by Lisa Cach
Neither did he care. All he could think at this moment was that he felt more alive than he had in years, and felt the blood coursing through his body as if he were a youth again, his body aching to touch the female form. He had thought himself long through with such lustful obsessions.
He started up the stairs, and then a sound caught his attention. He paused, listening, and it came again. It sounded like Otto howling softly, a plaintive, forlorn cry.
Frowning, he jogged up the stairs and down the hall, following the sound to his room, where it barely penetrated the thick door. The sound stopped as he put his hand on the latch and opened it, and then Otto almost knocked him down, leaping upon him.
“Here, boy, how did you get locked in my room?” he asked the dog, who licked his face and then dropped down and trotted over to the bed. The curtains were half-closed, so all Alex could see was that Otto stared at something, and then began again his plaintive cry.
Curiosity and apprehension crept up his spine as he approached, and then he saw that it was Serena who lay upon the coverlet, her limbs as lifeless and broken as a rag doll’s. Her eyes were partially open, but no white or iris showed, only an orb of blackness beneath the lid. Her usual illumination was dimmed, and she looked as if she were fading into the shadows.
It reminded him of his last sight of Frances, pale and spent in their bed, the fever having drained the life from her.
“Serena!” he shouted, breaking free of the spell of horror in which the sight of her had caught him. He knelt on the bed and reached out to shake her, but his hand went right through her. “Serena!” he yelled again. “Wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up!” He brushed his hands through her, trying to stir some reaction, his hands feeling only a faint tingling as he did so.
There had to be a way to revive her, to wake her. He couldn’t just sit here and watch her fade away, as she seemed to be doing before his very eyes, as if she were dying. A ghost could not die!
In a fit of desperation, he threw his body through hers, stretching out so that his own form occupied and surrounded every inch of her own, bending his arms so that they matched the pattern she made on the bed. A slow tingling went through his body, a faint echo of what he had felt that time they had crossed through each other in the hall.
“Come on…” he urged her in a whisper. “Wake up.”
He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breath and heartbeat, willing them to fill her with whatever life it was she needed. The tingling grew stronger, becoming an electric current over his skin, then undulating through his muscles. He felt his manhood grow hard, and then bits of her memories began to fill his mind, and she moved, sitting up through him, gasping.
He rolled away and sat up beside her, shaking. “Serena?”
She turned her eyes to him, and they were normal now, and her glow once more illuminated her fine skin. “Woding?” she asked, her voice quavering. “What are you doing here? What happened?” Before he could answer, her eyes widened, and she said, “Le Gayne.”
“Here?” he asked, his short-lived relief turning quickly back into alarm.
“Otto saw him and tried to chase him away.” She turned to the dog, then crawled across Alex’s legs to the edge of the bed, where Otto sat on the floor, his sad eyes watching everything. The dog’s tail thumped on the floor as Serena reached out and petted his head. “You are such a good dog,” she said softly. “I’m sorry for ever being mean to you.” She lowered her face, and Otto tried to lick it.
She materialized, and Alex felt a quivering in her body, where it half lay against his legs. She had her face down, letting Otto lave her cheeks. “Serena?” The quivering continued.
Ah, damn. She was crying.
He pulled her up into his arms, sitting across his lap with her buttocks wedged between his thighs. She wrapped her arms around him and wept into his neck, her tears silent except for the harsh gasps of her breath.
“It’s all right; he’s gone,” Alex murmured to her, rocking her back and forth as he’d seen his sisters do with their children.
A bone-jarring shudder went through Serena, and then a high, keening sound emerged from deep within her throat, sending the hair on the back of his neck straight up. He grimaced, holding her more tightly.
He did not know how long they had been sitting that way, or how long ago her tears had stopped, when he noticed that her lips were pressed against the bare skin just below his ear.
It was an innocent touch, surely. She moved her head, her mouth now ever so lightly touching moistly upon his ear, her breath a soft, warm whisper. That gentle exhalation of air traveled right into the core of his brain and snaked in a spiral down to his groin. How could she be so warm?
She shifted in his lap, and he became aware of her breasts, rubbing him through the layers of her garments. He had never felt her against his body like this, except for dim memories in dreams. She felt so solid, so real. Her body had the heavy weight of flesh, and her arms around his neck were strong with muscle. A deep, rich, feminine scent of skin rose from her to mingle with the sweet-hay scent of her hair, and he held her close, pressing his face against her cheek and into her hair.
He let his hand rub against her back, feeling for the first time the heavy, silken texture of her white surcoat. It moved against the pink woolen underdress, and he did not know if there was yet another layer beneath that. If he pressed hard enough he could make out the ridge of her spine, the angles of her shoulder blades, and the narrow hills and valleys of her ribs. She arched her back in response, pressing herself against him, her mouth opening on his ear.
Her tongue came out and traced lightly over his lobe. The sensation made him groan, and made him want to hear a similar response from her.
From behind he gently gathered her hair and pulled it away from the side of her neck, letting his fingers get lost in the warm, silken locks. She shivered in his arms, her neck bare and exposed, the neckline of her garments not starting until her collarbones. Her skin was as pale and smooth as custard, the only thing he could see in a room that had grown completely dark as they sat in each other’s embrace.
He parted his lips and laid them where her neck curved to meet her shoulder. Her hands gripped the back of his jacket, her fingertips digging into his flesh, and the rest of her remained perfectly motionless, waiting.
He pressed his lips more firmly against her skin and kissed her gently, then moved his kisses up the side of her neck. He heard her drag in a shuddering breath, and she tilted her head farther to the side, giving him more room, laying herself bare to his mouth. He made his way up to the bottom of her jaw, and reached up to brush back stray strands of pale blond hair from her cheek and forehead, leaning back a bit so he could look her in the eyes.
Her eyes were half-closed, but she met his gaze without reservation. He saw the willingness there, the lack of resistance. He tilted his head to the side and laid his lips against hers, letting her feel the touch of them as he had the other night, letting her grow accustomed to the sensation. He wrapped his arms more closely around her and held her tight, feeling her breasts flatten against his chest.
He felt his manhood swelling further against the confines of his trousers, and the pressure of her hip wedged so tight against him. Her hands went up to the back of his neck, her fingers playing in the short hair that brushed his collar.
He put his hand on the back of her head, lightly stroking her hair and then cupping the back of her skull and holding her as he deepened the kiss, urging her mouth to open beneath his. As she gave way beneath him and allowed his entrance, he shifted and maneuvered her to the side, rolling over so that she was beneath him on the bed, her body half under his.
She made a noise of protest and pain, and he immediately pulled back. She struggled for a moment, her hand going behind her neck as she strained to rise, and he realized that she had become pinned by lying on her own hair. He eased her up, and with a practiced flick of her hand she swept her hair out from under her shoulders, to where it s
pilled like turbulent water over the coverlet and down the side of the bed. He had a sudden image of himself, naked, bathing in that hair, long strands of it twisted around his member.
She smiled up at him and raised her arms back to his neck. He needed no second invitation.
Distant echoes of propriety rang in his head, like the bells of a church from across the valley, but they seemed to have little to do with the moment at hand or with either him or Serena. How could the rules of behavior for maidens apply to this? Serena was not of this world, and all that mattered was the pleasure they both desired.
He laid one leg between hers, pressing his manhood against her hip, his thigh tight against her sex. He massaged his hand in circles on the side of her waist gently, moving the fabric against her skin, encouraging her to writhe beneath him, to forget herself and enjoy the pressure of his body against hers.
He slid down several inches, bending his leg to keep it in contact with her, loving the feel of her long body against his. There was so much more of her to touch than with any other woman—it was like having a banquet set before him, after a lifetime of dainty teas. When his face came even with her breasts, he took the erect nipple of one into his open mouth, sucking at it through the layers of cloth, and pinching it gently with his teeth.
She arched beneath him, her hands falling to her sides. He looked up under his brows at her face. Her eyes were closed, her concentration all on her body and the sensations he gave her. He knew she had never felt anything like it in all her life, and the knowledge fueled a desire to see her reach the ultimate bliss in his arms.
He slid his hand under her buttocks, cupping one of the mounds, molding it with his hand, squeezing and massaging it as his mouth pulled harder against her breast, his breath and tongue dampening the cloth. He pressed his fingers into the soft flesh of her buttock, holding it in his hand and pushing it in a circle, knowing that the motion would pull indirectly at her sex, the flesh rubbing against itself and his thigh.
Her lips parted, and soft, involuntary moans rose from her throat. He reached down and gathered some of her skirt in his hand, pulling it up to where he could reach the bare skin of her knee. His fingertips pressed lightly under her kneecaps, and her leg tensed in response, her hips rubbing against him as he let his fingertips move on, trailing lightly over her warm skin, her fine hairs teasing his nerve endings.
Her thigh was both muscled and soft, padded with a silken layer of fat that sent primitive messages to the core of his brain. She was ripe for sex, her body fertile ground waiting for the plow. He could lose himself in the warm wealth of her, plunging full-bore into the cradle of her hips, her softness capable of receiving and embracing every inch of hardness he gave to her.
He moved his hand upward and found the damp heat of her curls and the mound that rose above her sex, still hidden between the twin cushions of her thighs. He put his hand over the mound, fingers pointing downward, and moved his palm in a slow circle, pulling against the folds of her sex.
With his hand in constant motion, he moved back up her, to where he could again reach her neck with his mouth, his kisses this time harder, his tongue moving hard and fast against the bend of her neck, and upward to the small space behind the lobe of her ear.
When she gasped he moved to her mouth, his tongue going inside her as his fingers pressed between her thighs, covering her nether lips, the tip of his middle finger pressing into her opening. She was already growing damp, his finger finding a hot spring of slick wetness. He took it on his fingertip and spread it, moistening her, then laid his fingers against her again, catching the folds between them as he gently stroked up and down.
Her thighs parted of their own volition, opening like the door to a secret cavern. He rubbed his tongue against hers, and after a moment she responded, moving hers against his, then pushing forward to gain entrance into his own mouth. Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, her body arching toward him as she began to suck at his tongue, her hips moving in rhythm with his hand as he stroked her.
He let his hand move down at the end of a stroke, his finger sliding within her, feeling the heated walls of her passage, the slick flesh springy with softness over the powerful inner muscles. His manhood ached to be inside that tight hallway, clasped by her strength and wetness as he thrust in and out. There was none of the cold here of his nightmare, none of the fear. She was burning with her own desire, her flesh as hot as that of any woman in the throes of passion. The faint, lingering dread of the nightmare was dissolved by the heat against his hand.
He took his finger out and rubbed the wetness in tight circles over the bud of her desire, feeling the hard nub beneath its hood. Her legs began to twitch, jerking with each touch, her body flexing against him. As her tongue stilled, he plunged his own back into her mouth, moving it in and out to match the rapid motion of her hips. He thrust his finger full-length inside her just as she found release, feeling the contractions of her muscles squeezing his finger.
Her thighs closed tight over his wrist, her body’s jerking slowing and then stopping. After a long moment she relaxed, and he carefully removed his finger from her. He looked at her, a smile of satisfaction pulling at the corners of his mouth at what he had done, but it was not over yet. When he took her a second time, this time with his manhood, she would be screaming with pleasure.
“Alex,” she said, and opened her eyes and pulled his face close to hers, sprinkling it with fairy kisses. She then held him still while she stared deeply into his eyes, her own appearing a deep gray-blue. She brought his head down with her hands and slowly, reverently, kissed each of his eyelids shut.
A quiver went through him, her lips upon him filled him with an emotion gentler than any he had ever known. It was as if she touched him with her soul, her heart speaking to him through her lips and hands.
The realization of her depth of caring shook him. A moment ago all he had wanted was to continue his seduction of her, taking her to the heights of what her body could feel, but now he could not do so. He had not considered that this was more to her than bodies in the night. She was a virgin who had never known love, and to continue would be dishonorable if he could not give back to her the same depth of feeling she gave to him. He did not want to hurt her. She was too precious, too fragile. Satisfying his animal desires was not enough of a reason to cause her heart further pain.
Damn his conscience. He wished it could have waited another half hour before coming awake.
Alex pushed Serena’s skirts down, then gathered her close in his arms, pulling her to lie snuggled against his side. He brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed her softly between the brows. Her hand on his chest gripped him once, then relaxed, her whole body following suit, as she was apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a whole world of experience she had not yet had.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of other things, and to ignore the manhood that lay stiff and yearning against his belly.
Chapter Nineteen
Bath
“I’m glad that’s over,” George Stearne, Philippa’s husband, said, as he leaned on the billiard cue clasped in both his hands. There was a chorus of agreement from the small group of men assembled around George’s billiards table, their jackets off, their cravats loosened. None of them took a woman’s delight in weddings, and Sophie’s wedding today had been no exception.
Alex made a grunt of agreement to match those of the rest of his close male relatives: in-laws, mostly, except for Rhys and one other male cousin. His young sister and her beloved Blandamour were now safely on their way to his vicarage, there to share their first night of connubial bliss.
“Alex, did Blandamour ever make good on his offer to look up the Clerenbold family in parish records?” Rhys asked from across the table, a wide glass of dark amber whiskey in his hand.
Alex tried to read Rhys’s expression through the haze of smoke in the room, but the dim light and his own consumption of drink this day defeated him. He had not spok
en privately with his cousin since Beth had interrupted his kiss with Serena, and did not know what Beth had told him. He had been avoiding Rhys, not wanting to hear whatever lectures he had in mind to deliver, and in no mood to discuss anything of what had passed between him and Serena.
After that night when he had brought her to ecstasy, he had left Maiden Castle. He’d used the semivalid excuse of required attention at the mills, forging new business acquaintances, and then being in town for the final preparations for Sophie’s wedding. The one obstacle that might have kept him from going—the danger of le Gayne’s return—she had removed herself, saying that she would be safe if she stayed near the medallion Madame Zousa had given her. That had been all she had said to him, and she had stood cold as stone as he gave her a peck on the cheek in farewell.
It was a surprise that she had even allowed him to touch her that much, given his transparent excuses. As lacking in tenderness as his parting had been, it was the best he could manage. The thought of having her hold him and whisper endearments in his ear had terrified him more than any of her ghostly antics ever had.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with her. He just didn’t want her to feel anything for him beyond the friendship and sexual desire that was all he himself was capable of giving.
“Who are the Clerenbolds?” George asked. He was a portly man, balding, with colorless eyes, and was a bad businessman when left to his own devices. Philippa held a firm hold on the purse strings in the family, as well as on the strings that controlled George’s actions in commerce. Alex had to give the man credit for being married to Philippa and still retaining his basic good humor.