He knew how to make her frantic, how to call to her desire and send it rushing through her, sweeping all reservations away. It thrummed through her veins, heated her skin until her body glowed with its flame.
From beneath lids suddenly heavy, through the tracery of her lashes she watched as he aroused her, then, as if satisfied with some private assessment, he brushed aside the screening veil of her hair to fully expose her breasts, filling his hands.
Possessed. His to savor as he pleased.
He lifted his head, joined her in her rapt contemplation. His hands moved, pandering to her senses, to his desire. The lamplight touched his face, hard and unyielding; it washed over the flushed curves of her body, painting them soft, giving—vulnerable in their nakedness.
One tanned hand left her breast, splayed across her midriff, then moved down, stroking heavily as if savoring the texture of her skin, then angling over her taut stomach and tensing, pressing in.
Pressing her hips, her bottom, against his hard thighs, tilting them so his rigid erection rode against her, an insistent pressure in the small of her back.
Her senses swelled, her breaths were short, shallow; her head was whirling. The promise of pleasure was so potent she could taste it. Briefly she studied his face, wondered again why he wanted her like this. She could sense the control he was exerting, the grim determination that held him back from simply having her, that allowed him to take her along this road, into an illicit paradise.
It was a type of bondage, one with no physical chains, yet the chains were there—Gerrard knew it. He sensed her gaze on his face, sensed the question forming in her mind. He lowered his gaze, lowered his hand, felt her attention shift, leaving his face to lock on his questing fingers.
He speared them through the tawny curls, caught a few between his fingertips and rubbed, as if gauging their texture. Then he fluffed the curls, and noted she’d stopped breathing. He paused, fingertips poised over the shadowed hollow at the apex of her thighs, to knead her breast, to again squeeze her nipple, tight, then tighter, until her concentration fractured. Until she gasped. Writhed.
All but begged. Her hips angled forward, lifted, her curls brushing his fingers in open entreaty.
He accepted the invitation. Slid two fingers into the heated hollow, stroked, found the sensitive pearl throbbing beneath its hood and swirled, then pressed deeper and probed.
She started to shift, to part her thighs to give him better access.
“No. Don’t move. Remain exactly as you are.”
Panting lightly, eyes wide, pupils distended, she obeyed. With her thighs together, he couldn’t penetrate more than an inch past the slick, swollen lips of her sheath.
Far enough for his purpose, far enough to reduce her to desperation. Ruthlessly he wound her tight, gave her just so much and no more…
Abruptly, she dragged in a breath and caught his eyes. “What do you want from me?”
“More.”
“More how?”
Suddenly, he knew. It was as if her question had opened a door in his mind; he’d intended to show her her own sensual nature—it seemed that in doing so, she would teach him of his own. The vision that formed in his mind stole his breath; her lips were parted, her skin already flushed, yet she waited…for his answer.
To learn what he truly wished of her.
“I want to watch you reach ecstasy. Here, with the lamplight pouring over you. I want you to let me view you as I push you over the peak.”
Three heartbeats passed; her eyes locked on his, she knew exactly what he asked. Even, perhaps, why he asked.
She nodded. “All right.”
Again she shifted to part her thighs.
“No. Not like that.”
She looked up at him, her question in her eyes.
He released her breast, spread that hand over her stomach and drew her hips back; still gripping the table’s edge, she had to lean further forward. Releasing her, he gripped her hip, anchoring her before him, then withdrew his fingers from the hot haven beneath her curls, shifted back, reached beneath the sweet swell of her bottom, into the dark hollow between the backs of her thighs, and slid his fingers deep into her sheath.
She gasped, spine tensing, head arching back; his hand clamped about her hip, he held her in place as he worked his fingers deep. Her slickness scorched; the musky scent of her rose to tease him.
He ignored it. Gave all his attention to pleasuring her, to watching her while he did. He found the right rhythm, the perfect angle, the correct length of penetration; stroking in and back, blatantly intent, he set about driving her on.
She responded, skin suffused, muscles fluidly shifting as she rode his fingers. She’d understood what he desired, and was unstinting in yielding all he’d wished for, bringing his wild, illicit vision to life.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, had to fight to dissociate his mind from the firm and giving softness of her body, from the hot slickness of her sheath, from the scent of passion that wreathed about them and tried to draw him in. He found desire fracturing as like a man parched he drank in the beauty of her shifting form, of the naked desire she so freely let show.
Despite giving herself up so completely to passion, despite the physical absorption, she still watched him; he caught the glint of her bright eyes under her lowered lids, and realized she wasn’t the only one exposed.
She seemed steady on her feet. He released her hip, then stepped back and to the side—so she lost any contact with him beyond his hand buried between her thighs, so he could with greater detachment better view her body as she responded.
Without reserve.
She raised her head and shook back her hair. Her eyes met his, her breasts thrust forward, nipples proudly erect. With his free hand he reached out, slid his fingers around one pert peak, and played.
Pushed her further.
For long moments he pandered to her need, and watched her scale the peak. Her eyes closed, her knuckles tightened on the table; inexorably he drove her on.
Until she was almost there. She gasped, opened eyes dark and wild and found his. “Come with me. Now.”
An unbelievably evocative plea—half sob, half command. He hadn’t intended it, yet the lure of the visual, of all she’d allowed him to see, the allure of her body, so female and flushed with desire, the evocative lines and even more evocative scent of passion, coalesced like a net and dragged him in. Detachment was beyond him.
His fingers were flicking open the buttons at his waist as he moved to stand directly behind her. Awareness of all he’d blocked out rushed back. He was rigid, aching; it was an inexpressible relief to withdraw his fingers from her body, and replace them with that part of his anatomy he’d been ignoring for the last hour.
Untold relief to sink his throbbing staff into the heated heaven between her thighs.
He groaned, the sound revealing more than he’d expected. He cracked open lids that had fallen closed, and in the mirror found her eyes. Still watching him.
A small, slight smile curved her lips.
He tightened his hands about her hips, lifted her up, onto her toes, drew back, and plunged in.
She asked for no quarter, neither with words, sobs or moans; if anything, she pressed back against him, meeting his thrusts and urging him on.
He rode her deep, hard, unrestrained, freed from the shackles of the conventional—by her. By her willingness to give him all he wished, by her openness, her unlimited honesty in this, in the enjoyment she took, the pleasure she found, in engaging in sex with him, in taking him into her body, and lavishing pleasure on him.
Her face showed it all, eyes now closed, a witchy little smile curving her parted lips, a small, luscious indent between her brows as she concentrated, her senses wholly focused on where they joined.
On the hot pleasure of his filling her.
The peak beckoned, loomed ever nearer, then she was there. He thrust harder, deeper, prolonging the moment, with her through every panting gasp�
��then the rippling contractions of her surrender caught him; she tightened about him, and took him with her.
Over the edge and into sheer delight.
He had no idea how he managed to keep them upright, but eventually he withdrew from her, swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He went back to douse the lamps, then stripped and joined her beneath the covers.
She murmured, a soft, sleepy declaration of contentment; lips still curved, she settled in his arms.
He lay back, listening to the heavy beat of his heart as it slowed from the thundering cadence of a sexual adventure that had extended far beyond his expectations. He’d set the stage, his aim crystal clear; she’d accepted his challenge, yielded all he’d asked, but then something else had overtaken them.
It wasn’t the first time that had occurred. With no other woman had he found himself, not out of control yet under the direction, or so it seemed, of some power greater than himself.
Not that he was complaining.
Closing his eyes, he sank into the mattress, felt deep and complete satiation claim him, and let his own lips curve. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do—to create sexual, sensual chains between them, and bind her to him. The concept was primitive, frankly possessive, but that suited his mood. Even more importantly, with her and him, the chains were real; they would work. Because she was so freely ardent, so open and honest in her passions, he could bind her through her senses’ delight. Through pleasure.
Through the very act of possession—hers…and, it occurred to him, his. The realization drifted across his mind as sleep slipped in and drew him down.
16
If she was bound to him, then, ipso facto, he was equally bound to her. Gerrard wondered why he hadn’t seen that before. He was even more astonished that, having now realized, he didn’t actually care.
After rising early, then eventually escorting a sated and sleepy Jacqueline back to her room, he’d felt too awake, too alive to return to bed. He’d dressed and come down for an early breakfast.
To his surprise, Barnaby joined him.
“What ho?” Strolling into the parlor, Barnaby headed for the sideboard. “Is it your devotion to the painting that has you up so early, or did something else disturb your slumber?”
Refusing to react to the none-too-subtle glint in Barnaby’s eyes, Gerrard shook his head. “I can’t paint in the morning—the light’s too deceptive. I was thinking of going for a walk to refresh my memory of the Garden of Night.”
Plate in hand, Barnaby came to the table. “Are you using it as the setting, then?”
“Yes, the lower entrance. It’s appropriate, therefore evocative.”
Engaged with a sausage, Barnaby nodded his understanding.
When they’d both satisfied their hunger, they rose and ambled out onto the terrace. The air was cool, but held the promise of warmth; the gardens lay before them, serene and inviting.
“Just think what we’d be doing if we weren’t here.”
As they strolled, they tossed comments back and forth, the usual banter about acquaintances and events that would have filled such an interlude in the capital. They were very much men-about-town, as distinct from country squires.
Reaching the north end of the terrace, they eschewed the path to the Garden of Hercules, opting for the pleasanter path through the orchards of the Garden of Demeter, then from the wooden pergola angling along the upper boundary of the Garden of Apollo, lying basking in the early morning sunshine, and so through the Garden of Poseidon to the lower entrance to the Garden of Night.
Barnaby dawdled. Hands in his pockets, with his eyes he followed the line of the tinkling brook as it ran through the Garden of Poseidon and then down the valley; lifting his gaze, he squinted toward the cove.
Leaving him observing, Gerrard walked on toward the Garden of Night. Ten paces from the entrance, heavily wreathed in creepers, he paused to examine the layering of the leaves and branches.
He’d captured the effect correctly on his canvas; satisfied, he walked on. Halting just before the arched entrance, hands on his hips, he looked up, head back as he studied the detail of the leaves.
Unmoving, he ran his eyes down, confirming the way the different creepers intertwined. Noticing a new shoot, pale, almost white, thrusting up through the densely packed leaves just above the ground, he lowered his arms and crouched to examine it.
Whizz—rustle—crump!
He tensed to spring up, but before he could an arrow tumbled out of the vines and fell at his feet.
“Go inside!”
He swiveled to see Barnaby frantically waving him into the Garden of Night. Then Barnaby pelted off back up the path in the direction from which the arrow had come.
For one second, Gerrard remained frozen, then, the arrow in his hand, he smoothly rose and walked into the humid enclosure of the Garden of Night.
Rampant growth solidly screened the area; no one could shoot at him while he was inside, not without him seeing them. And whoever it was didn’t intend being seen, which most likely meant he had met them.
Gerrard paused by the grotto’s pool, deep in the garden, half overhung by the terrace. He felt decidedly odd. Detached. There was no doubt in his mind that had he not bent down to examine the new creeper shoot, the arrow would have lodged in his back.
Would he have died? Possibly. There was a good chance he’d have lost the ability to paint—for him, another, potentially worse death.
Chilled, he turned and sat on the stone coping edging the pool. Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he studied the arrow, twisting it between his hands. It was well made, decently fletched, and carried a killing point, one that would have sliced through muscle, deflected off bone, and lodged deep. The sort of point used to slay deer.
His jaw set. He was sure Barnaby wouldn’t see anyone, let alone catch them. The arrow could have come from a considerable swath of the gardens along the northern slope. Still…he waited for Barnaby to return.
His gaze wandered across the clearing before him, the central portion of the Garden of Night. The grotto behind him was the principal focus of interest, drawing the eye; the stream filled the pool, then ran underground beneath the clearing to the winding path, then along a rocky culvert beside it, eventually emerging into the sunlight as the path entered the Garden of Poseidon.
Without conscious direction, his artist’s eye noted the lines, measured distances; in his mind, a plan of the garden took shape, much as the designer would have laid it out. Sitting on the pool’s edge, swinging the arrow between his fingers, he looked across the clearing, and frowned.
For balance, there should have been something there—a statue in an alcove or some such thing. Instead, the side opposite the pool was a dense mass of creeper…or was it?
He rose and crossed to look more closely. Once within arm’s reach of the apparently dense mound, he saw it was in fact two weeping trees, their canopies overgrown by the vines; it was easy to push aside the creeper veil and look in…to what had clearly been intended as a serene and pleasant bower in which to sit and observe the fountain in the grotto pool.
Gerrard glanced back and forth, checking the angles. He felt sure he was right; that was what the original design had been. Now, however, the creepers had grown rampant and converted the bower to a green chamber, secret and concealed…and in use.
The moss planted there had withered long ago, but there was a thick cushion of straw covered by a layer of soft, dried moss, with dried flowers, heads of lavender and other herbs mixed in.
It was a trysting place.
The flowers and herbs weren’t that old, and the thick layer of moss had recently been disturbed.
Footsteps sounded on the path, heading his way. Barnaby.
Gerrard let the creeper curtain fall. He could guess who used the green chamber to meet with her lover after dark.
Barnaby came through the archway. He grimaced. “No luck.”
Gerrard’s lips twisted. “It was a long ch
ance.”
“Indeed.” Crossing to the pool, Barnaby sat. As Gerrard neared, he reached for the arrow; Gerrard handed it over.
Barnaby examined it; his expression grew grimmer. “I’m seeing a pattern here.”
“All those the killer has targeted have…” Gerrard paused.
“Loved Jacqueline?” Assessing the arrow point, Barnaby nodded. “True, but I don’t think that’s it—or not all of it.”
Gerrard let Barnaby’s description pass; taking exception would be too revealing, as well as pointless—Barnaby knew him well. “If not that, what?”
“Murdering you and Thomas because you’d grown close to Jacqueline I can understand, but why kill her mother?”
“We’ve already answered that.” Gerrard started to pace.
“Perhaps, but we have to remember what’s commonly known.” Barnaby looked up. “From that, what links you to the others is that you’re protecting Jacqueline.”
Gerrard met his eyes. “Which means you, too, are at risk.”
“Possibly, but I’m not the most urgent threat to this killer. You are.” Barnaby locked eyes with him. “You’re also the key to Jacqueline’s freedom—without you, there’ll be no portrait and no revision of the accepted truth.”
Gerrard halted. Gazing at Barnaby, he thought through all he knew; he wasn’t convinced the killer hadn’t targeted him purely because he’d grown close to Jacqueline.
Barnaby studied his expression, then grimaced. “Regardless, we need to return to London.”
Gerrard blinked. “London? Why?”
Barnaby told him. Initially he made much of the danger to Gerrard.
He dismissed that. “It’s safe enough here now we’re on guard.”
“Yes, and no—what if the killer doesn’t truly care if he kills you, only that he stops you from completing the portrait?” Barnaby held his gaze pointedly. “There are many more ways to accomplish that, which will make it that much harder to prevent. Are you sure you want to risk it?”
His imagination ran wild; he could instantly envisage any number of ways of halting the portrait—burning down the house, harming Jacqueline.
The Truth About Love Page 31
