“My lord, really—if you don’t wish it…”
He stopped her with a gesture. “No, we have always allowed the staff at Merdinn to attend the bonfire. Might as well, otherwise they slip off and go anyway. Have you ever been?”
“No.” Lalia looked a bit wistful. “I always wanted to, but my father said that it was far too rowdy an occasion for a young lady…and I was sure that it would not do for me to go alone later.”
“No!” Morgan was shocked at the thought. “Would you like to go tonight? I’ll escort you and keep you out of harm’s way.”
Lalia sighed. “I would love that, but what about Jeremy? We must keep him under strong guard.”
“I have already arranged for that. Zachary and Andrew—the footmen who came here from my London establishment—have been with me for years. I know I can trust them. In London it is necessary to keep children much closer than it ordinarily is in the country, and they have served as escorts for him frequently. I am having an extra bed placed in Jeremy’s room. One of them will sleep there while the other watches—and I assure you, they will be well armed.”
“They will be disappointed to miss the fire.”
“Their disappointment will heal when they pocket the bonus they will earn. But what of you? It would be better if we were not recognized. Do you always wear a braid with that…that thing on your head?”
At his disapproving expression, Lalia move a hand to her kerchief. “My diklo? Married Romani women always cover their hair.”
“You are not married, and you are not Romani. You should do away with it. Has anyone in the area ever seen you with your hair loose?”
Lalia considered. “Probably not. I usually wear a bonnet when I go out.”
“Good. Then find some informal clothing that no one has seen you in, and let your hair be free. No one is likely to recognize you then.”
He wanted her to be able to see her first Midsummer bonfire and hear the ceremony. She had had few enough pleasures in her life.
“Well! It seems that I am to accompany a Gypsy siren to the bonfire.”
Lalia smiled shyly as she came into the drawing room. “My grandmother gave me these. I believe they were hers when she was with the Roma.”
Morgan stood back and gazed appreciatively at her. She wore a puff-sleeved, white cotton blouse. A skirt of blue, green and black embroidery swept almost to the floor, and the ruffles of numerous white petticoats brushed her feet. The toes of dainty, black silk slippers could be seen now and then among the ruffles. A long, bright green scarf wrapped her waist, the tassels falling to her knees.
“Enchanting.” That was the word for her. She had stepped from another world. Silver necklaces of coins circled her neck, and similar earrings were visible where she had pulled her mass of shining black hair away from her face. “Certainly no one will know you.”
Excitement sparkled in her eyes. “Nor you, my lord. We do look a pair of Gypsies.”
In spite of the protests of Dagenham, Morgan’s valet, Morgan had also given up his usual formal attire in favor of an open-collared shirt with a Belcher handkerchief tied at his throat. He had firmly left his coat in his dressing room. The night would be hot enough with the fire and the press of bodies. With a wide, shallow-crowned hat, he would indeed be a fit escort for the lady at his side. He offered her his arm.
The dusk dropped its violet veil over a warm, balmy evening. Morgan drew the curricle to a stop at the edge of a grove of trees near the bottom of the hill that would be crowned by the Midsummer fire. “We best leave the carriage here.” He lifted Lalia down and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Then we can stage a strategic retreat if the going gets rough.”
They made their way through the fringes of the wood, emerging on a grassy slope. Already a large crowd gathered around the hill, surrounding a gigantic pile of wood at its crest. Laughter and talk filled the night, the loudness of the voices attesting to the presence of the bottles that were passing from hand to hand. The lively tunes of Gypsy fiddles could be heard from the neighboring hillside.
Considering his lady’s short stature, Morgan set about slowly maneuvering them to the front of the throng. Just as Morgan decided he had penetrated the mob as far as was wise, a series of collisions confirmed his decision. The celebrants swarmed around them, pushing and shoving. Lalia was being buffeted on all sides, and when a sturdy farmer, a bit the worse for drink, staggered into her, he all but knocked her off her feet.
“Here now! This won’t do.” Morgan pulled Lalia in front of him, her back to him, and wrapped both arms tightly around her, shielding her. He spread his legs and braced his feet against the surge. “Is that better?”
She smiled up at him over her shoulder. “Yes, thank you. This is so exciting!”
Morgan could only agree. His position gave him an excellent view into the front of her bodice, and her round derriere was pressed against his thighs. His body swelled and hardened. She stiffened in his arms, and he feared she would move away. Fortunately, at that moment a hush fell on the assembly, distracting them both.
The master of ceremonies’ voice sent the old Cornish words flowing across the meadow. “Herwyth usadow agan hendasow…” According to the custom of our fathers…
As the refrain resounded across the breathless throng, the air grew thick with potency, still with expectancy. The spirit of the ancient rite moved in Morgan and he felt the answering force in Lalia as she relaxed against him.
The Lady of the Flowers took up the chant. “Let good seed spring, wicked weeds fast withering…”
Seed, increase, growth. The true purpose of the old custom. All around him Morgan could feel it—breaths quickly indrawn, a muskiness in the air, bodies poised. The sensual tension rose to a bursting point. A moment of hungry silence. The Lady flung her bundle of herbs into the fire and the flames roared to the heavens. An answering shout burst from the spectators.
Suddenly everyone was laughing and talking again. The fiddle music swelled and people began clapping and dancing. The man standing next to them handed Morgan a bottle. Morgan nodded his thanks and took a healthy swig. And then another. Not bad. The fiery liquor was one with the fire in his blood. He wiped the mouth of the bottle on the palm of his hand and held it to Lalia’s lips. She hesitated, then took a cautious sip. Choking and giggling, she pushed the bottle away.
Not so fast, my delicious lady. Morgan leaned close to her ear, speaking over the noise. “Have another. A little won’t hurt you.” And it might help me. He tipped the bottle, pouring a mouthful past her lips. She sputtered a bit, but swallowed, laughing and shaking her head at his offer of more. He helped himself to another gulp and passed the bottle back to its owner.
“Thank you, my friend.”
Around them the night was becoming raucous with shouts and guffaws. The bottles passed faster. A couple near them threw themselves into an enthusiastic kiss, an activity being repeated all around them. When one of the men began to pull his partner’s dress away from her breast, Morgan concluded that the time had come for their departure. Soon the whole gathering would descend into the fertility rite that it was. That scene would be a bit much for a shy lady, and very probably, not safe for her.
He began to back through the crowd, pulling Lalia with him. At last they stumbled clear and, catching her hand, Morgan led her, running and laughing, into the small wood. They emerged breathless on the side near the curricle. Morgan swept Lalia into his arms and kissed her hard. But he dared not linger in the embrace. He needed to get her home, lest he drag her down into the grass under the stars. That would not do with so many people about.
Before he could lift her into the carriage, she spun away from him and began to dance to the music still to be heard from the next hill. She turned and twisted in the sensuous dance while he watched, bemused. Her hair floated out behind her as she whirled, caught up in the spell of the song. At times she swept near him, but when he reached for her, she twirled away, laughing, tantalizing. His groin ac
hed with need.
“Lalia, come.” Have mercy, cruel lady, sweet torment.
She seemed not to hear him, but at last the music paused. He caught her around the waist and lifted her onto the seat before she could elude him again. “Come, you wicked temptress. We are going home.”
They had little to say on the drive home. Morgan set an easy pace so that he could use one arm to draw her close. Pulling into the stable, he was gratified to see a somewhat disheveled groom emerge from the shadows. Morgan suspected that the lad had a companion hidden in the dark, but made no comment. The effects of Midsummer were pervasive. At least Morgan would not have to unhitch the horses himself.
“I want to go to the tower.” Lalia snuggled her head against him as they walked to the house.
“Very well.” That sounded like an excellent, very private, idea. They paused in the front hall long enough for Morgan to bar the door and pick up a candle. She led him up the rickety stairs, pointing out hazards as they went.
At the top of the stairs Morgan, entering Lalia’s bower for the first time, stopped dead in his tracks. Rich colors glowed from every side—from the exotic silk hanging from every wall, from plump pillows piled on an alcove bed, from a soft rug beneath his feet.
He lit the candles in the sconces and turned in a slow, appreciative circle. “This looks just as I have always imagined the inside of a Gypsy wagon.”
Lalia smiled her slow smile, her chin lowered, eyes lifted shyly to his. “Yes. Daj obtained these things for me when I decided I needed this room. I have always felt very safe here. At least until—” She resolutely bit off the sentence. “But listen. I believe there is a storm blowing up.”
She led the way out the second door to the watch platform. Indeed, clouds and lightning could be seen moving rapidly toward them from the ocean. The wind blew in erratic gusts, first from the mainland and next from the sea. When it swung to the hills, scraps of the Gypsy music could still be heard, slower now, more haunting, more seductive. Lalia began to dance again. Morgan clapped softly, filling in the rhythm when the breeze whipped the song away.
Lalia moved before him as in a dream, silently as if drifting on the water, her arms above her head, her breasts rising and falling, her hips pivoting slowly. His breathing deepened and the blood pounded in his ears and in his body, aching, demanding. Enough!
Morgan moved to take control of the dance. Stepping beside her, facing her with one arm around her waist, he circled Lalia in the manner of an old country dance, modifying the steps to the Gypsy air. The storm blew harder from the water, but the music drifting to them between puffs led them around and around and around. Gradually the song slowed, and gradually he drew her closer—now hip to hip, now leg to leg, now belly to belly. Still he moved them in lazy circles.
The rain swept over them in a rush, and Morgan swept Lalia through the door into the security of her retreat. The thunder from the skies was only a weak echo of that in his body. He wrapped her in his arms and took her mouth, moving his tongue over her lips in the rhythm of the now silent music. They parted under his and opened to him. He slid into the warmth of her mouth, absorbing the wine of the feast he had so long desired.
Moving the kiss to her throat, Morgan tasted her in tiny, moist kisses, breathing in the aroma of her skin as he worked his way lower. Lalia’s head dropped back and a small sound in her throat spurred him. Kneeling before her, arms locked around her hips, his teeth fastened on the drawstring that controlled the neckline of her blouse. He pulled the bow loose and the fabric began to slide off one shoulder. Again he used his teeth on the garment and the blouse slipped to her waist. Her plump, generous breasts glowed in the candlelight.
Morgan devoured them. Pressing his lips to the smooth, pearl-hued skin, Morgan ran his tongue over the warm flesh in ever-narrowing circles. When at last he allowed his mouth to close around the nipple, Lalia was moaning. The pressure in his lower body threatened to burst through, but he sternly denied it. He wanted to savor every inch of her. Moving his tongue from breast to breast, from nipple to nipple, he commanded more and more from her while he unwound the sash and unfastened the skirt and petticoats.
They pooled around her feet, and he moved his feast to the soft curve of her belly, but left his hands to stoke the fires in her breasts. She writhed under his assault now, her hands braced on his shoulders, her hips pulsing faster and faster. He placed one thumb on the straining flesh between her legs and pressed, moving gently, but firmly.
Morgan watched Lalia’s face as he grasped her bottom with his free hand and increased the pressure with the other. Her eyes widened, as dark blue with passion now as the deepest ocean. Her mouth came open. Her head flung back and her eyes closed. A surprised cry issued from her and she convulsed in his arms. He extracted every morsel of her moaning climax from her, until her knees began to give way. Standing, he gathered her into his arms, holding her close as the last shivers subsided.
Then he laid her on the bed and waited only until he could get the flap of his britches undone before covering her with his ravenous body. As he slid into her soft sheath, she gasped again and moved under him. He increased his rhythm and heard her moan again, and yet again. Inflamed beyond control now, he drove himself into her faster and faster until her soft shriek and a sob forced him over the edge, his hips pumping his seed into her with the rhythm of the sea pounding the cliffs and the power of the storm. His own voice filled his ears. His mind fell through blackness, swirled, soared. At last he plummeted to earth, landing softly in the warmth of Lalia’s body.
They lay together, breathing raggedly. Morgan didn’t want to move. Ever again. But gradually the awareness of his weight on his small partner prompted him to roll to the side. He didn’t want to actually crush her. He pulled her against his chest, the softness of her hair sliding over her back beneath his arm. He dropped a silent kiss into her ear. “Are you all right?”
Her head nodded against him. A drowsy silence ensued. At length she murmured something against his shirt. At his inquiry she repeated, more loudly, “I didn’t know it could be like that.”
Come to think of it, Morgan hadn’t known it, either. Something in him had moved in a way that he had never before felt. He would have to think about that, but at the moment he didn’t want to. He’d rather think about her. To throw the protecting shield of his presence over her. To heal her wounded spirit. To teach her that all men were not like Cordell Hayne.
That he was not.
Brushing her hair from beneath her, he laid her against the bright coverlet and raised himself on one elbow. He began to smooth the silky strands over her silky breasts. “Since the moment I first saw you, I’ve wanted to see you clothed in nothing but your own hair.”
Lalia relaxed into the cushions, lulled by the stroking. Had he really wanted her then? He had seemed so threatening, so menacing. She saw him very differently now—kind and warm, playful and humorous. Strong. Desirable.
And probably still very dangerous to her.
She looked up into the green eyes, the tousled curls, and another wave of longing flooded her. Danger to the contrary notwithstanding, she still wanted him. Having come this far, Lalia was determined to experience every moment of intimacy available to her.
Tentatively she ran her hand over his chest, tracing the muscles beneath his shirt. He paused in playing with her hair long enough to sit up and pull his shirt off over his head. When he again lay beside her, Lalia slid her fingers through the crisp curls, memorizing the sensation, the sight. What did the rest of him look like?
The only other man she had ever known had dragged her clothes from her, leaving her naked and vulnerable while he remained armored by his own. “I—I have never seen a man completely unclothed.”
“Never?” Morgan sounded astonished. When she shook her head, he sat again and wrestled off his boots. They and his britches soon joined his shirt in a heap on the floor. He stood beside the bed and looked fixedly at her face. Lalia struggled to move her gaze from h
is. Slowly she was able to let it slide down his body, noting the ripples of muscle across his stomach. Exerting an effort, she made herself look at the rest of him. A flush washed over her and she quickly looked away. Morgan laughed and lay down beside her.
“Perhaps a little much all at one time. We must let you become accustomed by degrees.” He nuzzled her neck and guided her hand back to his chest.
Lalia stroked him, slowly letting her hand drift down to the tense ridges across his belly, studying the shape and feel. At last, she let her fingers touch his shaft and tangle in the coarse black hair that spread across his groin. He began to swell and grow hard. His mouth sought her breasts and she melted under his siege.
The world began to fade. All that was left were his lordship’s lips and hands and her body, helpless with passion. When she was trembling with need, he came into her slowly, stroking and caressing until she dissolved into wave after wave of sensation, calling out, sobbing aloud. His own release subsided and he gathered her to him, buttressing her against the storm. He held her until her tears faded, leaving the sound of raindrops spattering on the stones outside the door.
The rays of sunlight filtering through the door told Lalia that she had slept later than usual. Little wonder. It had been an eventful day—and night. She rolled over and pushed her face into the pillow beside her, taking in the scent of Morgan that lingered there. He had risen before dawn, leaving the little room so full of his presence that she had slept on unafraid while he returned to the respectability of his own bedchamber.
Lalia appreciated his consideration. No one would question her sleeping in the tower retreat. She had done so often enough. But gossip would have been rife had the staff awakened and found them both there. She had no doubt that speculation was boiling through the house as it was. This way she retained at least a few scraps of privacy.
Lalia gathered the pillow into her arms. Now she understood the poetry of love. She knew that passion must have its attractions, but never before had she had the opportunity to taste them. Her husband had not bothered with her pleasure. Now that she had experienced ecstasy, it would be very difficult to give up. It had claimed her whole soul—devastating. Shattering.
A Dangerous Seduction Page 14