A wave of regret surged through her, dousing her bravery. Perhaps he stared too long, his intrusive gaze too bold. Perhaps her hideousness held him in its thrall much as a sideshow freak to a curious child. She averted her eyes and tugged the chemise back in place on her shoulders … buttoned the placket closed … wanting to crawl inside a pupa and become something else. Something beautiful and loveable.
She was thrust back into her past, crushed beneath the pain of a separation she couldn’t bear—losing an unconditional love she’d never merited but wanted just the same.
She backed toward the door. Hot tears gathered along her lips and drizzled from her jaw.
Nick made it there before she could manage an escape, shutting the door. Sparks of apprehension tingled through her spine as she heard him latch the lock.
Her fingers sunk within her pockets and butted against the carving. She drew it out, unable to look at anything but the broken wing. “Can you fix me, Nick?”
Taking it gently from her, he tossed it aside. “No, my love. I cannot.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Felicity wept quietly. Her husband had confirmed her deepest fears. He couldn’t fix her.
She’s already known that. What hurt was that even he had to admit it now after seeing the extent of the damage. She tried to find solace in the fact she’d done him a favor. Least he could leave without any regrets, knowing that she loved him and wasn’t only using him.
“No more crying.” Nick had her pressed to the wall before she could regroup her thoughts. He clasped her chin and lifted her gaze to his, using his thumb to blot the tears along her jaw line. It stunned her to feel his arousal hard against her abdomen.
“You want me still?” Her query was more of an awed observance than a question. “Even though I’m unfixable.”
“I never said you were unfixable.” He worked her buttons open again. As though mesmerized, he watched his fingers trail her scar where purple fungus caked along its length. Perception crept across his face as he realized she’d been trying to fade the flaw. “Perhaps Jasper’s fungus will work and erase the scar. But I don’t wish it to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want you to erase our first meeting,” he said, his deep voice hoarse with hunger and resolve. “That scar is proof I’m worth something, a reminder of how I saved the woman who would one day save me. It’s a part of you, Felicity. My beautiful and desirable bride. Whose eyes grow dark with tragic shadows one minute, and shimmer with hope the next. Whose perfect breasts and curving waist bid me to wrap my arms around her and make her mine.” He cupped her fullness beneath the chemise—flesh to flesh. Her nipple budded against the hot calluses of his touch and she gasped. His answering groan filled her with a sense of power she’d never experienced before.
Soft, searching lips glided down her chin to her collar bone then found her breasts. She curled her arms around his head and arched into him. He suckled one then the next until she moaned from the exquisite torture. Pulling back, he wound his fingers through the hair at her nape.
“You are the woman I love,” he whispered against her brow. “Head to toe, and everything in between. There’s nothing about you that I would change.”
“Oh, Nick.” More tears leaked from her eyes. She felt silly and weak for crying after he’d told her to stop. But more than that, she felt lovely and cherished. And tears of happiness should be embraced and shared, not hidden away. She sniffled, smiling up at him, knowing that he would understand—just as he always did.
Smiling back, he lifted her to tiptoes and pressed their mouths together, a brush of salty warm sweetness against her lips. Her breasts pressed flush with the toned heat of his chest, uniting their heartbeats.
“So … you will stay?” she asked the question, knowing it was redundant, but needing to hear the words.
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I’m not going anywhere. This castle is my home.”
“Yes, it is.” Her face grew warm with radiant bliss. “Now kiss me, my prince,” she teased.
Their lips touched, sharing the curve of a smile.
This time, as she opened to him, their tongues touched and twined, and her husband’s playfulness gave way to more determined exploits.
His mouth shifted to work sensual magic along her earlobe—uncoiling tendrils of wildfire from her breasts to her pelvis. His hands skimmed beneath her gown, hot and seeking. In answer, she skated her fingers across his chest, nails scraping along the copper sheen of his nipples then playing through the hair which vanished beneath his pant waist. She stopped there, trying to work the flap free, spurred to haste by the tremors of his rippled abdomen beneath her touch.
Growling, he forced her wrists over her head and secured them with one hand. “Your pleasure first—always.” He used his free hand to find that bundle of nerves between her thighs which ignited at his touch. In only minutes, his ministrations erupted in that same brilliant spark of light she’d encountered the night before, making her bones liquid.
They both broke free from kisses and caresses, gasping for breath. Still adrift in dazed ecstasy, she remembered her bare chest and buttoned the placket again. A habit seven-years in the making was impossible to drop at a moment’s notice.
Watching her movements, his gaze grew dark and fierce, and she knew the time had come to become his wife in truth. Thus, it surprised her when he turned aside to retrieve the basin and washrag then coaxed her over to the plush pink carpet leading from the door to the bed, situated at the foot of the cheval mirror. There he set the basin down and stripped the satin and ribbons away from the glass in one smooth movement, positioning the reflective surface to face her.
She studied her unkempt state—face flushed in anticipation, lips still swollen from his kisses, and chemise crinkled and clingy. She caught his wrist as he turned his back and started toward the bed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to love you. But first, you’re going to learn to love yourself.” He nuzzled her knuckles then worked his hand free.
Arriving bedside, he fished something from beneath his pillow.
When she saw the bar of soap, she frowned, befuddled.
“How else could I sleep at night without you beside me?” He dropped the small, creamy block next to the basin and washrag. “Least this way, I could smell you.”
Her rash of nerves gave way to astonishment at the depth of his romantic pining. “You can’t be real.”
He grinned, a sexy turn of lips that torched her skin. “You’ll soon feel just how real I am.”
As if her heart wasn’t already fluttery enough, it sprouted wings and butted against her sternum like a confined bird in view of the sky.
He opened the drapes to coax in the moonlight then blew out the candles, casting the room in deep purple brush strokes and milky sparkles. Then he came to stand before her, his silhouette large and luminous.
“Nick … I can’t do this. Don’t make me look.”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Your nocturnal butterflies have inspired me. This is your cocoon.” Powerful hands dragged across the fabric encasing her.
She braved a glance around him at the reflection, admiring the masculine grace and confidence rippling through his back and arm muscles as he unbuttoned her chemise once more.
“And like the Heliconius,” he murmured, breath brushing her forehead, “you’ll make your escape in the dark of night to find your mate waiting in the softness of the moon’s glow, ready to fight for you … aching to welcome you to metamorphosis.”
Dazzled by the words, her focus left the mirror and slipped to his face, watching his ardent expression in the dimness as he separated the fabric. His palms eased between the panels to follow the curve of her shoulders, coaxing the sleeves to glide down her arms. He left behind chill bumps, exposing her breasts and stomach as the gown slid to her torso.
Golden hair waved around his shoulders, eyes too dark to discern. She raked her fingers through the stran
ds and sucked in a breath as he knelt—slowly, in deference to the gash in this thigh he’d garnered during his fight with Landrigan to defend her honor. As his head leveled with her abdomen, his hands guided the fabric’s descent, leaving her naked. The lacy chemise pooled around her ankles on the floor. On impulse, she covered her scar with her arms. He noticed but didn’t scold. Instead, he took in every inch of her exposed body with a hungry sweep of eyes, then lifted her feet one by one to shove aside the discarded gown.
He looked up at her, holding her gaze. “I have a theory, Felicity. That you’ve had your wings all along, hidden within your cocoon.” The sound of sloshing water broke the stillness as he prepared the rag. “Let me help you shake them free of their bindings, so you can take flight.” His husky voice sent shivers of submission up her spine. Her hands fell to her side, immobile.
The scent of orange blossoms clung on the air. Her skin bristled pleasurably as warm water and suds scraped away the purple residue caked on her scar. She fought the urge to watch—to see his hands on her skin in the mirror. Her disfigurement would be unavoidable without the fungus hiding it. Even when she’d applied the concoction, she’d used only the sense of touch to guide her.
Nick rinsed off the soap with a second swash of the rag and the comforting heat of the water lulled her to a heady sense of peace and wonder.
She gasped as his hands gripped her buttocks and drew her against him. Every doubt faded with the pressure of his lips kissing the damaged skin on her torso, starting above her sternum and working his way—slow and thorough—down to her abdomen. The intimate ministrations left her vulnerable, shaken, and lax.
What other man in the world would revere her scar rather than abhor it?
The desire to see him touching her became too much to resist, and she dared to face the mirror. Her naked reflection absorbed the moonbeams and she glimmered with the pearlized distinction of a statue. Her husband’s arms, dark against her porcelain skin, circled her waist. He tasted the scar again, starting at the top to slowly reveal it as he moved down.
She studied the flaw in increments, shocked that she’d ever let it rule her life. It was thin, not nearly as jagged as she’d imagined—a testament to Clooney’s masterful stitches. Admittedly, she saw it through a filmy haze of shadows. Tomorrow she would face it in the garish and unforgiving light of day. But with Nick standing behind her reflection, holding her, she would still see it for what it was tonight: A simple red line. A reminder of a beloved child once loved, never forgotten.
At last she understood. This was a most profound keepsake. Unlike Nick’s earring or her brooch, this one could never be cast away. Nor should she wish it so.
Overcome by the epiphany, she fell to her knees, arms around Nick’s neck.
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, soft and gentle.
Grateful beyond words, she wanted to thank him. She helped him shed his trousers, hands trembling to know him intimately.
A rumble escaped his throat—low and impassioned—as she curled eager fingers around his naked heat. Both his girth and length enthralled her. Anxiety swept through, at once exhilarating and fierce. It had been seven years since she’d been with a man … and Nick was larger than any she’d known. But exhilaration won out. He could give her a first time worthy of memory. One to replace the nightmarish deflowering of her youth.
Once they were stripped of all barriers, time seemed to stop. They shared whispers and smiles … explored one another with kisses and caresses, not missing even the smallest or most insignificant body part. The inner curve of the elbow, the tiny wrinkles along a knuckle, even the diffident bend where the ankle bone surrendered to the heel. It was magical, this unrushed, unselfish loving. This desire to know one another from the outside-in. A forging of trust Felicity had never imagined could take place between two people. She savored Nick’s patience in the teaching, until the touches became too heated, and the tremors of need too exquisite.
Then she took him in hand, guiding him as he eased her to lie on the rug and pushed her thighs apart with a knee. His scent tickled her nose and his panting breath tufted around her, a tender, hot pulse everywhere his lips trailed.
All shyness had abated. She felt every bit the new bride: bared and vulnerable, aching for her husband to complete her. But she also had a courtesan’s wisdom and could heighten his pleasure in ways an unlearned maiden could not. This she did, until he grunted and shoved her hands aside.
When at last he joined their bodies, she couldn’t fault him his rough enthusiasm. He’d waited so long. She wrapped her legs around him, arched upward, and cried out at the splintering pain. But in the same she cherished it—for it echoed that breech a woman feels when her husband has staked his claim on her untouched body.
Cursing, Nick checked himself and apologized. Upon her reassurances, he soothed her with pretty promises and tender caresses, moving slow and deep until the flow of his body within hers yielded the pain to melting passion.
In all her years of experience, she had nothing to compare this ravishment to. For although he was impetuous in his eagerness, he didn’t use her as a vessel. Instead, he measured his every move against her reactions, intent on being her partner in both the giving and the taking.
And when she once more teetered on the edge of rapture, she clasped her sweat slicked body around his and held the tension taut.
“Fly with me,” she pleaded.
And with a shuddering moan that shook the glass in the mirror’s frame, he did.
They’d made love two more times before Nick clad himself in trousers and ventured down to the kitchen to scavenge for sustenance. He’d had her once against the wall, and once more upon a wingback chair in the corner where they’d awakened—wrapped in blankets with Felicity straddling him—unsure how they’d landed there to begin with. No doubt she was every bit as famished as him after the night’s exertions.
Who would’ve guessed, after how much energy he’d expended at the bog, that he would have the stamina or appetite for such sport? But Felicity made him insatiable. He couldn’t think of a single drawback to having a wife so knowledgeable in carnal pleasures.
He chuckled quietly while taking the stairs back to Lia’s room. He’d packed the tray with two goblets of wine, whortleberries, and barmbrack bread, and had already sampled several berries to assuage his growling stomach. He skipped the last two steps like an eager school boy. Despite the pained kink in his thigh and a few aching muscles, he truly felt young again—the carefree youth before mistakes and regrets.
On that thought, he paused at the bedchamber door he’d left slightly ajar, a niggle of trepidation returning to his chest. In just a few hours, dawn would come. Shortly thereafter, he’d face his father. Face his old man’s disappointment and shame.
His mouth dried, a puckering sensation exacerbated by the lingering tartness of the berries. There was something he had yet to tell his bride. And he hoped beyond hope she would understand. After all they’d shared tonight, he had to believe she would.
With a shove of his toe, he opened the door and stepped within. He closed and locked it behind him.
Felicity was still seated in front of the mirror where he’d left her. Moonlight reflected off the glass behind her. That long luxurious hair glistened around her in a diaphanous pool of silver-blonde, and her face glowed with sensual bliss. A fairy princess ensconced in twilight.
She had wrapped her lower half in the satin panel that earlier draped the mirror and positioned the bow seductively just between her bared breasts. The bow’s legs cascaded down either side of her scar—doing little to hide it.
It gave him great pleasure that she no longer flinched beneath his intent regard.
“What a tempting gift you make,” he said to assure her of her beauty.
One dark eyebrow quirked and she opened her arms, an invitation.
He stalked her, suddenly hungry for something other than food. Placing the tray next to her, he knelt and trailed a fing
er along her navel. “Do I get to unwrap you now, beloved wife … or after we eat?”
“After.” Smiling, she embraced and kissed him, blanketing him in a dreamy mist of citrus and flowers. She drew back to study his face. “You looked so thoughtful when you first came in. Are you contemplating tomorrow?”
He grappled a handful of berries and dropped them, one by one, into her mouth. “My father.”
Her chewing slowed and she wiped her lips. “You needn’t stay.” Her assurance came from behind the napkin. “Go visit Johnny Boy at Hannah’s for the two days they’re here. I’m sure she has work for you. Then come home when the guests are gone.”
Shamed by her courage, Nick shook his head. “I would not leave you to face your past alone. And I’ll not leave you or the girls vulnerable in a castle full of strange men.” He gnawed on bread spiced with sultans and raisins, hoping she might change the subject.
Instead, she skimmed a palm along his arm. “So, you ran off with an investor’s wife. You made mistakes in your first marriage. But the manor survived, and you grew from those missteps. A parent’s love and forgiveness knows no bounds. You’ve allowed this rift to wedge between you for so long that it’s become larger in your mind than it really is.”
Nick rolled his eyes and took another bite of bread. “That makes absolutely no sense.” He brushed crumbs from his hands.
“You’re right. As if anyone could build something up to monstrous proportions in their minds simply by running from it.” She opened the legs of the bow to reveal her scar, a smug expression on her face.
Lifting a finger to trace the thin pink line, Nick tried to smile. “Point taken. But there’s more than a few failings between my father and me.” He paused. “He’s seen me at my very lowest. Stopped me moments away from selling my body for opium.” The confession caught like a clump of sawdust in his throat and he swallowed some wine to loosen it. “The night he found me, he walked in on the cusp of a transaction between me and a vendor. A man.”
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