He liked and respected the confidence with which she spoke about her musical ability as she assessed the challenges in front of her and what she could do to meet them. When it came to music, she knew herself very well. Right now, her attitude was akin to that of a master swordsman surveying a battlefield.
Reaching around her, he picked up the lute. “Come with me.”
She followed him as he walked over to one end of the couch and sat. Snagging a footstool, he dragged it over to position it between his knees. “Have a seat here and put your back to me.”
“Okay.” She settled on the footstool, facing away from him.
He leaned forward and reached around her waist to put the lute in her lap. “I think you’re right,” he said in her ear. “A lot of what you already know from playing the guitar will be applicable to the lute, so it was a good choice. But there’s a lot that’s different as well.”
A subtle shiver ran over her, all but undetectable. She leaned back against him. “For one thing, a guitar has six strings, and this one has fifteen.”
“This is a Renaissance lute. Baroque lutes have even more strings. You won’t use a nail to play it either. You’ll use your fingers to pluck at the strings, or maybe for some songs use double-plucking. On the fretboard, you can also move the frets—they’re not fixed in place.”
“Fascinating,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice that.”
“Plus you hold it differently than you would a guitar.” Putting his arms around her, he positioned the lute against her chest and adjusted her arms and hands. “Like this.”
“Got it,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “What about my right hand?”
“Feel for your position by touching the soundboard with your little finger, and tuck your thumb in, which is the opposite of how you’d play a guitar.” He ran his fingers along her hand, readjusting as necessary. “More like that.”
“Ah. That is very different.”
The sense of her leaning back against his chest was messing with his concentration. Her slim, lithe body felt like a perfect fit in his arms. Huskily, he told her, “Put your hand over mine, so you can feel how mine feels in the correct position.”
Readily, she complied, lifting her hand away. As he positioned his hand over the strings, she laid hers lightly over the top, her sensitive, clever fingers fitting themselves along the backs of his.
He played a simple melody slowly, allowing her to feel how his hand moved along the strings as he plucked and double-plucked at them. “Do you see?”
“Yes.” Her reply sounded husky. She cleared her throat. “It’s a completely different technique than what I’m used to.”
“You’re not going to develop a solid technique in two days,” he murmured. “I can imagine that will be frustrating, especially since your violin playing is so flawless and transcendent. But all we need to do is to get you to produce something that sounds enjoyable to someone who doesn’t know how to play the lute herself. Perfecting your technique can come later.”
“I’m not used to the neck being so short,” she complained. “The only way to get comfortable with it is by practicing, and the only way to practice enough is over time.”
“True,” he replied. “But that’s where the battle spell should help. It should give you a feeling like an epiphany as the ability to play infuses your mind and body. It won’t last, and you’ll be drained afterward, but if Isabeau wants you to play in the evening, you should be able to go to bed shortly after you finish.”
“That’s if your spell works,” Sidonie said darkly. “You said you weren’t even sure you remembered how to play.”
“The memories are there,” he said. “I just have to access them. Besides, the only way we’ll know is if we try. Are you ready?”
Her shoulders tensed. “Yes. Will it hurt?”
“What, the spell itself?” Having been immersed in magic his entire life, he tended to forget how very little she knew of magic, spells, and Power. “No, not at all. It should feel exhilarating, like a surge of adrenaline.”
“Okay, good.” She relaxed again.
In order to cast the spell, he had to think back and immerse himself in the memory of playing. Aside from this night, he wasn’t sure when the last time was that he’d picked up a lute, let alone played one.
Thankfully the spell didn’t have to be based on the last time. It could be based on an earlier memory.
When he cast back far enough, a memory surfaced.
It had been a hot afternoon, and much of the court had been relaxing by the cool of a deep river. There had been food and wine, and people had napped, read, and talked while Morgan had leaned with his back against the trunk of a willow tree, looked out at the silver sparkles on the sunlit water, and let his mind wander lazily as he plucked the notes of one of his favorite songs.
He’d been happy then, at peace and relaxed. While there had certainly been challenges to face, he’d had absolute confidence they would overcome them. They’d still had so much to build in their thriving, young kingdom….
He didn’t realize that he had tensed, and his breathing had shortened, until Sidonie leaned her head back against his shoulder and tilted her face to him.
She asked, “What’s wrong?”
The breath from her words touched his cheek in small, warm puffs. He had to force a swallow before he could reply in a bare thread of sound. “This is difficult for me.”
She leaned her cheek against his and asked sympathetically, “Is the spell that difficult to cast?”
He had taken pains to make sure she had no idea who he was, but still a small snort escaped him. “No,” he said. “It’s not the spell. It’s the memories. I was… happy then.”
Immediately, she pushed the lute away, arched, and twisted. As she came to face him, she put her arms around his neck and hugged him.
“If this is difficult for you, then we won’t do it,” she told him. “I’ll think of something else. Maybe I can throw myself down a flight of stairs or something. If I have an accident, she can’t expect me to play so soon, can she?”
Both warmed by her concern and alarmed at the direction of her thoughts, he dropped the lute on a nearby cushion and pulled her closer. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are not going to injure yourself just because I don’t like looking back. The past is done, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. What is happening right now is the most important thing—now and what can be done for the future. And we can do something about that.”
“I don’t like the thought of you being in pain,” she persisted stubbornly. “You have done so much to help me, when the truth is you don’t owe me anything.”
“For God’s sake, Sidonie,” he said, exasperated as he cupped the back of her head. “Now is not the time to start refusing my help. Otherwise, you run the risk of undoing everything I’ve done for you already. Now stop arguing about this, and let me get back to casting that spell.”
Her body felt tight with tension. She told him, “And I don’t like the fact that after everything you’ve done for me, I still don’t know your name. You call me by name all the time, and I can’t do the same with you.”
His arms tightened. “We’re not having that conversation again.”
“I don’t see why not. You should at least promise to tell me who you are after we know Isabeau has accepted whatever cockamamie story you cooked up to explain how I got healed in an underground prison.”
“Are you always so stubborn and single-minded?” he demanded.
Even as they argued, he realized he didn’t want her to know who he was. He didn’t want her to look at him with the same kind of fear that he saw in other people’s faces when they looked at him.
The man who played music by a river was as dead as the others in his memory. He had become someone much harder, more cruel, and ruthless. The shadows gave him a sort of anonymity, a certain distance from the man he had become, and he was not in a hurry to give that up.
When she laughed, she
sounded genuinely amused. “Stubborn and single-minded are my middle names. I also have a growing problem with OCD, and you know why? Because I can’t let go of things, and I can’t relax. I never give up on anything, ever.”
He could believe that. All those qualities had gotten her where she was. She was tenacious, strong-willed, exasperating. Talented.
Adorable.
With her face tilted up to his, the subtle edge of moonlight touched along the edge of one high cheekbone, the tilted edge of one eye, and those beautiful, enticing lips. Obeying an impulse he couldn’t put into words, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.
As his lips touched hers, he felt her quick intake of breath. Then he lost himself in the shock of rare pleasure as he kissed that full, sensual mouth.
A shudder ran through her, then her arms tightened, and she kissed him back.
She kissed him back.
Her mouth moved under his, lips parting to allow him access. A rush of euphoria hit him, clean, sharp, and all-encompassing. He bent her back and lost himself in voracious pleasure, spearing her with his tongue as he ravished her luscious, plump mouth.
She made a tiny sound. It was both throaty and surprised at once, and it went straight to his cock. As he grew erect, he came back to himself with a jolt.
When was the last time he had felt such sexual tension, such sensual pleasure?
He couldn’t remember.
But he did remember how inappropriate this was. He had no business kissing her. He had no business touching her or thinking about her in this way. She was trapped and in danger, and his life literally was not his own.
She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t trust him. He couldn’t trust himself.
It was nearly impossible to pull away from her giving responsiveness. Breathing hard, he lifted his head and said hoarsely, “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have done that.”
With a soft growl, she sank her fingers in his hair and raised herself up so that she could kiss him back. This time she was the aggressor, and as she darted her tongue into his mouth, his erection tightened to the point of pain. Each of her fingers sent tingling sensations across his scalp, while her lips shifted and moved over his in an irresistible siren’s call.
For long moments, he lost himself in her. As he ran one hand down the side of her torso, she arched herself up to his touch like a cat asking to be stroked. He wanted—needed—to tear off her clothes and lose himself in the voluptuous heat of her slender, muscular body.
But in a distant corner of his mind, unease began to jangle. It grew louder quickly.
They had gone from one impulsive kiss to a level of raw, urgent need that was unbalanced and dangerous. If only he could remember why it was so dangerous…
He dragged his mouth away from hers. It was much harder to do the second time around, and both of them were breathing raggedly.
For long moments, they each held tense. He couldn’t force his fingers to relax and let go of her.
He wanted to never let go of her.
That last thought was like a bucket of cold water hitting him in the face.
If there was anyone in the entire world who shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like that, it was him.
As his hands loosened, she gave a little ghost of a laugh. In a shaken whisper, she said, “That escalated fast.”
“Too fast,” he gritted. “I had no business kissing you like that.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly object, did I?” she pointed out. She slid her fingers out of his hair with a slow sensuousness that heated his blood.
Catching one of her hands, he kissed it. “No,” he agreed against her fingers. “You didn’t. And I didn’t want to stop. But this isn’t going to get you through your audience with Isabeau. That’s what we need to focus on right now.”
Straightening on the footstool, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Of course it is,” she agreed in a flat, dull voice.
Had he hurt her feelings? He rubbed his face then decided to let it go, because even if he had, it didn’t matter.
Reaching for the lute, he thrust it into her hands. “Time to find out if that spell will actually work,” he told her.
Cradling the lute against her chest, she asked, “And if it doesn’t?”
If it didn’t, he had no idea what to try next.
Infusing his voice with a confidence he didn’t feel, he said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Chapter Twelve
Sid knew she was still embroiled in a fight to stay out of prison. A fight to save her life. She knew she had no business necking like a teenager with a man she knew so little about.
But kissing him had been the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. The absolute very best thing.
And as she looked back over her work-driven life, she realized she didn’t just mean the very best thing from the time she’d been kidnapped. Kissing him had been the best thing to happen in a really, really long time.
She had dated a total of four men somewhat seriously in her life, and she had shared intimacy with two of them. That wasn’t exactly a memorable dating score, but as she had a difficult time being social anyway, she had never gotten too worked up over it.
She was pretty, and she knew it. She also knew most men who were initially attracted to her because of her looks were put off by the intense laser focus she had on her career. And Magic Man was right—she was stubborn and single-minded.
She was ambitious too, and all that meant she wasn’t exactly good wife or baby-making material. She had never really understood when other women talked about their biological clocks ticking. She wasn’t convinced she had a biological clock.
Neither one of her previous lovers had made her catch fire the way Magic Man did. It didn’t matter what he said, or even what her own mind insisted. Her body trusted him. When he touched her, she relaxed. When he’d stroked down her torso, pleasure had followed in a languid wash of fire.
And she had discovered it didn’t matter what he might look like to the eye. He was handsome to her fingertips, and his body felt strong and powerful when he came flush against her. He was easy to talk to, to confide in, and he had a kind of confidence in his own abilities, both magical and otherwise, that was incredibly sexy. He had a strong, sure touch, while his hands were gentle and sensitive. And he was not only experienced, he was intelligent—possibly even much more intelligent than she.
Other than the fact that Isabeau had a magical hold over him that he didn’t consent to, she didn’t know anything about what he did, or what his job was. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know what he looked like, or who his friends were, what places he liked to frequent, what his hobbies were… or even if he had any hobbies.
Under normal circumstances, she would have never considered letting him kiss her, or kissing him back. But currently she was embroiled in a situation that was anything but normal. Normal didn’t apply to her life anymore.
Right now all she wanted to do was neck in the dark with a man she didn’t know, and when he put on the brakes—and rightfully so—then all she wanted to do was sulk. She was tired of thinking in crisis mode, tired of living with stress.
Her body craved pleasure and it instinctively knew he could give it to her. Her soul craved comfort, and it was unbelievably comforting to touch him, and to have him touch her. Her mind just wanted to switch off.
But no, they had to focus on keeping her whole and unbroken, and keeping her ass out of prison.
Bah!
Magic Man didn’t pull her back against his chest again, although she really kind of wanted him to.
Maybe more than kind of wanted.
Maybe really, really wanted.
He was probably thinking so clearly about what they should be doing because he… hadn’t been as affected by their kiss as she had been. (BAH!)
Instead of pulling her into his arms, he put one broad hand at the back of her neck, and the other hand at her forehead. The
n he began to whisper.
When she tried to focus on his words, they wouldn’t stick in her head. Instead, it felt like they fell against her skin like heated rain… and then the words soaked into her.
Pressure built up, like the sense of an impending storm, or the feeling she got just before she stepped out onto a stage. She felt itchy and restless, like she needed to move.
Unable to sit still, she shifted underneath his hands, muttering, “Is it supposed to be this uncomfortable?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, his steady, intense whisper continued until he bit it off at the end. As he finished, he removed his hands, and tapped her forehead firmly with two fingers.
And snap.
She felt the epiphany.
Of course that was how you played the lute. Of course.
Snatching it up, she plucked through the strings, adjusted the frets, and then began to play. She got it. She knew how to play it perfectly well, and the knowledge came easily to her.
She didn’t know any of the songs that he must have known all that long ago. Instead, she played her own music, adapting her songs to the fifteen-stringed lute as she went, humming with happiness that she had an instrument, any instrument to play again, adding riffs, two-plucking with style.
The shadowed music hall turned luminous with harmonic sound. It ran through her like fiery gold, and it didn’t matter what was going on around her or what might come in the future. Everything was right with the world. Everything was more than right….
She lost track of time, and that didn’t matter either until, a formless while later, the epiphany ran out of her, like a tide pulling away from the shore.
Her fingers stumbled on the strings. Tiredness swallowed her whole. Unsteadily, she muttered, “Oh, wow. That was just amazing. If you could bottle that, you’d have addicts waiting in line down the street.”
“That was a combination of my spell and your talent.” His whisper sounded rough with exhaustion. “Those addicts would never be able to play like you just did.”
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