Unlaced

by Jaci Burton

  “Demons?” Her golden brows drew together. “Most people don’t believe in demons.”

  John showed her his reddened palm. “It burned me. And when I saw . . .” He had to force the words out. “Your eyes changed. Like a sheet of blood laid over the blackest pit of hell. That wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t, not my Steady Meggie.”

  Meg didn’t reply, just shifted until she lay all along his side, hooking one long leg over his. Snugging her cheek into the curve between his neck and shoulder, she spoke into his skin, her voice so soft he had to strain to hear it. “I thought I was just in a strange mood, you know?” she said. “After all, for the last six years, I’ve hated you almost as much as I loved you. But I’ve never enjoyed pain, not giving or receiving, and when I hurt you . . .”

  The movement of her arm caused gentle ripples as she trailed her fingers carefully over his chest. “Everyone has a dark side, but I didn’t think it was possible to feel such . . . such pure venom. Like my soul was a bottomless well of poison.”

  The whole-body shudders began again and he tightened his grip, trying to give her reassurance with his warmth and strength. “It was eating me alive, John.” She met his eyes, hers wide with remembered horror. “Using my selfishness, my doubts.” She swallowed hard. “My inability to forgive. And all I could do was weep and howl and try to fight, to stay sane in all that hatred and bile.”

  “But you did.” John tipped her head up with gentle fingers under her chin. “You beat it, Meggie. And so it tried to kill you. But we got it first.” Settling a little more firmly into the curve of the bath, he bent his head to kiss an eyebrow, then an eyelid and the tip of her nose. From there, it was no hardship at all to linger over her lips, while he cradled the satin weight of one breast in his hand.

  To his relief, she met him eagerly, but he held himself back with rigid control, monitoring her reaction. The kiss became a slow melding of mouths, sweet and hot. A homecoming and reaffirmation, all in one.

  Ten

  After an eon of leisurely, rising pleasure, John slid a cautious palm over her warm flank, to her hips. Meg murmured something into his mouth, hitched herself a little higher, and parted her thighs. John’s fingers slipped over slick folds, hotter than the water. His heart rate doubled, while he stroked and caressed, trying to keep it light, the way he remembered she liked. A gift he could give her.

  When he worked a finger inside, she gasped and pressed down, the resilient fleshy walls of her sheath clamping on to him, making his cock kick in sympathy and longing.

  “John, please. I need—” Her eyes glimmered with tears.

  “Are you sure, sweetheart?”

  Shuddering, she produced a watery smile. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Make love to me, make me clean again. As deep as you can go.”

  “Yes.” He wasn’t capable of more. Setting his hands to her waist, he guided her over him, her opulent curves glimmering pale under the water.

  Reaching down, Meg wrapped her fingers around him in a no-nonsense grip that made his eyes roll. Throwing her head back, she held him as she sank down, taking him in slow stages, until he was enveloped in hot gripping bliss, all the way to the root.

  On the up-stroke, her soft blue gaze lowered to his. “Ah, that’s good.” She slid down again until he hilted.

  John spread his big hands over her glorious ass and squeezed, relishing her shudder, the way her nipples peaked for him. “Slow,” he rasped. “Make it last. My Meggie.”

  Meg rose and fell, rocking them both toward completion, a slow flush climbing from her generous breasts to her throat and cheeks. The water surged, slopping over the rim of the bath. For a wonder, she broke before he did, speeding up before collapsing onto his shoulder, tears and laughter mixed. “Oh, oh! John!”

  Arching up, John let go, losing himself in the luxury of spurting inside her. Gods, it was sweet! He wrapped both arms tight around her, sealing their bodies together, breast to breast, belly to belly, a perfect fit.

  They lay like that for a long time, not speaking, until the water cooled. Like a flock of corpsebirds, the worries returned, ominous flutterings at the back of his mind. Shit.

  The welts were stinging again. John shifted to ease his shoulders and kissed her hair. “Better?”

  “Mmm.” She yawned.

  “Come on.” He reached out a long arm to snag a fluffy towel from the waiting pile. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Five minutes of murmered nonsense and kisses later, they walked hand in hand into the bedchamber. Only one niggle remained . . .

  John turned to the fireplace.

  And froze.

  “Get on the bed,” he barked and such was the command in his voice, Meg had vaulted onto the mattress before she opened her mouth.

  “What? What is it?”

  This time, he used his Trinitarian sword to lift the corset out of the ashes. “It didn’t burn. Look.” He turned, the garment dangling, a small dark door opening onto hell.

  “Merciful Sister!” Her voice cracked.

  Gingerly, John reached out and brushed it with his fingertips. Cool and soft. When he took it from the tip of the sword, it draped over his hand, the rubies winking slyly. His gorge rose. “I cut the laces clean through, top to bottom.” He slid a finger beneath them. “But you’d never know. They’re perfect. In fact . . .” He held the corset out at arm’s length. “The only damage is to the side seams.”

  “That happened before . . . before . . .” Meg rallied. “I hurt you.”

  “Interesting.” On the word, he tossed the corset into the air, catching it with the sword as it fell. As he’d intended, the razor-sharp edge ripped a long gash in the black velvet. He flipped it to the floor.

  Meg stretched out a hand. “Ah, don’t—” She broke off, biting her lip. After a short pause, she said, her voice shaking, “Sister, it’s an evil thing. I can feel it, calling me.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Grimly, John squatted, watching. He wasn’t going to touch it again, not with his bare hands. “It’s repairing itself. The fucking thing’s indestructible.”

  He rose, backing away until he reached the bed, slipping his arm around Meg’s soft waist, drawing her close. “Tell me what happened to the seams.”

  “What? Oh.” Meg started, dragging her gaze from the corset with difficulty. “They just popped. I felt them.” She shrugged. “When you’re my size . . .”

  “Nonsense. It fitted you perfectly.” John turned her head toward him, a firm hand cradling her jaw. “Keep looking at me, Meggie. I want you to think. What were you doing when the seams split? Were you moving? Stretching?”

  She frowned. “N-no. I was thinking, just thinking.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “That I should give it back. It wasn’t mine.” Her eyes went wide. “And later, I tried to argue, to fight. First about Da, and then about you. John, what are we going to do?”

  John glanced across the room and a ruby twinkled at him. You bitch of a thing, he thought, you’re not stealing my happiness. Not when I’ve only just found it again. Aloud, he said, “I have a theory, but we need help, expert help.”

  “The Wizard’s Enclave!” Meg clutched his arm. “I’ll take it there.”

  “No, you won’t. I will. Sshh.” He forestalled her with a finger against her lips. “Can you find me a stout box, one with a lock?”

  Meg paced from one side of her sitting room to the other. She sat at her desk and stared listlessly at the accounts. The bill for the last consignment of mothermeknot was exorbitant, but the girls went through bushels of the stuff. She must speak with Prue the bookkeeper. She’d know what to do. Rising, Meg resumed pacing.

  She’d given up trying to sleep. John had been gone for hours, The Garden’s deed box tucked under one arm.

  Dusk was drawing in before she heard his step on the stair, the rumble of his deep voice as he spoke with Tansy. She flung open the door. “John!”

  Each time she saw him, so big and dark, so there, the sho
ck hit her all over again. He gave Tansy a courteous nod of farewell and quickened his step, his long stride eating up the short distance from the head of the stairs. She’d always loved the way he moved, his gait smooth and powerful. Now there was a slight hitch to it, a stiffness about his upper body. Six years gone, stolen from their lives together. Not only stolen, not only wasted, but besmirched—smeared with the ugliness of blame, the pain of heartache.

  Because of it, she made herself smile. Then she went up to tiptoe to press her lips to his. Abruptly, she drew back, wrinkling her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  The corners of John’s mouth twitched. “Purist Bartelm was not impressed. I got a little singed.” He showed her a scorched sleeve.

  “Bartelm? But he’s—”

  “Important. Yes, I discovered that—right after I’d finished, ah, insisting.”

  Meg almost smiled. Relief was making her dizzy. “He’s famous, the most senior wizard in the Enclave. Thank the Sister, it’s over!” She tugged John into the room. “Come in, come in. I’ll organize some supper. You must be starved. And I can give Rose back her deed box.”

  She laid a hand on the polished wood.

  And immediately, she knew. “He didn’t take it!”

  John walked past her to place the box precisely in the center of the desk. He turned. “He said it wouldn’t be any use. The corset’s your problem—or to be more accurate, our problem.”

  Just like a man.

  An angry flush heated Meg’s cheeks. “But he’s a Purist, a wizard, for the Sister’s sake. What did he want? Money?”

  “No.” John wrapped long fingers around her upper arm and drew her into the bed chamber. He shut the door. “Can you feel it in here?”

  “Feel—?” Meg stared at him in dawning horror. “Sister save me! It had me again, didn’t it?”

  He rubbed her shoulder. “Only for a few seconds. No more.”

  Meg swallowed. “What did you mean, our problem?”

  “The Purist did a series of Magickal tests. That’s why I was so long. He says it’s keyed to you now, hooked into your soul like a barb. He was very interested, once I got his attention.”

  “That’s no comfort. Dammit John, it’s just a corset. A foundation garment. How can it do this?”

  John shrugged. “Only the Brother knows exactly, the Purist didn’t. But it’s as near a demon as makes no difference. Female.”

  Her eyes must be as round as the Sibling Moons at full. “A demon ?”

  John’s face grew very grim, the tattoo on his cheekbone shining almost blue-black. “Bartelm found the residue of a dozen souls. Possibly more. Murdered, Meg.”

  He took both of her hands in his and pulled her down to sit on the side of the bed.

  “We tried to destroy it and failed. According to the Purist, whatever we do with it, wherever we leave it, it’s compelled to find its way back to you. Because you defied it and lived. When it’s finished with you—and me—it’ll move on to the next victim. That’s what it does, what it’s always done.”

  His chest expanded as he hauled in a breath. “How much do you love me, Meggie?”

  “How much? What sort of question is that?” Meg tugged her hands free, her stomach churning.

  “The essential question.” John leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming with intensity. “I couldn’t burn the damn thing, couldn’t cut or damage it in any way. But sweetheart, you did.”

  “Me?”

  “You.” He cupped her face between his callused palms. “He was most intrigued with the evidence of the seams, the old Purist. Something you did destroyed the stitching, Meggie, remember?”

  “I thought of you, or my father.”

  “Exactly.”

  Meg laid her head against his shoulder and they sat in silence for a time. She strove for her usual calm, the efficiency Rose prized so highly. No task was impossible if you broke it into its component pieces. One step at a time. Steady Meggie. It wasn’t only John’s name for her, it was how she lived her life, her feet planted firmly on the earth. Finally, she said, “The corset is made of hate, isn’t it?”

  “That’s pretty much what Bartelm said.”

  “And every time I had a loving thought, a true thought, I hurt it.”

  “Yes.” John stroked her hair. “Sweetheart, this is something we have to do. We can’t allow such evil loose in the world. It’s wrong.”

  “Yes, but I don’t see how—Oh, John, I can’t help thinking of the young ones, like Tansy. What if it got hold of—?” She couldn’t go on.

  “So do you love me?”

  Meg pulled back to study his face, seeing the boy she’d known and the man he’d become. Six years of John’s life, missing from hers. So much mystery. She would never truly know what he’d endured in that time, could only guess at the ways his character had been molded and changed. Her head told her he was a stranger, in so very many ways. She should be wary.

  Ah, shit. Now she was doubting her own mind. What thoughts had the demon planted, like evil weeds? And which had she created for herself, seeded by the pain of John’s perceived betrayal? Meg’s lip curled. She’d been easy prey, pathetically easy.

  And yet . . .

  That long ago night in the barn, she’d felt steady and shaking all at once, exalted but nonetheless calm at her center, where it counted. And in this moment, her heart still insisted this man was John, her John, the core of him the same in its utter decency, its loyalty. As a girl, she’d stood at his side and gazed out over the peaceful fields of her father’s farm. The world had had a particular shape, and John had been the architect of its rightness. Now as she gazed into his dark eyes, she recognized that same stubborn set of values, unchanged by all that he’d seen and done and suffered.

  Gods, if there was one thing John Lammas did well, it was commitment.

  “Yes, I think so,” she said at last.

  A crease appeared between John’s brows and he squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. Then he shook his head. “Not good enough. The slightest doubt and we’re done for. Meggie, I’m not sure what sort of future we’ll make together, but I know I’ll love you ’til I die. Even if it’s tonight.”

  She rose and went to lean by the window. She’d always loved this view, over the gardens and down to the night-dark waters of the canal. Still low in the arch of the sky, the silvery-blue disk of the Sister was rising over the pavilion roofs. If Meg dipped her knees and peered up, she’d see the Brother’s martial red would be dominating the zenith. But she didn’t do that. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the Sister. When she was a little girl, she’d believed a beautiful woman lived on the moon, combing the stars from Her hair.

  But that was a child’s understanding, direct and concrete. The Sister was so much more than a delightful fairytale. She was the wellspring from which Love sprang, made manifest in the world.

  Meg pressed a hand to her heart, feeling the regular thud of life beneath the curve of her breast. A delicious warmth spread from the base of her spine to caress her torso and fill the cold empty spaces fear had left behind. And suddenly, she knew what to do.

  She met John’s waiting gaze. “I trust you,” she said, drowning a little. “With all that I am, with my life.” When he would have spoken, she held up a hand. “Do you trust me?”

  After a pause, he said, very low, “My Steady Meggie. Yes, I trust you.”

  “Do you know the text of ‘The Bridal Gift of the Sister’?”

  He shook his head, his eyes brightening. “Not the way a woman would, but I’ve heard it read at weddings. I’ve got the gist. Ah, sweetheart, you’re clever.”

  Meg gave a wry smile. “Gods, I hope so.” She went to stand between his knees, resting her hands lightly on the broad shoulders. “I’m going to bathe and pray. I suggest you do the same.” She kissed his forehead. “Alone, John.” On impulse, she brushed her lips across the tattoo, feeling him first stiffen, then relax. “I’ll find a copy of the scripture for you, and I’ll leave letters for Rose
and Purist Bartelm, just in case. Then I’ll put that filthy garment on my nice clean body and . . . we’ll see.” She couldn’t prevent the shudder of dread.

  “That’s what Ma used to say when we were little.”

  “And it always turned out right, didn’t it?”

  John didn’t reply, only wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his cheek against her breast.

  Ah, she felt ready for anything, even a godsbedamned demon in the ridiculous form of a corset. Meg twisted, staring over her shoulder at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Sister, it was a beautiful thing. Look how the black velvet enhanced the smooth, creamy globes of her ass. After this was over and she’d beaten it, she’d keep it in a glass case and take it out to wear on special occasions.

  Wait a minute. She leaned forward, peering. Was that—? Her eyes shone as dark as John’s, but with a red tinge.

  She didn’t allow herself to complete the thought. Meg pinched herself on the arm, so viciously she had to curse out loud. But her head cleared a little and the red faded from her eyes. Thank the Sister she’d rehearsed the move in the bath. Many, many times.

  “Ready?” John’s deep voice came from the door.

  “No.” She wasn’t able to smile. “But let’s do it anyway.”

  She’d asked him to come naked though she hadn’t understood why when she’d made the request. But now she thought she knew.

  Nude meant vulnerable. In John’s case, it meant giving her all that he was, including the scars, symbolic of the history between them, his suffering and hers.

  He could have sent you a message . . .

  True enough. If he’d been really determined, surely . . .

  Doggedly, Meg shook her head. Naked meant beautiful, too. She let her gaze travel over his big frame in a leisurely perusal, enjoying the irrepressible twitch of his cock when she eyed it. Stripped, he was still a huge man, but the width of his shoulders and the depth of his chest were balanced by the long, powerful legs and the trim waist. Every inch of him pure muscle. Her eyes narrowed. He needed feeding up, she’d have to—