He rubbed dry and yanked on clean breeches and shirt, then pulled his robe over them, not trusting himself to wear less in Celeste’s presence. She was so naively unaware of his lust that he couldn’t sully their friendship. She thought him a stuffy bore! That challenged him to change her mind—except she was far safer if he let her be. The devilish woman was addling his brainpan!
She met him at the doorway with her finger on a page of one of the books. “It says my parents sent witnessed documents of births and marriages to Wystan as well. Should we look for this marvelous repository?”
She had let her hair dry in a single thick braid that fell over her breast, and Erran couldn’t make his thick tongue work. She was so exquisitely slender and fine-boned that he feared he would harm her just by touching, which he knew was ridiculous. But the notion was there, in his head, and he had to look away just to answer.
“We’ll ask in the morning.” He picked up the blanket she’d been wearing earlier and dropped it around her shoulders. “This place is too drafty to be wandering about at night.”
The air seemed to sing with high-pitched voices. What the devil were the women doing upstairs?
Setting aside her book, Celeste looked around, as if she heard the sound too. And then, unexpectedly, she smiled. “The spirits are providing music. Perhaps they wish us to continue dancing!”
He wished to continue dancing. Knowing he would regret this shortly, still resenting that she thought him a bore, he bowed. “A spirit dance, my lady?”
The haunting song escalated, as if the spirits approved.
Celeste widened her eyes but accepted his offered hand. Instead of a waltz position, he placed his arms around her slender waist and drew her into him. Looking at him questioningly, she raised her arms to his shoulders. This was a kissing position—and she wasn’t objecting.
The stuffy bore he’d become wanted to resist, to control his desire.
The man he’d once been lowered his mouth to hers and tested the sweet lushness of her lips.
The singing increased in rhythm and excitement, just as his pulse beat harder at Celeste’s eager response. She parted her lips and allowed him access. He ran one hand lower, cupping her buttocks through the thin linen and lifting her into him. She was heaven in one beautiful package, and he plundered her mouth recklessly.
She didn’t shy away.
She should. With reluctance, he pulled his head back, but he couldn’t release her had he been offered a mountain of gold. “Slap my face,” he bullied her with his Courtroom Voice. “Push me away.”
Her eyes had turned a brilliant aquamarine, the color of clear oceans, beneath the thick fringe of her lashes. They were nearly luminous with wonder.
“I feel as if I’ve drunk your brandy,” she murmured in her best seductive tone—and beneath it, he heard desire. “I don’t think I can stand on my own.”
The bed was right . . . there. He could just lift her on it and set her free. He need only make a single step . . .
Erran groaned and buried his lips in the sweet curve between Celeste’s throat and shoulder. She bent willingly into his embrace, her breasts pressing into him, her hips exactly where he needed her.
The singing multiplied into an angelic chorus, urging him to lift her, to push her back to that high bed, to take her as she was meant to be taken.
She fell into the down covers still holding onto him. As if by magic, he was standing between her legs while he continued to plunder her mouth. He stroked the gauzy lawn over her hips and covered her nose and eyes with kisses. Her gown slid up. His robe came untied. He could still stop. He could still push away—if she would just release him.
But her kisses whispered over his rough jaw, interspersed with siren murmurs. Those slender hands that sewed such tiny stitches shoved aside his robe and pressed their warmth through his shirt, and his cock surged in longing. Erran released her hips and spread his broad palms across her breasts, pushing them into ripe mounds so he could lean in and take them with his teeth through the thin fabric of her shift.
Her moan was more music to his ears than an angelic choir—promising heaven. No siren call could be more compelling . . . .
Before he could process the impact of that fuzzy thought, she moaned again and licked at a place beneath his ear. Lust swelled and irrationality claimed him. He needed to possess her, claim this perfect woman as his own and give her pleasure. She deserved happiness.
He opened her ribbons and found her bare breast. Suckling, he ran his hands back to her hips, lifting her more firmly to the mattress, pulling her into him again.
“Tell me to stop,” he commanded with some still rational part of his brain. “Say the words.”
“Stop,” she said sweetly. But he heard that other voice, the real one, the one that said go.
Confused, he bent his forehead to press against hers, trying to gather his wits.
“Please,” she whispered in her real voice. “Don’t stop.”
And this time, her words and her voice matched. But it wasn’t her voice that compelled him. It was her hands sliding up his chest, her hips lifting into his . . . and maybe the music of the night . . . that drove him onward.
He covered her mouth with his and let their bodies speak. He could still rescue this situation. With just a little control . . . He tugged her gown higher and pressed his thumb into the soft tissues between her thighs.
She cried out in a voice that was pure soul and need, and any thought of control fled.
Erran unfastened his trousers as if she’d demanded it.
Twenty-three
The singing melted Celeste’s heart and brought her such joy—she had never known such sweetness existed. She clung to Erran, the man who made the songs resonate with chords deep inside her. Until now, she’d never understood the physical attraction between man and woman. Yes, she admired his intelligence, enjoyed watching him at work, and craved his company. But until this moment, she hadn’t understood how she needed him to complete what was missing inside her.
And suddenly, it was marvelously clear. She heard the command in his voice urging her to stop. She heard the lonely hunger behind the command telling her he needed her. And the songs blended the conflict into one whole—he cared for her more than his own needs. He wanted to stop for her sake, not his own.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having someone to care for her, to think of her needs above his own, so she must return the favor.
Her heart was no longer lonely. She nearly wept with joy as she ran her hands through his thick curls and returned his fervent kisses. When he caressed her there, she surged into him, needing more. She felt his need as her own, and the pressure to join with him was so strong, she could not deny him.
She bit her lip in frustration when he stopped to remove her shift, pulling it over her head as he lifted her more fully onto the bed. She grabbed his linen in retaliation, demanding the same. He obliged, and she savored the hard ridges of his torso, exploring the dark male nipples so different from her own.
She desperately needed to learn everything about him because not to do so would be devastating. It would be like not knowing her arms existed.
“Celeste . . .” he said in that warning tone that sent warm shivers down her spine.
“Erran,” she replied mockingly, lifting herself to lick at his nipple as he had done hers.
Tomorrow simply did not matter. The joyous song told her so.
He groaned as she nibbled at his chest, and she heard his desire in that sound. She had never thought to experience a man’s need, and it was delicious. He worshipped at her meager breasts, treating them with tenderness and respect while driving her to new heights of hunger. She parted her legs and lifted her hips and begged for what must surely follow.
He still wore his trousers, but they’d come undone. She could feel his raw maleness rubbing at her thighs, and she went a little mad not being able to touch.
“Please,” she whispered as seductively
as she knew how, even knowing he didn’t hear her magic. Magic. The air was filled with it. Her womb stirred with the need for it.
He pressed his thumb to that magic place between her thighs, and she cried out her need. Her blood thrummed and pulsed, and when he inserted a broad finger and rubbed, she surrendered to the rhythm of the night, shuddering with shock and joy.
Her womb convulsed and liquefied, leaving her completely open and vulnerable. “Now,” she whispered, without any need of using her charm.
Erran slid into her, filling her with the heavy maleness she craved. Ecstatic, she felt the pressure build again. She raised her hips, taking him deeper, crying out as his hard thickness thrust past a barrier and entered her completely.
The joining was so immense, that she may have lost consciousness for a moment. Her head spun with the high-pitched song wrapping around them. The phrases of the music mixed with words she’d heard and words that urgently demanded to be said.
“I vow to love, honor, and take thee in equality,” she heard and chanted with the rhythm of her body and the night.
And the brilliant man who had saved her family’s future joined her as thoroughly as it was possible for two people to join.
She couldn’t hold back anything. All her life she’d been reserved, calm, in control of her passion. But tonight— she was a force of nature.
She cried out her ecstasy as her muscles convulsed and stole away his control as well as hers. Above her, Erran uttered a guttural growl of pleasure and thrust high to spill deep inside her, where her womb needed him. She wept again with the pleasure and felt as if she’d melt into the down of the mattress.
She shivered as a shadow slid between them and entered her womb, where his seed still burned. The music of the night exploded in triumph, followed by the wail of a newborn babe.
Awed by the moment, Celeste wrapped her arms around Erran’s broad chest, kissed his muscled shoulder, and wouldn’t let him go as he tried to take his weight off her. “This,” she murmured senselessly. “This is why we’re here.”
He rolled over, carrying her with him, his strong arm capturing her waist and holding her close. “This is why they lock witches in towers,” he said in amusement. “Both male and female, it seems. We enthrall each other and lose our minds.”
“Minds can only take us so far,” she agreed, mindlessly. She was too satiated and happy to actually think about what he was saying. In the morning, maybe, she’d have time for regrets.
“Live in the moment,” he said thickly, drifting off to slumber—as if he’d heard her thoughts.
She wanted him again, but she could wait a few hours.
***
With a beautiful, eager woman in his arms, Erran didn’t need haunting songs to wake up aroused and ready in the middle of the night. It had been too long since he’d been with any woman, and Celeste . . . Celeste was far from any woman. She was made to fit in his arms, to respond to his caresses, and to blend with him in such harmony that it was as if they were really and truly one person as they climaxed together.
Magic, he thought again, as he cuddled her close and slept as he hadn’t slept in months.
It was still dark when he finally woke and realized the room had no windows to let in daylight. Celeste stirred in his arms, and he wanted to see her more clearly. He had to satisfy himself with loosening her silken braid and watching those gorgeous almond-shaped eyes open to study him back.
“It wasn’t a dream then,” she said in wonderment. “You’re really here.”
“And willing to linger longer if I did not fear I’ve made you sore. Shall I call for another bath?” He waited for recriminations, accusations, and tears.
He had only one honorable choice. He simply feared it was the wrong one for her—she wanted to return to a distant island that held no place for him.
His cock grew harder as his eyes adjusted to the dim light enough to watch her run her hand unselfconsciously down her breasts and belly.
“I’m . . . I’m not sure what to say,” she whispered, still sounding amazed. “I’ve never . . . I’m not . . .”
He kissed her brow. “I know. But you were miraculous, and I thank you from the bottom of my stuffy heart. I hope you will not regret the beauty of this past night when you are living in my cramped rooms without servants and fancy gowns while I traipse up and down the countryside, doing my brother’s work.”
Her long lashes flapped in dismay, and then she rolled from his arms to climb from the bed and stir the coals. “I’ll heat some water.”
Erran bit his tongue. He’d said too much already. He wanted her to know that he was more than willing to marry her, but he wouldn’t force the decision—or give her delusions of grandeur in a life with him. Once they had the will in hand, her family would be wealthy again, and all society would be open to her. He couldn’t take that away, if it was what she wanted.
Although he had a notion it might kill him if she chose to marry another. How had he come to this?
Aster had warned them . . . . And that notion was patently ridiculous.
He would not consider her admonition that his grandfather had been conceived here. Babies happened. They were the reason so many Ives were bastards.
Celeste covered her glorious brown beauty in a robe as Erran rolled out of the bed, naked. He couldn’t resist tipping up her chin and kissing her. She flushed but didn’t pull away. That was a good sign. She glanced down at his arousal as he reached for his own robe, and he felt the tug of desire as if there were a golden chain between them.
“We make magic,” he murmured, brushing another kiss over her hair. “I have no understanding, but it’s there. I’ll go to my room and wash. Don’t run too far.”
She held her fingertips over her mouth as he departed.
Live in the moment, he told himself as he washed and shaved and dressed. He’d thought himself unprepared for marriage, but he knew a good woman when he’d found one. Yes, there were a thousand obstacles between them should he give it any consideration. Still, he wouldn’t give her up easily. There had to be some way he could make this work—if she’d have him.
He feared she wouldn’t. She wanted Jamaica and her home. He couldn’t desert Duncan to his blindness and misery.
The memory of last night kept him strong.
He needed that strength when he escorted Celeste into the breakfast room filled with chattering women. They all looked up expectantly, as if angels might have descended from on high. When Celeste merely took a chair and Erran inspected the buffet, they returned to chattering.
Their babble didn’t ease his anxiety any.
“Did you feel the energy last night?” one asked. “We should all deliver our babes on a full moon! It was as if magic was in the air. I think if my husband had been here, I’d be back in nine months, it was that powerful.”
“Our ceremony did seem more than usually strong,” another responded placidly. “The spirits were excited. If any of us is carrying a child, I would think they found their soul last night. I had that happen once. It’s a very odd feeling but satisfying.”
“I’d never thought of how closely the birthing ceremony resembles a fertility rite,” another said. “Perhaps we should revisit the old songs.”
“Not if it means the spirits of our ancestors can find a home in our children,” a younger protested. “This is the reason we pass on our gifts.”
Erran clenched his molars at this silliness and filled a plate for Celeste, who was mechanically sipping tea when he knew she preferred coffee.
“Is Lady Octavia well?” Celeste asked, changing the subject, as if sharing Erran’s discomfort.
“She delivered a baby boy! They’re ecstatic. I believe you brought good fortune with you.”
Erran gave up trying to discern one voice from the other as they described the babe’s miraculous attributes. It was as useless as listening to hens cluck since he barely knew one woman from the other. He kept his focus on Celeste as he set down their plates.<
br />
“Once we return to London, I’ll sew some linens for the babe,” Celeste said, keeping her voice unusually low.
He not only recognized her voice over the others, but heard her uncertainty and confusion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so in tune with anyone, much less a woman.
Not wanting to think about why she was uncertain, he stayed focused on their goals. “We’ve learned that Miss Rochester’s father sent important documents here. Is there a place where papers are stored for safekeeping?”
One of the older women nodded knowledgeably. “We have a storage cellar that keeps paper remarkably dry. Only Malcolms are allowed entrance, however.”
Erran considered himself an Ives, not a weird Malcolm, but beside him, Celeste snickered, understanding his dilemma. He needed those documents.
“His great-grandmother was Ninian Malcolm Ives,” Celeste said, still looking at her tea and not at all the interested faces around the table. “And this is his family home.”
She was using her persuasive voice. He watched with interest as everyone listening—which wasn’t all of them by any means—nodded their heads.
“Saint Ninian,” one woman exclaimed in admiration. “We still grow her herbs here. The village dries and sells them in the winter months. It keeps families in shoes and clothing. I don’t suppose you inherited any of her herbal gifts?”
“No, I did not,” Erran said gruffly, ripping off a piece of cold toast so as not to have to explain more.
“His gifts are more masculine,” Celeste said in a voice laced with laughter. “But he is very good with law and documents, and that’s what I need right now. My father was descended from one of Lady Ninian’s cousins, so I believe I qualify, but Lord Erran will be better at finding what we need.”
He was glad to hear that she was recovering from her earlier confusion, even if he was miffed that she found him an object of amusement.
But they’d gained the ladies’ trust, and after breakfast, they were escorted to the locked cellar room where the family papers were gathered.
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