by Lisa Torquay
“Lucinda.” Tariq breathed. After sucking the sensitive skin on her neck. “These weeks without you defined torture!” He nipped her shoulder, making her prickle entirely. “Painful, bitter, infinite torture.” He lifted his head and directed his hazy gaze to hers, they merged in each other, mesmerised. And then his raven mouth fell on hers in open famine. He invaded her, stroked her, ripped her senses. Greedy, greedier each time, unleashing their suppressed voracity in overflowing waves. They devoured each other in kisses which only made them more unsatisfied.
“Why, Lucinda.” He murmured, covering her in the warm honey of his hoarseness. “Why did you leave?” He nipped her ear, nudged his need against her thighs. “Don’t you know you belong with me?” In frenzy, his mouth caught a breast, filling it with one and his hand with the other. He savoured her as if he banqueted on rare delicacies. Again and again.
Heat, quick and incendiary, burned her from head to toes. Her head bent back with a moan, as her night rail bunched on her arched middle, totally disdained. Her hands sneaked under his kaftan, impatient for his taught flesh. Reluctantly, he left her breasts to take it off. He came down on her mouth anew as his expert fingers found her core, teasing her ready folds. Insistent, cunning. Merciless.
Lucinda immersed in a vacuum of incandescent rapacity, her skin ablaze, her thoughts bugged. She melted and melted at each skilled fondle which increased the sense of emptiness and made her rise to the point of ebullition. She could take it no more, and circled him with her legs, pulled him to her and demanded their bodies finally join.
After hastily pulling down his sirwaal, revealing his throbbing need, he entered her in a long, hot stroke, filling her to maximum capacity. She revelled in it, gasping, and opened wider for him, eyes closed, lips parted, short breaths, pleasure all over her.
“It’s delicious when you ravish me like this, jewel.” And he repeated the movement with even more temptation. He, too, overtaken by bliss, buried his face in the curve of her neck, their skin touching everywhere. He breathed hard, holding her, trying not to give in to his irrational need. He groaned as she moved in search of satisfaction, throwing him in a sea of agony.
Desperation took them over, imperative. Tariq had starved for her night after endless night, in his dreams, in his daydreams, in his insomnias. His flesh joined with hers caused boiling relief mingled with arduous insanity. He was losing the battle against himself. Her pelvis exploited him, extracted her delectation, leaving perdition in its wake. He could not fight it any longer. He just moved faster, harder, blinder, when she squeezed him so tightly, he feared he was going to die. And then he was lost, going and going, until he exploded among grunts as she robbed him of all he had, rendering him spent and released. Surrendered, given to one another, a tangle of limbs held them attached as if the simple idea of withdrawing was tragic.
They fell asleep, peace and contentment finding them at last.
Tariq opened his eyes in the midnight hour and looked at Lucinda in the moonlight. She snuggled in him and he tightened his embrace. There was no other woman on the planet he’d rather be with at any time. She had such strength in her, enduring a desert crossing, finding a way to go back to Sicily. She figured out creative solutions for challenging situations. So wilful, so clever! And different from the women he had been used to meet. He wanted her in his life. Forever. He could not live without the ardent craving she induced in him, her passion for life or her determination. She was his perfect match, bit by infuriating bit. Yes, because even her defiance aroused him.
Lucinda stirred in his arms and opened her eyes. She smiled and stretched languidly against him, causing their bodies to graze together. Her smile made her even more beautiful, if possible. He brushed his lips over her cheeks, enjoying her tender skin.
The gesture softened Lucinda. After their consuming raw joining, he could be so suave. She caressed his arms, palming each bunch of muscle, completely awake now.
“You never told me how you reached Syracuse.” The low silky question breathed on her cheeks.
Not that they had the time for it.
“I worked as a seaman.”
Tariq stared at her perplexed, eyebrows lifted. An ugly swear nearly escaped him, for her temerity in exposing herself to such dangers. “Just like that?”
“I didn’t have money to pay for a passage.” She murmured before her lips grazed the hairs on his chest.
He closed his cognac eyes, not to be distracted by that seductive caress. “And you arrived in Syracuse without problems.” Hard to believe she’d faced such a trip.
“A number blisters on my hands.” Dismissively, she continued her self-gratification on his chest, only now she nipped his olive nipple.
Impossible to ignore that gesture as he moaned. “You should have talked to me.”
Her hands roamed his back, his hips. “To no avail, more like it.”
If he disagreed, he’d be lying. He wouldn’t have let her go anywhere out of his sight, out of his touch. Out of his bed. Even now he had this crazy impulse to haul her and take her back with him, at any excuse. Nothing else mattered.
But her hands distracted him shamelessly. When they found his readiness, there was no more time for senseless talk.
Minutes before dawn, Tariq kissed her feverishly and exited by the same way he through which he came. He’d left his horse hidden in a copse of trees nearby. She turned strangely cold without him holding her, but, sated, her body relaxed. She fell asleep anew and woke up too late in the morning.
Later in the day, she decided to ride to the village. Her choice had nothing to do with the possibility of seeing Tariq, naturally, she tried to convince herself. Ladies in the country used a buggy to go to the village. Today, Lucinda solely wanted to enjoy a ride, even if on side-saddle. She wore a green riding habit which matched her eyes elegantly.
She’d tied her horse by the church, when she heard someone call her name. Lord Stanford. She turned to him with a hollow smile. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Lucinda.” He bowed, taking off his top-hat. “What an enchanting chance meeting for a spring day!” He flattered.
His clothes impeccable. Compared to Tariq’s impressive presence, though, he’d disappear. “Thank you, my lord.”
“What brings your delicate presence to our village?”
“Oh, only enjoying the fresh air.” She smiled and tilted her head pleasantly.
Unmounted, Tariq guided his fine horse through the village’s only lane, intending to ride around the country and explore the views. He dressed a fine white shirt, black cravat, breeches and black coat. The apparel made him look even taller, his shoulders broader and the black coat matched his obsidian sleek hair. He was taking the direction of the woods when he caught sight of Lucinda talking to a man. She showed the man her best smiles and courteous manners. His blood boiled. He understood it to be common here for women talk to men to whom they weren’t related. But he would not swallow the flirtatious scene! Something burned inside him like red-hot iron.
He didn’t take a minute to think. Not a second to consider he should not approach them without being formally introduced. The idea of her acknowledging him in public would compromise her, especially because he was a foreigner. The notion never crossed his mind. When he realised it, his steps had taken him to them, pulling his Arab black stallion by the reins.
“Excuse me.” He could bluff as a gentleman too, if he so saw fit.
Lucinda’s eyes widened on him. The milk-sop turned to him with a look indicating he didn’t like to be disturbed. Good, because it’d be exactly what Tariq would do. “Would you be so kind as to inform me if there’s an inn nearby?” He faked.
At this, Lucinda fusilladed him with her pepper-mint eyes. A very kissable view indeed.
“And you might be?” The milk-sop dared ask, obviously detecting his foreign accent. The black stallion and the fine clothes a signal of wealth.
Tariq smiled as if he’d pounce on the man. “
Tariq Al-Fadih, at your service, my lord.” He bowed, but there was nothing humble in the gesture. If possible, he seemed even more powerful.
An expression of disdain printed on the milk-sop’s irrelevant face. “Oh, a barbarian among us!” He said tactless. He didn’t bother introducing himself, or Lucinda for that matter. A grave breach of protocol.
“That would depend very much on the point of view, my lord.” Tariq’s too silky tone dripped with venom. What he really wanted was to haul Lucinda away from that man. From any man, to tell the truth.
Lucinda had to make an effort not to laugh at the exchange. Elegantly, Tariq had just called Lord Stanford a barbarian. This didn’t sweeten the fact that she was furious though. How dare he interfere with her social appearances? And if he’d said the wrong thing, he’d have compromised her. The view of him, so impressive in English attire, had almost knocked the air out of her lungs. Perhaps, she shouldn’t have come to the village. The sight of him would always take her off balance. More than that, the memories of the night, still so fresh, flooded in her, making her blush.
“The inn is along the lane, sir.” Lucinda ventured, hoping he’d excuse himself and let her breath normally, by taking his distance.
“Thank you, my lady.” His cognac-against-fire eyes burned on her.
He lingered. The seconds ticked by in tension. Nobody said a word. Still, he lingered, not giving a sign he’d taken the message to leave. He remained posted before them when he was supposed to thank for the ‘information’ and get lost! Lucinda got increasingly embarrassed. And annoyed! She flushed and ogled fixedly at him, willing him away. But he never moved, not even a blink. The two men eyed each other in open hostility and Lucinda bore the tense moment no longer.
“If the gentlemen will excuse me, I have to be on my way.” A strategic retreat presented the best solution. “Lord Stanford. Sir.” She curtsied, turned and mounted her white Arab mare.
She fumed. Who did the blast man think he was to act like that! She hastened her mount out of pure anger. Not even the wind on her face discoloured her simmering temper. She’d barely entered the woods when she heard horse hooves behind her. Needless to check who it was. The infuriating love of her life! She halted, dismounted and tied her mare. She turned to him, tying his stallion, arms crossed on her chest, chin up, eyes darting murderous at him.
“What do you think you were doing back there?” She said as he neared and she had to lift her head to meet his cognac eyes.
“You flirted impudently with that milk-sop!” He accused back. As soon she’d left, he took his leave with the arrogant bastard, made to head to the inn, turned at a shortcut and rushed after her.
“And what do you have to do with that?” She defied.
“You’re my woman.” He emphasised forceful. “I don’t allow it!” He stood legs open and arms crossed in an autocratic posture.
“I am not your woman!” Her arms flew to her waist.
Ignoring it, he watched as she moistened her lips. “He’s proposing then?” He asked disdainful. The feeble dandy would never be able to handle her.
Her chin rose higher and her beautiful green eyes flashed temper. “What if he is?”
Fury branded him, hot and incontrollable. The idea of another man in her life, in her bed, enjoying her ardour drove him to insanity. Impossible to go on like this. Here in England, she could marry anyone she chose and nothing would be left for him. This scared him much more than he’d be prepared to admit. “You’re marrying no one!” He pulled her to his arms, their bodies clashing and igniting.
The simple truth was: he didn’t have the least decrepit ability to keep his hands off her. It came stronger than him and from a more profound place. The need to be near her, with her, in her would always overcome him.
Noses nearly touching, their eyes battled, uneven breath. Time stopped. Or rushed, they didn’t know. Tariq would never understand how a woman could throw him from fury to desire and make him hard in a matter of seconds. His other hand held the nape of her neck, as her head elevated to him. He kissed her fervently, despair dominating his guts.
Their tongues danced, their bodies combusted, carnality ruled. Lucinda didn’t have the ability to stop plunging her fingers in his sleek hair or moaning when he deepened the kiss. All she did was open more and more for him, an ever gnawing hunger overtaking her.
“Marry me, Lucinda!” Tariq murmured in his hoarse voice, as his lips caressed her long neck.
“No.” She whispered weakly.
He sucked the sensitive place between her neck and her shoulder. “Marry me.” He repeated more hotly.
Her head bent even lower back, eyes closed, a haze of pleasure in her. “We cannot.” She breathed.
“I don’t care.” His lips strolled up her neck. “We’ll find a way.” And he possessed her mouth again, more searing, more urgently, hungrier. His erection strained between them while liquid fire prompted her.
They kissed ardently until they must come up for air. Panting, they stared at each other. “Come home with me, Lucinda!”
Home, she thought. Yes, it’d be home, doubtlessly. With him, the most inhospitable corner on earth would become home.
But she lacked the luxury to forget her duties; this was not only about her. She disentangled from him, putting distance between them. She shook her head tremulously, unable to voice something that dilacerated her.
“You might be carrying my child. Have you considered it?” He breathed hard and his eyes were flints on her.
He had a point; the possibility dreadful and exciting at the same time. "It's my problem. I'll stay in the country manor, give birth and move on with my life." It’d be the happiest agony of her life to carry his child, with hair and eyes like his, possibly.
His brows pleated, his eyes narrowed. "My child won't be a bastard!” In his country, the children born by concubines were acceptable.
“There’s nothing to do about that.” Not there in England, at least.
"Would you shame your family with such a scandal? He appealed.
"What's the choice? That I shame my family with an outsider?" Her voice grave. It hadn’t been her intention to offend him, but that was the reality.
He didn’t have an answer to that. With her background, she was right. In his country, women also had to behave blamelessly, or their families would fall into disgrace too. He paced back and forth, hand raking his hair.
Surely too heavy a burden to carry. Women having to be spotless, so men would be free to play around inconsequently.
“It’d be better if we didn’t meet again.” She said in a strangled voice, her heart bleeding at the idea. Her whitish complexion told of her emotional distress.
His eyes snapped to her. “Never!” He paced to her, stopping inches form her face. “We belong together!”
“The world disagrees.” A simple, logical conclusion.
“To hell with it!” His hands held her face up to him and their eyes merged, breaths mingling. They stood there plunged in each other for long moments. “Leave the door open for me tonight.” He commanded, smoothly. Next second he mounted and disappeared.
Air flew out of her lungs as he turned his black stallion and rode towards the village. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t continue this madness, it’d only turn worse. The more involved she got, the more difficult it’d be to leave it behind and follow through with her duties.
Lucinda rode home in a dispirited state of mind. Being with Tariq was desolating because there was no way of legitimating them. Being without him could only be named as the cruellest torture ever perpetrated in her life. The single sensible thing to do was to walk away from him and hope her feelings for him at least faded to a bearable degree over the years.
In the evening, Lucinda paced her bedroom restless, heart beating fast. She’d considered the possibility of locking her balcony doors and pretending not to hear him. She might just not acknowledge him. But the anguish that assailed her at the mere idea so excruciating. A world
worse than the hopeless encounters they might engage. She didn’t have enough strength to keep him away. Not today. Not tonight. Not in a million years.
She approached the balcony doors, the rain flagellated them mercilessly. The fire burned in the fireplace, bathing her bedroom in its warm glow. He surely wouldn’t be able to come in this weather, sadly. But she unlocked the doors, regardless. With a sigh she reached her bed, night rail rustling her legs. A sore hope no one discovered his night visits. In such a small village as this, the rumour would spread like wildfire.