by Kim Bowman
Never again.
A cracking sound alerted him to his hand breaking the spindled leg of a rocking chair. Blood mingled with splinters, then his vision clouded and swam. He crawled onto the mattress and lay against her side, on top of the sheets. Years since he’d allowed himself the weakness — he wept.
Chapter Twenty
How Wilhelm Spills The Beans, Sophia Sits On A Cat, And All Is Well
Wilhelm sat reading in the library after the family had gone to bed. It felt good to be home, surrounded by order and luxury. Rougemont to him was a monument to tradition, evidence of generations lived in wisdom and perseverance. His domain, surrounded by people who were either accustomed to his insanity or excused him out of respect.
Worthy or not, the title and its obligations belonged to Wilhelm, bastard son of an Austrian prince proclaimed legitimate by a cuckolded English lord.
The severity of his failure had never struck him until three weeks earlier when his wife had lain ill, recovering from a miscarriage. It made him want what he’d long assumed unattainable. It had frightened the demons out of him — the ghosts had been silent, perhaps warded away by the grief in the house. Until he’d spied his siren woman singing in the woods, he had never dared hope for a wife, not to mention a child. But how could he have one at the expense of the other?
He simply wasn’t willing to sacrifice Anne-Sophia for a title. A title that did not truly belong to him. His resolve faltered not a bit, but it did bother him, that he would be the one to end his line. Damned useless pride.
To be called father? To say the word son or daughter? Oh, he had always adored children — entertaining little jesters. He had been unprepared for the longing, the consuming sense of loss at the news. And how must Sophia feel? Every regret, every disappointment had to be suffered keenly by her, even if she refused to speak of it.
His cursed eyes watered again. He shot out of the chair, the book in his lap thumping to the floor. He had nowhere to go, but he simply could not continue in the fashion of a leaky fountain.
One, four, nine, sixteen, twenty-five, thirty-six, forty-nine, sixty-four, eighty-one… He recited the Table of Quadratic Residues, and the shift in his brain toward critical thinking occurred instantaneously. Compelled to finish, he worked through the 375 integers to the end of mod 47. By then his emotions had cleared, even if he felt isolated, or lost, as he did every time he emerged from a trance. The ones involving numbers were the worst, since the dimension in his mind where digits vibrated and sang and came to life had no basis in reality.
The sound of piano music floated faintly to his ears, and he went still, listening. Apparently Sophia hadn’t gone up to bed yet either. He sighed as he recognized the piece, a wandering, lyrical Schubert Impromptu. What could she be thinking now?
Gratifying to hear her playing Schubert; it meant she was content. He strained to hear the disembodied music, unable to concentrate on anything else. He gave up trying to resist. Before the closed doors of the music room, he sat on the floor against the wall and let the sounds wash over him. Lush and eloquent but rife with longing and… indecision? The haunting melody traveled restlessly through minor and major keys, amplifying the theme of unrest.
Wilhelm sat entranced, trying to discern the meaning of it as her phrases lingered over outbursts of thick chords, heavy with angst. A strange way to play Schubert — almost warlike, ironic in its harmony.
Abruptly she quit playing, and he tensed, ready to flee if he heard her footsteps approach the door. As suddenly as the Schubert had stopped, he now heard the menacing opening chords of the Beethoven Pathetique Sonata.
She had surrendered. Wilhelm ached in sympathy while Sophia unknowingly tortured him with her music. He abandoned trying to discern the reason and simply grieved for her. She sounded like his ghosts. Nine and a half minutes of methodical tension and mocking harmony — the sensation like the scrape of a hot poker.
Finally Sophia pounded the last four angry chords of the first movement, putting him in mind of the percussion of a cannon. He dragged himself from the floor, silently begging her to play the second movement, a truly peaceful and hope-filled piece. He nearly rejoiced aloud when he heard the gentle melody and sighed, soaking in its tenderness.
He heard her footsteps approach the door. He dashed down the gallery far enough for it to appear convincing that he was walking from the library the same moment she came out of the music room. He wore a calm façade as Sophia approached carrying a lantern. Her expression was troubled and careworn, as he’d thought it would be.
He wasn’t carrying a light, and she didn’t notice him until he was near. He began to greet her when she startled and dropped her lantern. Wilhelm caught it before it hit the ground, but the oil spilled out on his hand and onto the floor. There was now only weak light coming from farther down the gallery where the moonlight shone through the windows of the grand entrance, outlining her silhouette.
“Oh! Wilhelm! I apologize, I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m glad you took a lantern tonight instead of a candle. It would have been a shame to catch your lovely dress on fire.”
“Or your house.”
“Yes, I would miss the piano, particularly.”
“I am sorry—”
“No, it serves me right for sneaking up on you.”
“And now neither of us has a light, and I have covered you in lamp oil.”
“No matter. I am accustomed to your ruining my clothes.”
“I believe this episode makes the fourth.”
He smiled in the dark. “If you are so eager to see me without them you should just say so.” He shrugged out of his jacket, which had taken the worst of the oil spill, and tossed it onto the nearby table.
“You are wicked! Have you been drinking?” She set the extinguished lantern on the table.
“No. Well, yes, a little, but I am mostly behaving badly this time.”
“I should say so,” she retorted. “You were in the library just now?”
“Yes.”
“Then you were reading without a light? How remarkable.”
Wilhelm laughed then lied smoothly, “I was on my way to the kitchen for a bite to eat. My appetite got the better of me.” He held out his arm, praying she would take it despite three weeks of lonely, wary distance between them. “Join me?”
Six eternally long seconds until she nodded in agreement. Instead of resting her hand on his sleeve, she slid her palm down his arm and threaded their fingers together. He resisted howling in victory like a wolf. She had no idea of the pleasure he found in simply holding her hand, perfect inside his. The stairs down to the kitchen came too soon.
Wilhelm made a show of searching around the shelves and crates. He never actually raided the kitchen, and so she would know he’d lied, since he had no clue where a single blooming scrap of food should be. He did find lard. And cornmeal. Sophia crossed the kitchen and uncovered a basket on the counter near his elbow full of grapes, berries and peaches. She teased, “Your Royal Highness.”
“Oh, now you see? I was waiting for you to serve me. You should bring a palm frond and feed me the grapes while I lounge on the sofa.”
“But I am only the housemaid. You will have to give me a substantial rise in salary for that sort of service.”
“Is that all we are waiting for? Done. Name your price.”
“Even the distinguished Earl of Devon couldn’t possibly afford it.”
Ah, to spar words with her again. It felt like springtime. He dared laugh a little and leaned back against the counter. His elbow knocked over a jar of beans. He scrambled to catch it but bowled into a rack of hanging copper pots, then something else moist and odorous, which made him lunge back, setting the pots in motion again as well as another blasted jar of beans.
A few pots escaped their hooks; he only caught two, and the rest clanked to the stone floor. Several pounds of dry beans scattered across the counter, dancing with a thousand little ping sounds. The clamor from the
disturbed pots surely woke every ghost in the mausoleum. Monsieur Girard would probably give his notice in the morning when he saw the mess.
Then a miracle happened. Sophia made a sound like Humf, covered her mouth, and then laughed. Louder, in beautiful melodic peals. Like rain on the desert. He smiled, enjoying it. She laughed herself into a fit and tried to sit down, but in the dim light sat upon Monsieur Girard’s cat napping on the seat. The cat hissed, and Sophia shouted in surprise as she leapt away. Wilhelm roared with laughter while Sophia recovered from the start.
They were both howling when Martin emerged through the swinging door in his nightcap, wearing a bewildered expression and carrying a candle. He took in the mess on the floor and the pots swaying on the rack.
When they finally quit laughing, Wilhelm explained simply, “Just a little midnight madcap. No assistance necessary.” Wilhelm chuckled at Martin’s professionally bland expression, knowing how ridiculous he looked, wielding two pots and standing amidst a bean graveyard.
Martin furrowed his eyebrows. “Do I smell kerosene?” But he couldn’t continue. Wilhelm and Sophia started again, and he couldn’t be heard over their laughter. He turned to leave, looking resigned and completely baffled.
Not that anything was amusing so much as it felt divine to laugh. The house had been painfully devoid of mirth the past three weeks, but if the lord and lady decreed laughter permissible again, the others would follow suit. Brighter days lay ahead, surely.
Wilhelm gestured for her to join him on the windowsill and they sat looking out over the east field and stables. She bit into a peach, and Wilhelm tried not to watch her mouth. He’d already been ignoring the tantalizing way the moonlight outlined every curve of her soft figure in silver light and shadow, and he loved her frilly, diaphanous Parisian nightwear. The little satin bows modestly tied but begging to be tugged open…
He wanted to touch her almost as badly as he wanted her to laugh again, argue with him, complain — anything was better than the ghost she’d turned in to. The possibility that he had been the one to break her despite all else she’d endured — his heart groaned, reviving a hollow ache he didn’t think would ever fade.
Sophia, why can’t I make you happy?
Oh, bollocks. He’d said it aloud.
She licked peach juice from her lips and furrowed her brows, and he was a captive audience. She stared, daring him to explain his stray comment, but he only shrugged and winked. Not a chance would he tread those dangerous waters. The one thing he understood about managing women was when to seal his lips shut.
“Wilhelm, are you certain you’re not drunk?”
“Not at all.”
“You mean you are not certain, or you’re not drunk?”
“Only jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
Of the man who will one day do for you what I cannot seem to manage. “Fate,” he answered simply, then truncated the argument by taking a bite out of whatever he’d grabbed from the basket, hardly tasting it. He found himself yearning for oblivion, but already knew he could float his eyeballs in cognac and still not wipe his addiction to her from his mind. Burning alive, and relishing every scorching moment of it.
“From time to time, I too am prone to worry about that which I cannot help.” She tilted her head toward him, and he perceived an invitation to hug her shoulder. Sophia didn’t seem to mind that he left his arm around her. He let his hand slide down her arm and rest against her waist, drawing her against his side. She fit perfectly.
A rush of cool water, steaming over white-hot coals… He could lie back against the window frame and pull her onto his chest. Even the thought of it made the hollow spot under his ribs vibrate. Then he would lace his fingers through her hair and brush the velvet skin of her neck until he coaxed her into that kitten-like submissive state—
And then what? And to what end?
In a nasty trick of his subconscious, he blurted, “Sophia, I was eavesdropping on your music. I confess I, ah, bluffed—”
“I know, Wil.”
“You knew I was outside listening?”
She gave him a sideways nod, leaving him to wonder what had given him away. Well, he had opened Pandora’s box, so he might as well address the rift between them. Before he could gather his thoughts, Sophia turned and placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed, hard. It demanded every ounce of his attention.
She shuffled closer on her knees, straddled his lap, and flattened herself against his chest. It overloaded his starved senses; he felt the contact like a lightning strike. Overwhelmed, he shut his eyes. He felt her breath on his lips as she muttered, “Make it go away, Wil.”
And then she kissed him, not the way a wife kisses a husband, but like a lover. She combed her fingers over his temples and framed his head in her hands, holding him captive while she delved deeply, teasing him into participation with a nip on his bottom lip, then her tongue traced his top lip.
He heard haunting strains of Beethoven in the back of his mind, a simple dark string trio in low tones, complementing the silver moonlight and the perfume of peach juice. None of it compared to the lush feel of her in his arms, tempting him with a taste of the sublime.
“Please, make it go away,” she pleaded into his neck, dragging her lips to his ear.
He knew what she meant; no need for explanation. No other words could have moved him, not even red-hot desire. Begging for oblivion? That he understood.
Just a little, he promised silently.
~~~~
Even when she pulled her shift over her head, leaving her wearing only her skin, Wilhelm apparently didn’t comprehend her intentions. Lovely how he seemed content to pleasure her, but she had a plan to set in motion. He let her open his shirt; she knew he liked her hands on his chest. She traced and kneaded, saying with her touch, Gorgeous. Masculine. Arousing.
She tried to make him forget about scars, forget about bounty hunters, money, and dead babies. Only Wilhelm and Sophia, alone in the dark. She kissed him again with a mood of challenge, which she knew excited him. She massaged from his navel to his shoulders, then dug her nails into his skin and scored down his chest. He groaned, his eyes sparking like polished silver.
He settled back against the stone, balanced sideways on the ledge framing the open window. She meant to test that balance. With a smile, she opened his trousers and teased him for a while, waiting for a particular thought to occur to him.
Like magic it happened, as simple as puzzle pieces. He choked and she sighed, then she saw his alarm. He froze, shaking his head as though clearing fog from his brain. No, she couldn’t allow that. She rose and sank down, relishing his strangled gasp as he leaned his head back, flexing every muscle in his body. Again. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, and she watched his eyes cast over in dark steel before fluttering closed.
He seemed to register the revelation that she didn’t have to lie flat on her back for this to work properly. Why he lacked the imagination was a mystery to her. She felt a little wicked, tricking him, seducing him. Come morning he would be angry, citing the risk of another miscarriage. If she performed her part well, he would be too stupid to do anything but grin in the morning.
She nudged him into a semi-prone position across the ledge. He reached down and cupped her knees, protecting her skin from scraping over the stone. His feet propped on the opposite wall, and then it was perfect, the delicious gentle rhythm. He shook with restraint, but he let her wield control.
Bliss — his large, strong body sliding against hers. She craved it, her own soft lines giving way to his more stark ones. She wanted to feel him shudder again, to make her feel protected. Feminine.
Last time, the moment he’d let loose, she’d been drunken with a consuming, primal gratification. She wanted that again. That he leashed his strength spoke of his humility and kindness, but she wanted something entirely other from him now.
“Come, Wil. Fight back.” She grasped him behind the neck and pulled, prompting him to
rise to a standing position. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and his hands gripped her by the small of her back — exactly what she wanted. His hands felt hot on her skin, holding firm. She could move any way she wanted, and he could hold her effortlessly; she felt the strength in his arms.
Satisfied, she experimented with the balance of motion, her force against his. Like an itch that needed scratching, yet still a sensation of burning pleasure roaring from her core and radiating outward. It reared, consuming her.
She stretched backward, arching her spine, loving the rush of blood to her head that amplified sensation. His hands held steady but he leaned to prop his back against the wall, indulging her acrobatic whim.
Then she rolled forward and finally noticed his expression as she hooked her arms around his neck. She swallowed a bark of laughter. His eyes widened; she’d surprised him. Endearing, really, and she reminded herself that he was as new to this as she.
She thought askance that society had it all wrong, expecting men to come to the marriage bed experienced. She wouldn’t trade Wilhelm’s eager, enthralled glances for all the practiced skill of an Arabian prince. He was like Christmas morning. She framed his face with her hands and pulled him in for another kiss while he held her, following her rhythm. Like an argument, like a wicked dance. A race to scale a hill with no top.
Moments later it was all out of control, and she could not have explained how it was possible to be everywhere and nowhere at once, how she could partake in every possible way yet still claw for more, as though only he could douse the fire immolating her from the inside out.
Long deep waves seized her body, exploding in aching-sweet, rich flavors. It sang in her head, curled her toes, harnessed the heat of the sun… Wilhelm buried his face in her hair, his strangled shout echoing along the rafters. His back arched off the wall. Clutching her almost too tightly, his arms turned to sinewy steel under her hands while he tensed, his teeth bared in what looked like a grimace of pain.
