Beyond perplexed now, she slowly said, “While I admit that I have limited knowledge about the marriage bed, I do have several married friends who have confided in me, so I am not completely ignorant about what is required from a man to make love to a woman. And unless I have been led completely astray on the subject, it seems to me that you are more than equal to the task.” She gave his hardness a pat to illustrate her point.
He emitted a strangled moan and snatched her hand away. Trapping it firmly in his, as if he feared that it might stray down there again, he tersely replied, “You are correct in saying that part of me is equal to the task. Hell, I can barely look at you without getting an erection. You, my dear, are the most desirable woman in the world and there is nothing I want more than to make love to you.”
“Well then, if your—you know”—she nodded to his lap—“can get—you know”—another nod—“and you wish to love me, then why can you not do so?”
He smiled faintly, though he looked far from happy. “My—you know—is called a penis and the state it is currently in is called an erection,” he informed her, “and you are correct in that an erection and desire are all that are usually required to enable a man to make love. Unfortunately, my condition is such that the stimulation and excitement from sexual activity can and will trigger a spell, which is why I must refrain from engaging in it.”
“Are you certain?” Emily gently pressed, wanting nothing more than to erase the bleakness that had sprung into his eyes. “Your doctors have told you all sorts of things that have proved to be false. Are you so certain that the danger in making love isn’t just more of their empty speculation?”
“Damn certain,” he ground out furiously from between his teeth.
She recoiled slightly, caught off guard by the virulence of his response. Though she knew she shouldn’t ask, sensing that he would resent her prying, she couldn’t help quizzing, “How, Michael? How can you be so sure?”
He returned her gaze for several beats, his full lips twisting and his expression hardening. Then he savagely spat, “Because it happened, damn it! I tried to make love and had the most violent fit I have ever had.”
“Oh, Michael! I am sorry,” she exclaimed, instantly regretting asking for the pain his reply had obviously caused him.
He shook his head, rejecting her apology. Visibly trembling with the power of his emotion, he growled, “Since you are so very curious, you might as well know all the sordid details.”
“Michael—” she began, helplessly trying to soothe him.
He cut her off. “It happened with my mistress, Violetta, about a month after my illness.”
“Michael, please—” she tried again.
Again he ignored her. “Violetta and I had been together for close to two years when I fell ill. Dear, sweet Violetta.” A sardonic smile contorted his lips. “She claimed to love me. Of course, that was before I became what I am now.” He paused, seeming to consider something, then sighed and shook his head. “Ah, well. To her credit she did manage to hide the disgust she no doubt felt when I showed up on her doorstep on our last afternoon together, all pale and thin with my head shaved and my scalp splotched with scabs from the doctors’ endless leeching and cupping. Then again, I kept her in an exceedingly grand fashion, so it was her duty to be accommodating.”
Again he paused, this time to chuckle, a dark, humorless sound. “I must say that she was particularly accommodating that day, using her considerable talents to stimulate and arouse me. I had just entered her and was on the verge of climax when it happened.”
“You had a spell?”
He nodded. “A terrible one. Violetta couldn’t have been more horrified and disgusted, nor I more humiliated.”
“Surely she understood?” Emily inquired, her heart aching at the self-loathing in his voice.
“Oh, she understood well enough,” he shot back caustically. “She sent me a note the very next day breaking company with me. Though the note was courteous enough, kind even, she lost no time in circulating the tale of my shame around London, saying that she would rather die than suffer my touch again.”
“What a horrible, wicked thing to do!” Emily cried, wishing that the hateful woman were there so she could snatch her bald.
“It was all quite mortifying to be sure, hearing the whispers and seeing the smirks, knowing that everyone in the ton was privy to my disgrace. But like all gossip, it soon lost its luster and was cast aside in favor of a newer and juicier scandal.” He shrugged one shoulder. “No doubt I would have eventually regained my standing in the ton had I not had a fit at Lady Kilvington’s picnic a month later. After that, well”—another shrug—“I might as well have had the plague for the way I was shunned.”
“You were shunned?” she ejected, genuinely shocked.
He shrugged again, though the gesture was far from nonchalant for the tension in his body. “Oh, I had a few friends who remained loyal, though it has been a long while since I have seen or heard from them. That, of course, is my fault. In my shame, I chose to sever all ties with society. But to answer your question, yes, I was shunned by the majority of the ton.”
“But—but—that is disgraceful!” she sputtered, outraged that anyone could be so cruel. “How dare those people shun you for something you cannot help.”
“They dare because they can,” he returned in a reasonable voice. “It is the way of the world, I am afraid, to reject those who do not live up to the standards set forth by society.”
“Well, it is not the way of my world,” she stoutly declared. “I would never reject you, or anyone else, for simply being ill.”
There was a pause, during which he searched her face, then he sighed, a weary, dispirited sound. “I can only pray that you will continue to feel that way when you finally witness one of my fits. Of all the people in the world, you are the one it would wound me most to lose. I truly meant it when I said that I would rather die than live without you.”
“You shan’t ever be without me. Not for as long as I live, I promise,” she vowed, pressing a kiss to his lips to seal her pledge. “I love you, Michael, and nothing will ever change that.”
He sighed again, this time as if the weight of the entire world rested upon his shoulders. “I know that you love me, Emily, but I sometimes fear that the love I can give you in return might not be enough. I live in dread that you may someday decide that you want a real husband, one who can give you children and the pleasures of the marriage bed, and that you will leave me.”
“Leave you? Oh, never!” she vehemently declared, throwing her arms around him to hug him close. “I promised to stay with you, and I never break my promises.”
He hugged her back. “Never?”
“Never,” she confirmed, snuggling more firmly into his embrace. “I make it my policy never to tender a promise unless I am absolutely certain that I can keep it. And I have never been more certain of anything in my life as I am of my love for you.”
For a long moment thereafter they remained like that, simply holding each other, savoring the feel of each other in their arms. It was Emily who finally broke their silence. “Michael?”
“Hmmm?”
“You believe in magic now, do you not?”
He chuckled and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “How can I not after all that has happened this night?”
“Rebecca calls autumn the season of enchantment. She says that it is a time when anything is possible.” Emily shot him a shy look. “Perhaps—I mean—if you wish—we might—”
“Perhaps,” he interjected softly in reply.
Neither needed to ask what the other meant. In their love, they knew and they hoped.
Chapter 18
It was an unusually mild November—everyone said so.
The days were cool but sunny, abruptly chilling at twilight when the frost-dusted mist rose from the earth to gre
et the falling night.
By now the trees had shed their glorious October leaves, casting them to the ground where they lay forgotten and neglected, rotting beneath the gaunt shadows of the barren gray branches that had once nurtured and embraced them. Only the alders and the ivy burgeoned with life, the ivy which flaunted pale green berries and the alders with their purple catkins that dangled like satin tassels from their scraggly, leafless twigs. Even the air smelled different now than it had a scant month earlier, older and brisker, spiced with the dark redolence of earthy decay.
It was the air that Michael now savored as he paused beneath a naked oak tree, smiling as Emily delighted in the soaring grace of a slate blue and buff merlin, or lady’s hawk, as she romantically preferred to call the small falcons, one of a pair that had recently adopted the Windgate park as their hunting ground. As he watched Emily’s face, as captivated by its enraptured radiance as she was by the majesty of the bird’s aeronautics, he marveled over the miracle that was his life.
He loved Emily, the kindest, gentlest, most generous woman in the entire world, and she loved him back, a marvel that was in itself nothing short of wondrous. And not a day had elapsed in the past ten days, since that extraordinary night at the stone circle, that they hadn’t freely demonstrated their feelings for each other.
Not as freely as he would have liked, of course. Though Eadon had discreetly mentioned that Michael appeared fit enough to engage in marital relations, Michael, craven coward that he was, had yet to find the courage to attempt the act. And not because he still doubted the strength of Emily’s love.
Since that night at the stones, when he had confessed his shame and she had accepted it with unflinching grace, he had begun to genuinely believe that her love was strong enough to withstand the sight of his spells. No, his cowardice did not stem from skepticism of Emily’s love. It arose from his fear for Emily herself, from his reluctance to place her in the position to suffer the same sort of horror Violetta had suffered in his arms. The thought of having a fit while loving Emily, of having what should be the most glorious experience of her life turned into an abomination, well, the very notion was loathsome, unthinkable.
As for Emily—a rueful smile touched his lips at the thought of her sweet patience—she seemed to understand his reluctance and had been thoughtfully cautious of his feelings. Not once since the night at the circle had she mentioned the subject of lovemaking, nor had she done or said anything to indicate disappointment in their lack of physical intimacy, though he knew that she was ripe for the pleasures of the marriage bed and eager to bear the fruit of their passion. As always, she was the soul of consideration, demonstrating her affection with a chasteness that was clearly meant to put him at ease. This, however, didn’t mean that she avoided all physical contact with him, nor he with her.
Since declaring their love and breaking the curse, their relationship had in some ways become easier, more spontaneous, and they now felt free to touch each other, something they did with unfettered frequency and which he enjoyed immensely. The way Emily hugged and kissed him when she met him at breakfast every morning, her manner casual yet tender, as if greeting him so were the most natural thing in the world—ah, bliss, it was sheer bliss. Then there was the way she slipped her hand into his when they walked together, so warm and trusting, and how she nuzzled her head against his shoulder as they lay before the fire at night, secure in each other’s arms and safe in the knowledge of their love. Such moments were pure heaven.
Heaven? Michael chuckled softly. Oh, yes. He believed in heaven now. He had discovered it right here on earth, in the refuge he’d found in Emily’s love.
“Oh, Michael! Have you ever seen anything so lovely?” Emily cried, her awed voice intruding upon his spiritual reflections.
Smiling, Michael glanced back over to where she stood, her eyes bright and her face pink with pleasure as she watched the bird glide effortlessly skyward. “Actually, I have. Lovelier, in fact,” he sincerely replied, admiring the picture she made this fine autumn morn.
She wore a soft pink cashmere pelisse today, trimmed with wide black velvet ribbon that zigzagged down the front and circled the flaring hem, a motif that was echoed around the gauntlet cuffs and the wide pelerine collar, from beneath which peeked a white lace ruff. Unlike most days, when she went about with her head uncovered and her hair flying in the wind, she wore a hat today in deference to Rebecca and Magellan’s visit, whom they now walked out to meet at the edge of the moor.
Michael couldn’t help grinning at the sight of her modish headgear. It was an enormous black velvet cottage bonnet, lined in pink silk and extravagantly festooned with puffy loops of pink and white satin ribbon. She hadn’t needed to tell him that it had been selected by her grandmother; it was hardly the sort of thing she would have chosen for herself. Indeed, the only reason she wore it now was because Mercy had laid it out and Emily, being so tender-hearted, hadn’t wished to hurt the servant’s feelings by rejecting her choice.
Seeing him smiling at her now, Emily smiled back, her sparkling gaze locking with his as she returned to his side. Standing on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips, she lightly scolded, “You, dear husband, are a shameless flirt.”
“Only with you, my darling wife, for you are the most magnificent woman in the world,” he replied, kissing her back.
She remained on her tiptoes for several more moments, her dark eyes thoughtful and searching as she studied his face. Apparently she was none too pleased by what she saw, for in the next instant she frowned. “Are you quite certain that you feel all right? You look rather pale,” she murmured, touching his cheek, as if checking him for fever.
“I am fine … more than fine. I feel positively grand,” he lavishly assured her, smiling again in a way that he hoped would mask the fact that he lied.
Truth be told, he did feel rather off this morning … not ill precisely, but not particularly well either. He’d been plagued by a tired, headachy sort of feeling ever since he’d risen, and there was a queer, metallic taste in his mouth that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of, no matter what he ate or drank. Certain that the symptoms were due to his restless lack of sleep the night before and thus seeing no reason to alarm Emily by confessing them, he nodded to reinforce the lie. As protective as she was of him, she would no doubt insist that he take to his bed if she even suspected that he felt as he did, besides which she would spend her entire day worrying and fussing over him.
Not that he found the prospect of her pampering unappealing. To be perfectly honest, there was nothing he enjoyed more than being coddled by his darling Emily. It was just that Rebecca and Magellan were coming to Windgate for their long overdue first visit, and he didn’t wish to spoil Emily’s pleasure in welcoming them to her home. Besides that, he was looking forward to seeing Rebecca again, hoping that the lavish luncheon he, Emily, and the Swann sisters had planned would in some small measure repay her for all that she had done for them.
Despite Michael’s attempt to ease her mind, Emily continued to frown at him, clearly unconvinced of his soundness. When he again reassured her, this time hugging her to demonstrate his strength, she reluctantly nodded. “All right, then. But you must promise to tell me if you start to feel even the least bit tired or unwell. You could be sickening with the ague that has plagued the servants for the past week or so, you know.”
He nodded back. “Agreed.” Dropping one last kiss onto her delectable lips, this one lingering, he huskily advised, “Now, unless we wish Rebecca to think us rude to the extreme, we must be on our way to meet her.”
“Yes, of course. But Michael?” She smiled sweetly, her eyes soft and full of love as she twined her arms around his neck, pulling his face back to hers.
“Hmmm?” he murmured, forgetting all about his duties as host in the seductive tenderness of the moment.
“I was just thinking that—”
Whatever she said next
was lost to Michael as his world abruptly turned black.
Sore. He was so very sore … and stiff. Every muscle in his body was strained and pulled, his flesh felt bruised, and his bones ached, as if someone had spent the past week mercilessly torturing him on a rack.
Moaning his discomfort, Michael fitfully shifted his throbbing body, a whimper escaping his lips as a stabbing pain knifed through his left hip. In the next instant he felt strong hands upon him, gently easing him over onto his right side. “There now, careful of your hip. You bruised it rather badly when you fell,” a deep, familiar voice soothed.
Fell? Michael frowned as he fought through the dusky veils of his unconsciousness, struggling to regain his wits, driven by a sickening sense of dread, as if something were terribly, terribly wrong, something that he should remember but could not. Fell? Hmmm. Had he been injured in some sort of an accident then?
Utterly disorientated, he tried to open his eyes, but his lids refused to lift. They felt heavy, impossibly so, as if someone had placed coins over them, like the villagers often did to their dead. As he tried again, almost desperate now as his inexplicable dread deepened and swelled to the edge of panic, the hands returned, this time smoothing back his hair to place something upon his brow … something cold and wet.
He promptly surrendered his struggle to lift his lids, his sluggish brain distracted from its purpose as it grappled to process the new, but infinitely familiar sensation. He knew that sensation, he knew what that something on his brow was. It was—it was—yes, of course. A cloth. Someone had placed a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. In the next instant the hands moved to his tense shoulders, where they began lightly massaging his sore muscles.
Good. It felt good … so good that Michael’s mind gradually resigned all thought, lulled into an uneasy emptiness by the tranquilizing effect of the rhythmic kneading. Within moments, his rigid body went limp.
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