying up and down ever so slightly in time to the music. And then to Nicolae, who looked up from the instrument with a faintly insolent smile on his lips.

  How dare he come to this house, and at this hour? She wanted to scream at him to get out. But glancing back at Papa her anger ebbed away like the tide. By the light of the fire his face did not look worn and weary, but serene and untroubled for the first time in long weeks. The music had done for him what no apothecary’s elixirs had done. Were the days without joy, or hope of joy, finally over? Laughter rose in her throat, but she choked it down, not wishing to mar the moment for him, no matter how angry she may have been at Nicolae.

  Without a sound she went to stand before the fire, feeling its warmth on her skin as the heat of the music filled her within just as it had that night when she had surrendered to it and to a clever seduction. The memory of it filled her with shame and longing.

  The music tossed her to and fro, like a ship on a sea of emotion. The notes hit a crescendo, and the air suddenly filled with expectancy as the bow slid across the strings for the final notes. A hush fell over the room.

  After several moments Papa’s eyes opened, and Pru’s heart sank to see the same weary look in them. The blush that had tinted his face only moments ago fled, leaving in its wake the colorless hue of someone whose life was slowly, irrevocably slipping away.

  “Papa,” Pru cried softly.

  “Ah, Pruddy,” he said, his voice tired and thin, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  “Did you hear it, my dear? Did you hear what this young man has done to my composition?”

  Pru forced back the tears to toss an unappreciative look at Nicolae. “Yes, Papa, I heard.”

  “I knew it,” he said. “I knew my composition would be safe in his hands.”

  Your composition, yes, but not your daughter, she thought belligerently.

  Nicolae rose from behind the instrument and came forward, inclining his head. “Miss Hightower.”

  How proper he was. Why, if she didn’t know any better, she might have mistaken him for a gentleman, although by his own admission that was something he was not. “Mr. Tedescu,” she said rigidly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “No, you would not have. You were fast asleep.”

  Pru was taken aback. How would he have known that? She was about to ask, but was silenced by his gaze that swept over her in an all-consuming rush. Suddenly, she was aware of the sight she must have presented in her nightgown and bare feet, her hair suggestively loose as if she’d only just awakened, which, of course, she had. His stare unnerved her. Standing before the fire, she was painfully conscious now that her silhouette must surely show through the thin white linen. She moved nervously to stand behind her father’s chair.

  So mired had she been in that terrible dream, like quicksand pulling her down into its treacherous depths, that she hadn’t even heard the rapping at the front door. With Aunt Vivienne out as usual for the evening, poor ailing Papa had been forced to come down himself to answer it. Another reason to dislike the insufferable man, as if the unshakable effects of the dream weren’t enough. “Are you in the habit of calling on people at this hour?” she questioned.

  “Pruddy.” Papa’s tone was mildly chastising. “It’s not at all unusual for Nicolae to call at this hour. As a matter of fact, all of our lessons were conducted in the evening owing to his business obligations.”

  “Oh? And may I ask what business that would be?”

  With a frozen little smile, Nicolae replied, “My daytime hours are devoted to personal matters. My father was a prince in my homeland and presided over a large family residence and extensive land holdings of which I am heir to. Maintaining the accounts takes up a considerable amount of my time.”

  James put up his hand. “There’s no need to explain.”

  Pru cast a contrite look down at her bare toes, recalling that he had told her his family was dead. That night as they had walked from the bridge she had seen the impulse of distress that passed over his face and had sensed that the mention of it had unlocked something deep inside of him, a pain of the heart that mere words could never express. She wondered if she would ever know the truth behind his sorrow. Of course there would be matters to attend to, especially if, as he said, his father had been a prince. How intriguing. It only added to the air of dark mystery that surrounded him. Not that it absol
ved him from the liberties he had taken nor diminished the lecherous gleam in his eyes.

  “I put the finishing touches on the piece only this evening,” he went on. “I was anxious for your father to hear it. It was not my intention to cause any inconvenience. I saw a light coming from within and reasoned that it would be all right for me to knock.”

  To Pru’s discerning ears there wasn’t anything about the piece that sounded different or altered from the other evening, but she could not say that without revealing to Papa that she had already heard it played to perfection. He would not be at all pleased to learn she had been Nicolae’s guest that evening without a chaperone. Though these were enlightened times where intelligence and reason reigned and women were no longer looked upon as fragile flowers, Papa was, nevertheless, still painfully old-fashioned about such things.

  She felt the weight of Nicolae’s eyes and lifted her gaze to find him watching her intently. Was it her imagination, or was there a triumphant gleam in those bright green jewels? In the glow of firelight his features seemed even more refined, and she struggled to ignore the strange, almost savage, beauty of the man. She cast about for a fitting reply, but Papa spoke up to break the tension that sizzled in the air.

  Turning to Nicolae, and said, “Hearing the way you play, my boy, I am more than convinced that you should play in my place at Vauxhall Gardens. Do say you will.”

  Nicolae bowed from the waist. “It would be my honor.”

  “Before I took ill I had in mind to play my composition which you have so brilliantly completed, as well as Bach’s Suite Number One. You played it quite well during our lessons. With a little more practice of the thumb position you should be able to reach those demanding chords with ease.”

  “But Papa, you aren’t well enough to conduct lessons.”

  “No, no, my dear, you are quite right. That is why I want you to work with Nicolae to ensure that the piece is all it can be.”

  Pru was mortified. “Me? But how? I’m not the music master.”

  “Indeed you are not, but you have heard me play the Bach suite a hundred times and I dare say you know it note by note.”

  Hoping to put an end to her father’s preposterous notion that she should help the insolent man, she said, “If Nicolae is going to play the piece at the concert, shouldn’t he play it in his own way?”

  “Of course, my dear, and so he shall, but you have an excellent ear for rhythmic timing.” To Nicolae, he said proudly, “She composed her own little baroque ricercare when she was just a child and is quite adept at pinpointing the differences between Gabrielli and Antonii. No, no,” he said to his daughter, “I insist that you work together on this.” He rose from the chair with difficulty. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am tired.”

  Pru was immediately at his side, her hand at his elbow. “I’ll help you to your room.”

  “No, my dear. You stay and offer our guest something to drink. I know how difficult that piece is to play. I’m sure he is in need of sustenance. But first…” He paused to bring his face close to hers, and whispered, “Perhaps you should run upstairs and put on something more appropriate.” He patted her hand and disengaged himself to shuffle off. At the door he turned briefly to cast a loving glance over his shoulder, neither at his daughter nor his pupil, but at his instrument that stood on its endpin. A look of sorrow passed over his eyes, as if he were saying goodbye to a dear old friend.

  When he was gone, the room filled with a silence so palpable it could be cut with a knife. “I…I will be right back,” Pru stammered, grudgingly adding as she picked up a candle and hastened to the door, “Make yourself comfortable.”

  In her bedroom, she threw on a loose-fitting serge dressing gown of dark blue. Her hands fumbled nervously with the surplice front closure. When it was secure, she headed back for the door, but not before pausing at the mirror to smooth her hair in the dim light.

  Minutes later she returned to the music room to find Nicolae seated in Papa’s favorite wing chair, one leg crossed casually over the other as if he belonged there. She went immediately to the violoncello and proceeded to remove it from its endpin, saying as she did, “If you’re hungry, I could go down to the kitchen and make a plate for you. We should have some boiled venison left from dinner.” She was just following Papa’s orders, although privately she did not care if the man starved. It would have served him right.

  He watched her with an amused smile on his face. “No, thank you. I’ll feed on my way home.”

  “That’s an odd way of putting it. Oh well, some port, then? Papa likes to sip his port after playing a particularly difficult piece.”

  “Only if you were to join me. But since it goes much too quickly to your head, I’ll pass.” He saw her look of surprise. “You didn’t think I remembered? There’s much about you that I remember.”

  “A gentleman would not have reminded me of something I wish to forget,” she said with a huff.

  “I’m no gentleman,” he reminded her.

  Pru felt her temper beginning to rise. “You, sir, are a most disagreeable man.”

  “And I suppose your uncharitable behavior toward me this evening is any better?” He smiled grimly. “Your pretense is almost as transparent as the shift beneath your dressing gown. And while I’m on the subject, I do wish you would discard those sober colors for ones more suited to your personality. You know, the personality you try so hard to disguise. The dress you wore to my home was much more fitting.”

  The dress she had dropped off at the botcher’s shop for repairing only this morning, she was reminded with an inner groan. “My clothing is none of your concern,” she snapped.

  “You’re right. What difference does it make to me what colors you choose for your clothes when you look so much more fetching out of them.”

  “You are being impertinent. I think you should leave.” If she could have willed the wretched man to go, she would have done so.

  He rose gracefully and reached for his cloak. “Very well,” he complied. “But do try to be a little more amiable if we are to work together on the musical piece. Shall we start tomorrow evening?”

  Pru’s mouth fell open. “It was inappropriate for you to come here tonight and overtax my father in this manner. I told you he isn’t well. Now you have seen it for yourself.” She could not keep the caustic tone out of her voice even as her heart ached with every word.

  Throwing the cloak over his shoulders, he started for the door, but stopped. Perhaps it was the anguish in her blue eyes, or the sigh he heard behind him, like the moaning of the wind, or just an uncommon moment of benevolence, that made him turn back to her.

  “If I were to tell you that I could help your father regain his health…” It was neither a statement nor a question, but rather the workings of his mind spoken aloud.

  “How could you do what the doctors have been unable to do?” she asked. There was no suspicion in her voice, not even disbelief, just the weary uncertainty of one who was afraid to trust in the miracle she had prayed for.

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s a skill I acquired a very long time ago in my native land.”

  With nothing but heartache behind and sorrow ahead, Pru gazed into his beautiful green eyes, searching for a trick, but finding only an earnest expression.

  “You would do this for me?”

  “Yes.” At the hope that sprang into her eyes, he lowered his tone, adding, “But there is something you must do for me in return.”

  Ah, there it was. He meant to strike a bargain with her. Do not fall into his trap, Pru cautioned herself. She felt her hope rapidly dwindling once again, as always it did whenever she thought there might be a cure for her father’s illness only to find out there was not. And yet it was that very hope which she clung to now as she looked at him, searching his expression for signs of entrapment.

  He reached down and took her hand in his. It was cold, she thought numbly. Why was his touch always so cold when there were fires burning in his eyes? With
the tip of his thumb he traced a pattern across her palm, a design of no particular import of itself were it not for the suggestive look in his eyes. Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her open palm while she watched in mute silence, her thoughts all jumbled and incapable of reaching her voice.

  He brought his face close to hers and whispered in her ear. “I would have you come to me of your own free will.”

  Pru pulled her hand back and broke free of him. Her eyes were huge and luminous, her face flushed with anger. Through the thoughts that careened inside her mind, one word broke free when she finally found her voice.

  “Never!”

  She glared back at an expression she had not seen before, black and scowling, eyes sulfurous, the smile momentarily malicious before disappearing behind a faint insolent smirk.

  “Never is a very long time,” he said. “And from what I have seen tonight, your father does not have the luxury of time. That is the reality of the situation, Prudence.”

  “How do I know this is not a trick of yours to take advantage of me again?”

  “Oh, I fully intend to take advantage of you.”

  “That’s not what I meant. If I were to agree to this…this…bargain of yours, how do I know you will keep your end of it?”

  Flatly, he replied, “You don’t.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” he demanded.

  She stood her ground before him despite the shaking of her knees beneath her dressing gown. “It is the same thing.”

  “Suit yourself. Perhaps you can always dream a cure for your father.” He turned toward the door, adding with a flash of mockery in the candlelight, “Dreams can seem very real, after all.”

  She could hear his softly derisive laughter as he let himself out, followed by a curt, “Good evening to you, madam,” as he hurried down the steps toward his waiting carriage.

  “Prudence, who was that man who just addressed me?” Vivienne demanded as she swept into the house, her garments fluttering around her like leaves on an autumn night.