by Kris Tualla
“Not in the least.”
Besides, Nicolas could think of nothing more pleasant than riding on a beautiful afternoon with this particular woman’s bountiful arse planted firmly between his thighs.
Chapter Fifteen
May 13, 1819
Addie ordered Maribeth to butcher three chickens and check the vegetable garden for ripe produce. She sent Stefan into the woods to find mushrooms for the sauce and wildflowers for the table. John was to bring up three bottles of the best wine from the root cellar.
Sydney stared at the mirror, squinting, evaluating. Tonight, she needed to be absolutely incandescent if she hoped to erase yesterday’s humiliating portrait. The mirror agreed that her dark hair, paired with a low-cut black velvet bodice, provided a striking contrast for her fair skin. And her eyes glowed more green than gray next to the black. She laced the burgundy and black skirt, pinched her cheeks and bit her lips. Then, she shifted her bosom in her shortened corset to create higher swells and deeper cleavage.
This thing with Lily had become war.
Sydney heard Nicolas greet their guests. Borrowing the trick Lily used, she hesitated before descending the stairs. The amazed looks on both men’s faces confirmed that her efforts had not gone to waste. And if they hadn’t, the combustion of dismay on Lily’s said it all.
Sydney crossed to Rickard and extended her hands. She greeted him with a warm kiss on his cheek before turning to Lily.
“I trust you find my attire tonight suitable to the occasion?” Her voice evidenced amusement. “And I must say, you look lovely yourself, Lily.”
“Yes. I m-mean, thank you,” Lily stuttered.
Addie’s table was beautiful, her dinner delicious. Nicolas was generous with the wine and Rickard effused over the vintage. Sydney’s conversation captured both men’s attention. By the time dessert was served, Lily sat silent and scowling in her chair.
“It’s decent weather out, Rick. Shall we enjoy our brandy on the porch with a couple of cigars?” Nicolas suggested.
“You know me well, brother. After you?”
Lily remained seated, a pleasant look now smeared on her face, as the men ambled out of the dining room. Sydney helped Addie carry dishes to the kitchen. When she returned, Lily’s pleasant look was gone.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” The battle had begun.
“Why, whatever do you mean, Lily?”
Lily tossed the first missile. “I suppose you still ‘do not remember’ your name?”
“No. Why do you ask?” Sydney deflected.
“You still ‘do not remember’ where you live?”
“No. I don’t.”
“And, I suppose you’ll claim that you ‘don’t even know’ if you’re married!”
That grenade landed true. Sydney flinched inwardly and her gaze faltered but she shook her head, no.
Lily stood and walked around the linen-topped battlefield, stopping in front of Sydney. One hand rested on her hip, the other stabbed the table with a bayonet-finger.
“I don’t believe that ‘lost memory’ story for a single dashed moment. What are you really after?”
“Nothing!” Sydney cried. “What do you believe I’m after?”
Lily wrinkled her nose in a disgusted pout. “Nicolas, of course! Or perchance his money?”
Sydney was incredulous. “Are you, in all seriousness, suggesting that I nearly killed myself in order to be noticed by Nicolas? For the sake of money?”
“It would be worth it, if you got what you came for.”
Silence your weapons, foolish girl. “I had never once heard of Nicolas Hansen until the day I woke up in this house.”
“Oh really, madam?” Lily’s sarcasm blazed. “And how do you know?”
“It’s God’s truth. Ask Addie! She had never seen me before!”
“That signifies nothing, and you know it well!”
Sydney’s fuse was very close to Lily’s fire. “Lily, what is it that you want?”
Lily stepped back, surprised. “I want what’s rightly mine!”
“And that is?”
“Nicolas!”
“And in what manner am I preventing you from having him?”
Outflanked by the question, Lily blinked blue sparks at Sydney. “You, you are… here. You’re living in his house!”
The fuse leaned toward the flame. “And?”
“And—and who knows what temptations you are dangling in front of him!”
The fuse caught.
It smoldered, slow and dangerous. Sydney stiffened and looked down at the younger woman. “Listen to my words, Lily, and listen well. Nicolas is a grown man with a fine, strong mind. He has given no indication that he has any interest in anyone. But if it comes to that, be assured he shall choose whom he pleases. But I warrant you this…”
Sydney burned closer and Lily cowered. “You would do well to stay out of my way, Lily. For aught you know, I could be hiding something.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Perchance I’m in trouble with the law; perhaps I’m a prostitute?”
Her palms moved to her hips. “Perhaps I stole something; or perhaps…”
Sydney’s bomb exploded. “I killed someone.”
It was a perfect hit. Lily’s face paled and she fell back. The hand that covered her mouth trembled.
Sydney straightened and smoothed her skirt. She smiled at Lily with her lips, but not her eyes. “I’m going outside to join the men. Are you coming?”
Sydney twisted slowly and quit the battlefield, triumphant.
May 16, 1819
Sydney rode Fyrste bareback across an expansive, moonlit meadow. He galloped with a slow, easy rhythm that rocked her forward and back. His mane, his tail and her long black hair whipped around her in the breeze she knew was there, but couldn’t feel. She was naked.
Sydney looked down, and it wasn’t Fyrste, but Nicolas below her, on his back. Her hands no longer held reins, but were palm-to-palm with his, their fingers intertwined. Her knees didn’t grip the flanks of the stallion, but Nicolas’s instead. He moved below her in the same slow rhythm, rocking her forward and back as he pushed himself fully into her.
Sydney pitched the bedclothes off, panting, her body filmed with sweat.
This sparse room was now her prison. Since May Day, shades of Nicolas tortured her every time she slipped into sleep. She imagined that she could feel his breath in her hair. His mouth on her skin. His heaviness pressed into her.
She touched herself there; her body was damp and eager. Her belly quivered deep inside, and tendrils of desire unfurled outward, grasping, hungry. If she had known what exquisite pleasure he offered, might she have chosen differently that night? Knowing, but not having, consumed her. Is this how Eve felt after biting the apple?
If only she were still ignorant.
Sydney climbed out of bed and opened her door. Tiptoeing into the moonlit hall she met silence, no one else stirred. Relieved, she descended the stairs, quick and silent on bare feet, and eased out the front door. Wearing only her chemise, she stepped into the cool night air. She crossed the porch and leaned against one of its stone columns.
Sydney raised her chin to face the night breeze as it lifted the ends of her hair and enticed them to dance wickedly around her shoulders. The stone floor was cold and she curled her toes against the chill. She waited for the night to absorb the heat of her arousal.
She was doomed.
Nicolas resided in her heart. He didn’t wish to be there, and she hadn’t invited him in. But there he was. She had no family, no income, no home. If she left him, how would she live?
Father in Heaven, what am I going to do?
She gazed at the yard, blue and frosted silver by moonlight. The surrounding forest was black with shadow. Leaves whispered to each other as the breeze danced with them as well. The ghostly call of an owl preceded the dry, grassy swish of its attack. As the predator flew by the house, prey dangling from its beak, Sydney felt an uncanny kinship with the
doomed rodent.
An earthquake rattled the night: “You were unable to sleep as well?”
Sydney spun and crossed arms over her bosom. “Oh, my Lord! Nicolas! You frightened me!”
“Forgive me, Sydney. It wasn’t my intent. Are you ill?” He sat in a large wooden chair tucked close to the house. He, too, was barefoot and wore only loose drawstring breeches.
Sydney shook her head, feeling her heat rise again. “No. I had a dream that… woke me up.”
“About your life? About who you are?”
“No, nothing of that sort.”
“Ah.” Nicolas gazed at an empty crystal glass in one hand. With a deep sigh, he set it down on the floor, and stood.
Sydney’s gaze caressed his strong shoulders, powerful chest and broad waist, all painted pale indigo by the moon’s reflection. Nicolas stopped in front of her. Sydney turned her back to him.
“It’s a beautiful night.” She was completely unnerved by his nearly naked proximity. She clenched her fists, pushing nails deep into her palms for penance.
“That it is.”
He was so close she could smell the brandy he had enjoyed and the sunburn on his skin. There was something else, an earthy male scent that churned the depths of her. She recognized it; she smelled it in his bedroom.
The breeze flirted around them. It playfully disheveled their hair, molded the inadequate fabric of their clothing to them, and then plucked it away again.
Nicolas combed his fingers through Sydney’s mane. “Your hair is beautiful. It shines even in the moonlight.”
Stop that. “It’s too straight.”
“Straight and heavy, dark like Fyrste’s tail. When you ride him, you look like part of him.” As Nicolas described the imagery from her dream, Sydney half-believed he could read her mind.
She knew full well all the reasons why she should resist him. Nicolas didn’t care about her, and she’d be foolish to think he did. Opening herself to any possibilities with him could only hurt her.
And she wasn’t a virgin; she had lain with a man before. If she trusted her gut, that man would have been her husband. Who was he? More importantly, where was he?
And what about Rickard? They called each other ‘brother.’ She mustn't come between them.
Nicolas continued to stroke her hair, causing her skin to pucker with pleasure. Please, stop that.
“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” he whispered.
Sydney looked over her shoulder. His navy eyes were black in the dark. His silvered hair was tucked behind his ears. He was inches from her. She was powerless to stop herself.
Sydney uncrossed her arms as she slowly turned around. Nicolas encircled her and his lips possessed hers. He lifted her and she wrapped her legs around him. She felt his hardness through flimsy fabric. Terrified, she broke away from the kiss.
“Nicolas, we cannot. We mustn’t. We mustn’t join again.”
His answer was to kiss her again. His mouth held the intoxicating taste of the brandy and her head spun in the most distressing and pleasant manner. A remnant of sanity punched her in the chest.
She stopped him again and stammered her protest. “We’re not married… I mean, I might be married… But we’re not married… to each other.”
Nicolas set Sydney down. Amazingly, her legs held her up. He rested one hand on the pillar and leaned over her, a seductive canopy. She felt his warm breath in her ear and the heat from his body burned her cheek.
“Would you prefer me to leave you alone, Sydney?” he rumbled.
She faced the ground. “I believe—I believe you should.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
Sydney winced, fighting with any defense she could rally. “It’s not right.”
“Why?”
“It might be adultery.”
“And it might not be.”
Sydney’s resolve was crumbling under his onslaught.
“At the very least, it is fornication,” she whispered.
Nicolas’s lips brushed her ear in answer.
“Please, Nicolas,” was all she could manage.
“I’ll not force you, Sydney. I’m not that sort of man.” He inhaled deeply; the tip of his nose tickled her temple. “But I do desire you. I’m certain that much is quite evident.”
Sydney couldn’t breathe and she was afraid she might faint. Or worse, give in. She put her hands on Nicolas’s chest and pushed past him. She ran to the front door, yanked it open, and escaped through it.
Nicolas heaved a deep sigh and ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He pushed her too hard. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself. Memories of their night filled his dark hours and he ached to have her again, right or wrong.
Padding across the porch to pick up the brandy glass, he went to his study and generously refilled it. He was a lightning bolt ready to strike; he needed the alcohol and cool air outside to diffuse him.
The brandy was gone when the front door opened again. Nicolas lifted a guarded gaze to the woman who stood in front of him. Pale skin, white shift, a shroud of black locks; her eyes absorbed the moonlight and gave nothing back.
She was not smiling and she did not speak.
Nicolas stood slowly, afraid she would leave again. “We don’t need to join,” he offered.
Her head tilted. She was listening.
He stroked her arm with his knuckles. “There are other ways.”
Her head tipped back and she frowned. “Other ways?”
He waited.
“What other ways?”
“I’ll show you.” He reached for Sydney and her arms welcomed him once more. Their kiss triggered his lightening. He needed to stay in control, or he would destroy her.
Nicolas sat on the bench and effortlessly pulled Sydney across his lap. His mouth went to her bosom through the thin cotton shift, leaving wet circles. His hand slid between her legs.
Nicolas knew well what he was doing. His work-calloused hands were capable of very tender touch. Sydney breathed a long moan. He kissed her, his tongue imitating his fingers.
Soon, Sydney gasped and squirmed in his arms. Her hips jerked and pressed against his hand. With a choked cry, her body stiffened. She tightened her arms around Nicolas as the explosion of pleasure shook through her. When she collapsed, limp in Nicolas’s cradling embrace, her breath came in uneven bursts.
“Was that satisfactory?” he whispered.
Sydney’s face was pressed against his neck, her arms still looped around his shoulders. She nodded.
Her words tickled his throat. “What about you?”
Sydney must feel his hardness beneath her. He felt ready to burst.
“Another time,” he replied, and gave her a little shove. “You go on up now.” Sydney slid off of his lap. “Good night, Sydney. Sleep well.”
“Are you coming in?”
“In a bit. You go on ahead.”
Sydney leaned over and kissed Nicolas, then slipped back into the house. After a few quick strokes, Nicolas finished. Relief loosened him, but satisfaction eluded his grasp.
He went inside, to his bed, alone.
Chapter Sixteen
May 22, 1819
Last week’s midnight tryst with Nicolas didn’t help matters in the least. On the contrary, it made Sydney want him, and what he could do for her, even more than before.
Furious at both her yearning for Nicolas and her weakness in seeking him out, Sydney sat by a window in the upstairs hall and took out her anger on the wool she carded. Her vigorous strokes of the hatchel tore at the washed fleece again and again. Her muscles burned with the deliberate self-flagellation. She sweated with the effort in spite of the cross-breeze that made her choose this particular spot for her task.
Sydney paused, panting, and looked out the window. Nicolas strode toward the house. In one hand he carried a milk bucket, and in the other he cradled what appeared to be a large ball of dirty fuzz. Curious, Sydney set the wool
aside and skipped down the stairs. She reached the kitchen in time to see Nicolas set the bucket of milk on the table. The fuzz turned out to be a tiny lamb. Nicolas looked up when Sydney bounced into the room.
She gasped, alarmed to see blood on Nicolas’s shirt. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. But a wolf got this one’s ewe.” Nicolas looked blankly around the room, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “His pelt will bring a good price, however.”
“Poor wee thing,” Sydney murmured as the frightened lamb bleated weakly.
Nicolas sat at the table and dipped his handkerchief in the pail of milk. He pushed it into the lamb’s mouth. Confused at first, it mouthed the fabric and found food. He began to suck. Nicolas repeated the process, holding the baby on his lap. Sydney watched in fascination as the huge, bloodied predator nurtured the tiny, helpless creature. The contrast grew sharper when Stefan appeared at the back door.
“Pappa! A baby lamb!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide. “Can I keep it? Please, pappa?”
Stefan leaned against Nicolas and petted the lamb. His earnest blue eyes searched the adult pair they echoed.
Nicolas dipped the cloth again. “Stefan, he may not live. Cow’s milk isn’t meant for sheep.”
“I know, Pappa. But he will.”
“Stefan.” Nicolas paused and looked into his son’s eyes. “He’s food.”
Stefan frowned. “What?”
“Why do we have sheep, son?”
“For wool.” Stefan focused on the lamb in his father’s lap. He did not face his father.
“And?”
Stefan’s lower lip stuck out and the corners of his mouth dipped.
“Stefan? Look at me.” Nicolas’s deep voice was unusually gentle. Somber blue eyes rose to his. “Can you answer me?”
Stefan’s voice was barely audible. “For food, Pappa. For the people.”
“That’s right.”
Both were quiet. Nicolas looked at his sad son. Then he looked at Sydney.