by Anne Stuart
She didn't move. She heard the heavy door close, shutting out the outside light, enveloping them in candlelit darkness once more. Heard the ominous click of the lock. Felt the ominous flow of relief.
He said he wasn't going to need another partner for the next few days. It sounded as if he had no intention of dismissing her, but perhaps the clear insanity that had taken over last night was continuing into the day, and he simply meant he didn't want anyone at all. Perhaps the hours in that bed had been so boring he'd decided he'd rather have no...disporting at all.
She managed to shut her eyes again just before he pushed the curtains open, trying to keep her breathing still and shallow. She could smell coffee, surely the most delicious smell in the entire world, could practically feel its heat underneath her nose.
"You may as well open your eyes, precious," he said in that thoroughly annoying, enticing drawl of his. "I know you're awake."
She opened one eye to stare at him balefully. "Of course I'm awake. Who wouldn't be with you wafting hot coffee underneath their nose?"
"If you want some you're going to have to sit up," he said, handing her the delicate bone-china cup before moving away. He was dressed, at least partially, in breeches and a loose white shirt, and his long golden hair was tied at the back of his neck. He hadn't been shaved yet—the servant must be coming back. That was when she would leave. Thank God, she told herself.
She pulled the sheet up around her breasts and managed to sit up without spilling the coffee. She took a first sip and felt the blissful strength of it dance through her veins. He was across the room, his back to her, which was a relief. What in the world could they discuss, given the situation? Literature?
She let out a convincing yawn. "Did I miss your servant? Is it morning yet?"
He turned back. "What you mean is, am I willing to let you go yet?"
She would hardly be stupid enough to deny it. "Of course.”
"He'll be back. In the meantime, I had him bring you a bath. I thought you'd find it soothing before you left."
Before she left. He'd warned her, hadn't he? One night only.
And really, this was a good thing. The sooner she got back to her normal life the sooner she could begin pulling herself back together.
The coffee was suddenly bitter. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, leaned forward and set the half-empty cup on the table. "A bath would be lovely,” she said in an even voice, starting to rise.
She'd overestimated her own resiliency. The moment she got to her feet she felt her balance begin to waver, the shadow-lit room turned into pools of black in front of her eyes and she wondered if she was going to do the most embarrassing thing she could possibly imagine and fall face-first in a dead faint, directly at Adrian Rohan's bare feet.
He moved, fast and graceful, his hand catching her arm as she started to waver, as the sheet started to slip. She grabbed for it, almost going over, and he quickly caught it in one hand, yanking it up around her.
Which didn't mate things any easier, she thought gloomily. Now he didn't even want to look at her. Not that she could blame him. She was hardly in the same class as most of the women he'd bedded.
The idea startled her. She was now simply another one of the women Adrian Rohan had bedded. Part of a vast number, no doubt, and easily forgotten. By the next time she saw him he'd have moved on to someone else and forgotten all about her. After all, how could he keep track...?
"Are you going to just stand there or would you like a bath?” He sounded surprisingly patient, almost amused.
She glanced over at the tub. It was huge—and steam was rising in wafts over the cloth-draped sides. "I'm waiting for you to leave."
"We're locked in again. I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm not sure I quite believe in these locks of yours."
He gestured toward the door, his grip on her sheet loosening, and she felt it begin to descend. "See for yourself," he offered as she quickly gathered the falling material back around her body.
"I'm not going to take off this sheet in front of you."
"Modesty," he said with a sigh. "Such a wasted value. What if I promise to keep my back turned?"
"Why should I believe you?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
That silenced her. Indeed, why shouldn't she? It wasn't as if he'd made any effort to touch her, to kiss her, to continue the seduction of the night before. Though come to think of it, once you'd been bedded was seduction even an issue anymore?
"Turn your back," she said in a grumpy voice.
"Will you fall at my feet?"
She stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment. She'd already fallen at his feet, handed herself over... oh, he was talking literally, not metaphorically.
"No," she said shortly.
His lids were drooping lazily over his blue eyes, and his smile was small and polite before he released her, turning his back to sit at the little table, addressing himself to the tray of food.
She moved to the side of the tub quickly, dropped the sheet on the floor and slid in. The water was blissfully hot, scented with roses, and her moan of delight was out before she realized it.
The sound caught his attention and he turned to look at her, a cup of coffee in his hand.
"You promised not to look," she shrieked and sank lower in the bath.
"I most certainly did not. I believe my exact words were. 'What if I promise to turn my back?' You said you wouldn't believe me, so I didn't bother making that promise." He hitched the chair around so that it was facing her, and his eyes were alight with amusement. "You should know better than to trust me."
"You're right," she said in a cranky voice. "Just go away, will you? If you can't leave, then go lie down and pull the curtains and let me enjoy my bath in peace."
"You could always turn your back on me."
Good point. Sinking lower, she managed to shift around so that her back was to him, enabling her to rise enough to let her head rest at the edge of the oval-shaped tub. She closed her eyes, and this time she managed to keep the sheer, sensual delight to herself. She heard him moving around behind her, but she ignored him. She'd never seen such a large tub in her life, and it astonished her that she hadn't heard it being filled this morning. But then, she'd been exhausted, sleeping more soundly than she had in months. Sleep had always been an elusive commodity in her life—there were always too many things to think about, too many things to do.
She wasn't going to think about why she slept so well. If it needed that to make her sleep then she was doomed to a lifetime of insomnia.
She leaned back in the tub, spreading her legs slightly, letting the warm water soothe her there. She had a strange memory of Adrian washing her, but that clearly was a dream. The only reason he might have done so was that he was too fastidious to have her again, and after the initial event he hadn't attempted a repeat. So much for magnificent experiences. The steam was rising around her face, and she knew her hair would become even curlier, the bane of her existence, but there was nothing she could do about it. She lifted her arm out of the water. It was faintly pink, but she could still see the smattering of freckles across her shoulder. Had he really called them flakes of gold? Or was that another dream?
He was moving around in the room behind her, doing something, but she wasn't going to think about that. She was going to concentrate on the blissful feel of the warm water moving around her, soothing her, delighting her.
"You're humming." His voice came from somewhere behind her, sounding slightly muffled.
She immediately stopped. She didn't try to deny it – it was a source of embarrassment.
"It's an unfortunate habit of mine." Despite the lascivious delight of the water she managed to find some semblance of her stiff little voice. "I tend to hum when I'm enjoying something. When I'm eating something particularly delicious, when I'm taking a bath, when I'm walking in the countryside."
"I'll have to keep that in mind." His voice was no longer muffled. "You
hum when you're particularly pleased with life."
He made it sound as if she was pleased with him, she thought crossly. "No. I hum when I'm enjoying particular physical sensations. I could hardly say I'm pleased with life right now."
"You could say so," he said. "But you won't. You're not honest enough."
"If you think being abducted and ruined is cause for celebration you greatly overestimate the effect of your charm," she said in a pinched voice.
"No one abducted you. You arrived here on your own, came with me without fighting, and you were just as involved in your ruination as I was."
"Hardly. I didn't know what I was doing."
“I’m aware of that. You don't even know how to kiss."
She wasn't supposed to know how to kiss, she thought miserably. She was supposed to spend her entire life in virtuous ignorance. "I'm sorry I was such a disappointment," she said stiffly. "Next time perhaps you'll have enough sense to choose someone with a little experience. Someone who's actually enthusiastic about the whole undignified process."
"Very undignified," he agreed, and she could hear the laugh in his voice. He was closer than she'd realized, which made her nervous, but she refused to turn around and look at him. Even without her spectacles she'd probably see him too clearly. "But I think you grew reasonably enthusiastic after a little persuasion. And there are times when lack of expertise can be particularly...endearing."
She was getting more and more bothered. By his voice, by the warm, scented water, by the memories he was evoking. "When is your servant coming back?"
"Why do you ask?" He was directly behind her now, so close that she could feel him brush against her loose fall of hair.
"I need time to dress before I leave."
"You aren't going anywhere. Not right now."
"You promised..."
"I promised nothing. And you were wide awake when Dormin was here—I checked and you were only pretending to be asleep. If you truly wanted to leave all you had to do was ask."
“I want to leave”
"Ah... Too late," he said, moving around the side of the tub. And before she realized what was happening he'd climbed in with her, on top of her, naked, beautiful, erect.
She let out a shriek, dunking her head down under the water. A second later he'd hauled her up, into his arms, laughing at her. "You can lie to me, Charlotte, but don't lie to yourself."
And he set his mouth on hers.
12
She was delicious. In every sense of the word, Adrian thought, moving his knees between her legs with no difficulty as he kissed her lovely mouth. She moaned, a small, weak sound that was pleasure and dismay, and he drank it in, reveling in it. He braced his arms on the side of the tub, letting his hips dance against hers, letting his erection float against the sweet juncture of her thighs.
He heard his own moan, an unconscious mate to hers, as her tongue met his. They kissed, like lovers who knew each other well, and he lifted one hand and cradled her neck, loving the feel of her.
She still hadn't mastered breathing too well, and when he dragged his mouth away from hers, down the side of her neck, she drew in a deep, rasping breath, and he waited for another protest, which he would ignore.
Instead, she lifted her hands and stroked the sides of his face, pushing his damp hair back. He raised his head to look at her, his thumb and fingers slowly rubbing the back of her neck, soothing her.
Her eyes were wide, calm, accepting. But he wanted the words. "Yes?" he said.
She held her breath for a moment "Yes," she said in a soft whisper.
He smiled then, and he told himself this feeling was smug, masculine triumph. It wasn't. It was simple happiness.
He sat back on his knees. Her full, lovely breasts were just floating at the top of the water, the pink nipples soft and sweet. He leaned down and licked one, feeling it instantly bud against his tongue, and with sudden hunger he latched onto it like a hungry babe, sucking it into his mouth, clinging to it, hearing her quiet moan of pleasure. Her hands slid down to his shoulders, kneading, clinging, and her back arched with instinctive need. He covered her other breast with his fingers, leasing the nipple into matching hardness, as he sucked, sucked, and her hips lifted in the water, wanting him.
He reached down, caught his erect penis in his hand and guided it to her, then thrust, a little too hard, a little too fast, but she took it with only a faint cry. She was wet and sleek and welcoming, and he moved his head, dropping it down on her shoulder as he tried to control his breathing, his Tierce need. He wanted to slam into her until he spewed, he was famished, greedy, ready to explode. He dropped his hands into the water and cupped her hips, pulling her up tighter against him, and the sound she made was one of unmistakable pleasure, arousing him further when he thought there was no place else to go. He began to move, slowly at first, letting her get used to his invasion. Dormin had used healing herbs in the rose-scented water, and she took him without protest, without restraint, catching the rhythm, moving with it, her eyes closed, her hips lifting to meet each plunging stroke, faster and faster, as the water splashed around them onto the floor, and he knew he was going to have to pull out, soon now, or he wouldn't be able to leave the tight grip of her body. But this time he wasn't going to come without her. He put his hands between them, slid his fingers into her soft, wet curls, just above where they were joined, and touched her.
It was all she needed. She let out a wordless cry as her body tightened around his, milking him, smooth, shuddering contractions as pleasure engulfed her, and as he felt his seed burst forth he pulled free, hating it, using his own hand to try to simulate the feel of her as he emptied himself into the warm water, cursing beneath his breath.
When his heartbeat had sullenly slowed, he rose, lifting her in his arms, sopping wet. He stepped out of the high tub, onto the wet floor, and carried her across to the bed. There were Turkish towels lying there, and he wrapped her in them like a cocoon, her body soft pink from the water and exertion. As he pulled them around her, drying her, she suddenly looked up at him, and he stilled for a moment, staring back.
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and for a moment he was confused. Had he forced her without realizing it? Hurt her? He was still half-erect, or maybe growing so again, and he wanted her with a fierce need that her tears strangled.
He'd pulled the toweling up around her neck, holding it there to keep her warm. "Do you want to leave, Charlotte?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
For a long moment she didn't move. And then she shook her head, reaching up for him. And he covered her body with his.
Charlotte lost track of time. The hours passed in a blur, aided by the artificial light. He lay on the bed beside her and fed her sweetmeats and bits of cheese and ham, delicious tarts and sparkling wine. He made love to her, in the darkness, in the muted light, on the bed, on the floor by the fire, and when she was too sore to take him inside, he had her use her hand on him, bringing him to an exquisite completion that had her own body trembling.
There was no more need for talk. She was past the point of pretending she didn't want this, and he'd lost interest in baiting her. All he seemed to want was her body, wrapped around his, sleeping against him, shattering in ecstasy, on top and beneath and beside him. She was awash in the touch of him, the taste and scent and texture of his skin. She wrapped her long legs around his narrow hips, she shoved her hands through his thick hair, she kissed him, over and over again, never tiring of it, having no idea how much time passed in that dreamy, dazed slate, when she awoke and found herself alone in the cavern-like room, the front door open to the bright sunlight.
For a long moment she didn't move, unwilling to face the daylight. She didn't want this to end, couldn't bear for it to be over.
Her monk's robe lay across the foot of the bed, and she pulled it on, fastening it at the shoulder, then searched for the rope that held it closed. Her sandals were long gone, so she slid barefoot onto the thick carpet. "Adrian?" she said in a small
voice.
No answer. There was a scrap of paper on the table, but she didn't want to look at it. She wanted to go back to the bed where such powerful, impossible things had happened, pull the curtains and close her eyes. And wait until he came back for her.
But he wasn't coming back. She knew it immediately, and she wasn't the type to cry. She crossed the room and picked up the piece of paper, then dropped it on the table. Novelty can only entertain for so long, it said. Goodbye.
Her hair was loose, a mass of curls flowing over her shoulders. She reached back and took the length in one hand, working it into a loop to flatten it before she pulled the hood over her head. She tucked her hands inside the large sleeves, ignoring the faint tremor. The interval was over, it was time to return to her normal life. Time to move on, without looking back.
In the light of day the courtyard looked smaller than she had imagined. There was no one in sight— even his servant had disappeared. Odd, though. She had the strange sense someone was watching her as she walked back toward the Portal of Venus. The grass was cold and wet on her bare feet, and she realized by the position of the sun that it was still early. She moved on, slowly, deliberately, refusing to think.
She passed an occasional servant as she went, but they kept their heads down, refusing to look at her. The Revels must still be continuing, she realized. Everyone else was still in the midst of their debauchery.
It was just as well. She no longer had the strip of white cloth that signified she had no interest in participating, and if anyone decided she was fair game she'd have a hard time putting up a fight. She was lost, defeated. Everything ached. Not that he'd been too rough. They'd made love gently, fiercely, with tenderness and with anger. She was bruised from his hard grip, he was raked by her nails, but the only thing he'd been brutal with was her heart.
She skirted the now-silent chapel with its obscene imagery, headed down toward the river, a narrow stream that carried the small flat boats from Hensley Court and back. She could only hope one was waiting there. Even if there was no servant she could probably manage to pilot the boat herself. It moved by way of a long barge pole, and she probably had enough strength to use it. If she didn't, she'd walk, or swim, or fly if she had to. Anything to get away from this sorrowful place.