The knot almost came unraveled then, but he pulled back, waiting, and Mariel screamed her frustration. “Now,” she cried. “Make it happen. Make it stop. Please!”
“Say the words, Mariel,” he insisted in an urgent voice raw with need. “Tell me you are mine forever. Tell me I may take you.”
His, forever. The words were terrifying if she thought about them, but she could not think. Or speak. Need consumed her, and she was as mindless as she had been earlier in the bath. Only, instead of aiding survival, her sole instinct was to couple with this golden god who claimed her.
The lamp cast flickering shadow and light across the tangled gold of his hair and the bronzed planes of his chest. Pirate or god, he was magnificent. And he could be hers.
He lowered her hips to the bed when the words froze on her tongue. He raised up, kneeling between her legs to look down on her with eyes misty gray in disappointment. She was tied to the bed. He could take her easily. She wanted him to take her, to take away all responsibility for this act that seemed so important to him and so dangerous to her.
She wanted him to take away the ache, dissolve the knot that tightened just looking at him, watching his sex grow.
Her mother had not warned her about the price she must pay for the services of a god.
The lamplight silhouetted Trystan’s breadth, the tight muscles of his abdomen, and illuminated the dark river of hair leading down to the maleness that would impregnate her, sooner or later.
And her womb cried for his child. She understood the knot now. Somehow, he’d already possessed her, and the craving for release became something more, a need to surrender to her natural self and become one with this man. The altar had induced some magic that took away their individual wills, replacing them with desperate desire. He was as chained to her as she was to him. Her hips rose of their own accord, begging with words her voice refused to speak. That a man of his stature and character didn’t seem to resent the connection—that he actually wanted this union with someone as freakish as her—added another layer of exhilaration.
His searing gaze drifted from her breasts downward to the sexual solace she offered, and Mariel could feel her entrance swell to take him.
He’d saved her life. She must give him hers.
It was as if she’d been struck with a branch of the tree of knowledge. He was right. This union was inevitable.
The fire inside her melted her will. “I am yours forever,” she whispered. “Take me, please.”
Mariel did not understand his reply, but Trystan’s voice was thick with gratitude as he propped his hands on either side of her head and leaned over to kiss her. She tasted herself on his lips, drank greedily of the saltiness as he angled his hips between her legs.
The knotted sheet fell loose from the headboard, and she grabbed his arms just as this stranger she scarcely knew thrust inside her, violating the sanctity of her body. A mournful cry broke past her lips as Trystan shattered her virginity in a single stroke, taking possession and laying claim to what had once been hers alone. Despite her cry of protest, her inner muscles stretched and rippled with pleasure at the intrusion, as if they would never let go.
With a rough laugh of relief, Trystan rubbed his stubbled cheek against her tears. “Our first time, Mariel. Remember it well.”
She throbbed with need, felt liquid with desire, and taut with hunger. She wasn’t likely to ever forget the moment he withdrew to plunge deeper. Tension undulated through her womb as his masculine hardness seared soft tissues. At her cry, he drove higher, repeatedly, stretching her, until her body finally understood and succumbed to his rhythm. Until at last, he struck the internal knot that held them bound.
“Let go, Mariel. Trust me. Let me take you higher,” he murmured, licking her breasts until they peaked into aching buds.
Closing her eyes, she let sensation replace thought and terror. If she could be as one with the sea, she could become one with the man who claimed her. Sensing her capitulation, Trystan eased his rhythm, driving slower and deeper, until he seemed to reach her heart.
Releasing her fears, Mariel clung to his arms and surrendered her body into his custody—and miraculously, that surrender released the shackles of denial. The knot came unbound, and she soared free with this man who’d known what she needed more than she had.
And as he promised, he flew her to a peak far beyond her imagination, one that invoked the towering volcano of his home. And once there, their bodies erupted with such forceful pleasure that they merged in a vapor of fire and water, joined as one, settling gently back to earth as the tremors ceased.
“Pax,” Trystan whispered against her ear, cuddling her in the arms that had sheltered her through the tempest.
“I don’t believe ‘peace’ is the word for what we just did,” she replied, and wished again she didn’t hear the echo of her mother’s prophesies while her body still vibrated with joy.
***
Trystan woke the next morning to the notes of a woodwind drifting from the courtyard. A stringed instrument followed. He seldom had a chance to enjoy music, and he would have liked to lie in the cozy draped bed with the warm woman at his side and make leisurely love.
That he’d completed his half of the vow that bound him physically for life, caused him to break out in a cold sweat, but glancing at Mariel’s peaceful features sleeping on the pillow reassured him that his decision was the right one.
Trystan kissed her awake, then covered her warm, lithe body, fully prepared to service her again. Once would never be enough with a woman as responsive as this mermaid who was maid no longer, but his for all time.
He would endure no passive mating with Mariel. She had participated last evening with such wild abandon that just recalling it had his seed pounding for instant release.
He smiled wickedly when her eyes grew round at the sight of him mounted and ready. Her thighs slackened beneath him, eager to part, and he felt the tie tightening between them.
“This time, there will be no sheath,” he warned her, separating her knees with his.
“No,” she whispered in sudden alarm, staring at his erection. “No children. We have settled nothing. We must hurry and buy back the chalice. Nick is waiting.”
Primed to dive into deep waters, Trystan cursed this delay. He should never have agreed to the sheath. Remaining where he was, he met her gaze defiantly, then stroked her sex. She was moist and ready for him.
“I could take you now,” he asserted, “and there would be no repercussions. You gave your consent. You are my mermaiden now, to do with as I please.” He’d explained that. Imperfectly, perhaps, but she’d seemed to comprehend.
For his kind, the anticipation of children meant even more than the physical joining. Children were crucial to their existence. He would not use the sheath again. That was for whores, and she was his amacara, mother of his children. “This is our future,” he reminded her.
Even more alarmed, she attempted to scoot out from under him, backing up against the headboard. “Forever,” she repeated in a voice of terror. “I agreed to forever, didn’t I?”
“Not one of your better impulses, I assume?” he asked mockingly.
She looked so upset that he hid his disappointment and swung from the bed. He would not force an unwilling woman, even if she was his. Besides, if they waited until they returned to Aelynn, she could confirm her vow and the gods would grant him a child who would be heir to his abilities. Another day or two of waiting was worth the reward and would not kill him. Quite.
“This isn’t a marriage,” she protested, tugging the sheet to her chin and wrapping it around her as she sat up. “We weren’t in church. We merely suffered the heat of passion. And we can’t indulge ourselves now.”
“The gods forbid that we enjoy what they have given us,” he said bitterly. Gritting his teeth, he sat down in the cold bath water to douse his ardor. “I waited all my life for a woman who would enjoy my attentions, and I gain one who prefers suffering. What is it y
ou want of me?” he asked out of curiosity. “I have no wealth without my ship or my home.”
“I don’t want anything of you,” she said proudly, dipping a cloth into the water to wash away the evidence of what they had done. “Perhaps the pleasure,” she reluctantly admitted, “but I’m not ready yet for the results of pleasure. I want this task done first.”
His need unassuaged, Trystan rose dripping from the water, and reached for a sheet to dry himself. “Fine. We will fetch the chalice and meet Nick. I cannot take you into Paris if you sicken without the sea, so I cannot obtain your brother-in-law’s permission for a wedding. What is the protocol under such circumstances?”
“Protocol?” She had donned her undergarments and was staring in dismay at the bodice laces he’d undone last night.
It laced in back, where she could not reach, he realized. The hooks in front were there so she could fasten the garment without aid. Her complicated clothing was a nuisance. “For taking vows in your church, so you will feel comfortable with what is between us,” he explained.
Her church meant nothing on Aelynn, but if her ceremony made her happy and willing to take his vows, then he could say hers.
He grabbed the bodice and held it up so she could place her arms in the sleeves. He would prefer to see her in the simple togas and saris of his home, clothing that opened easily when he wished to make love to her. But if she meant to make him wait, perhaps burying her in acres of cloth was wise. “I made promises last night. You do not really think I will forget them?”
“Men usually do,” she said without anger. “I wanted to experience what we did last night, but I don’t really expect you to return once you have your chalice.”
Trystan tugged her laces and tried not to strangle her. “I did not realize that vows were so easily forsworn in your world. Our cultures differ in ways that will cause us trouble if we don’t learn from our mistakes. I assume you did not understand that our pledge was serious, or you might have been less impulsive about taking it.”
“We made a mistake,” she agreed. “We rushed into something neither of us is prepared for. We scarcely know each other.”
“It is too late to regret what we did. Under Aelynn’s laws, a verbal promise is binding. I cannot take another as amacara.” Knotting the lace, Trystan whirled her around and glared down at her.
“You are sore from last night,” he decided, “and that reduces desire, giving you strength to deny me. But it is not likely to happen again. The bond tightens even as I speak. Your breasts swell with need. I can feel it, here, inside me.” He punched his midsection, where the hunger burned.
Her eyes reflected the molten gold of lust, so he knew she felt it, too, no matter how much she shook her lovely curls in brave denial.
She was afraid of the joining between them. No one had ever explained to her what it meant to bear the blood of Aelynn.
Softening toward her as he would a child who does not comprehend, Trystan placed his hand on Mariel’s delicate jaw and pressed a kiss to her wide brow. “This is all new to you. I will try to be patient, if you will be patient with me. I have waited a long time to have an amacara, and it is hard for me to accept that you do not want the same.”
“I want it,” she whispered with all honesty, “I just cannot have it. Your world is not mine, and it never will be.”
A cold chill shot down his spine as he recognized the kernel of truth in her declaration. As the Guardian, he could not abandon Aelynn. He was key to the island’s survival. His children must inherit his abilities.
Without children, the island would die. What disaster was this if she would not have his children?
Nineteen
Trystan had tied her laces so tight that Mariel felt as if her bodice pushed all her flesh to spill out the top. Without an apron for modesty, she was almost grateful for her ratty old cloak. She was much too aware of the plumpness of her breasts now that Trystan had taught her how a touch could lead to pleasure. Just the lace caressing her nipples produced a liquid fire between her legs. She could barely concentrate on facing her cousin’s door.
She’d tied up the tapes on her billowing skirt to create fashionable puffs so she didn’t trip, but without the proper hip pads, the silk still sagged and trailed behind her. Trystan had brought her embroidered shoes so she need not clump about in sabots, but the heels did not raise her high enough to eliminate the need for petticoats. Then again, perhaps she was not missing much by being unable to afford court finery. She didn’t lead a life suited to frivolity.
In his knee boots, Trystan stood tall and elegant beside her, comfortable as any duc or prince in his tight silk breeches, linen cravat, and dark frock coat even though she knew now that these were not his normal attire. He wore his golden hair neatly bound into a black satin sack in back, but he had not adopted the side curls of fashion, for which she was grateful. His was a hard face of angles and planes that should not be softened with curls.
He carried a duc’s air of authority even when he was no such thing here.
He knocked peremptorily on the door of the baroness’s suite. Mariel’s stomach rumbled, since they’d had no time for breakfast. It was late, and a crowd had already gathered in the hall. A troop of musicians was playing, and if the wedding was not carried out soon, the party would start without the bride and groom.
A frazzled maid answered the knock. Over her shoulder, Mariel could see Lady Beloit in a far room, gowned in what appeared to be her chemise, except it had blue ribbons tying the waist and gauzy puffed sleeves. She’d heard the aristocracy had adopted the simple dress of rural milkmaids, but this seemed highly informal for a wedding.
“How could you do this, Marc?” Lady Beloit cried while the servant hesitated about allowing them in. “It was a gift!”
“Precisely, madame, and one can do as one wishes with a gift. I did not realize there were strings attached,” de Berrier replied in stiff tones.
“You said it was splendid, that you would always treasure it. Do your words mean so little then?”
Mariel had a very bad feeling about this argument. She dug her fingers into Trystan’s coat sleeve and nodded toward the empty front parlor. Understanding, he stepped inside, pushing past the maid.
“Your gift was beyond priceless, madame. I did not dare keep such a treasure in my humble home. Versailles is a far safer place for it. All the world converges there. Perhaps the king will be grateful for the admiration the vessel brings and be more receptive of my suggestions for restoring balance to the budget. Avoiding national bankruptcy is of higher importance than selfish pride.”
While Mariel could only applaud the chevalier’s reasoning, she despaired at his method of achieving it. He would have done better to send the king a box of locks. His Highness’s penchant for tinkering was well known.
“Celeste?” Mariel called, trying to keep desperation from her voice. She could not stand the suspense any longer. The mention of a “vessel” came too close to a description of the chalice. “We are ready to leave for Pouchay and have come to give our regards.” Reluctant to ask about the chalice in the chevalier’s presence, she paused, unsure of what to do next.
The baroness swung around to acknowledge them. Sapphires to match her ribbons adorned her throat and ears, and a ribbon of jewels was entwined in her powdered hair. Her gown might be simple, but there was no questioning her wealth.
“You cannot go so soon!” she cried. “There is room for you in the chapel, and there will be grand celebrations afterward. I would have family with me at this time.” Anger stained her rouged cheekbones, and her lips tightened over words left unsaid.
The chevalier appeared in the doorway. A vein on his forehead bulged at sight of the parlor’s occupants. “You! Where is my nephew? I will call the guards if you do not produce him at once.”
“He claims he is not your nephew,” Trystan said with a shrug. “He ran off last night without paying me for my efforts. One tries to do good deeds, but they are seldom rewarded.�
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Mariel nearly winced at his caustic tone. She suspected that statement was a subtle arrow for her. It was possible he’d saved her from her reckless actions by rescuing her from his precious Oracle, and again last night, with the salt bath. And not once had he chastised her for the trouble she caused him.
It had never occurred to her that she might need the sea to live, and that she should not journey far—probably because she’d never thought to leave Pouchay. She felt much stronger today, but she had a day and night of travel ahead.
“Francine awaits me, my lady,” she said into the stony silence. “We must return immediately to Pouchay. I wish you well of your new marriage. We will have the lace cloth for your wedding gift ready by the time you return.”
Concealing her anger behind a trill of laughter, the baroness tapped Mariel’s cheek with her fan. “Come along. It won’t hurt to tarry another hour so you may attend the ceremony. Your sister’s lace is quite famous. You must be able to tell her about the wedding in return. We have brought in lilies from Paris.”
She took Mariel’s arm and forcibly steered her toward the exit.
Convinced the baroness was delaying them for a purpose, Mariel threw an uncertain look over her shoulder to Trystan. He shook his head to indicate that she should not protest even though impatience tightened his jaw.
This was all her fault. She had taken the sacred chalice. And the baroness was her relation. She would have to be the one to find out what had happened to it. Her stomach gripped at the thought of what might happen to Trystan’s world if the treasure was lost.
“I thought it was ill luck to see the groom before the wedding,” Mariel said as the four of them entered the corridor.
“That is the superstition of rural peasants,” de Berrier scoffed from behind them. “We are more sophisticated than to believe in false notions.”
Mystic Guardian Page 17