Moriah Densley

by Song For Sophia

  “Crazy demon horse,” Sophia crooned to Sadie as she hunkered lower to balance the gait. At this point she was merely holding on and a little nervous, truth be told. Sidesaddle felt precarious as such a speed, and every fallen log and ditch Sadie leapt over reminded Sophia of her mother’s old refrain, You will break your neck! For once Sophia agreed.

  Speaking of crazy, the more reckless the stunt, the more she could hear Lord Devon laughing and cheering. Bedlamite. Sadie gained on them and edged left in preparation to overtake them, but Thor heard the approach and bolted again. Sophia had only seen such speed from horses at Steeplechase and never such spirit. She hoped this would be a regular outing — without the betting — and that Lord Devon knew which corner of the earth the horses were taking them to. She didn’t recognize this trail. Probably because they made their own trail.

  The late afternoon sun glinted ahead on a pond like light on a mirror, and finally Thor slowed. Sadie wasn’t satisfied until she drew even, despite the froth lathered on her shoulders and flanks. Both horses and riders breathed in heavy gusts by the time they pushed through the tree line and met the bank of the pond. Lord Devon dismounted with the vigor of a twelve-year-old boy, and Sophia tried not to groan like a stiff old dowager when he lifted her down. Too long since she had ridden, and she would pay dearly for it tomorrow morning.

  “A good soak in the bathhouse … ” he paused to catch his breath, “should take care of that.”

  Sophia decided to sit where she had landed and let him remove the bridles so the horses could drink at the pond. Thor nudged Sadie with his head, and she blew a sharp snort that probably translated to Go away, you pest.

  Lord Devon pulled off his gloves and watched them, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I don’t want to geld him, but I don’t want him mounting Sadie either. Two more weeks into spring and she will … .” He seemed to realize his musings were not polite conversation.

  “I suppose she will either teach Thor a lesson he won’t forget, or let him do what horses do,” Sophia finished, enjoying his grimace.

  He smiled in resignation and dropped onto the grass beside her. “And which way is it for me?”

  “Teach you a lesson or let you have your wicked way with me? Both, my lord.”

  He leaned back on his elbows. “Both? At once? Or in small doses?”

  “I tend to act as inspiration strikes.”

  She could only think of him as Wilhelm now; formal address seemed impossible with him lounging in such a casual pose. He squinted in the waning sunlight as he turned his head to smile at her, the impish crooked pirate grin that made heat rise in her cheeks.

  “And that should be my cue to catch your gaze, sober you with a meaningful expression, then lull you closer until your mouth is so near mine one of us has to move an inch to close the space.”

  “For a man so eager to claim his prize, you sound grudging.”

  “No. It is anxiety you hear.”

  “You are anxious? Whatever for?”

  He dropped his shoulders onto the ground and sighed. He lifted Sophia’s hand from her lap, peeled off her glove and toyed with her thumbnail, tracing the shape over and over before answering, “I have never kissed a woman before.”

  What on earth? Sophia recovered herself, proud her only obvious reaction was a small hum. “Not true. Your aunt counts. And I think Sadie would take exception too,” she joked, but her stomach sank. He probably meant to confess that he … oh, she couldn’t even bear to think it.

  Wilhelm stared at her hand, and his voice sounded low and tedious as he confessed, “So if I have never kissed a woman, then you can guess the rest … . In truth I don’t know the first thing about making love in the practical sense.”

  Sophia blinked, trying to sort through his meaning.

  “In theory, I know more than I wish. I would scrub it from my brain if I could.”

  “Wilhelm. What are you talking about?”

  “I want to kiss you, Rosalie. But I don’t know how.”

  What was this? Some game? Was he mocking her? Or did he have some sinister motive she had not yet anticipated, blinded by what she perceived as his benevolence?

  “No need to look so disturbed. I only want a kiss. But you will have to teach me if I am to be any good at it.” He flashed his debonair grin, the one with dimples that made her heart kick in double time.

  She decided to play his bizarre game. “Well, you have it set up properly; romantic scenery, a participating party … . ”

  “Then what should I do? Roderick would lunge at his lady and devour her like a starving man having at it with a leg of lamb. Somehow I expect that would hardly please you.”

  “Roderick, your late brother? I am sorry, ah — ”

  “Roderick was a lecher and degenerate. He paid dearly for his sins and left me with the ball and chain we call Rougemont. No sympathy necessary.”

  “A harsh judgment, my lord.”

  “You might change your mind if I told you how he expired, but I don’t want to spoil the mood. I am trying to tease a kiss out of you, after all.”

  “So get on with it, my lord.”

  “First I must tug on your hand so you lean down over me.”

  Sophia rested on one elbow and let him press her hand to his chest. He rubbed his fingers over hers, slowly up and down with the rougher skin of his hand rasping hers in a pleasant reminder of masculine and feminine. She felt his pulse under her hand; his heart pounded like a drum.

  “I told you, I am anxious. Come a little closer, will you?”

  Sophia leaned in, and he reached around her shoulders to slide her hat off. She grew tired of propping herself up, and the heat he radiated like a furnace was too tempting; she let herself lie over his chest while he unpinned her hair. The sun dipped lower over the hills while he stroked her hair in silence. He had probably fallen into one of his trances, but this was a pleasant one. Perhaps he had forgotten about the kiss.

  Warm lips pressed to her forehead. “Tell me your name.”

  “No.”

  He grazed his lips down her temple. “Heartless wench. My first kiss from a woman with a false name.”

  “I think you are merely stalling, Wilhelm.”

  He traced her lips with the tip of his finger. “Is it so obvious? I was hoping you would lead the way, being that I am in uncharted territory.”

  Sophia was already giddy with the pleasant buzz of mild arousal, from only his touch. Most likely he was toying with her, and she played right into his hands like a fool. Suppose she trifled with him instead? “Very well. Then I will stare at your mouth and bite my lip, which will make you stare at my mouth.”

  He let go of her hand, and she raised her fingers to rub the line of his jaw, from the slight dimple in his chin to the little muscle in the corner that twitched. He never stayed clean-shaven for long; it made him look a bit rustic.

  His breath quickened and his lips parted as he stared. “An effective manipulation. I cannot look away, and now I have this embarrassing urge to lick you.” His voice sounded low and smooth with a hint of flirtation, like chocolate liqueur.

  She did it first. She slid her hand behind his neck and drew his face to hers then ghosted the tip of her tongue across his bottom lip.

  He rumbled with a bearlike growl then broke into an absurd smile. “Do that again, woman, and I might drop dead.”

  Sophia lowered her mouth to his and painstakingly closed her lips over his. He was slow to respond, as though he truly had no idea how to kiss. She gave him another short kiss. “Do it back, Wilhelm.”

  He tried, puckering too much. Boyish. A bit limp. She took control, showing him again, rolling her lips over his, then again but harder. “Tilt your head to the left, and I’ll go the other way, so we don’t bump noses.”

  Either he was a quick study or a hustler. He cupped her face and kissed her back, tenderly at first then aggressively like sparring, like the way they argued. Intoxicating how his pine-leather-mint-cognac scent became a flav
or. She hummed in her throat, he hummed back, a mutual agreement of pleasure. He was thorough, patient, as though he would be content to kiss all day and do nothing else. Maybe she imagined the hungry edge to his style — the occasional nip with his teeth or stroke of his tongue.

  Sophia found herself kneading his shoulders and pressing herself against him. He responded with calm, doing nothing more than rubbing the sides of her throat with his thumbs. Oh, he had reeled her in all right. He made her feel wild and greedy, and by all accounts he seemed leisurely. What a fool she was.

  Sophia paused and raised herself on her elbows to look at him, hating that she had to catch her breath.

  “Did I pass muster?” he made his wily half-smile-half-smirk, and her heart danced.

  “After some practice, I suppose so.” If the fire burning me from the inside out is any indication. She rested her chin on her fist, uncaring that her elbow dug into his ribs. “Wilhelm, does this mean anything at all to you?” She stared him down, daring him to joke when she was deadly serious.

  He shifted beneath her, sliding his hips against hers, and she had her answer. Oh my. He pressed lips into a line and raised a brow in apology.

  Typical man: ask about the state of his affections, and he’ll answer with his cock.

  Wilhelm raised his head, tightening the muscles in his chest. “I could get used to this, siren-woman-whose-name-is-not-Rosalie.” He caught her lips with his, provoking her in a playful rivalry that made her doubt he was an amateur. Then he rolled to the side and gently dumped her on the ground. “But I promised to only kiss you.”

  He helped her stand and brushed off her skirts, sanguine as though nothing had happened. As though he had made his point and was satisfied now.

  “Wilhelm, you — ”

  “Oh, hey — Thor, no!” He startled her with a sharp whistle.

  Sophia turned to see Thor nipping at Sadie’s flanks. The mare stomped and nickered in warning. Wilhelm ducked down to grab a pinecone and hurled it at Thor’s flank, finally distracting the stallion.

  “Time to leave. I fear for your reputation as much as Sadie’s.” He winked and handed over her gloves.

  By the time he separated the horses and bridled them, she had lost all courage for asking about his motives. He circled his hands around her waist, kneaded with his fingers, then ducked down for another kiss before lifting her into the saddle.

  “I know I am not at liberty to do that whenever I please. That was just one more for good luck.” He scrubbed his jaw with his hand. “I would feel much better about this whole affair if you would slap me and get it over with. I know you want to.”

  Yes, in fact she did. “That was not your first kiss.”

  “No.”

  “You pretended to be a novice so I would take the bait. Allow you liberties.” To prove your masculinity.

  “Yes.”

  Sophia surprised them both by drawing her hand back and smacking him hard on the cheek. Perhaps harder than she meant to, judging by the mark already blossoming on his skin.

  “Much better.” Improbably, he smiled and winked again. Rascal! He mounted Thor and waited for her to join him on the trail, ignoring her shaking her head at him. Impossible man.

  The party of horses and riders seemed to have exhausted their appetite for racing, so they made their way home at an easy trot. What had seemed like minutes of racing to reach the pond turned into an hour or two journey home, and little was said. Lord Devon looked thoughtful, probably lost in a trance, and Sophia fumed at herself.

  She, the master of social maneuvering, had been manipulated. And loved every moment of it. Even now she could not muster much angst toward Lord Devon. She had experienced twenty-and-four kisses in her lifetime stolen by gentlemen, bohemians, even royalty from all the continental nations, men who could not kiss without trying to maul her. But number twenty-five — Wilhelm — had set her aside despite his obvious arousal. Rather chivalrous, in a way.

  Sophia could only save face by swearing she would never let him do it again, but that giddy feeling lingered, riding her nerves, making her pray he would, and soon.

  “You shall have your chocolate strawberries and peaches,” he said finally, with a sly smile that reminded her he was still her friend.

  • • •

  Sophia browsed the back of the library, searching out a book to use for the girls’ geography lesson when she heard the doors slam shut and Philip and Lord Devon’s raised voices. They were in the middle of a heated argument in the central seating area, and Sophia could not sneak out of the library without being seen. She hoped they would not spot her there, uncomfortable eavesdropping on their private conversation.

  “You sound just like my father!” Philip fumed.

  “I only want you to understand the realities of what you profess to want for your life.”

  “Not everyone comes away from war disenchanted and damaged, Wil. Plenty of men distinguish themselves and earn their fortunes.”

  “You have your fortune and distinction, Philip. You will even have mine, if you wait a little longer for it.”

  “Don’t speak of it!”

  “Be reasonable, Phil. If you join the Foreign Legion so you can boast fighting in combat, you may be sorry, or, more likely, not even live to regret it.”

  “You think you are the only one in the family who has potential to be a great soldier?”

  “Philip! You demonstrate your ignorance as you speak. I would give it all back — I would walk through fire to purge the blood on my hands. War is not adventure, and killing is no sport. You know nothing about it! Do what you will, but I cannot give my blessing for it, and I want to be remembered as begging you not to throw your life away!”

  Philip had no answer to this.

  Lord Devon’s voice came gentler, “Take advice from a man who returned from war disenchanted and damaged, Phil. Do not choose a course that will only bring you horror and death.”

  Then she heard the door open and slam shut.

  “You may come out now, Miss Rosalie.”

  Sophia squeaked and lost her balance. Lord Devon stood only a few paces behind her.

  She took in his rumpled hair and tempestuous expression. Expecting a reprimand or a burst of temper, she took a tentative step backward.

  “Tell me I was right.” His voice sounded hoarse. Now that she noticed, he looked not only in severe déshabillé, but miserable. And oddly, he was not drunk.

  “You were right,” she agreed, returning his intense stare evenly so that he would know she meant it. “What happened — ”

  He shook his head sharply. “I will not discuss it.”

  “All right, then.” Didn’t men love to tell their battle stories?

  “Just distract me, please.”

  She didn’t dare gainsay him. Then she noticed he gripped a shelf white-knuckled and the other hand trembled. He didn’t smell of alcohol at all, but his eyes kept darting to the tray on the buffet holding a decanter and snifters. Ah, he was trying to quit. Why now?

  Sophia didn’t force him to explain. “Where can we go?”

  “The music room.” He turned and she followed silently.

  She went straight for the box by the piano and fished out a turbulent Chopin piece. She set it on the desk and prompted, “Play for me.”

  It was positively maddening that his music was only more exquisite through his torment. The seven-foot long strings washed the room with mighty sound that vibrated in her chest. For a long while she stood at his side turning his pages, watching his head bent over the keys, his hair and face damp with sweat.

  She put half a dozen demanding pieces on the desk in turn before his shoulders slumped with fatigue.

  “How bad is it?” she murmured, wondering if he was over the worst.

  “Bad.”

  Sophia wished she didn’t know so much on the topic. “Are you nauseated? Does your head ache?”

  “No, and always.”

  “How about visions? Hallucinations?” S
he could fetch help if he became unruly.

  He thunked his elbows on the piano keys and scoffed, “For me, that is not a symptom,” he answered darkly, “but a catalyst.”

  She thought she understood that he was disturbed by what happened to him in the war. “You blame yourself.”

  “No,” he groaned, “I blame you.”

  She felt it like a slap. Before she could storm out, he grabbed her wrist and drew her tightly against his chest. It didn’t matter that there was no smell of liquor to set her off; she reacted with panic for being restrained. She barely knew she thrashed and clawed, certain her arms were covered in blood. Where had her father’s cruel voice come from? She could hear him in her head, mocking and chanting, Filthy whore!

  Lips, smooth like marble on her temple, her brow, pressing her cheeks but carefully away from her mouth. “I’m sorry.” Strong but gentle, callused fingers stroked the back of her neck. Her mind cleared as she gasped for breath. “Rosalie, I am so sorry.”

  How long until she could be free of those awful memories?

  Probably not until Lord Chauncey was cold and dead.

  Wilhelm spoke with his face pressed in her hair, “Who did this to you?” His voice gentled, but she heard his sharp consonants and was not fooled for a moment that he felt any more tranquil than she. “Tell me, Rosalie, and I will kill him.”

  He meant it. He wanted to do it. Was she such a villain to find it a heady, powerful revelation? For a moment she was tempted to tell him all and let him fight her battles.

  Why was it so difficult to step away and let his arms drop from her back? It was all so horridly inappropriate, but even shame was no match for the residual heat of his hands and lips on her skin. He let her go in silence.

  Poorly done, her falling apart when Wilhelm had a crisis of his own. He seemed so vulnerable, his wry gallantry replaced by a raw look in his eyes that frightened her a little.

  “I will clear out your room, but first tell me where your secret stash is.”

  He was bewildered then resigned. “Between the headboard and the mattress.” She nodded and turned as he added, “Behind the red leather Bible on the writing desk. The flask in the bottom drawer of the bureau. In the folds of the north-facing draperies on the left side … . Under the clock on the mantle.”