by Lisa Torquay
Almost time for luncheon, she calculated. She stood from the bench and appreciated the grey shades of the landscape. The newly green trees, against the cloudy sky, shook with the wind, their rustling filled the crisp air. She mounted the mare again and headed for the manor. Tomorrow she’d practice a little archery, she planned, she didn’t want to get rusty,
Afternoons were calling time, so she required a proper dress. Her wardrobe bored her to death lately. In the lazy hours, when she knew there would be no visits, she wore her tunics and read in her rooms. The foreign attire appalled her maid for the lack of layers. But they were so incomparably comfortable she found it difficult to give them up, anyway. In the afternoons, though, she must be conventionally presentable. A corset, she couldn’t stand any longer. She’d almost banned them from her daily life. She’d wear these only in parties and balls. Loose.
In the drawing room, she sat with a book as her maid sat in a corner with her sewing. The usual setting for them these afternoons.
Mr Burns, the butler, brought her the card of a visitor. Predictably, Lord Stanford. Lucinda allowed the butler to bring him to the drawing room. Marques of Stanford’s land bordered the Lancefield’s at the north end. He’d been angling for match lately as he found it convenient to enlarge his radius of influence in the region. Every time he learned of her presence in the manor, he made frequent calls.
George Stanford walked into the room groomed in a fashionable suit and top-hat. With an unremarkable general appearance. In his mid-twenties, shorter than she, thinning blonde hair, common blue eyes and hands too small for a man’s. “Lady Lucinda.” He bowed courteously.
Lucinda curtsied. “Lord Stanford, please have a seat.” She called for tea and kept the drawing room’s door open for decency’s sake.
A dull boredom invaded Lucinda. His visits had invariably the same routine. He commented on the weather, moved on to land affairs, asked about her family, finished his tea and took his leave. Today would be no different. But she decided to endure the visit stoically, it’d be over in due time. So she carried out her role of host, served tea, smiled, commented his statements, offered more tea and politely answered his questions. She had to keep the social niceties going as she needed to maintain her options open. An earl’s daughter must make a marriage for connections and Lord Stanford displayed many.
The whole time, her mind drifted. The sudden warmth of the desert sun assaulted her memory with such force she felt it on her skin. With it, the day Tariq tore her Bordeaux-coloured dress after detecting the damage the sun had done to her. Those chiselled lips of his on her bared shoulder nearly caused her lashes to weigh down with the pleasure it evoked. For a moment, her stare flew through the window with a longing which threatened to overwhelm her.
“I bid you good-day, my lady.” Lord Stanford’s voice catapulted her back from her reveries as she stood automatically and stretched her hand for him to bow over, a doll’s smile frozen o her lips.
She shut the drawing room’s door after he left, closed her eyes and sighed. Finished at last. Today, his visit was especially endless. “I thought he’d never leave.” She told Megan, her maid.
“He got enthusiastic with his lands today, my lady.”
“Too much for my taste.” Her hand on her forehead. These days, she’d been restless and impatient as if nothing could catch her attention. The only thing which calmed her were her rides in the morning. She yearned for things she would never have again and she didn’t have a clue how to put up with them. A completely new state of mind to her.
“I’m going for a walk.” The hour being early, maybe physical strain would make her feel better. “Thank you for keeping me company, Megan.”
Megan stood up and curtsied. “Not at all, my lady.” And walked out of the room.
Lucinda left the house in brisk pace and walked for more than an hour. By dinner time she was a little better.
That night Lucinda had vivid dreams about Tariq, his kisses, his touch. So real that when she opened her eyes, sitting up in the night, she wanted to scream in frustration. Fortunately, Megan slept in the servant’s quarter, or her sleep would be disturbed.
Morning dawned with buckets of rain pouring against the Edwardian windows of her bedroom. Her already coarse mood declined. She’d planned on an early ride and archery today. Instead, she’d have to be confined, having to tackle her restlessness. She decided on a hot bath and, after having dressed her purple tunic, took refuge in the library by the fire.
Shortly before luncheon, a commotion rose in the corridors. The rain had finally stopped and a grey light tinted the library. A second later the door burst open and the world almost crumbled at her very feet.
Tariq halted at the threshold, tall, powerful and energetic. His obsidian hair mussed by the wind, he wore breeches and fine hessians muddy with the wet road. White shirt and cravat, and a riding black coat that made him look even more domineering. His cognac eyes trained on her. English attire fit him so perfectly it screamed an insult to her countrymen.
Lucinda’s heart leaped and pounded as it’d fire from her chest. She blanched and her forces faltered as she struggled not to lose consciousness. Never in her wildest fantasies had she indulged in seeing him again.
And there he stood. Bodily. His presence a gale-blast of emotions, it threatened to crush her sanity.
“What are you doing here?” She whispered so weakly he might have not heard. Her eyes wide, her lips parted and dry. Her book squeezed, as her hands pressed it with all her force against her bosom.
This was the man she loved. The man her body yearned for every single desolate night, since she’d left Tunis. The man her heart had been torn in shreds. The man who wouldn’t leave her thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Lady Lucinda.” Mr Burns intervened. “I tried to tell him it is not receiving hour, but he’d not hear me.
Of course he wouldn’t, she thought with a drop of tenderness for such a familiar trait. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to scream in anger for his arrogance. All at the same second. Except these conflicting emotions rendered her motionless.
And she wanted to demand what took him so long!
But she didn’t. She strove for a modicum of articulation and answered her butler. “It’s alright, Mr Burns. You can go now. I’ll call you if there’s need.”
With a doubtful expression, Burns bowed and left, clicking the door shut.
Beautiful. She appeared beautiful in the tunic he’d given her. Tariq looked at her and he had this nearly ineluctable impulse to go and kiss her senseless. The flabbergasted look in her wide pepper-mint eyes stopped him though. He’d spent these last weeks in a ragged desperation to find her. He’d sent Aziz to Syracuse and came to know she’d left on a ship to England. His affairs had kept him in Tunis and it took all his will-power not to forsake everything and rush after her. Only to arrive in London and learn she was not at the Lancefield town house. He did not ring the bell there and ask, naturally. He found out by talking to the servants as Aziz didn’t speak English. And then there was this breakneck ride here, his patience hanging by a thread, his craving for her in overdrive. He’d almost punched the damn butler before he forced his entry in blind search for her. The nervous glance the butler shot at the library’s door gave it away.
“I came for my woman.” He answered her forgotten mindless question. Her reaction to his hoarse voice incurable.
“What?” Unachievable not to be defiant with him. “Are you going to abduct me again?” The desire to run to him and kiss him to the end of the ages almost overpowered her. She lifted her chin in an attempt to hide this emotional cauldron in her, holding her book as a shield.
“If need be!” The velvety tone lower. This time it would be the right woman. It had been the right woman all along, you moron! A nagging voice reprimanded.
He wouldn’t need to, she mused. She’d go willingly. To Hades, if he sailed to it. If he’d touch her as he did. As her body was burning for right now. “
A little more difficult here, I reckon.” She said instead.
“But not impossible.” Never had a woman left him the way she did. And never had he been so lost and furious. And frustrated. To miss a woman this much was unprecedented for him.
She looked at his magnificent cognac eyes, which luminosity intensified by the fire in the fireplace. “We cannot, you know it.” She murmured infirmly as her fingers stabbed the book’s pages, marking it unevenly.
“I don’t care.” His rather aggressive tone brought butterflies to her belly.
“Obviously you don’t. But I do.” She countered in a clearer voice. “A concubine is a comfortable arrangement for you.”
“You’d always have my protection.” He paced nearer her.
A shadow of a smile on her face. “I am protected here.” She paced back. If she gave in to her yearning, it would be the end of her.
“You know what I mean.” He advanced farther. That she wore one of the garments he’d given her proved she had not forgotten him, or their time together.
“I deserve more.” She backed farther.
“What do you want?” He continued approaching, his glare searing every cell in her. “I’ll give you anything.”
She paced back and the window stopped her. “I want everything.” Her voice faltered because he came two feet from her. The scent of him hit her nostrils. Wind, horse and man. Inebriating.
“So do I.” It came as a silky caress and in a completely different meaning than hers.
Lucinda had to bend her head back more than forty-five degrees to meet his eyes; hers, wide, dilated. “It’s better if you leave.” Her suggestion backfired by her grave inflection. She had to moisten lips as dry as the desert.
His gaze fell on her sensuous mouth, making them tingle. He followed avidly every tiny move of her tongue, captivated. “Better, much better.” He referred to her lips, naturally. And then she was in his tight embrace, his mouth plundering hers, the world vanishing in a distant derangement.
She didn’t even try to resist, didn’t stand a chance. Her hands, holding the book, trapped between them as if simple paper could defend her from the avalanche of heat that invaded her instantly. She moaned helpless.
One of his hands slid behind her nape and pressed her mouth against his. His other arm circled her waist and made her entire body lean on hard muscles. Their tongues entwined in a melting dance which turned her to jelly. He deepened the kiss, deepening her hunger, an empty sensation in her core.
He turned his head to gain more access to her, nipping her lower lip, licking her upper one, creating a criss-cross of sensation which ripped at her insides. His hand pressed her hips to his and she registered his urgent need reflected on her own.
She needed more, so much more. The deprivation she had been through taking its toll. The damn book impeded her to merge her frustrated fingers in his sleek, marvellous obsidian hair.
“Lucinda.” A whisper, more like a demand. And a promise to give, to take, to join. To relieve.
Knocks on the door.
Tariq went back to looting her mouth.
Pause at the door.
His tongue delved deeper. The window supported her because her knees would not. Her sole choice to open more for him.
He moaned.
She moaned.
More knocks.
Blast!
Tariq moved away breathing hard. He turned from her, raking his fingers in his hair.
She envied even his fingers. A sense of abandonment overtook her. “Come.” she uttered with her last forces.
Mr Burns opened the door and absorbed the scene in the room. Lucinda leaning weak on the cool glass of the window, enfolding the crushed book in her tremulous arms. Tariq, hands on his breeches’ waistline looking blindly at the fire in the fireplace, the light playing bluish on his hair.
“I came to check if you need anything, Lady Lucinda.”
She couldn’t blame him, poor man. She was alone in the manor and he had the task to make sure she remained safe.
“I am fine, Mr Burns. The gentleman in on his way.” She didn’t spare so much as a glance in his direction. Didn’t want to see him walking out, taking with him all she was, all she necessitated, leaving her in this scarcity, this endless sterile desert.
Tariq didn’t cast his heated gaze in her direction either. His arms fell along his body, as if giving up, and he marched out of the library, a sheaf of tense muscles. And now she’d become the first woman who’d invited him out of her house altogether. The first and only woman to ever cause this earthquake in him.
The library door closed silently. When it did, Lucinda’s legs gave and she deliquesced to the floor, grasping the lonesome book, as if it’d turn into the plank that would keep her above water. She remembered to breathe as her forehead fell and touched the yellowed cover.
Tariq left her haughty manor in wrenching vexation. He mounted his Arab black stallion and rode the muddy track to the property gates. Frustration, resentment and a perverse joy mingled in him. Seeing her and not being able to take her lacerating enough. That she had the power to command her staff for whatever she wished, was new to him. But part of him, or the better part of him, got smugly satisfied that he got to see her, be in the same room, kiss her. The bitter-sweet chance to kiss her and envision an unattainable paradise tore his body in contradicted emotions. It worsened his craving, though; as he saw himself in a stalemate, without knowing how to proceed from here. He needed to take careful action. The careful part presented a problem. He didn’t have the precious ability to think clearly where she was concerned. She pulled him like a magnet and he lost all rational mind. He didn’t have the faintest idea of what this represented. This pulp of sensations, feelings and scattered thoughts probably posed the strangest state he’d ever been in. It wasn’t pleasant in the least.
The village came into view and he rode to the inn.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lucinda retired early that evening. Her stomach rejected any suggestion of dinner and she’d ordered tea to her rooms. Finished with it, she opened the door and went out in the balcony. The rain had long gone, the moon shone in between wisps of clouds and a cool breeze waved the curtains and combed her waist-long free hair.
The certainty she would not get any sleep crossed her. The sight of Tariq caused an earthquake in her insides. To learn of his presence right here, in her country, in this very village was creakingly disquieting. Distractedly, she pulled the balcony doors closed and walked towards the bed. She wished he hadn’t come, after all; his nearness would delay forgetting him. No, she’d never forget him, but time would surely make it less painful.
Go back with him? Elope? Those belonged in books and daydreams. This here was reality. Hard and insensitive. Tender hearts didn’t survive in the ton. That’s why she wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of believing in fairy tales. She drew the bed-covers and snuggled under the sheets. No, reality had to be dealt with using practical solutions. She’d lie down now and hope for a soothing sleep. One that’d bring oblivion to her longing heart. And help her keep to sensible choices.
The balcony door opened bringing a gust of wind flying the curtains. Oh, my, I forgot to lock them, she remembered. Sitting up, she made to stand and go lock it when a shadow surged against the moonlight. Dressed in white kaftan. A shiver ran down her spine, her heart accelerated and breath ignored. Tariq. The simmering cauldron of emotions rose all over again threatening to suffocate her. She just sat on her fluffy mattress, wide eyes, lips parted.
He locked the doors and turned to her. “Do you think I’d leave you alone, Lucinda?” He paced to the bed. “Do you think I’d leave us alone?” He came near her bed. “We got enough of alone, don’t you agree?”
His low hoarse tone bathed her in hot honey and her insides reacted to him uninhibited. She watched as he touched the bed, eyes merged in hers, in the moonlight. He pulled the bed sheets aside and sat in front of her. She drew in an expectant gulp of air. His hand extend
ed to her night rail neckline, pulling the ribbon that held it in place. It fell, baring her eager full breasts. His hand cupped one of them and his gaze lowered slowly to appreciate it. In between gasps, her spine gave, and she lowered down on her pillow, eyes closed, dried-dated hair spread on it.
No waste of time as he came over her, his stubble mouth met the curve of her neck and she was lost. The moment their bodies touched a deep roiling emotion dominated her. As if she had come home; home at last, after a long unendurable journey through inhospitable seas, endless deserts, freezing icebergs. Her muscles eased off and her body welcomed him as her arms laced his strong neck and her fingers found their aspired smoothness in his sleek hair. She sighed, reaching her so pined for abode in the moulding of their bodies, in his so familiar scent, in the timbre of his voice, in his muscled body.