How broad his shoulders were, how narrow his waist. He seemed like a statue standing there, with the moonlight playing on his bare skin, casting shadows along the indented length of his arrow-straight spine, laying a silvery sheen over the black satin pantaloons that left nothing to the imagination in the area of his taut buttocks and well-turned thighs. No padding girded those limbs. Sara remembered her father availing himself of such devices, as was the way of it amongst men not so endowed trying to adapt their less-than-perfect figures to the fashions of the day. No corset held Nicholas’s well-muscled, washboard-stomached middle in check either. She had lain naked against that hard, lean body. She had known the silkiness of his lightly furred chest against her breasts. She had felt the strength in him, the thickness of his sex pressed against her, and the discipline of restraint keeping it in control, that made every sinew in him tighten like steel bands, and every muscle contract and flex against her as though it were about to burst.
Just the sight of him standing there thrilled her to arousal, readied her for the consummation of a passion she didn’t even understand. All she knew was that he filled her with strange, forbidden warmth; forbidden, because feelings this shocking had to be. This searing, moist heat that invaded her loins in his presence was a scandalous thing that made her hands go clammy and her whole body shiver, with delec-table cold chills despite the fire inside. Only being wrapped in those strong arms would stop her quaking. Only the feral scent of him, sweetened with herbs, and fresh with the salt of the sea could give her a reason to breathe. Only the pressure of his mouth opening her lips beneath could slake her insatiable need to taste him deeply, and completely.
What other pleasures that body held in store, she couldn’t imagine. Still, despite that she wanted those pleasures until her very bones ached for them, another saner voice inside nearly convinced her to creep out as she had crept in. That was, until he bowed his head and raked both hands through his hair, then dropped them at his sides. It was a gesture of defeat, and all of her defenses plummeted to earth right along with his posture.
“Nicholas . . . ,” she murmured, her hoarse voice scarcely more than a whisper, though it boomed through the quiet like a thunder roll.
Her husband spun so fast to face her that she saw only a blur, like the blur she’d seen in the passageway, when Nero leaped into the air, and Nicholas emerged naked before her. Like a spurt of déjà vu, it riveted her to the spot, but oh what it did to her equilibrium, and to her quivering sex. Her breath caught in a dry throat. She was on fire for him.
For a moment he didn’t move. His obsidian gaze devoured her, glistening with reflected light from the shadows. He didn’t seem real, backlit by the split shaft of illusive moonglow spilling in around him, bouncing off him, like a fractured aura. It almost seemed to shine through him, as if he were a wraith standing there, staring at her, ready to disappear in a puff of ethereal mist should she breathe and break the spell.
The moment seemed to go on forever. Then he sprang again, reaching her in two graceful strides, more animal-like than human. Now she recognized the feral energy in his makeup that had always been there, in the way he moved and prowled and surged and paced. Was it a carryover from his Nero incarnation, or were man and animal one creature, separated only by a hairsbreadth of unearthly distance, or the beat of a palpitating heart?
For a moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes moved over her with the skeptical anticipation of one dying of thirst, fearing that the oasis before him was no more than another mirage, a trick of the eye come to torment him. She could barely stand to look into them. He inhaled her—nostrils flared, almost like a dog . . . like a wolf, his straight Celtic nose raised in the air, those mad, staring eyes finally hooded. As if in a trance, he moaned, and his eyes came open, drinking her in.
Trembling hands reached for her—enveloped her—folded her in his strong arms. He groaned again, and she slipped her arms around his waist, drawing him closer still.
“You are real,” he whispered. “I wasn’t sure. I’ve conjured you in my mind so often, I was afraid you were nothing more than another apparition come to haunt me.”
“I’m real enough,” she said, “but for a moment just now, I viewed you the same, like a ghost in the darkness.”
“Does this mean that you’ve decided?” he asked, his voice quavering.
“It means . . . that I love you,” she replied, looking him in the eyes. “That has caved in my common sense, undermined my scruples, and defeated my resolve.” He drew her closer still, holding her face against the soft hair on his chest. His skin was afire beneath her cheek, his heart thump, thump, thumping its rapid rhythm in her ear. “It means that my need of you is so great, I have no shame,” she murmured through a dry sob.
He tilted her face up until their gazes met. Were those tears in his eyes, glistening in the darkness? Her own eyes misted, looking into them.
“You won’t be afraid?” he said.
“Afraid?”
“If anything . . . untoward should happen. Like what occurred in the passageway,” he whispered, brushing her brow with his lips. They were hot, and dry. “I’ll know in time to distance myself, but still . . .”
“Why would I be afraid?” she said. “I love you both, and I would be loath to think that either of you would harm me.”
The breath left his lungs in a rush of hot, moist whispers against her face, her hair—her arched throat. She couldn’t understand his words, only the meaning behind them, the utter relief in the sound of primeval love binding them to the moment, and to each other.
Seizing her head, he cupped it in his massive hand and took her lips, opening her mouth, deepening the kiss with a teasing tongue that drew hers after it. The swift motion thrilled her, just as it had in the past, and she buried her hand in the soft silkiness of his hair, holding him fast until their trembling lips parted moist, and breathless.
“You’re cold,” he murmured against her mouth. “You’re trembling.”
“Not cold,” she whispered back, their lips still touching, “I’ve never felt like this before. It’s as if my bones are melting.”
Nicholas stripped off the rest of his elegant toilette, tossed the clothes on the lounge with the rest of his things, and stood naked before her. He untied the ribbons that closed her wrapper, and slid it down over her shoulders, then the gown, until they fell in a cloud at her feet.
The shaft of moonlight, brighter now, spilled over them through the windowpanes. He was aroused, his sex touching her, as he slid his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and reached for her breasts. As he caressed them his thumbs grazed her nipples, extracting a soft moan from her throat that drew her closer. Circling the puckered outline of each nub with one finger, he teased the hardened buds until they grew tall, coming closer and closer to the tips, leading her to the brink of ecstasy in rapturous torture, as his lips descended upon first one, and then the other. Sucking, tugging, nipping lightly. She shuddered in delight, every nerve ending in her body tingling in anticipation of what those skilled fingers, that merciless tongue were about to do to her next.
“You are . . . exquisite,” he panted, his hot breath puffing against her moist skin. “You taste . . . of sweet cream . . . and of roses. I cannot drink my fill . . .”
Her sex was on fire, moist, swollen—palpitating with arousal. He took her hand, and guided it along the shaft of his engorged member, hot and hard yet silky to the touch. Her breath faltered as it responded to her caress, just as it had in the past; only now, it was as if it were a separate entity. He was no longer holding back. He was hers.
All at once, he lifted her into his arms, kicked her nightdress and wrapper out of the way, and carried her to the bed. Throwing back the counterpane, he set her down between the sheets, climbed in beside her with a sinuous motion that took her breath away, and took her in his arms. His moves were seamless. He never broke stride. His lips never left hers. His hands never ceased caressing, exploring, bringing her to the brink of r
apture she feared would melt her very soul.
This was no amateur; here was a skilled lover. Sara’s heart began to beat a little faster. She wasn’t even sure what was expected of her. How would she ever please him? Suddenly, there was no impending threat of doom, no murderous wolf stalking the halls of Ravencliff, no guards about to descend upon the place, pistols at the ready. They were the only two people on earth, and his pleasure was all that mattered to her. If only she were wise enough. If only she were confident enough. If only she were skilled enough to pleasure him, the way he was pleasuring her.
His shaking hand slid along the curve of her thigh, and then crossed over, his fingers probing the private place between, which throbbed, and ached, and reached for his caress. Leaning back, he looked her in the eyes.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” she said, meeting his black gaze, those dark, dark eyes dilated now with desire and searching her face.
“Wolves mate for life, Sara,” he said, his voice like gravel.
“I know, Nicholas. . . .”
He pulled her closer then, the breath leaving his body on a long, ragged sigh.
“Will I ever see Nero again?” she whispered in his ear. She hadn’t seen him since the incident. She had to know.
His handsome mouth became a lopsided smile, and dawn broke over Sara’s heart. How like a mischievous lad he looked in one respect, while, in juxtaposition, lurked the master of seduction—hot breath puffing from flared nostrils, hooded eyes glazed with arousal. The intrigue of that set off earthquakes in her soul.
“Sometimes,” he said, kissing her cheeks, her brow, her arched throat between words, “I think . . . you love . . . that animal . . . more . . . than you . . . love me.”
“And whose fault is that, then?” she asked, delivering a playful swat to his arm. “Creeping into my chamber, letting me hand-feed you, nuzzling my hand, washing my face—letting me make a pet of Nero to replace the hounds I loved so and lost.”
“It was the only way that I could touch you . . . be near you, feel the cool softness of your fingers on my brow, taste the sweetness of your skin, inhale the scent of you. If you think that I was not in torment, think again.”
“You cannot be jealous of yourself, Nicholas, so do not be. Have you no idea how I longed to touch you from that very first day, when I reached out my hand, and you backed away from me—told me you didn’t want to be touched?”
“If I had let you touch me then you would have seen what you saw four days ago right there in that study, my Sara. I knew the minute I set eyes on you the folly of my fine ‘arrangement.’ ”
“And so, I turned to Nero,” Sara continued. “He filled the gap that losing my dogs had rent in my heart. I had a pet again, and it was he who received the affection I so longed to bestow upon you—and would have done, if you had only let me, Nicholas. I’ve been so lonely. I saw the torment in you, and I longed to soothe it away. The odd thing is, I saw it in Nero also, and you haven’t answered my question. Will I ever see him again? To me, you are and always will be separate entities.”
He gathered her closer still. “Sooner than you care to, if we aren’t careful,” he murmured, taking her lips with a hungry mouth.
After a moment that mouth inched lower, following the curve of her throat, pausing over the pulse beating there, his tongue seeking the life force pumping through her. Sara shut her eyes and groaned as he spread her legs and began stroking her between them again. His touch was light and rapid, delving deeper with each stroke. She arched her body against the pressure, reaching for she knew not what until it came—a surging, searing firebrand of palpitations coursing through her body. Waves of icy fire moved through her, like ripples on calm water once a stone breaks the surface.
All at once, he withdrew his hand, and filled her with his sex. The groan that left her throat as he glided inside her on the dew of her first awakening seemed dredged up from her very core. She had no control over it. It came unbidden, of its own volition, mating with the moan in his own dry throat, as his mouth closed over her trembling lips. The mingled sounds resonated through her body. Was that her heart, racing so savagely? Or was it his? Or was it both their hearts, pounding, shuddering one against the other.
The hard buds of her breasts were buried in the silk of his chest hair. They seemed to catch fire, and new pleasure-pains shot through her loins like molten lava, as she moved to the rhythm of his thrusts. How he filled her. How perfectly they fitted together. Lost in a firestorm of excruciating ecstasy, she yielded to every nuance of his love. Her body became malleable in his hands, responding to the fever in his blood.
There should have been pain, but there wasn’t. She’d expected it—steeled herself against it, but it never came. She felt only the pressure of his sex, the gentle strength as it moved inside her at the height of the icy-hot surges that canceled out pain and thought and reason—canceled out all but awareness of him. But it wasn’t just him. They were no longer two separate people. They were one. That is what transported her—lifted her out of herself—riveted every cell in her body to his with pumping spurts of liquid fire.
Like sand beneath an ebbing wave, all restraints were washed away in that brief blink of time’s eye. They had mated for life. All the world seemed to hold its breath. In that magical consummate moment, there was no more threat, no more danger, only love.
It was, alas, too fleeting. All at once he tensed against her. The discipline returned, and he withdrew himself before his bursting life could fill her with the warm rush of his seed. Instead, he crushed her hand around his sex and called her name as it pumped him dry.
All at once his breathing changed from quick and shallow to deep, shuddering gasps. His brow was running with sweat, and he dropped it down on her shoulder, and gathered her close, burying his hand in her hair.
“Why did you do that?” Sara murmured.
“I meant . . . what I said,” he panted. Snaking a handkerchief from beneath his pillow, he put it in her hands. “I cannot risk passing this nightmare on. It must end with me. It needn’t be this way always. Dr. Breeden has solutions. You need to talk to him. Nothing could be done this first time in any case. I’m sorry, Sara . . .”
“Sometimes what we fear the most turns out to be the least of our fears, when all is said and done,” she murmured.
“Sometimes yes, but not this time. You must trust me, Sara, to know what is best for both of us. I love you. I will not see you tortured in that way—mother to such a creature as I am—and I will not inflict such a legacy upon an unsuspecting innocent: condemn it to the life that I have been forced to live because my father had to have his deuced heir.”
“Until now,” she whispered. “Is it so dreadful . . . now? Nicholas, you’re making strides. Dr. Breeden is committed to the task of teaching you to control your transformations. Once you have done, you could teach your son to do the same if needs must . . . couldn’t you?”
“Shhh,” he said. Wrapping the counterpane around her, he gathered her close, and grazed her temple with his lips. Those were tears glistening in his eyes. She longed to kiss them away. “Go to sleep, my Sara,” he murmured, his voice husky and strained.
She said no more. Now was not the time. He was choked with emotion, and from the look of it, trying to prevent himself from shapeshifting then and there. All at once, it was so clear, as though a candle had suddenly blazed in her fogged brain. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a child. It was that he didn’t dare want a child. He’d built a wall around his heart and soul that longed to be complete, because he thought he never could be. That was obvious, and it hurt her far more than any of the rest. That was the torment she’d seen in the eyes of man and wolf from the very start. She didn’t recognize it until now, and she bit her lip until it bled to keep from crying.
Snuggling close, she clung to Nicholas, running her fingers through the soft hair on his chest. The heart beneath had calmed now—slow, steady beats rode shuddering breaths. The mo
ist skin beneath her face was still flushed; the long, lean length of him pressed against her still blazed with the heat of their joining.
“Don’t ever leave me, Sara,” he murmured against her brow.
Sara didn’t answer, except to draw him closer into her arms. There was no need of words. Her body spoke volumes with more eloquence than her lips could have done.
He sighed then, and she began drifting off to sleep to the music of his deep breathing. To the rise and fall of his chest, as though her head were a boat riding the gentle swells of a sea becalmed. Outside, the actual sea breathed deeply as well. Lace-edged combers lapped at the strand, foaming over the rocks and boulders, whispering in the tide pools, murmuring among the cairns and caves and hidden places. The voice of the wind had stilled. It would be a fine day tomorrow. Sara wouldn’t think about that. She lived in the here and now, curled in her husband’s strong arms, listening to the symphony of man and nature, letting it spiral her down, down, down into what would have been the perfect sleep, except for one nagging question still tugging at her heart-strings. How could she make that life live inside her? How could she make him complete? It was her only desire.
She awoke in the morning with a start to the crack and boom of thunder rumbling along the strand, and bright sunlight flooding the bedchamber. How could that be? Vaulting upright in the rumpled bed, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Nicholas was not beside her. Her heart leapt. The indentation his body had made in the feather bed and down pillow was still there. It was cold to the touch. Where had he gone? When had he left her? What time could it be?
The thunderclap came again. It seemed louder now, but that was because of the echo. Changes in the weather at sea amplified sound along the strand. Men were shouting now, and more thunder rumbled. Sara stared at the shiny bright morning showing through the windows, gleaming through the mullioned panes, and listened to another crack and boom. No! Not thunder—gunfire!
Dawn Thompson Page 29