“A brook trout, to be specific.” With an abashed grin, he says, “I took a twelve-pounder out of here last summer.”
“Wow,” I offer, as though I’m fully up on fish weights. “That big?”
He nods and sets down the gear he took from the car. “Maybe you’ll do better.”
“Why don’t I just watch?”
“No way! You’d miss all the fun. Here hold this.”
I stare at the rod he hands me. It feels light enough. I could probably manage to get a line in the water without completely disgracing myself.
Or not.
“Worms?” I don’t even try to hide my disgust. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a worm. They have an important role in nature, aerating soil and so on. But that’s just another good reason for leaving them alone, the first being their general worminess.
Tearing my gaze from the squirming reddish pink mass, I encounter Ian’s grin.
“What about fly fishing?” I demand. “With those cute little lures that people spend hours hand-crafting?”
“Brook trout like worms,” he says, as though that makes everything fine.
I can’t look away as he selects one of the fat pink things and puts it on the hook. To my untutored gaze, that looks singularly self-defeating.
“Won’t that kill the worm?” I ask. Surely, discerning brook trout aren’t attracted to limp, dead worms?
Ian shakes his head. “They’re hardy little buggers. At least until the fish eats them.”
“And then we eat the fish…the ones that ate the worms?”
“Not these worms,” he assures me, as though that somehow makes a difference. “There won’t be time for the fish to digest these.”
“So we eat fish containing undigested worm bits.” I swallow with some difficulty. “That’s it. I’m becoming a vegetarian. Possibly a vegan.”
Undeterred, my husband laughs. “You’ll change your mind. Nothing beats fresh-caught trout cooked over a wood fire.”
I look away as he baits my hook for me. In the back of my mind, I’m a little surprised that he’s brought me here. Ian knows why I cried in the shower, not because of what I did but because I had to do it. I had to kill. This is so small compared to that but still--
He’s killed, probably more times than he wants to remember. Not that he’s the kind of man who would ever forget. He watched me so carefully in the days that followed the bloody end of our engagement party and in the nights…
He wouldn’t touch me while I was so much more fragile than I was willing to admit, at least until now. But several times, I woke to discover him seated in a chair drawn up beside my bed. His silent presence kept nightmares at bay and allowed me the rest I so desperately needed.
If he wants me to do this now, I will simply have to trust that he isn’t just being an insensitive jerk. He has a good reason.
With rod once more in hand, and keeping my eyes off the still-wriggling worm, I follow Ian’s instructions and try casting. On the third attempt, I manage to plop the line into a deep enough part of the river to satisfy my exacting instructor.
“Now what?” I ask.
“We wait for a hungry trout to come along.”
“And if one doesn’t?”
“We try again.”
Well, no wonder people like doing this so much. I don’t say that, of course, but I think it loudly.
Ian expertly casts his own line into the water. The fluid motion of his body distracts me. I forget about the worm, the fish…everything except my husband and the sweet, fragrant grass where we could be lying.
“Just give it a chance,” he says with a look that suggests he knows the direction of my wayward thoughts and is amused by them. “You’ll see.”
I’m hoping he doesn’t have a secret passion for fishing that will keep us here all day when something tugs on the end of my line. My first thought is that I’m just feeling the strong flow of the water but a moment later, I realize otherwise.
“Uh…Ian?”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“I think I’ve caught something.”
“Good for you! All right now, reel it in, not too fast, not too slowly. That’s it…steady…good…”
Moments later, I stare at the brown-and-green dappled fish flopping on the grass. Ian removes the hook and slips the trout through the slot of a small woven basket that he hangs from a low branch so that the wicker sides dip into the water.
“That will keep the catch fresh until we’re ready to eat,” he says. He looks at me carefully. “Are you all right?”
I take a breath and let it out slowly. I’ve caught a fish and soon I’m going to eat it. Together, they are simple, natural acts, part of the cycle of life. Ian brought me out here, caused me to experience this because…
On a far greater scale, killing an evil man to save my own life and the lives of many others was also entirely natural? Who wouldn’t have done the same, given the opportunity? But ever since I did it, I’ve questioned what kind of person I am that I was able to kill without even a flicker of hesitation or remorse. Is there something wrong with me?
It will take time for me to put that burden down once and for all but here and now I resolve that I will do so. To accept, with humility and gratitude, that I, too, am part of the natural order. It gave me life and with every breath I take, it embraces and sustains me.
The memory of what I did will stay with me forever. But the self-doubt and the fear engendered by it, those I can let go of with no regrets.
“I’m good,” I assure my beloved husband softly. Added to everything else that I have to be grateful for is the supreme gift of his love and understanding. “You had a great idea, getting out here like this. Being close to nature is very…clarifying.”
“I’ve always found that to be true,” he says with a relieved smile. He picks up my rod and hands it to me. Our fingers brush and I feel the instant, constant connection between us as though fields of energy are entwining.
“Want to try your luck again?” he asks.
The ordinariness of the moment makes me smile. What a marvel it is when the mundane reveals what is truly sublime.
A sudden, giddy happiness seizes me. “Absolutely. Bet I catch more fish than you do.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What do you get if you win?”
“You,” I say and reach for a worm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lying half-asleep on a blanket, I watch as Ian prepares a fire. I offered to help but he said that after catching more fish than he did, I probably needed a rest. I suspect he let me win but I don’t care. I am deeply, profoundly content.
How could I be otherwise? Golden sun filters through the overhanging branches, warming my skin. I close my eyes and breathe slowly and deeply. With each breath, images drift through my mind, scattered fragments of memory--Ian at our wedding, holding me in his arms as we waltzed…waiting for me at the altar, never taking his eyes from me as I walked to him…proposing to me on the bridge lit with fairy lights…and further back, here at the palazzo at our beginning…claiming me in the golden bed, his big, hard body moving over mine, driving me higher and higher--
The brush of air over my skin feels like a caress. Like Ian…his lips and mouth, so soft when he chooses, so compelling, moving along the curve of my body, between my breasts, over my abdomen to the apex of my thighs, feather light, teasing--
I can feel him there, the hot, wet glide of his tongue where I’m swollen with need and so sensitive--
My hands clutch the soft wool of the blanket under me. My back bows, my thighs parting. A low, urgent moan breaks from my throat. At the sound of it, my eyes fly open. With a shock, I realize that I must have drifted off and was close to coming in my sleep. So close that I can still feel the coiled power of my almost-orgasm only slowly dissipating. With an effort, I force myself to let go of the blanket and sit up.
As I do so, my gaze meets Ian’s. My husband is crouched by the fire but he isn’t tending to th
e fish cooking there. Instead, he’s watching me. He appears a bit startled but definitely intrigued. A slow, supremely masculine smile curves his mouth.
“Enjoy your nap, sweetheart?” he asks.
I flush but decide to brazen it out. “I might have if I’d slept just a little longer.”
Ian chuckles. “Come over here. The trout are ready.”
As he speaks, I become aware of the aroma on the air, lightly sweet and smoky, compounded of the wood, the fish cooking on it, and the wild herbs he’s added to them. Just as he promised, I’ve never smelled anything so good.
“We’ll tend to one appetite,” my husband says as I sit down beside him. “And then we can discuss how you’d like to collect your winnings.”
Recalling his words of this morning, I gather my courage and smile. “It’s my turn to surprise you.”
Chapter Five
“When did you find this?” Ian asks. We’re standing in the dressing room of our suite. I’ve moved aside some of the hanging clothes to show him the small gold plaque set into the wall behind them, positioned so discreetly as to be concealed from any casual observer.
“When I was here before,” I reply, moving on quickly. I don’t want him to dwell on the circumstances in which I made my discovery while at the same time I was discovering so much else in the sensual realm, thanks to him.
“I came across it one day while I was getting dressed. It struck me as a strange place to put such a thing. At first, I couldn’t imagine what the plaque could be for.”
He nods and bends down for a better look. I know he can make out the elegant, cursive script etched into the gold. Softly, he reads, “The Cabinet of Secret Delights”.
Straightening, my husband looks at me. His amber eyes are hooded, watchful. I feel his gaze at the core of my being.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
As close as we are, the heat of his body caresses me through the thin white cotton dress that I’m wearing. My nipples are pebble-hard, every inch of my skin yearning for his touch. I know him well enough now to be confident that I am not alone in my desire. If the telltale bulge in his jeans isn’t indication enough, the flush along his high cheekbones and the molten glitter of his gaze would settle the matter. With very little effort, we could lose ourselves in the golden bed.
But I’ve kept this secret long enough. It’s time to share it with him.
“I asked myself the same question,” I say softly. “This dressing room is filled with built-in racks, drawers, and shelves but nothing that could be called a cabinet. The clothes are certainly a delight but ‘secret’ didn’t seem to fit anything. Then I looked at the plaque more closely.”
As I speak, I point to the small depression in the shape of the pad of a thumb that is just barely visible next to the lettering.
“It accepts my imprint. I’m wondering if it also accepts yours.”
He holds my gaze long enough to make clear that he has questions--what I kept from him, why I did so, and why I’m revealing it now. He won’t have to wonder about the first much longer. As for the rest…I just have to hope that he will understand.
At the touch of Ian’s thumb against the soft, gleaming metal, a scanner whirs, followed almost instantly by a click. A hidden door in the wall we are facing swings open a few inches, revealing a crack of light. With that, I realize that we were always both intended to access what lies on the other side.
Ian pushes the door open wider and takes my hand. Together, we step into a room only slightly smaller than the golden bedroom behind us. Windowless, it is softly lit by recessed lighting in the ceiling and walls that I know from past experience comes on when the plaque is touched.
As before, my first impression is that the room is a study in beauty and opulence. Its size is magnified by the gilded mirrors hanging in ornately carved gold frames that cover almost all the walls from top to bottom. A soaring ceiling rises to the dome at its center. The floor is covered by a finely woven carpet in shades of hunter green, ivory, and ox blood red.
The same colors are picked up by the ceiling mural that depicts the god Zeus in pursuit of various nubile females. Successful pursuit, it appears, as the god is shown plunging his impressive endowment into a succession of startled beauties.
Carnality hangs thick in the air lightly scented by leather and sandalwood.
Softly, I say, “My first thought was that this was intended as some sort of private retreat, a place for study or contemplation. But then--”
I break off. Just as I did when I saw all this for the first time, Ian has noticed the odd furnishings. I hold my breath, wondering how he will react. There is so much in his past, the memories he has had to confront, the demons he has fought. But we have come so far together, both accepting of one another, honest about our needs and desires.
Even so, I scarcely breathe as I wait for him to come to his own conclusions about the purpose of this hidden room.
Near where we stand is a rectangular bench upholstered in ox blood leather and set on black wrought iron legs. Iron rings are positioned at intervals along the bench. Several other pieces in the room are done in the same colors and style. One looks like a saddle horse, the other is a chair of sorts divided so that the legs of an occupant would be spread wide. Restraints in the form of stirrups dangle from it.
Several other items are more recognizable. One is a gracefully elegant chaise lounge, carved and gilded in the style of the room, a voluptuous piece of furniture filled with curves and pillowed surfaces. The other is a large chair, really a throne, set at the far end of the room and positioned to observe all parts of it. Directly opposite this is a polished wooden X more than six feet high. Secured to the far wall, it is padded with leather and studded with more of the iron rings.
So far, Ian’s only response is an arched eyebrow. But when his attention is drawn to a large armoire carved with images of satyrs and nymphs, he frowns. Opening the double doors and the drawers fitted behind them, he discovers the array of implements that frankly shocked me when I came across them before. Some I definitely want nothing to do with but certain others…
My husband lingers a few moments, studying the contents, then shuts the armoire’s doors. His silence is unsettling. I have no idea what he is thinking. Nervousness flutters in my abdomen as he turns, his gaze settling on the object that occupies the center of the room. It’s the one part of all this that puzzles me the most.
“It’s a cage,” I say, rather unnecessarily since it obviously is that. A beautiful, gilded cage six feet in diameter and at least half again as tall, constructed of roped wrought iron curled into scrollwork. “But I don’t really understand the point of it.”
“Don’t you?” Ian asks softly. His eyes glitter like amber shards of fire. I sense the coiled tension in him and wonder what will happen when it is unleashed. A shiver runs through me, not of fear but of anticipation.
“Then let me enlighten you,” he continues as he stalks toward me across the gilded room. I stand, enthralled, unable to move or take my eyes from him.
Oh, my. He’s not upset or worse yet, disgusted. On the contrary. He’s confronting this honestly, both what the room represents and what he himself desires. My gaze drifts down his magnificent body, lingering at the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
Softly, he says, “The thought of keeping you entirely for myself, surrounded by every luxury but always close to my hand, captive to my will, available whenever I choose for whatever I desire has a certain appeal.”
My breath catches. Never mind that I’m far too strong-willed and independent to want that. The notion of it, the fantasy is undeniably arousing.
“Of course,” Ian adds, “I’d never actually do it but that’s what this cage is meant to evoke.” He glances at it again, his gaze narrowing, assessing. Slowly, he says, “Although, it may have an additional purpose.”
As I watch, at once anxious and fascinated, he approaches the cage and moves his hand over the scrollwork. To my surpr
ise, I realize that what I took to be open spaces between the metal are in fact solid.
Ian’s mouth curves in a smile. “Well, well…” He looks amused but also intrigued. “I heard that these were becoming available.”
“These? What are you talking about? What is this?” I can’t contain my anxiousness, compounded as it is of fascination with his response and the inevitable heightening of my own desire.
He laughs softly and opens the door of the cage.
“You’re aware that much of the training my people do is in virtual reality simulators?” As I nod, he goes on. “They can be programmed to create essentially any setting or type of experience. The results are so detailed--so real, if you will--that the brain simply accepts them as such and responds accordingly.”
“All right, but what has that got to do with this?”
“Virtual reality simulators are becoming available for private use. They’re still very expensive and therefore rare but eventually they’ll be a standard form of entertainment.” His chiseled mouth curves in a smile of sinful temptation. “One with all sorts of possibilities.”
As the meaning of what he’s saying sinks in, I stare at the cage in astonishment. If I understand him correctly, far from being a means of confinement, it’s a portal to a potentially limitless number of ‘realities’. Given where it’s been placed, I can only assume that each and every one of them is intended for sensual pleasure.
“Do you think it works?” I ask.
“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t but are you game to find out?”
Am I?
My heart is racing. I still find the Cabinet of Secret Delights somewhat unnerving for all that aspects of it appeal to me. But this…this is freedom of the most wanton and delightful kind.
Without hesitation, I hold out my hand. He takes it and draws me up with him into the cage.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
We are standing on an open skyway above the dance floor of an upscale club. The walls, floor, and ceiling are a shimmering gray that vibrates in time to the throbbing music and the writhing mass of bodies below. The energy of the crowd moving to the sultry, seductive beat rises in waves toward us.
Anew: The Epilogue Page 4