Portrait of His Obsession

by Portrait of His Obsession (lit)

  He neared the cottage ruins, the sleeves of his white linen shirt ruffling in the strong wind beneath his dark blue waistcoat. He’d discarded his jacket when it was reported that Syrian wasn’t in her room. Instantly, he consulted the portrait, not caring that Thomas was right on his heels.

  When he asked the portrait where she was, Thomas had gasped as if he were insane. Only after seeing for himself the changes wrought upon his work did he understand its mystical power. No longer did Syrian stand by the broken wall in the garden. She was before the old cottage.

  Harrison saw her mare and urged his horse faster. Coming up along side it, he finally slowed. Her horse startled nervously and ambled away from their intrusion, trotting off into the distant field only to stop and watch him for a brief instant before turning to graze again.

  Harrison swung roughly off his mount. He found Syrian on the bridge and strode straight for her. Her eyes glared in his direction, watching him approach.

  Syrian watched the Earl come for her. How dare he intrude upon her solitude! But, seeing his angry face, her heart fluttered. She took a quick step back and then another.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked, nearing her.

  Syrian gulped.

  "You left me waiting at the altar for you," Harrison charged. She flinched ready to fight him off. To her amazement, his hands lifted and pulled her face roughly to his in a searing kiss. Syrian moaned in surprise. Harrison’s tongue invaded her mouth, leaving her breathless and weak. She tried to resist, but she couldn’t. Her hands rode up his shoulders to settle around his neck. She pressed her length into him, feeling the familiar pull of his strong body.

  Harrison ripped away from her with a growl. She blinked, confused as he stepped back. His chest heaved, as did hers.

  "How did you find me?" she asked.

  "Your portrait, it showed me," Harrison said, knowing she didn’t understand. He didn’t have the strength to explain it to her. "Why did you leave me? Why won’t you marry me?"

  "My lord," Syrian began. She tasted him on her lips.

  "No, you feel for me," he said, beginning to pace. He tossed his hands up in the air. "I don’t understand. What would you have of me? Tell me what to do to make you feel anything for me. Tell me what to say and I’ll say it. Do you want me to change? I’ll change … I…."

  Syrian felt tears coming to her eyes. She didn’t want just pretty words. She wanted all of him.

  "Tell me how to make you love me." Harrison couldn’t stand it any longer. He came to stand before her, his troubled blue eyes pleading with her. "Tell me how to make you feel as I feel for you."

  A tear spilled over her cheek and she dashed it away. Her lips trembled. "I don’t wish to marry you, my lord. Please, let us not go through with it."

  "Am I so horrible that you can’t find it in your heart to be with me? Am I such an ill-suited match? Why won’t you have me?"

  "Because you can’t love me!" Syrian screamed. Instantly, she gripped her fingers over her mouth. She shook violently, backing away from him, stumbling over the boards of the bridge in her haste. Her words were a whisper, as she finished, "It’s not possible. You only love yourself."

  "How can you not know?" he asked, softly. He let the full force of his torment into his eyes, his face, his voice. "I can only love you. I saw you in the garden, dancing in the rain and I fell madly in love with you. How can you not know it?"

  "How could I?" she asked weakly. Her limbs shook, but this time it was with unsure pleasure. She looked at his expression and she wanted to believe him.

  "There has been no one else in my bed for over a year and there has never been anyone else in my heart." He went to her again and gathered her up into his arms. "I love you, Syrian. I meant it when I said I wanted you to be my wife. I know that you don’t care for me, but you want me. And, if you just give me a chance, I’ll make you happy. I’ll deny you nothing in this world. I’ll give you everything I have."

  Syrian glanced over the Earl’s shoulder. She noticed Thomas on his horse, as well as Mr. Turner. Next to them was the local vicar.

  Harrison swooped down on his knee. He pulled a ring from his waistcoat and held it up to her. "Please, Syrian, marry me. You never gave me the opportunity to ask you properly before, so I’m asking you now. Complete me. Be my wife."

  Syrian looked at him and then to the approaching horses. Her mouth trembling, she bid him, "Stand up."

  Harrison did, frowning. His face hardened and closed. His eyes turned mournful as if his heart broke inside him.

  "Kiss me," she said softly. "Just keep kissing me."

  Syrian burst forward, grabbing his face in her hands. She plied him with soft kisses, sprinkling them over his face. She pulled back, smiling up at him through her tears.

  "Why didn’t you tell me you loved me before?" she asked. "That’s all I’ve been waiting to hear. I don’t care about the title, the money, the adventures. You’re all the adventure I want. I love you, Harrison. How could you not know that? I’ve loved you since you first stepped out of your carriage and smiled at me."

  Syrian touched his dimple.

  "But--"

  "Foolish man," she said quietly. "Why do you think I tried so hard to put you off?"

  "Is everything settled?"

  Syrian and Harrison looked at Thomas. He stood at the end of the bridge, looking them over, taking in Syrian’s tearstained face--so full of emotions he’d never seen in her, never dreamt of seeing--to Harrison’s wide grin.

  "Yes," Syrian said.

  Harrison looked at her and she lifted her finger for him to give her the ring. He grinned, staring into her eyes as he slipped it onto her finger, and he didn’t stop staring at her until the vicar married them right there on the bridge. Mr. Turner and Thomas stood by as witnesses.

  After the short ceremony, Harrison kissed his wife and swooped her up into his arms. Grinning, he turned to their small group of guests. "Thank you, but kindly leave now. I go to take my wife on our honeymoon."

  Syrian wrapped her arms around his neck. Her skirts blew gently against them. "Honeymoon?"

  Harrison nodded towards the cottage. "I believe we have some unfinished business here."

  Thomas paled. He quickly turned to shoo the vicar and Mr. Turner away. Then, watching as Harrison carried his sister off towards the abandoned cottage, he called, "Until later tonight then?"

  "Yes, Thomas," Syrian called, waving him away. Then, leaning to kiss her husband, she said, "I can’t believe this."

  "What?" Harrison teased. "I told you I would take care of you. This is the best accommodation the field has to offer. Only the best honeymoon for my wife."

  "Oh," she said in feigned anger, slapping his strong shoulder. "Can’t you take anything serious?"

  "Why?" he murmured, carrying her over the threshold. He kissed her again, pouring his heart into hers. "When the world will take things seriously enough for the both of us?"

  Epilogue

  Syrian looked up from where she lay against her husband’s naked chest. Her eyes found the blanket thrown over the chair. They stayed in the Caldwell guestroom, preparing to leave for their home in the morning. Their trunks were already loaded and waiting for them below stairs.

  Syrian yawned, purring contentedly. Harrison had made love to her until her body could barely move from exhaustion and then he’d made love to her again. It took Harrison and Thomas a long while to convince Syrian that her portrait was mystical, but after such ardent pleas, she finally conceded to believe them.

  "I want to see it," Syrian said.

  Harrison followed her eyes to the portrait. She’d yet to look at it. He grinned, kissing her deeply. She moaned, feeling her body growing moist for him--always moist for him.

  "You may have whatever you wish, darling," he said softly. He spanked her lightly on her naked backside and crawled from her arms. Crossing naked over to the covered portrait, Harrison hesitated.

  Syrian eyed his handsome form, moving to follow him. Wr
apping her arms round his waist, she leaned into him, and peeked from beneath his arm. "I still think I’m a fool for believing you."

  "I swear it’s all true," he answered. "Look for yourself."

  Harrison whipped the blanket off the portrait, revealing it to soft blue moonlight. But, it wasn’t Syrian who gasped to see it. Harrison leaned forward, amazed to see the portrait as it once was, with Syrian standing by the broken stone wall, surrounded by roses.

  "I swear," he began.

  "Look," Syrian said pointing. She knelt down and touched the surface. Her fingers glanced over her face. "I look happy."

  Harrison joined her on the floor. Indeed, the portrait smiled secretively out at them, the expression not reserved as it once was but content.

  "Look at your hand," Harrison said, pointing to where they should have been clasped together. His eyes rounded and he looked at her flat stomach. Instantly, he brought his hand to feel her.

  "Do you think…?" Syrian asked.

  Harrison growled, playfully tackling her to the floor. "I think … no, I know that I have everything I could ever wish for, right here with you, my wife."

  "Oh," Syrian gasped. It was the only sound she managed as Harrison began kissing her.

  THE END

  A sneak peak at

  CUPID’S ENCHANTMENT

  By

  Michelle M. Pillow

  A Historical Paranormal Romance

  COMING FEBRUARY 2005 FROM NCP!

  Cupid was livid. Nay, he was outraged. He was beyond furious.

  Make fun of him, would he? Make the whole court at Lycaon think he was a joke--an incompetent clod that couldn’t make two pigs fall in love! Call him a fairy, would he? Call him a rosy-faced cherub? He accidentally hit a man instead of a goat with a love dart, causing one couple to fall in love four hundred years ago, and he got branded a matchmaker for life.

  Bah! Ach!

  It was time for the jesting to end! Cupid would show them what this squat little cherub could do. He’d have the last laugh. He’d prove to them that not only could he make the whole Lycaon court fall in love--he’d make them fall in love with the same woman!

  Oh, and this was his favorite part! He’d not get just any woman. He’d bring one from the mortal realm--the ugliest woman he could find! See how the wolves liked panting after a human--their ancient hunters, the whole reason the realms of mortal and magic were separated in the first place.

  His short legs pumped along the dusty abandoned path coming from his cave home. He kicked angrily at little daisies that dared to grow along the side, ruining the look of his taller weeds. He hated flowers! He hated lycans! And he most definitely hated to watch people fall in love!

  Cupid paused in his tirade to look at the vial of bright pink philter in his gnarled troll hand. A wide grin spread over his thick, long lips, dipping under his oversized nose. His small black eyes lit with greedy pleasure. This potion was the old magic. No simple blow dart would do this time. Once he doused the mortal woman with this pheromone, the entire Lycan Guard would be brought howling to their knees.

  He’d find a woman for them, all right. Then that overbearing Lord Ilar would never doubt his magic again!

  To read more excerpts from Michelle M Pillow please visit her website www.michellepillow.com and be sure to sign up for her mailing list to hear about her new releases.