Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  He held himself still, staring into the dark toward her, trying to bring sense and distance to the hot physical f lood that engulfed him. If this was an offer, it was an unexpected one. She should have been at the Green Dragon for the night—he was sure he'd explained that clearly to her. Callie had always been careful to attend to every detail of her role in their adventures—she was too nervous of making a mistake to do otherwise.

  He didn't think she'd misunderstood him. And Lilly wasn't here to provide propriety. But then, Lilly belonged to Lady Callista, not to Madame Malempré. And he'd said he wouldn't be back until morning. He was having difficulty thinking rationally with the feel of her hair drifting over his bare arm, the soft shape of her body pressing down the feather bed. He ached with a longing that was lust and something beyond lust, almost a sickness of desire. He tried to reason it, to tell himself that whatever the circumstance or error, he'd best get up and leave the bed, but his mind wasn't making much headway against his body.

  He turned abruptly onto his back and lay staring upward, listening to her soft breath. He should sleep in the sitting room. He could close the door and ring for coffee—roust the poor boots off his cot again and annoy the kitchen staff. Or just dress and go down stairs to the parlor.

  He ran his hand over his face and then thrust it through the curtains, testing the freezing air outside. He drew back quickly. The bed was thoroughly warmed where she lay, an invitation drawing him near. He moved a little closer to her, pulling the counterpane over her bare arm where her skin had cooled in the open air. She stirred but did not waken. He tucked it around her, trying to be protective, or something like it. He didn't want her to be cold.

  He laughed silently at his own excuses, turning fully toward her and putting his arm across her shoulders. She felt indescribably soft, moving a little, settling into him. There was a thin slip of silk between them, some low-cut confection that pressed tight across her breasts. He could feel them, their tips taut against the inside of his arm.

  He was going to die. He really thought it possible. He knew a number of ways to make love safely, to please a woman without undue risk, but he wanted to fumble now like a untaught boy, so hot he could not think past the fact that he could feel her nipples. His ears were roaring. Memories of erotic kisses they had shared engulfed him, instants of passion that he had carried in his memory for years, the images he used to take his own pleasure.

  He held himself very still and ran his fingertip around one small nub, feeling it rise in response. Her leg stretched out, sliding along his as she sighed in her sleep. She had wanted more this afternoon; he told himself he would satisfy her now. Gratify her and please her and go no further.

  He bent his forehead against the nape of her neck, his mouth and jaw locked in an ironic smile. Self controlled lover that he was, he was trembling, his full member pressed against her just below her buttocks. He'd never been in a bed with Callie. He doubted he was able to move without losing mastery of himself.

  She stirred, rolling over toward him. He pulled back, feeling her awaken, expecting her to jerk away and cry out in surprise. But she only stiffened a little, holding herself still. His hand was resting on her shoulder.

  "Trev," she mumbled drowsily.

  "Wicked Callie," he whispered.

  She came into his embrace suddenly and fully, making a thankful little sound, as if she'd been having a nightmare and awoken to find safety. He drew her tight against him in spite of his arousal, touched to his heart by the simple way she reached for him.

  "I couldn't leave," she said, her face buried in his throat. "I didn't know what to do."

  "It's all right," he said against her temple.

  "Major Sturgeon followed me. He's taken a room here."

  "Meddlesome devil." He might have been alarmed by this news at some other time, but he had scant interest in Sturgeon just now.

  She held him close, but he could feel a change come into her, a dawning awareness of the state of his body, of their entanglement together. He felt her swallow.

  "But I thought—you weren't to come back tonight," she whispered.

  "Mmmm," he said, nuzzling her face. "Do you want me to go away?"

  She let out an unsteady breath, a half-surprised, half-scared f lutter of sound. It made him want to roll her onto her back and take her fiercely, all caution tossed away to the cold night outside.

  For a long moment she was silent. He could feel her heart beating, the light touch of her hair falling across his skin.

  "I should go," he said reluctantly, when she didn't speak.

  Her arms tightened. "No," she said in a small voice. "Stay."

  His breath left his chest. He almost wished that she had banished him. He wasn't in command of himself. "You want to kill me," he muttered, only half in jest.

  She shook her head, a movement in the dark against his throat. "I want… everything," she whispered, the words a mere breath of air on his skin. "I don't want to stop this time."

  Trev lay very still, closing his eyes as a wave of white-hot urgency possessed him. He turned onto his back, his arm f lung wide, a low laugh in his chest. "It would be heaven, wouldn't it?"

  "Do you think so?" she whispered, and he could see her face in his mind, her soft, shy eyes looking up at him like a wild deer watching from the wood.

  He laughed aloud. "My God, Callie, have a little mercy. We'd better not start it. A man can only go so far and contain himself."

  "Oh," she said.

  It was not that she sounded disappointed or miffed or offended, the way any number of women of his past had sounded when he had tactfully refused their very agreeable offers. She didn't weep or withdraw. There was only that single small syllable she spoke, but he heard all the damage, the hurt they must have given her, those bastards who had left her standing at the altar or alone in the line of chairs against the wall, all their excuses and lies, those blind, blind, stupid bastards who never saw what was right before their eyes.

  Here he lay, burning, and she thought he didn't want her. He could hear it in her voice, feel it in the faint slackening of her fingers on his arm.

  He sat up on his elbow. "It's not a good idea," he said, trying to explain. "There are risks. We're not wed." He felt helpless. "What if I… what if you… what if we…" His voice trailed off. A green boy would have explained it better, but now he was drowning in visions of Callie carrying his child. He took a deep breath. "Do you understand me?"

  "Yes, of course," she said quickly. "I understand."

  "Oh Christ." He fell back on the pillow. "Ma vie, you don't understand." He swore. "There's so much you don't understand."

  "Yes I do. Truly. It's all right." She had taken her hand away. "I know what you mean."

  "Marry me," he said suddenly. "Callie."

  She drew back. "Marry?"

  He would reckon it all out somehow. He'd tell her everything. And she'd take him anyway, and they would go to France or America or Italy. He'd buy her all the prize bulls she wanted, and they'd make love in haystacks all over the world. He realized from her shocked reaction that he'd been deplorably blunt. "Of course I meant—Lady Callista, will you do me the honor—"

  "No!" she exclaimed, the bed rocking as she sat up. "You're very obliging, sir," she said in distress, "but please, you must not."

  He sat up also. "Callie, I'm in earnest. If you would consider…" Consider marriage to a convicted criminal. Consider f leeing the country and never coming back. Consider tying herself for life to a fraud. She thought he had vast estates, a place in society, titles that were more than pretty words and air. He trailed off, staring uneasily into the darkness toward her.

  "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "We wouldn't suit. But I do thank you, Trev." Her voice was sincere, a little shaky. "Truly. It's very kind of you to offer."

  He ran his hand through his hair. It seemed like a blow, one of the lethal sort that didn't hurt at first, only sent a strange shock through the body, a few moments of numbness before the
pain would come roaring in. All he could think was that he hadn't even told her the worst yet, and already she said no.

  "Well," he said at last.

  She leaned down, searching for his lips. Her hair fell over his chest as she kissed him with a shy tenderness, a questioning, as if she weren't sure of his response. Still f loating in the numbed delay before reality, he put his hands up and cupped her face. Ferociously he kissed her, angrily, pulling her down on top of him. He thrust his fingers into the mass of her hair and carried her over onto her back in one swift move. Cold air washed his bared shoulders.

  He held himself over her, his mouth hovering just above hers. "You want it all?" he breathed. He felt wild now, unreasonable. "You want me?"

  She made a faint nod in the darkness. He wanted her with a need that had the blood hammering in his veins. He felt her lips part. Her body was delicate and soft beneath him, freed of all the petticoats and corsets and limits.

  He slid his hand down the shape of her, kissing her deeply at the same time, feeling her back arch toward him as he drew up the silk. She was so beautiful; he could imagine what she would look like in the light, with her hair loose, with her nether curls of pretty golden rose—he knew that much of her, glimpses of bright curls against white skin. He remembered it, he ran his fingers through it, drawing a willing whimper from her lips.

  She pulled at him, opening her legs as he touched her, and he lost all strength of mind. He ought to give her time, to play and coax, but he was desperate now. The anger had disintegrated; he had to be inside her, part of her. He kissed her throat, breathing the scent of her deeply into his chest. He would have tried to be gentle, but she pushed herself up against him as if she couldn't wait—the sensation of her beneath him, spreading for him, went to his brain like a firestorm, burning away everything in his mind but her body as he mounted her.

  "Trev," she gasped. He felt her f linch, but he thrust hard and deep, reveling with a primitive pleasure in being the first. He would have been, so long ago—he should have been. She was his, and all the endless days and nights of exile fell away as she held him tight to her, gripping him so hard that her fingernails dug into his skin.

  He turned his head down and kissed her temple, holding himself still inside her. He wanted to move so badly that he was shaking, but he waited in exquisite torment. "Je t'adore," he whispered. "Je t'aime. Do you want me?"

  Her tension softened. Her hands opened across his back. "Oh yes," she breathed.

  He pressed into her. She whimpered, but it was a sweet, passionate sound, frantic, her body closing and squeezing around him.

  "Do you want me?" He drew back slowly, torturing himself.

  "Yes." She arched up, taking him deep as he pressed again. A moan escaped her.

  Trev arched his head back, his eyes closed. "You want me?"

  "Yes. Yes." She was panting now, clutching him, pulling him into her. He was going to explode; only the kittenish sounds she made held him back, those woman sounds, Callie sounds, rising to ecstasy as he thrust into her. He knew them, but he had never heard them this way, from inside her, coming on waves of hot, pure pleasure. He lifted himself on his palms with no thought beyond how it felt, how deep he could go. Her body fit his, rising and yielding, meeting him until it seemed he had no air in his lungs. He threw his head back as the climax came over him, a powerful shudder, a hoarse breath as she cried out beneath him, both of them suspended together for an infinite instant of bliss.

  Callie lay with him, cradled close, feeling his heated bare skin on hers, the mingled scents of what they had done. She felt numb with the impact of it, joyful and frightened and confused all at once. Her body still throbbed with the sensation of taking him into her, pain and delight mingled. He said nothing afterward, only holding her tight, his head buried against the nape of her neck. She could feel his deep breathing as he recovered himself. Her own heart was beating in her ears.

  She had asked for him to do it. And now it was done. She bit her lip in the darkness. Shyness overcame her. She tried to shift away from him, but he made a low sound in his throat and caught her back. His arm came round her, stronger than she had realized, pulling her against his chest. He kissed her shoulder. He was all heat and maleness; she loved the feel of him, a great warm carnal shape enfolding her.

  It was bewildering. To think of herself lying in bed with a man was too incredible. She could try to imagine herself as sultry Madame Malempré, but that fantasy had been besmirched by her encounter with Major Sturgeon. Her mind f litted through all her daydreams, pirates and naval officers and handsome alpine shepherds, finding nothing to light upon.

  It was real. It was not a daydream, or even an adventure. It truly was herself, and him, in a bed, united as lovers, as husband and wife would be. She felt him fall asleep against her, his arm slipping slowly downward as his body relaxed. She would have stayed this way forever if she could, in this particular reality, this moment, this pose. It was almost better than all the passion that had come before, to lie beside him in perfect trust.

  She closed her eyes. She twined her fingers with his and kissed them lightly. He made a sound in his chest, pulling her close again, but did not fully wake.

  Fifteen

  CALLIE SAT UP IN BED AND PEEKED OUT FROM THE closed curtains. Her nose was cold. The chill in the room surprised her. Buried under the counterpane and protected by the curtains, she had not realized how the temperature had fallen.

  Her first thought was for her animals. They had arrived in Hereford last evening, before this cold snap, but she had been trapped at the Gerard and only received word of them through a complicated exchange of messages that traveled through several envoys, from Callie to Charles to Lilly to her herdsman to Lilly to Charles and back again to Callie. By the time she received her reply, it was so mangled by Lilly's ignorance of livestock jargon and garbled by Charles's imposition of cant that all she could make out was that she did possess cattle, they were some where in Hereford, and the whole countryside was in an uproar searching for Hubert.

  She did not forget Trev or what had happened. But the thought of it in the morning light was like a tender bruise that she was not quite ready to touch. The instant she awoke, she had been aware that she was alone in the bed, surrounded by the lingering warmth where he had been.

  A deep blue robe lay across the counterpane, along with her cashmere shawl. Callie had undressed with the help of the chambermaid and slept in her shift, but she had not laid out anything for the morning. She touched the robe, knowing that Trev had left it there for her. When she pulled it around her shoulders, she breathed the scent of him.

  The fire had been lit in the grate, but it had yet done little to warm the bedchamber. A soft chink of china came from the parlor, and the sound of a servant withdrawing. Callie pulled the robe and shawl around her and slid out of the bed. With her toes curling on the cold f loor, she went to the doorway and looked in.

  Trev stood by the table, shaved and fully dressed, pouring a cup from the coffeepot. He glanced up as he saw her. Callie immediately dropped her eyes, her face growing fiery.

  "Good morning." His greeting was a little too loud in the quiet room.

  "Good morning." She stood in the door, uncertain. When she stole a look toward him, he turned his face down to the cup before their eyes met.

  He picked up a newspaper lying on the table, folded it, and tossed it aside. "Come in, it's warmer here."

  Callie moved a little way into the room. He walked behind her and closed the bedroom door. She was very aware of her bare feet and her loose hair and the tumbled bedclothes behind her. If he had any similar sensation, he did not show it. They evaded one another politely, like strangers.

  "Tea or coffee?" he asked briskly. "They've brought us some breakfast, if you like."

  "I really should see to my cattle," she said. "It's turned cold."

  "Yes, of course." He paused. "I suppose you have no slippers. I'm sorry. I didn't think of that." He poured tea for her. "
I hadn't expected you to be here overnight."

  Callie sat down on a chaise and curled her feet tightly under her. "I didn't expect you to come back," she countered, on a slight note of defense.

  "No," he said. "I realize that." He brought her the cup. She could make nothing of his neutral tone, but as she took it, he stepped back with a small bow, as formal as if he were a butler. She began to feel more awkward yet. There were volumes of unspoken words between them.

  "Did you tell me that Sturgeon had taken rooms here?" he asked.