by Mia Marlowe
I know they blame the apple: that’s not true;
Look at the birds and beasts, and you will see
That we on earth do merely what we must.
But this is not a time for jest; do you
Not feel the wave that’s swelling up in me?
Then, come! Take arms! Against a sea of—Lust!
—Pietro Aretino, early Italian pornographer who is said to have died of uncontrollable laughter
Garret blew out the candle and climbed between the clean bed linens. If he were a praying man, he’d petition the Almighty for a night free of dreams. However, since he hadn’t had much to say to God since his fiancée’s sudden illness and death, it didn’t seem fair to entreat heaven for help now.
He’d worked all afternoon with Westfall on the blasted mental exercises the duke had prescribed. At the end of several hours, the viscount grudgingly gave him a single compliment.
“When you aren’t out to shock or trick someone into outrageous behavior, Sterling, you have a surprisingly restful mind.”
Garret was perfectly able to control the urge to Send his thoughts when he was awake, but he still wasn’t sure those exercises of restraint would work on his unconscious mind as he slept. Westfall encouraged him to forego his usual nocturnal drinking to avoid dreams so they could gauge how effective the training had been.
So, against his better judgment, Garret was in full possession of his faculties when he burrowed deeper into the feather tick. He breathed deeply and let his thoughts drift, but sleep fled from him. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, he propped an arm under his head and spent the better part of a quarter of an hour examining the sylvan scene on the ceiling. A troop of wood nymphs and satyrs cavorted through the painted groves.
If he could distract himself with images of scantily clad demigoddesses being swived by randy cloven-hoofed godlings, perhaps the memory of his dream about Cassie wouldn’t rear its head.
Unfortunately, the scene overhead wasn’t as compelling as his dream was terrifying.
Someone is trapped by a circle of flame. The person is screaming for help in incoherent bleats. Garret can’t tell if the victim is male or female, young or old. Terror robs them of both years and gender. He can’t see them clearly because the blaze is too high and he dare not approach the conflagration because the scorching heat blisters his skin.
But Cassandra dares. Before he can stop her, she walks calmly through the wall of fire.
Then the nightmare had ended as abruptly as those dreams where one is falling into an abyss and suddenly strikes the bottom. Garret shot bolt upright, gasping for breath.
Part of him wanted desperately to know what happened next. The other part couldn’t bear to watch.
After his nightmare about Cassie, he’d asked Vesta LaMotte about the magic of a fire mage. He tried to be casual as he wondered aloud about the breadth of their abilities. Since fire mages had control of flames, he mused, could they also control whether or not they were burned by them?
“Oh, no, dear boy. I am as flammable as the next woman,” Vesta had said. “Perhaps more so because I do dearly love scent and regularly drench myself in perfumed oil. Come closer, Sterling, and have a whiff. Maybe you can guess the secret place where I always put a dab of fragrance.”
Vesta was ever the coquette and Garret enjoyed performing the flirtatious dance with her, but the older woman seemed to know their banter was only for show. She understood how he felt about Cassandra. Perhaps better than he did himself. Without him asking, Vesta reminded him that it was time for their physical relationship to advance to something more closely resembling a normal affair since they’d completed their first mission together.
“I can see you care about her, so I’ll confide in you,” Vesta had said, taking his arm and snugging his elbow against her warm breast as they’d walked the duke’s garden together. “When a fire mage first comes into her full power and summons the courage to wield it, she feels a bit invincible. Calling down flames and making them dance to one’s tune is a heady undertaking, make no mistake. Cassandra is young and therefore already disposed to think she will live forever. With her added power, the temptation to believe she is untouchable becomes almost irresistible. But she is all too mortal. A fire mage cannot play fast and loose with fire, lest she be burned. Keep her safe, Mr. Sterling.”
How could he keep Cassandra safe when his very dreams endangered her?
Since Garret had little hope of sleep, he swung his legs out of bed. He used a spill to capture a flame from his fireplace and walked it across the room, sheltering it with his other hand. Then he relit the candle on the small commode beside his bed.
“Pity Cassie isn’t here,” he murmured. “She could do this with much less trouble.”
Then, as if he’d conjured her, the door to his chamber opened wide enough for her to peek her head in. When Cassandra saw he was out of bed, she smiled.
“Oh, good,” she said. “You’re awake. I was afraid I’d be disturbing you.”
“I can’t sleep.” He didn’t dare. “Why are you still awake? Why are you here, for that matter?”
He hadn’t been aware of Sending her a request to come to him and she wouldn’t have received it in any case. But had his unconscious mind reached out to her even while he was awake?
“Well, I expected a more gracious reception than that.”
Cassandra slipped into his chamber and closed the door behind her. She was wearing a rather missish night rail that buttoned to her chin covered with a silky wrapper that reached to her ankles. But she smelled wonderful. Even from across the room, Garret’s nose was filled with the scent of lilacs, fresh and sweet and beguiling. Just like Cassie.
“I’m risking the duke’s wrath by being here, you know,” she said.
“How so? Camden may be stiff, but he’s no prude. He knows I’ve spent time alone with you in your chamber.” Garret went rock hard just thinking about putting his hands on her and caressing her luscious body into a release.
She ducked her head in a surprisingly shy manner for a girl who’d all but taken him in a butler’s pantry. “Yes, but since you were helping me subdue my gift when you were in my room, that was on M.U.S.E. business. So to speak.”
“And now you’re here for yourself?” he said with hope.
The room was too dim for him to tell if she blushed, but the way she averted her gaze suggested she did. Was she thinking about their joining at the Bellefonte dower house? Of course, it could be argued that they’d swived each other furiously because of those aphrodisiac fumes and to help her regain control of her gift. Garret hadn’t realized until that moment how very much he wanted her to come to him for reasons that had nothing to do with her fire-mage abilities.
“No, not exactly. I’m not here to…do that,” she said haltingly. One of her hands fiddled with the small buttons under her chin and she had three of them undone before she realized what she was doing. She stuffed her hands quickly into her pockets. He motioned for her to sit so she perched on one of the Sheraton chairs before his fireplace. Her wrapper rode up enough for her slippered feet and ankles to show beneath the hem. “I was thinking about that other item the duke is keen on finding.”
Garret plopped into the chair opposite her. “It’s always the duke and his wishes with you, isn’t it?”
“I do owe him quite a bit, you know. If not for the Duke of Camden, I’d still be lighting fires without realizing it and might have harmed someone.” She sat straighter and gave him a tremulous smile. “Instead, I’m learning to celebrate my power.”
He leaned toward her, balancing his elbows on his knees. “You’ve learned to celebrate something else as well—your sensuality.”
“But that’s not why I’m here.” She looked away again. “After the meeting with His Grace, Mr. Bernard was telling me about something called the ASP.”
Since she wouldn’t be drawn into talking about the sexual tension smoldering between them, Garret sat back and hi
tched one ankle over the opposite knee. If that gave her a clear view up his banyan to his bare cock and balls, so be it. “That was a short conversation I wager. We know next to nothing about the ASP.”
“We know its name.” Her gaze flicked to his knees, then back to his face. She was careful to maintain eye contact with him. “And that’s when I got to thinking. Suppose ASP is an acronym. If we can figure out what the letters stand for, we might have a better chance at locating it.”
Garret nodded. “That would give Meg Anthony a decent chance at finding it. She needs to visualize the object or name a lost person to use her ability to locate something.”
“Then we need to help her. Let’s see…” Cassie tapped her front teeth with her fingernail. “A-S-P could mean A Secret Package.”
“Or A Silly Pudding.”
She frowned at him. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Sorry. How about Assorted Sour Pickles?”
“Garret!” She stood and crossed over to the fire to warm her hands. The flickering light rendered her wrapper and night rail translucent and Garret was treated to a shadowy glimpse of her form under the thin fabric. “Can you please think of something besides food?”
With the show she was inadvertently offering him, he certainly could but she didn’t seem to want him to think about that either. Garret rose, since it wouldn’t be proper for him to remain seated while she stood, and crossed over to join her before the fire.
Proper. Maybe that was the trouble. He and Cassandra had come into this relationship all backward. Not proper at all. First he’d abducted her, and then he had embarked on a sensual adventure with her before they even had a chance to know each other. But while he had learned her body by heart, he’d also caught glimpses of the real Cassie—warm, tenderhearted, courageous Cassie. He longed to know her more deeply—and to his utter surprise—not just in the biblical sense.
“The ASP is a weapon of some sort. We need to think of words that might fit that.” Her forehead creased in concentration. “Aggressive Sword Point?”
“Redundant,” he said. “What sword point wouldn’t be considered aggressive?”
“You’re right. Something more subtle, then. Psychic weapons are not overt, but they are active. ‘Actively’ for A maybe. Now S. What word for S?”
“Seditious?” Garret offered.
“Yes, good.” She smiled up at him and he felt as if he’d just climbed Snowdon for her. “These attacks on the Crown are nothing if not seditious. Actively Seditious…something that starts with P…”
“Potato. Paper. Penguin.”
“You’re not helping.” She rolled her eyes at him.
“All right. Can you do better?”
“Peppercorn. Pillow. Piano.”
“Actively Seditious Piano?” Garret said with a raised brow.
“I know. It’s ridiculous.” She sank back into the chair. “And hopeless. Who would give the Prince Regent a piano?”
“You might be surprised. People have given him fine-blooded horses, paintings by masters, jewels. There’s no end to the list of things folk will do to curry favor. I know I’d do pretty much anything to gain yours.”
“Would you? Why?” The banked fire flared a bit, a sure sign she was anxious over his answer. “Other than this infernal gift, I’m nothing special.”
“You’re wrong.” He knelt before her. “There’s no one like you.”
Cassie searched his face for a moment, looking for veracity. She seemed satisfied because she threw her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. She trembled at first, but after a few moments she stilled.
He spoke no more. Suddenly there was no need for words. She was here. She was in his arms of her own free will. No pressing need from her gift. No drugs floating in the air to push her into his embrace. Just a warm woman melting into his body.
It was enough.
His mouth found hers in a tender kiss. Usually their lips came together in a frantic joining, desperate and feral. This time he teased her lips until she opened to him. He swept in, thrusting gently. She answered him, groaning into his mouth. His fingers tangled in her hair and pulled her head back so he could trace the curve of her jaw with his mouth. Then he moved down her neck to the sweet hollow at the base of her throat.
She gave a little moan.
“Oh, the bruises,” he said. “Did I hurt you?”
“Only if you stop. Oh, Garret, you make me feel so giddy. As if I’ve drunk too much sherry on an empty stomach.” Her fingers plucked at the belt holding his banyan closed. Once she undid it, the belt felt soundlessly to the floor. “Please don’t stop.”
He raised her to her feet. Then he bent to kiss her again. She slipped her hands inside his banyan to slide her palms over his bare ribs. He kissed past her collarbone and undid those virginal buttons down to her navel. He pulled back the wrapper and ran a fingertip down the opening in her night rail.
“I want to see you, Cassie. Let me look at you, love.”
“You’ve seen me many times.”
“But never often enough.” With breathless tenderness, he pushed back the fabric to expose her breasts, tight-tipped for his touch. “You’re so beautiful.”
He traced lazy circles around each breast. Then he cupped them as he kissed her again.
“I want to see you, too.” She pushed his banyan off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.
“Well?” he said, rising to turn a slow circle, arms extended. “Will I do?”
“You know perfectly well you’ll do plenty.” She flicked her gaze over him, taking in the symmetry and lines of his body. “I never thought it of a man, but you’re beautiful.”
…
The small hairs on his body stood at full attention, leaving him fuzzed like a peach in spots, more heavily furred down the center of his chest, tapering to a thin line of dark hair leading to his navel. Garret stood before her, the muscles under his skin bunched and hard. In the dim light of the fire, Cassie saw a snakelike scar that sliced across his chest, missing his nipple by a hair’s breadth. She traced it with her fingertip.
“Does that hurt?” she whispered.
“Not now.”
She pressed her lips against it and made a note to ask him how he came by it, someday. Garret trembled under her mouth.
Good! Cassie was glad he wasn’t the only one who could give pleasure. When her lips traveled down his ribs, his breath hissed in over his teeth. Still, he held himself in check and let her explore.
When she kissed his navel, darting her tongue into the small indentation, he groaned aloud. Then he pulled her upright to kiss her again.
Hard this time. No tender exploration. This was an all-out assault. His hands slid over her, divesting her of her wrapper with a few deft moves. Then he bunched her night rail in his fist, rucking up the yards of material to bare her legs and buttocks. His fingers grasped her bum and pressed her against his body.
Heat flowed between them, melting her insides and stoking the fire that always sizzled deep within her.
Burn me, Garret. Burn me alive and I will not care one whit.
Garret released her mouth long enough to pull the night rail over her head. She stood naked before him, but seeing the slack-lidded passion on his face, it occurred to Cassie that if she were still trying to be a pattern sort of girl, she’d be ashamed. But she wasn’t. Ephigenia Oddbotham’s Pattern Behavior for the Well-Bred Young Lady felt as if it belonged to another lifetime. Certainly to another life.
Instead she ran her hands down his chest, reveling in his warm flesh and the tiny hairs tickling her palms.
He cupped her cheeks and stared into her eyes. “I didn’t want to love you, Cassie. After Alice, I never wanted to love anyone ever again. I’ve worked to avoid it harder than I’ve ever worked at anything.”
His words were a knife to her chest.
“But despite my best efforts,” he said, “I have not succeeded.”
She blinked hard. What was he
saying? “Does that mean—”
“That I love you.” He smiled down at her. “With all my heart.”
And then he was done with words.
Garret covered her mouth with his.
She had so much to say, so much to ask, so much to…and then suddenly she was aware of nothing but the glory of his skin, warm and vibrant, against hers. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the waiting bed. In a tangle of arms and legs, they fell into the soft nest.
His fingertips were brands, trailing fire where they touched, the crease of an elbow, the sweet hollow behind her knee, the soft skin of her inner thigh.
She opened to him. He lowered himself on her and she was utterly engulfed.
“Come to me, Garret.” Moving with him, she raked her nails up his ribs when he entered her slowly.
She was finally filled. Filled with him. Filled with joy. She lost all sense of herself. She was stripped bare and not afraid for him to see her exposed soul shivering by itself.
Then as he came inside her, she realized her soul wasn’t alone. His was right there, too.
Oh, the feel of him. Hard and strong and hot.
Blood pounded in her ears. Her insides constricted, wound tight, stretched thin till she burst in bone-deep spasms. She lost control of her limbs. Her body bucked. She gathered him close, accepting him with greediness, wanting all of him she could possibly hold.
He collapsed on her, nuzzling at her neck. She ran her fingertips up and down his spine.
There was no need to speak. Their bodies had said everything that was necessary. Cassandra’s breathing fell into rhythm with Garret’s and after a few moments, she realized he was so spent, he’d fallen asleep.
“That’s all right,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”
Chapter Sixteen
And e’en the dearest
that I loved the best
Are strange—
Nay, rather stranger than the rest.
—John Clare, from “I am”, written as a patient at Northampton General Lunatic Asylum
The Duke of Camden lifted a china teacup to his lips and surveyed the faces gathered at his democratically round breakfast table. Across the table, his sister, Lady Easton, was conversing quietly with Westfall and Miss Anthony, who were seated on either side of her. Sterling and Miss Darkin had positioned themselves roughly opposite each other, equidistant from both the duke and his sister and her enclave. No one clamored for a seat close to Camden.
