Behind her, he nipped her neck.
“Yes. Come, my love.” She opened her eyes and holding onto his hands, walked forward to the edge of the platform.
He stood just behind her. When she spread her arms wide, the colorful ceremonial robe parted. He unclasped the ruby dragon at her neck and removed the robe from her shoulders.
“The High Priestess.” The words swept through the crowd below. The drumbeats stopped as faces turned upward to the platform. The crackling fire was the only sound in the cavern.
She stretched, raising her arms high, reveling in the heat of the blaze that wrapped around her bare midriff. It warmed the gold cups encasing her breasts, and fed her soul.
His bare chest warmed her back as his hands moved across her belly, over the blood red ruby in her navel and down to the silken veils riding low on her hips.
They moved as one now, hip to hip. His erection nestled between her buttocks as their hips moved slowly around and around. The drumbeat began anew.
Rubies glittered in the firelight as her hands and fingers gracefully weaved the ceremonial signs above her head. His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her to him in the ancient dance.
She chanted the words to the ritual with tears streaming down her face, so proud was she to take her place in history beside all the Artisans that had come before her. The power of them all coursed through her veins now as they joined her in song. Her voice and their voices comingled, shaking the cavern as she spoke the final commands that would bring forth the master.
Her legs weakened and she moaned, leaning against her consort. She could feel his labored breathing against her back, and she raised a hand to his cheek.
They had waited so long for this. She was the Pure One in this generation, the one witch who had the power to design the master’s vessel. Now, in the master’s awakening ceremony, she would finally be taken by her consort.
The ground under their feet trembled with the dragon’s roar.
He parted the silk veils of her skirt as he rasped in her ear. “Now.”
She spread her legs wide, hot and aching for him.
The dragon’s fiery, red eyes surfaced above the platform.
Her consort’s engorged member pushed against her core. She felt a moment’s discomfort before he filled her and the fire dragon blasted them with cleansing, burning breath. With each thrust, he claimed her, she wanted more and more and he placed a palm on her belly to steady her as he rammed into her. The fire dragon roared its approval, spewing fiery blood that rained down upon them, filling the golden vessels, drenching the jewels so that they glistened from within…
* * * *
Jacqueline pushed the satin coverlet off and wiped the sheen of perspiration from her brow.
This nightmare was the clearest of them all. The ancient language she’d spoken on the platform was strange, guttural and yet in the dream she knew it so well. Now she knew all that she was in that life, more than she wanted to be. She had never known who was standing with her above the fiery pit until now. Until she took his hand as if she were his by right. As if she wanted him, wanted all of it to happen.
But she did not want Lord Alsborough.
As always, the nightmare brought on a yearning in her akin to a fever. This night she would not toss and turn Lord Alsborough out of her mind until sleep claimed her again.
Jacqueline brought her knees up to her chest and fingered the dragon anklet. She could not be the creator of its original design. The scenes in her nightmare pre-dated civilization, she knew this instinctively. She was not a high priestess of an ancient demon-worshipping cult.
She could not shake the feeling of dread that clung to her like the beautiful rubies from her fiancé. And yet, she could not say what it was she feared so. She did not believe in reincarnation. She was not a doorway to an ancient evil, a dreadful, heartless witch. She barely knew Lord Alsborough and now more than ever vowed to stay away from him.
Papa would dismiss this nightmare of past lives as pre-wedding nerves. Maman would send for the abrasive Dr. Gautille, and Margaux would laugh at her.
Little ruby eyes gleamed darkly when she tore the anklet away from her leg.
She left the bed and opened the balcony doors. Standing in the night air, she took deep breaths to calm the raging need inside of her. The cool breeze was refreshing, but it did not soothe the fire in her belly.
Her very soul called for the anecdote—Roman. She was beset by visions of Roman, with her, over her, in her.
Go to him.
The thought wafted up to her consciousness from the depths of her desire.
Why not? She loved Roman. He would be the one to take her virginity, now or later, what did it matter? She belonged to him, not to Lord Alsborough.
She put a robe on over her nightgown and padded down the dark hall. She did not hesitate across the landing, but moved purposefully toward the guest wing.
The bedroom door was ajar. Placing her hand on it, she watched as it slowly revealed first his breeches, his muscled torso and finally his eyes.
Roman lay sprawled atop the bedclothes with his arms cradling his head as he stared at her.
She stood just outside the beam of moonlight falling across the floor. His broad chest rose and fell, and then lifted off the bed.
His dark hair, loose and touching his shoulders, swayed as he walked slowly toward her. She wanted to touch those locks but could not move her hand from the door. Instead, her gaze traveled to the black curls sprinkled lightly across his chest and further still to the loose breeches riding low on his waist. Peaking from the top of the breeches were more curls above an erection straining against fabric.
When she raised her eyes, he reached behind her and closed the door.
He pulled her closer, studying her white robe in all seriousness. “I thought I conjured you in a vision. But you are a lamb come willingly to the sacrificial altar.”
She cleared her throat, blinking away a vision of the fiery pit. She opened her mouth to tell him of her dream but said only, “I—I could not sleep.”
“And I have tried to go slow with you. It has been torture.” He pulled the sash holding her robe together and it fell to her feet in a whisper of silk. His jaw worked in control as it had that dawn at her private pool in the Seine.
She followed his eyes to the thin chemise she wore, and flushed. Her dark nipples pressed against the material, clearly visible in the pale light of the moon. Her legs were bare from mid-thigh.
“You have been so brave to come here, my Beauty. Do not be afraid of love.”
The thought flitted through her mind with other virginal queries, but she would not fear this. “I am feverish,” she confessed.
“Let us soothe each other.” He lifted a lock of hair off her chest, pushing it past her shoulders.
“I want to see you Jacqueline. Will you let me take this off?”
Her words were gone again. She could only nod her head.
When he lifted the hem of the chemise over her head and let it fall, she lowered her head.
Cupping her breasts in his hands, he kneaded them slowly and she swayed toward him as the pulsing sensation intensified between her legs. His hands journeyed down to her waist in a sensual massage before caressing the hair on her mound. “Burnished gold.”
She shivered, but not from cold. Her skin burned where he touched her.
Lifting one hand to her cheek, he turned her face up to his. “You honor me, my love, in this.”
She could not look away when he ran his hands along her back, bringing her closer still.
Lifting one hand, she ran her fingers through his chest hair. His lips curled and he took her hand, wrapping it around that hot, throbbing part of him. She took a deep breath, but did not move her hand.
“That is how much I want you, Beauty. You will see how well we fit together.”
Curiosity got the better of fear. She rubbed her hand up to the velvety tip, and it jerked to attention.
His sharp intake of breath was more a gasp of pain. He moved her hand away. The muscles of his long legs rippled as the breeches fell to floor and he kicked them aside.
Scooping her up, he took two long strides over to the bed. Stretching out beside her, he put one leg over hers. He licked her lips and his kiss was deep when his hand trailed down her body. He played with the hair between her legs until she couldn’t keep her legs closed.
A finger gently probed her, moving rhythmically in time to the thrusts of his tongue. Instinctively, she lifted her hips, sending his finger deeper.
When he moved over her, she could not think beyond delicious domination and her fears melted away. He did not yet possess her physically, but it felt so. His chest hair rubbed against her nipples and his hips flexed rhythmically against hers.
“Roman…” Now it was she who was in pain.
“Not yet, my love.” His tongue circled her breasts, and he sucked one nipple to a hard nub while his other hand traveled down her belly and moved lower.
His finger slid in and out of her aching wetness until she spread her legs wide, begging him to take her. Instead, he moved lower. Cupping her buttocks in his hands, he kissed her mound.
She murmured a protest and attempted to close her legs.
He held her still. “I want it, Jacqueline.” His rough tongue slid against her, slowly, thoroughly until her legs fell open. She gasped when his tongue thrust deep inside her and he lapped at the honey between her legs, sucking and licking up every drop of her.
“Mon Dieu…”
He was relentless. She held his head and tossed hers from side to side, bucking against him as the sweet release took her. Her arms fell away and she lay gasping for breath when Roman lifted his head.
As he moved over her, their eyes met and held. He thrust into her to the hilt, rending her hymen. “I am sorry, my love.” He filled her up, but the pinprick of pain was already receding. Liquid sensation took over.
“I want…” She did not know what it was she wanted. She moved her hips against him and rained kisses on his neck.
“Wrap your legs around me. Yes, that’s it.” He moved gently at first, rocking in and all the way out with maddening determination, until her hips came off the bed. With a murmur of approval, he dove into her, sinking in deep over and over again.
“Mon cher.” She met his every thrust now, heard a keening whimper and recognized her own voice. She was flying, soaring into the heavens. She burst, her breath caught in ragged gasps, she would surely die from this pleasure.
“Sweet Jacqueline.” He buried his face in her hair and pumped into her. His groans mingled with hers as her muscles pulled him in.
They rode the crest of the wave, clinging to each other. Slowly, their breathing calmed with arms and legs tangled, as they drifted off to sleep.
* * * *
It was dark, but Roman knew the hour. After years on the open seas, his internal clock woke him every morning at five.
They lay on their sides, her bottom nestled against him with a sheet their only covering. Moonlight played on the loose and softly curled ends of her hair, turning them into glossy wine-colored tresses.
Jacqueline clasped his hand in sleep. She would not part with him even to take her rest. He inhaled the essence of violets wafting from her hair.
There was a stirring in his soul. He had thought his home was in Yorkshire, but it was right here in his arms.
He loved Jacqueline Bouveau St. Clair, had loved her from the moment he met her. And she loved him, it could not be denied. Although circumstances were against them, she had sought him out. And he was a man who hungered for her too long to think of consequences.
They would have to take care. This was not a wise thing to do under her father’s nose. But they would not be able to stay away from each other now that she had been awakened to passion.
Her eagerness to learn was irresistible. It warmed his blood even now, with so little time left to them in the pre-dawn hour. He was no saint; her body was like nectar and he would drink of it all day. Just a little while longer, and they would be in England, and she would never have to leave his bed again.
He made a mental note to search out fresh linens to hide her virgin’s blood before Isabelle arrived to make his bed.
He kissed her shoulder and stroked his hand down the curve of her hip. She stirred, wriggling her bottom against him to turn into his arms, a sleepy smile on her face. They lay on their sides nibbling each other’s lips until she wrapped her arms around his neck and inched a leg over his.
“Do you hurt?” He asked.
“Yes.”
He was moving away when she tightened her hold around his neck. “I ache for you.”
Slipping inside her, he rocked her gently. He was enclosed in her luscious warmth when she moaned his name against his chest.
The release took her and she tensed, her nails gripping his shoulders. He waited until she shuddered against him, and then his groans of pleasure mingled with hers, and he spilled his seed deep within her.
Chapter 6
Château de Vaujours, Asnières-Sur-Seine, France – June 25, 1789
“We shall vacation in England, my dears,” her father said at the breakfast table.
Jacqueline and Margaux erupted with questions about the voyage. Their father turned to the captain for help, as they would sail in a few weeks with him aboard his ship The Raven. The Comtesse wanted to know all the court intrigue. Roman supplied enough throughout the meal to acquaint her with her English counterparts.
“Lord Alsborough is to meet us in London where the affianced couple will get to know each other.” Maman handed Jacqueline the small gift box the Marquess had sent her. “I have not heard such ready laughter from you in months.”
Jacqueline smiled on her way to her room, gift box in hand. Her mother probably thought she wanted privacy to open the gift, but she only dropped it into her jewelry box and closed the lid. She had no interest in the Marquess’ gift. Judging from the size of the box it may have contained a ring or another pair of earrings, but it was most certainly the wretched rubies of her dreams.
She would have to open the gift before Maman or Margaux cornered her with inquiries or they might think she still did not accept her betrothal and she could not risk that. She would not raise suspicion and risk losing what she had with Roman.
Satisfied with her plan, she made her way to the parlor. How ironic that she would sail on her lover’s ship to meet her betrothed.
Deep down within her soul she would always belong to Roman. She did not know how she would manage it, but she would not allow any other man to touch her except Roman. The Marquess of Alsborough could go to the devil.
She lived for the nights. She would go to bed early, knowing Roman would come when the château was quiet and wake her with his kisses.
She never knew it could be this way. He had only to look at her and she was ready for him. They talked long into the night and in the morning when she woke, he was gone.
It was necessary, for now their love remained her sweet secret. But she was so happy and wanted to share it with her family, and prayed for the day when she and Roman could tell everyone about their love.
Margaux only had eyes for the Marchese Falco. They were so caught up in wedding arrangements her sister did not notice the change in Jacqueline from grudging acceptance of the future to blissful acquiescence.
Jacqueline painted the two of them now. They sat in one corner of the parlor on a white powdered sofa, heads bowed together. They were no doubt discussing their future. The Marchese Falco’s green eyes glowed as he made some jest that amused his intended. Margaux leaned into him with laughter. Jacqueline’s paintbrush flew.
“I will return to Italy next week. As a farewell celebration, I would like all of you to come to the opera in Paris,” the Marchese said.
She would gift the Marchese with the completed painting then.
* * * *
Roman stood in the moonlight th
at spilled onto the blue and green swirls of the Aubusson carpet.
Jacqueline was sleeping in the canopied bed. She was a tempting angel with her hair fanned out in a reddish gold halo on the pillow. Her dusky nipples capped pearlescent globes.
He came closer and heard a soft sigh when she turned on her side.
“Not worthy.”
He laid his robe across a chair and slipped into bed beside her. “What’s that?”
“Death is the reward for disobedience,” she murmured.
Leaning over her, he ran a hand along her side. “Wake up, Jacqueline.”
“He comes for me.” She turned clutching him, her brow was furrowed but her eyes were still closed.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Who comes for you, my love?”
She woke, burrowing against him. “Roman.”
He pulled her up. “You were dreaming. You said someone was coming for you.”
She stilled. “It is just the betrothal…”
“You are dreaming of Lord Alsborough? Do not worry so. Once we are away from here, I will speak to your father. All will be well, I promise you.” He sat up, and put her on his lap. “We leave for the opera tomorrow. I must stay in Paris for business.” He grimaced, already missing her.
She murmured her disapproval, trailing kisses down his neck. “Do not stay away too long.”
“Just a few days.”
She gave a soft sigh, running her fingers through his chest hair. “I shall miss you.”
He caught her hand and slipped the ring on her finger. “Why don’t you think of what you will tell your father when I return?”
She came to her knees with a gasp. The square-cut sapphire was surrounded by star-point diamonds sparkling in the moonlight.
“Jacqueline, my heart, I love you. Will you marry me?”
She buried her face against his chest. Her shoulders shook.
He stiffened; her parents had won. She was having second thoughts about her engagement to Lord Alsborough. “My love?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” She cried. “I will marry you!” She pulled him down onto the bed. Straddling him, she guided his straining cock into her; gasping as inch-by-inch, he filled her.
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