by Lara Temple
‘That went better than expected, no?’
He laughed, a warm sound in the darkness.
‘Is that your version of I told you so?’
‘No. I’m merely glad. Edge... I noticed you evaded their questions about whether you plan to write another book...’
Her own question trailed away and he stopped.
‘I evaded their questions because it was none of their concern. It is yours. If you wished to know, why didn’t you ask me?’
‘Of course I wish to know. How could I not?’
‘Then why not ask?’
‘I am scared.’ She tried to laugh, but it sounded like a crow’s croak. He touched her cheek.
‘Of what, Sam?’
‘I told you. There are three things that matter in my world and you are now at the centre of two of them. I’ve lived with uncertainty all my life, but somehow I hoped my mythical Mr Bunny would always need my little contributions to his world. But I can no longer play that game. I’ve lost a...a crutch and I’m afraid to reach for another because it may not be there.’
She rushed the words out before the gates of her good sense closed.
‘Sam. Even if I did not write another word—which I hope is not the case because I seem to need to write—your talent is undisputed. On the strength of those books alone you could secure enough commissions to keep you busy until you are a hundred. I kept expecting to hear from Durham you’d been tempted away by another author. As for me, I can no longer imagine my worlds without your images. I feed off them. From the first book you made Gabriel and Leila’s worlds more real to me than my own words. I wrote the second book imagining which parts would come to life for you, trying to see what you would, and if I didn’t feel there was anything there to give you, that part withered and died. I’m not certain I can enter Gabriel and Leila’s world without your drawings any longer.’
He took off his gloves, cupping her face in the warmth of his palms.
‘I wrote the first chapter watching Jacob sleep,’ he continued. ‘He was all of three months old, but he would fall asleep staring at the drawing you sent with your mother’s letter congratulating me on his birth. Do you remember it?’
She nodded. Of course she did. That drawing had cost her. The news of Jacob’s birth had been an even worse agony than Edge’s marriage. Only a horrible person would wish a child unborn. But while the wounded core of her crawled deeper, the part of her that cared for Edge beyond herself and wanted him to be happy drew a kitten seated on a stoic camel as they made their way through the desert.
‘He liked it?’
‘He loved it. He would babble at it long before he babbled at me. So I told him a story about two friends lost in the desert trying to find their homes and Rafe told me I should write it down for Jacob so I did. Then I couldn’t stop and by the time it was done it was a book. Rafe convinced me to send it to a publisher for Jacob’s sake. By that point Jacob had been ill and I knew his life would be marked by suffering. I wanted the book to be a gift for him, for him to know he’d inspired them. I wrote it for him, but I wrote it with your vivid world in my mind. I didn’t ask Durham to contact you because I was being kind, I did it because it was the most natural thing in the world, however hard it was knowing... I felt it best you did not know I was the author.’ His hands stilled, withdrew, like a flower furling as night fell.
‘Thank you, Edge.’ Her voice sounded as though she’d crushed it into the gravel path. She wanted to wrap herself around his words, capture them like fireflies in a glass jar so she could warm herself by their light when she was alone.
‘You have nothing to thank me for. Quite the opposite.’ He was back to Edge now, the vivid music of his words leached away. He was nervous, she realised. As afraid as she by this strange bond that was connected yet separate from their marriage. She touched her fingers to his chest.
‘I’m glad it’s you. Frightened but glad. I don’t want to ruin it. For either of us.’
His chest rose and fell, her fingers with it.
‘Well, that’s both of us, then. I still wish other people didn’t know. It would be nice to find a house away from...people. I didn’t tell you, but one of the guests in there told me his wife is hoping their next child is a boy so they can name him Gabriel. I could do without any more such confidences.’
She laughed, moving closer. ‘Poor Edge. I shall have to build you a castle with a moat and fend off the hordes.’
‘If you bellow at them from the battlements as you did from the Howling Cliffs, I doubt they will make any effort to invade.’
‘You see? My madcap ways may prove useful after all.’
‘Yes.’ His hands slid under her cloak, over her waist and hips and down over her behind, holding her as he stepped in and shaped her against him. His breathing changed. ‘We need to find this castle soon. I’m tired of chasing Rafe.’
‘You don’t really mean that.’
‘I needed to know he is alive and Miss Osbourne’s words prove he is obviously well. He must know I’m worried and if he can’t be bothered to send me word then devil take him. I have more pressing matters to see to.’
Since one of them was pressing against her right then Sam found it hard to think, let alone object, but she knew Edge.
‘Tomorrow you will change your mind. I know you cannot let it go without at least trying that advertisement in The Times.’
‘Tomorrow. Come, let’s find the carriage. I need to warm you before we reach the bedroom.’
‘We could warm up in a nice hot bath.’
‘I will reach a boil before the water does. You are a very bad influence on me, Sam.’
Chapter Fifteen
Sobek wrapped his thick tail about Gabriel’s legs, scales rasping against his skin. ‘Two kinds of people cross this river. Those searching for something and those escaping something. Which one are you, Servant of the Sprite Queen?’
—Temple of the River God,
Desert Boy Book Two
The cool air wrapped about his naked body as he let the curtain fall back and Sam snuggled deeper under the covers, as if even in sleep she could feel the cold skittering over his skin.
For someone with such an impetuous streak she was far too attuned to others. Or perhaps it was just to a few. She had a disconcerting knack of seeing where he was going and cutting around him, like a djinn popping up in front of him when he least expected her. Like Leila the sprite—always a little ahead of Gabriel, always prepared to sacrifice more, do more for those under her care.
He believed Sam—she would beat off the hordes if she thought they threatened him. That should be his role. It was his role, but he couldn’t deny he liked the image of her as his warrior queen.
He’d told her part of the truth, but not all of it. It wasn’t only her illustrations that inspired him.
How had he not realised Leila was a portrait of her? Loyal and impetuous, passionate but private. She brought out the best and worst in Gabriel, who plodded along trying to do what was right, sometimes in the worst possible way.
This was a perfect example of that—he hadn’t only lusted after her for eight years, he’d written about her, and it wasn’t until she’d forced his hand that he’d realised it.
Like Gabriel, the only time he shone was when he was focused on Leila—the real and the fictional.
He came to stand by the bed and again she did that little sigh and snuggle, her fingers sliding under his pillow with a hiss that travelled over his skin. Even in sleep she refused to stay on her side, she had to keep invading, testing, pushing and prodding... And giving.
He breathed in and out, trying to will his body into quiescence, but it was useless. He wanted her with an ache that had nothing to do with sexual gratification. He wanted to be inside her not so he could climax but so he could be as close as life and physics permitted.
S
o they could be parts of the same story.
He should have looked for her eons ago. He should have been a man and admitted to Dora it was a mistake eight years ago when he returned to London and realised he had proposed to her for all the wrong reasons...except then he would not have had those years with Jacob and no matter how horrible losing him was, it felt infinitely worse thinking he might never had had him. He could never wish away that gift.
He sat on the side of the bed and her eyelids fluttered, her fingers withdrawing from under the pillow. He moved his thigh until they rested against it. Foolish things like this. This was what he wanted. Little raindrops of joy, one by one, gathering into a mighty ocean.
I will never let you go, Sam. Ever.
He could almost hear the words, shoving through him like spikes. Ripping and shredding as they went until they pierced so deep inside a viscous heat began spilling from his core.
‘You’re mine,’ he whispered and her lips moved again, an echo without sound, but she didn’t wake. He slipped under the cover, her legs and hips warm and soft against his chilled skin. That woke her, the remnants of the firelight turning her eyes a deep endless grey.
‘Why are you so cold?’
‘I was thinking,’ he answered and her mouth curved.
‘Night’s for dreams, not thinking,’ she murmured, her eyelids fluttering closed again. She wrapped her arm around his torso, snuggling against him.
It felt so good. So right. So utterly foreign and right.
She was right, night was for dreams, not thinking—and for now he could dream she was utterly his and wanted him wholly for himself and that is how the world would always be. His Leila.
‘Leila.’
* * *
Leila.
That single word pushed back the pleasant warmth flowing between their bodies. She’d been sleepily revelling in the perfect fit of her body against his, the velvet-soft skin over hard surfaces. But that word shook her and she didn’t know why. She raised herself on her elbow to try to make out his features in the darkness. He’d unplaited her hair and it flowed over her shoulder on to his chest like a pool of dark blood. She tried to push it back, but his hand tangled in it, holding her there.
‘I like it on me. I feel I’m drowning in you.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘It’s heaven.’
It looked like Edge, and sounded and felt and smelt like Edge, but this could not be Edge. Even in the stuttering of the embers she could still make out his expression—he was always different when they made love, but this was different still. He looked...mesmerised. His hand was toying with her hair and his eyes with her face, moving over it as if he’d seen her for the first time.
‘Edge, have you been drinking?’
He shook his head.
‘Thinking.’
‘About?’
‘Leila.’
Oh. So that was what inspiration looked like. He was probably far away and any moment now he would be out of bed, searching for pen and paper. A small sigh of disappointment escaped her before she could call it back.
‘You always were a fierce little warrior.’ His fingers were as soft as the words as they skimmed her lower lip. ‘God, what a fool I am.’
‘You’re not a fool,’ she said instinctively, a little crossly, because she didn’t quite understand what he meant. He smiled, the mesmerised look replaced by laughter.
‘You can’t help defending me, even when you don’t know from what.’
‘Defend first, reason later, that is my motto.’ She smiled back. He looked so beautiful, leaning against the pillows in the dark. ‘Are you glad you accepted my proposal?’ she blurted out.
His fingers threaded through her hair, tucking it behind her ear and coming back to cup her face. It was like the way he’d touched her in the darkened square, but different. She had no idea what to make of all this.
‘I was just congratulating myself on my good sense.’ His hands tightened, his smile faltering. She almost cried out her objection—don’t go away yet. Stay with me.
‘Are you glad I accepted your proposal?’ His voice was turning tentative, losing its dreamy warmth. ‘I know these weeks haven’t been easy. I haven’t been easy...’
‘Yes, yes, I am... I think proposing to you is quite the smartest thing I have done.’
He wrapped his arms around her and she sank into them. Not that it was easy to sink into rock, even warm rock. He was so tense. She kneaded the arm closest to her and it softened just a little. She breathed him in, deep, so deep a whole world came to life in her mind—that forest cocooning her, the wood warmed by the sun, and him all around her, as though she’d come to live inside him. Safe, alive, happy.
Home.
Edge.
In her mind her arms opened wide because the truth was too enormous to hold.
I love you, Edge. Love you. I always have. You were always mine and never were.
She lost the image, surfacing because her eyes and face were burning with knowledge and hurt.
‘Sam?’ The whisper fluttered the hair at her temple and she shook her head, burrowing against him. His arms softened as they gathered her closer, his breath warm against her hair, his hand caressing her back in that way that made her want to purr.
It should be enough, she told herself. This. He does care. Maybe not the way she wanted him to, but perhaps as much as he can right now. Maybe with time it would grow. Or not.
She needed it to grow.
She touched her mouth to the soft skin below his ear, letting the words swirl inside her, but keeping them close so they didn’t escape. Patience. She needed patience. It was little more than a month and a half since he’d scared the devil out of her on the Howling Cliffs and already he’d changed...no, not changed, just opened the door for her a little, each time a little more.
Patience.
‘It feels like you are about to grab someone by the throat and throttle them, Sam. Out with it.’
‘I’m happy.’
He tensed, his hand stilling between her shoulder blades, and she closed her eyes and teeth tight. She’d hoped that was mild enough, but evidently it was still too much.
His hand resumed the slow sweep downwards, just feathering over her bottom, his leg shifting to bring her closer.
‘Good. That is good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Very good. And that is very good, too. Don’t stop.’
* * *
‘Do you like it?’ Edge’s words bounced off the uncarpeted floor and empty walls, amplifying the worry in his voice.
Sam stood in the open garden doors, her hands clasped to her chest, looking across the sloping lawn to the willow trees scratching the green water with their spiky hair. The full view of the river was blocked by an elongated tree-covered island, shielding them from the world. This green cocoon was only broken by a blue rowboat with a yellow rim attached to a wooden jetty and a great shade tree with branches that rose out of each other like a drunk candelabra standing in the middle of the lawn. She imagined them sitting beneath it in the golden light of late afternoon; reaching out to touch him.
Their home.
She was in love. Again.
‘I... Edge... This is... Oh.’
‘If you can’t find words, I assume you like it.’
‘I shan’t move from here. I shall hold the fort and ward off all other potential purchasers while you battle with the lawyers. Just leave me a sword. Oh, I wish I had Inky with me. She could be my dragon.’
‘I’ll be your dragon,’ Edge growled, wrapping his arms around her and she leaned into their warmth, their strength. For the past hour they’d behaved like utterly civilised man and wife, but with each room they’d entered and stair they climbed she’d imagined him as anything but civilised—in her mind he’d touched her, pressed her against the
wall, his mouth warm and insistent on hers, on her neck, under her clothes... Making this house theirs, utterly theirs...
He could not know what she was thinking, but his hands tightened around her and she could feel that quivering tension, like a drawn bowstring, that came before he unravelled her.
‘As long as you like it.’
‘I love it. I feel...this is foolish...’
‘Tell me.’
‘I feel I belong here. I didn’t feel that in any of the other houses we saw. Not even in any of the houses I’ve lived in over the years. It feels right. Our own little island.’
His mouth brushed lightly over her temple and rested briefly on her cheekbone before he straightened again.
‘You wanted a moat. The river will have to do. That toy boat can be our armada though I doubt it can hold my weight.’
‘We will name it Sobek after the crocodile god and chase off invaders from the water.’
‘Excellent idea. You can paint a toothy grin on it.’
‘No, that will frighten the children...’
His hands stuttered on her, dropped to her abdomen for a second and then withdrew abruptly. Sam closed her eyes and cursed herself. When would she learn to think before she spoke? She needed to have the word ‘patience’ stitched on to her pillow so she could memorise it morning and night.
His hands returned, settling on her hips, but the moment was gone.
‘I’ll tell Mr Grafton we will be relieving him of this property. Wait for me in the carriage.’
* * *
Sam settled in the carriage, cursing herself and him.
One word. One simple word and a world of meaning.
You knew I wanted a family, she wanted to rail at him. I told you when I proposed, you said you wished for one as well. Why must any mention of it send you running for the hills?
