by Nancy Butler
Lady Hamish had insisted on holding the wedding at her home, a fitting venue now that she had publicly acknowledged Romulus as her son. Her lawyers in London were busy preparing the papers of investiture, and if the ton had seized on the scandal, no one at Hamish House was any the wiser. Wedding guests had been arriving all that past week, and the baroness had made the transition from recluse to accomplished hostess with her usual grace.
Diana’s father had traveled down from Yorkshire for the wedding, in the solicitous care of James Mortimer. Romulus and her father soon discovered they were kindred spirits, their appreciation of literature creating an instant bond between them.
Beveril had attended the morning service, but had then gone off with Lady Vivian to his estate in Surrey. Lady Hamish had settled a generous allowance on him and had paid his gambling debts, and he had sworn to stay well away from the gaming tables. Diana truly hoped he could keep that vow. If she knew Vivian Partridge, that lady would certainly make every effort to distract him.
Niall had acted as best man for Romulus, wearing a fine suit and a merry smirk. He’d looked likely to make every woman in the chapel swoon with desire. Well, every woman but Diana, who only had eyes for her tall, auburn-haired groom. Romulus wore his own dress clothes with studied nonchalance, unaware of how the sight of him standing beside the altar made her pulse race as she came down the aisle.
She drifted toward the boathouse, wondering how long it would be before her new husband noticed her absence and came after her. He would always come after her, she knew. And she needed him, needed to be alone with him without dozens of curious eyes prodding at her. They’d had such an easy communion when they were alone on the island, and she prayed they could find a way back to that state.
She stopped at the boathouse, turning her eyes again to the water. Two swans drifted past, paddling lazily in the direction of the island. Perhaps it was the same pair she and Rom had seen the night he had taken her on the river. Newlyweds, she had called them. Just beginning their lives together.
Together. The word sang in her heart, her happiness beyond measure. But then a little tremor of fear rippled through her at the thought of her approaching wedding night. Fear and delicious anticipation.
“Not thinking of taking out a rowboat, are you?” Romulus said softly from the shadows behind her.
She grinned to herself in the fading light. “Mmm. The thought had crossed my mind.”
“What? And leave all your well-wishers behind?”
Diana sighed. “I wish they would all go away.”
Romulus chuckled softly. “Not until the last wine bottle is emptied and the last morsel of food is consumed. I’m afraid my mother has taken this hospitality business to an extreme.”
He stepped forward and handed her the flute of champagne he had carried from the house, and then touched his glass to hers. “To you, Allegra. To us.”
She sipped at the frothy liquor. She’d already drunk enough to float a ship-of-the-line, but it didn’t seem to be affecting her. Her senses were swimming, but not from anything she had imbibed.
Romulus was standing a little away from her, leaning against the side of the boathouse. Except for the chaste kiss he had given her in the chapel, he had not made any other overtures toward her. Unlike Niall, who had kissed her at least a half dozen times in the course of the day. She wondered if perhaps Romulus was also feeling a bit shy. But then she saw how his eyes were watching her, with heat and barely contained hunger, glowing gold in the fading light. Her breath caught in her chest, and a tight shiver of desire knotted in her middle. He had looked at her that way in the gypsy meadow, as though he wanted to devour her.
She threw her head back and met his gaze boldly.
He grinned slowly, in unhurried appreciation of the clear message shimmering in her eyes. “I suppose we could throw them all out. Now that would be a scandal.”
“No,” she said, taking his hand. “I have a better idea.”
The interior of the boathouse was cool and shadowy. Rom left her for a moment, went forward along the catwalk to swing open the wide door, so that the lambent light reflecting off the river flowed inside. Then he guided her down the steps to Lady Hamish’s pleasure barge and settled her on the padded seat.
“Now,” he said, settling beside her, “I believe this should be private enough to suit you.” He lounged back on the cushions and watched her through half-closed eyes.
She leaned in close and hissed softly, “If you don’t kiss me this minute, Romulus, I’m going to throw myself into the river.”
He drew back. “Kiss you, Allegra? I hardly think it seemly to be kissing my wife in a boathouse.”
“Romulus!” Her blue eyes flashed dangerously.
In answer, he reached out to lace his fingers through her hair, plucking out the pins that held up the intricate coiffure that her abigail had labored on for nearly an hour. “If I kiss you,” he warned softly, as his fingers drew the heavy mass of curls down over her shoulders, “I doubt I will stop at that.”
“Lord, I hope not,” was all she had time to murmur before he swung her onto his lap and captured her mouth with his own. His lips explored hers, slowly and with infinite tenderness. Diana arched up to meet his kiss, twining her arms about his neck. He tasted of champagne, and honey cake, and of warm, simmering passion.
Romulus nuzzled her bare shoulder, his breath tickling against her ear. “I taste you in my dreams, Allegra,” he murmured as though he had read her thoughts. “It’s the damnedest thing. I wake up hungering for your mouth and your body. One night in a meadow was all it took for you to fill up my senses. But this, this is more than mortal man can stand.”
“Or mortal woman,” she said with a husky sigh. “Lord, I’ve missed you, Rom.” His arms tightened around her almost painfully. “Being alone with you, just the two of us. Will it ever be that way again?”
He traced a finger over her cheek. “I wager we’ll find a way to steal a few minutes every day.”
“A few minutes,” Diana groaned. “I am beginning to wish you were still just a swankeeper….”
“No, you don’t,” he said as he drifted his mouth across her chin. “And neither do I. I was hiding away on that island until I met you…. You, my witch, are what drew me back into the world.”
Diana sighed again, this time in delight. He hadn’t called her his witch in what felt like years.
“And now?” she said, pulling back from him slightly.
“Now I have life in my grasp again. And responsibility. Which is not a bad thing.”
She nodded against his shoulder. “But it frightens me a little, this new life we’re to have.”
“I know,” he said gently. “But we’ll do good things, Allegra. We can make a change in the world. It’s what my father never could see—that money and a title are not inherently evil things. My mother came to learn that, and in spite of what she thinks, I believe she was the stronger of the two.”
“We will be strong together, Romulus,” she vowed. She added in a fierce whisper, “We will be united.”
“Oh, yes,” he breathed as his hands stroked along her sides. “We will most assuredly be united.”
He caught her up against him, his resolve to behave with gentlemanly restraint now fled away. God knew, he’d kept his distance from her as long as he’d been able during the interminable wedding party, passing from guest to guest and watching the clock’s painfully slow progress. He’d seen Beveril slip away with his lady and had resented his cousin’s freedom. Rom knew he had to stay behind and do the pretty to the wedding guests. But he was done with them now. They could drown in a vat of brandy for all he cared.
His mouth sought out Allegra’s in the near darkness, his hunger for her at last given free rein. She shifted beneath him, moaning slightly, which only fretted his blood to a keener pitch. He rasped his chin over her throat, thrusting her down with both hands, as he angled his body over hers.
Her hands tangled in his hair, her br
eath coming in little sobs, as he deepened his kisses, delving his tongue into her mouth, over and over. The fire in his belly sizzled and flared as her tongue danced against his. He was gasping, sighing, as his head spun and his loins clenched. It was exquisite agony.
He shrugged out of his coat, casting it from him without a thought, and then tugged at the elaborate folds of his neckcloth. She grinned at his muffled curses and in the next instant her deft fingers had the cloth unbound from his throat. She replaced her fingers with her lips, letting her cool mouth trail along his parched skin, kissing and biting at him until he cried out.
“Now your shirt—” she pleaded, her fingers plucking at the fine lawn. He had it off in an instant, reeling back as her mouth skittered over the sleekly muscled skin of his chest.
“Ah, Rom,” she sighed, “this is heaven.”
“Now your gown,” he purred. His hands danced along her back, thwarted by the tabs. “I should have insisted you be married in a gypsy gown,” he muttered into her shoulder and heard her chuckle.
“Here,” she said, sitting up so that he could have access to the fastenings.
He stroked his mouth over her throat while he freed her from the stiff satin gown. Beneath it she wore only a gossamer chemise. She might as well have been naked, he thought, with only that whisper of fabric between them. He coaxed her back into his arms, sliding one hand beneath the lace bodice. She was simmering velvet under his palm, round and firm. He lowered his head, tasting her through the sheer lace.
But it was still not enough, not nearly enough. He slid the straps of her chemise from her shoulders and then drew the delicate fabric down to her waist. The wracking sigh that struggled up from his throat was echoed by the soft groan she uttered as his fingers closed over her breasts.
He threw her back onto the padded seat, taking her mouth now in a frenzy of kisses, as his hands discovered every sweet contour of her body. Breast and thigh, hip and belly, he cradled her and caressed her. Naked beneath his hands, naked beneath the skirts of her gown, she rose up to meet him. He explored her, gentled her, and then as his mouth lowered to her breast, he fired her anew.
“Sweet Jesus!” she cried out, thrashing in his implacable hold. Romulus was not daunted by the strident tone of her cry. He knew his witch now, understood her hunger, and relished her fierce appetite. There was no fear in her, only the yearning for a completion that he alone understood.
She clung to him, shivering with unspoken need, as he rucked up her skirt and petticoat and traced his fingers over one rounded knee. His restraint was perilously near its end, but her mouth, open and eager on his throat, was driving him far past the point of caring. She groaned as his hand moved along her thigh.
He started to pull back, but she shook her head. “I’m not afraid, Romulus.”
“I fear I will hurt you.” He whispered the warning against her ear.
“No,” she cried, her fingers digging into his arms. “You cannot ever hurt me.”
But he did. He heard the startled gasp of pain as he entered her—the swift, sudden intake of breath. And then the slow, tentative gasp of pleasure as he eased himself a little farther into her. He kissed her gently, his lips a tender pledge upon her half-open mouth. “Let me free you, Allegra,” he crooned.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh, please….”
He moved inside her slowly at first, the moored barge rocking beneath them in stately counterpoint to his tentative thrusts. But then as his body increased its tempo, it felt as though the whole world was shifting wildly beneath them.
Allegra was gasping now, her legs drawn up to couch him, as he plunged against her. She was quicksilver, precious and molten, flowing around him, her heat engulfing him, drowning him in liquid fire.
He called out to her softly and then more urgently. “Bella,” he cried. “Dolce, dolce, bella.”
“Rom!” she responded breathlessly, tugging his head down to her mouth. “Oh, Rom….”
He felt her passion begin to crest, the shuddering tremors lifting her up from the seat. He gave a ragged, piercing cry against her mouth as he felt his own control slip away. There was nothing between them now but heat. And then for an instant there was a blazing recognition, as he pulled back and lost himself in her bottomless eyes. Damn the promises they’d made in a musty chapel—this was what bound them together, love and desire and all the wonder of shared bliss.
She shattered then, crying out as passion carried her over the brink of innocence into the realm of earthly delight. And so, having at last set her free, his wild, untamed water witch, Romulus gave in to his own need, rising and soaring with her in the final act of loving completion.
* * *
Diana stretched her arms over her head, dislocating Rom’s elegant coat, which he had drawn over her. Not that she needed his coat to keep her warm, she thought, with his body so close beside hers on the barge’s seat. He twitched the coat back over her, letting his hand drift to the rise of breast, which she had only recently restored to some semblance of modesty by tugging up the tattered remains of her chemise.
They were in a shameless state of disarray—Rom’s shirt was off, his breeches only half fastened, and the bodice of her gown was pooled about her waist. It was a wonder they both hadn’t ended up in the water, she thought wickedly. She’d never felt better in her life, buttery and content and singingly alive.
“I’ve always wondered,” she murmured lazily against his chest, “why these are called pleasure barges.”
He tickled her ear with a stray lock of her hair. “And now you know?”
She grinned up at him. “Yes, though I do think ecstasy barge would be a bit more accurate.”
“Not to mention florid. So I take it you were not…um, displeased.”
She scrunched up her mouth thoughtfully, and he had a gripping desire to kiss the foolish expression from her face. “No,” she said after some reflection. “Though it’s not fair to judge after only one…experience.”
“Oh, lord,” he said as he tucked her head against his chest. “I can see it’s going to be a very long night.”
* * *
They summered in Italy. Under the relaxing, sensuous Mediterranean sun, Romulus soon recovered from the last traces of his nervous disorder. Diana fell in love with Rome, and understood now why Rom’s parents had been so supremely happy in that ancient, sprawling city. The great river Tiber flowed beyond the windows of their villa, and it burgeoned with exotic birdlife. Diana regretted now that Rom had refused to take Remus with them—he had rolled his eyes at her suggestion, muttering that he would not be the first man in history to spend his honeymoon with a witch and a swan.
They returned to Hamish House just as the leaves in the beech trees were starting to turn. The morning after they got settled in, Romulus received a message from Niall, asking them both to meet him on the island. Neither of them had been back there since the fire, and Diana wondered if the sight of the charred lodge would stir up any of her husband’s so-far dormant ghosts.
When they pulled up at the slip, Diana saw that Rom’s skiff, which had been bequeathed to Niall, was already tied to the iron ring. Niall himself came down the path, his face lit with pleasure.
“Little mother!” he crowed, kissing Diana on both cheeks.
“How did you know?” she asked wonderingly. “Doctor Harley only confirmed it this morning.”
Rom slipped an arm around her waist. “You know gossip on the river, Allegra. It travels like lightening.”
“Didn’t need a doctor,” Niall replied. “My granty saw it last week in her chicken bones.”
“That’s lovely,” Romulus drawled.
Niall grinned at his friend. “You’re looking fit. I gather matrimony agrees with you.”
“It’s not so bad,” Rom said dryly, avoiding his wife’s elbow. “You might want to try it.”
“Me?” Niall made a face of horror, “I’m still a sprat.” He winked at Diana, who laughed back.
Niall started u
p the path, chattering nonstop about Remus and the progress he’d been making.
“If you’re going to tell us how big he’s grown,” Romulus muttered, “I won’t be surprised. I’ve seen how much you feed—”
Romulus had stopped speaking in midsentence and was standing stock still at the top of the path. Diana, who was trailing behind him, her hand in his, nearly ran right into his back.
“Rom?” She peered around him and her mouth dropped open.
The lodge stood in the clearing, dappled with autumn sunlight. It looked exactly as it had the day she ran off. The same red brick, mellowed with age, the same ocher trim adorning the window and doors. The herb garden was past its prime, but a few hardy lavender plants still poked their heads up to the sky.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” was all Romulus could manage.
“It’s a miracle,” Diana whispered from beside him, her fingers tight on his arm.
Niall stood a little in front of them, trying not to look smug. “The villagers did it,” he pronounced. “To repay you for saving the children. Lady Hamish bought the supplies, but the people of Treypenny did all the work. And Beveril scoured every bookstore in London to replace all the books that were lost. Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” He eyed them expectantly.
“I don’t know what to say,” Romulus replied, rubbing the back of his head.
“I know you are to have the big house eventually,” Niall continued. “But I thought you might want a place to get away from things. Your own little haven.”
Diana walked beside Romulus up the brick path toward the house, still in a daze. It was as though the fire had been nothing more than a bad dream. But without the fire, and it’s wrenching aftermath, Romulus would never have made peace with his grief and his guilt. And his ghosts would have always continued to haunt him. Now, she knew, they had truly been laid to rest.
Perhaps her father was right—perhaps the fire on the island, like the one in the farmer’s field, had been a cleansing thing.
Her reverie was broken when a fat, nearly grown swan came scuttling around the corner of the house. As usual Remus made a beeline for her husband.
