“Don't,” she said in distress. “It doesn't matter. “I'm all right and—nothing has changed, nothing will change.”
Still he did not move.
Stepping lightly through the feathers, she swept them toward her with languid gestures, collecting them in a pile. In seconds, they formed a plump mattress covered by buff satin sewn with gold cord and caught with gold tassels at the corners. She was tired, so tired from her exertions that she wanted only to rest.
Yet the destruction around her was an irritant that made it impossible to relax. With housewifely thoroughness, she began to set it to rights. After a moment, she felt her purpose reinforced as Renfrey lent his effort.
In a short time, the courtyard was clear. Flowers bloomed and the fountain played once more in the darkness. The draperies in the house hung dry and straight, the vases and chandeliers and pictures frames were renewed and in their appointed places. The supper table sat with its crystal and silver restored and food ready, awaiting anyone with appetite enough to enjoy it.
Carita could not even begin to consider eating. She returned to the mattress and sank down upon its softness. Drawing up her legs, she clasped them with her arms and rested her head on her knees. Her hair spilled around her in a glowing cloak, sliding forward to screen her face.
After a moment, she felt the great feathered cushion give to another weight. It was Renfrey settling beside her.
Time passed. The doves under the eaves cooed sleepily. A pair of moths circled a great white moonflower and each other in delirious hunger and wooing. A toad hopped with deliberation toward a station under the fountain. The night breeze, somnolent with tropic warmth, brought the scent of mint and sage and bay from a garden bed nearby.
“I almost killed you,” Renfrey said at last.
She heard the tightness in his voice and replied to that as much as to his words. “We almost destroyed each other, in one way or another.”
“You would have allowed yourself to die. You made no effort to prevent it.”
“I wasn't thinking too clearly at the time,” she said in weary assent.
“Yes, but why? It would have been so easy for you to move, to alter the threat, change yourself. Something. Anything.”
She lifted her head, thrusting her fingers into her hair as she supported her head. “In so far as I can tell you, I think I meant to demonstrate that it's something more than merely self-righteous to choose how another person will or will not die.”
“Yet you let me stop it.”
Her smile was brief. “It seemed a more acceptable alternative. Besides, somewhere inside I knew you could, and would, if forced to it.”
The imprecation he whispered was creative and virulent as he gazed, unseeing, into the darkness.
“I know,” she said quietly. “It wasn't a fair tactic.”
His laugh was short. “It was effective.” After a second, he added, “I didn't mean to hurt you—it was the last thing I had in mind when I brought you here.”
“The very last; I know. But don't you see that you can't always control what you do?”
“If we are back to the dangers of loving,” he said in rough protest, “then I will remind you that you intended to make the choice for me before you realized I was not a mortal. How is my choice for you any different?”
She frowned in concentration. “For a woman to be a threat to a man is rare, while with women it's quite otherwise. Millions of us have died from the effects of being loved, giving up our lives because of complications in childbearing.”
“And millions of men have lived with the guilt of it,” he said.
“Yes, but women don't choose to forego the loving because of it, nor do men cease to love them. If either happened, the race, all races, would come to an end.”
“It isn't the same,” he said with strain in his voice.
“Isn't it? Only a woman can know how much she needs love. Only a woman has the right to decide whether she will take the risk.”
“And what does she use,” he said, “to make the decision?”
Carita shook her head. “Nothing very weighty, I'm afraid. Only her emotions, her desires.”
“That is how you would make your choice again?” The words almost inaudible.
She turned her head and drew back her hair to look at him. Trying to smile, not quite successful, she said. “My need for love is strong. As was my mother's.”
He sighed. “Darling Carita, there is so much that is good and pure and proud in you. I am not worthy.”
“And how worthy am I?” she said painfully. “Only a half-breed.”
“You are everything I've ever wanted, all I will ever need. When I look at you, my will, unlike yours, is weak when it should be strong. If I could turn back the clock, if I returned the two of us to the cemetery where we met, would it help? Do you think that if we lived the last few hours again we could find a different ending?”
“No,” she said, and shuddered.
He drew back. “I understand.”
Exasperation touched her. “I doubt it. Why should we take the chance that it will all be done over again? I don't want to oppose you; it hurts too much. All I want is—”
He smiled, finishing for her. “To be loved as you are.”
“Yes.” It was a whisper as she met his black-green gaze.
“Then be loved,” he said in low supplication, “and love me in return. For I know now the only sure way to prove mortality or immortality is by loving you.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It's the only choice.”
He reached out to her then, and opened his mind to her like swinging wide a barred gate. She came to him with grace and giving, drawing aside her every defense, allowing access to who and what she was to the utmost corner of her being.
They moved as one in transcendent communion. There was no awkwardness, no doubt. Guided by instinct and certain knowledge, they gave to each other what was most desired, most necessary.
There were no physical barriers. Naked and magnificent with it, they matched pore to pore, muscle to muscle, sinew to quivering sinew. The proud globes of her breasts pressed into the firm planes of his chest; his hard loins cradled, nudging, her soft and delicate folds. She smoothed the powerful spread of his shoulders while he tested the slender turn of her waist and resilient softness of her hips.
She thought, lapping the tight, dried-peach brown of his pap that he needed a gold medallion to nestle in the soft pelting of his chest. Ancient, priceless, it appeared.
He thought that her skin in the valley between her breasts had a maddening perfume. It intensified in strength and distraction.
She felt a fleeting, half-drugged desire that he suckle her breast gently as he spread his fingers over her abdomen. The heat of his mouth covered her nipple. She had her answer, with variations.
He needed to feel her hand on his male hardness, and her cool, nimble fingers found it, stroking with perfect firmness and care. And additional creativity.
Inflamed by the compelling caresses and sensitive incursion of his long, flexible fingers, she longed to have them press deeper inside her. His breathing hoarse, he complied.
Tasting the sweet tenderness between her thighs in delectable, delirious questing, he longed to feel the heat of her mouth in similar exploration. With flawless affinity, supple as a mythical nymph, she moved to do so.
Their hearts pulsed with silent thunder; their skin glowed with lightning's heat. Breaths mingling, gusting, they melded with interlacing, licking tongues, drinking each other. Ecstasy, vibrant as life, imperious as death, raced along their veins, blending into a rampage that stunned thought and banished inhibition.
As one, in absolute communion, they came together. Pulsing hardness, entreating softness, they merged body and spirit. And paused, dazed, at the violent perfection of the consummation.
Then they were caught in the whirlwind, for its power and ferocity was in them. Tempered by caring, harnessed by discipline and desire, they rode it.
/>
Carita took the lunging force of his movements against her and felt her heart expand. Strong, vital, she thrust upward, needing, wanting his jolting power. He gave it, and more.
Turning with her, he drew her above him, allowing, following her pace. She sank upon him, taking him deep, deep, absorbing him even as she dipped and swung to her own throbbing rhythm. Her hair flailed him, stroked him, shielding them in silver-gold glory. And her strength, her endurance, was without end. Beyond fear.
Immortal, they strove, assaulting in concert the constrictions of time and space. Surmounting them. Sweeping with windblown fury toward violent surcease, supreme victory.
It burst over them, a thunderous cementing of mind and soul, the ultimate immortality. And they took it as a gift, and gave it as a benediction, each to the other. Sealed in rapture, immutable, they held each other with aching tightness, and did not let go. Even afterward, when the grandeur passed and the rapture faded to a sweet and sensual memory.
“Did I tell you,” he said long moments later, “that I love you desperately, forever and without end.”
She shifted a little, burying her face deeper in the strong curve of his neck. “I think so; I can't remember.”
“I will, or will again, then,” he said on a low laugh, “when I catch my breath.”
“Would you like me to say the same?”
“No,” he answered, lifting a strand of her hair and letting it fall, glittering, back onto his chest. “I can hear it in my heart.”
“That isn't possible,” she objected, though merely for form.
“Listen,” he said, and gathered her even nearer, physically and mentally, merging his being with hers.
Nothing moved for some time then. The fountain played, the flowers waited, pale in the moonlight, breathing perfume. A soft breeze meandered over the mosaic floor and, finding them, cooled their skin, swung the tassels of their cushion, and departed.
Then a wide square of light was flung toward them and across their entwined forms, as the doors to the house opened. The gray cat stepped out and padded softly to the steps. It sat down, observing them with unblinking concern.
The cat's shadow moved, stretched, elongated. In the next instant, the animal was gone and in its place was a distinguished gray-haired gentleman in evening clothes. He regarded the pair on the cushion with relaxed complacency.
“I knew,” he said in deep and cultured tones, “that you two were suited, and would find it out if thrown together.”
Renfrey made a quick, sweeping gesture and a white silk sheet billowed above them, settling to cover their nakedness. Carita clutched it as she sat up.
“Father!”
“My love,” the older gentleman said, inclining his head. “Are you well—but no, don't answer. I can see you are blooming.”
“You—you've been watching us,” she said.
He held up a strong, yet elegant hand in negation. “Acquit me, if you please, of anything so depraved. I was merely keeping an eye on your welfare from a discreet distance.”
Renfrey, supporting himself on his elbow, spoke then. His voice carried a hint of menace. “And are you satisfied now that she will come to no harm?”
The elder warlock smiled. “Quite. Though you will admit I have, or had, reason for concern. The two of you have turned my hair quite white.”
“I'm surprised you didn't feel compelled to intervene.”
“How do you know,” Carita's father said gently, “that I didn't?”
She leaned forward to say in low tones, “Did you? Really?”
His gaze was benign as he shook his head. “No, but I would have if there had been the need. You are very dear to me, my Carita.”
She hesitated, then said, because there might never be another chance, “My mother—”
“Your mother was a woman of rare bravery. Her heart was strong in spirit but weak in fiber, something we did not discover until it was too late. I loved her. The rest,” he said quietly, “is none of your affair. But you need never fear loving, or being loved.”
She glanced up at Renfrey, and he down at her. They smiled together.
“Yes, well ...” The older man said and cleared his throat of some apparent obstruction. “There is a manservant inside who needs occupation to calm his nerves. And I rather thought you might both be in need of sustenance to repair your strength. There is, you will remember, an excellent supper inside which should take care of both problems. Will you join me?”
Renfrey looked down at Carita. “Shall we?”
“If you like,” she answered, “though not, I think, in our current state of dress.”
“Undress, I would have said,” her father corrected with a wicked twinkle in his eye as he rose to his feet. “I shall see you two in the dining room, then.”
They were not particularly prompt, in spite of their manifold advantages. They decided to dress each other, and their mood, turning a little giddy, ran through several varieties of uniforms and national costumes, fabrics and modes of decoration. And it was necessary, naturally, to snatch a kiss or a touch between each change—or to change in order to have an excuse for it. They settled at last, however, on the same clothing they had so rashly discarded earlier.
They were mounting the steps toward the vestibule, hand in hand, when Renfrey stopped. His face serious, though his eyes were not, he said, “Pity the poor mortals. They can never know what we have found.”
She looked into his mind, caressed it, and left her own half-mortal impression. Her smile was generous, tantalizing.
“Can't they?” she said.
~~
~ ABOUT THE AUTHOR ~
Jennifer Blake has been called a “pioneer of the romance genre,” an “icon of the romance industry,” and a “grande dame of romance.” A New York Times and international best-selling author since 1977, she is a charter member of Romance Writers of America, member of the RWA and Affaire de Coeur Halls of Fame, and recipient of the RWA Lifetime Achievement Rita. She holds numerous other honors, including the “Maggie,” the Holt Medallion, multiple Reviewer’s Choice awards, the Career Achievement Award from RT BookReviews Magazine, and the Frank Waters Award for literary excellence. She has written 65 books with translations in 20 languages and more than 30 million copies in print worldwide. Jennifer and her husband live on a lake in northern Louisiana.
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To find out more about Jennifer’s award-winning books and to purchase direct from your favorite outlet, see the Steel Magnolia Press website at www.steelmagnoliapress.com.
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Historical Romance by Jennifer Blake
SAMPLE
~ CHAPTER 1 ~
To have the Dark Angel appear at the ball was a stupendous honor. It was no more than a country cotillion, after all, this being the summer season when everyone retreated from pest-ridden New Orleans to the more healthful air of their upland plantations. More important, Lucien Roquelaire, the premier duelist whose deadly skill had given him his title, was known to avoid such mild entertainments.
Anne-Marie Decoulet watched the arrival of this exalted guest from her corner seat half hidden behind a gilded and silent harp. She had never met the Dark Angel personally but knew him on sight. Invited everywhere due to his social standing and devastatingly handsome appearance, he cut a wide swath through the city during the festive winter season. Fluttering feminine hearts and shattered male egos littered his path like rose petals before a conquering hero. It would have been difficult not
to know him.
There had been a time when Anne-Marie had thought Lucien Roquelaire the epitome of masculine charm. She had spun wondrous daydreams around him in which she played the part of his loyal and valiant lady, the only person who could see through the mask he assumed to conceal the torment in his soul. In her fantasies, he fought for her on the field of honor, climbed to her balcony to rescue her, swept her away with him to exotic climes and exciting experiences.
How silly she had been. The Dark Angel was no man of dreams, but rather a cold-blooded assassin. Any torment in his soul was of his own making. Anne-Marie had come to despise the code duello by which he lived, and also the man who was its most notorious example.
Oh, but the hostess for the evening, Madame Picard, was so very gratified by the saturnine gentleman’s appearance at her summer ball. Her smile was a beatific beam, while her breath of satisfaction threatened the overstrained seams of her coral silk ball gown. Rustling forward in haste, she was embarrassingly effusive as she made him welcome.
Lucien Roquelaire bent his dark head over the lady’s hand, all grace, polished manners, and condescension. It was infamous.
But as the gentleman turned to glance around the gathering with a weary air, the smiles of his hostess gave way to doubt. The lady had realized, perhaps, that it was one thing to arouse the interest of the Dark Angel but quite another to satisfy it. How humiliating for her if he should turn on his heel and leave the house within seconds of arriving. Wild-eyed, Madame Picard searched for something or someone to offer her guest by way of entertainment.
There was not a great deal from which to choose. One of the most popular waltzes of the past winter was floating on the air and nearly every person present, with the exception of the chaperones and elderly aunts, was on the shining parquet of the dance floor. The district boasted no true intellectual light who might engage her guest, and the few elder statesmen in attendance were sequestered in a back room, deep in games of faro and draw-poker. The midnight supper hour was still several dances away, and must fail to impress in any case, being only the usual collection of meats, pastries, jellies, and ices.
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