She leaned into him without being able to stop herself; he took her weight easily, comforting, and curiously enough this released the sob in her at last.
“Oh,” she cried, and buried her head against his shoulder.
He rocked her slowly, saying words she barely heard, because of all things she was crying now, little tears, muffled whimpers into his tartan, and she didn’t even know why she was doing it, except that it felt so good to have him hold her, and it was such a relief to be able to let him take in her sorrow.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, over and over, his hands smoothing up and down her back until the tears stopped, and all that was left of it was the dampness of his shoulder beneath her.
She felt drained, exhausted, and now when her head rested against him it was not just for comfort, but because it felt too heavy to lift.
“Truelove.” Marcus stroked her face; she felt his fingers gently wipe away the wetness on her cheeks. “You needn’t go back to that room.”
She latched on to his words, felt the tremulous fronds of hope uncoil within her. He bent down and brushed his lips against hers, light, tender. “You should have told me about this. I never would have subjected you to it had I known.”
Avalon couldn’t reply. She was too sleepy suddenly, she could barely keep her eyes open. Weariness drenched her entire body.
“Where are we going?” she managed to ask as he led her out of the room to the tactfully deserted hallway.
“To my chambers,” he said, and moved her forward.
Chapter Twelve
His was soft and as large as she remembered, with a carved oak post at each corner and some kind of heavy cloth tied back from them to create curving sweeps of muted color next to the wood.
Avalon didn’t wonder that Marcus brought her here, that he had led her to the edge of the bed and then joined her there, an arm around her shoulders. As he pulled her back onto the welcome cushioning of furs and pillows all she felt was the last of her efforts to stay awake slip away from her. It seemed perfectly natural to lay her head in the crook of his shoulder, both of them still completely dressed, her arm across his chest and her leg slightly bent over one of his.
She didn’t question any of it. Under the starlight spilling in from his windows and secure in his embrace, she gave up everything and fell asleep.
Occasionally she would drift close to awareness again, feeling the difference beside her, the warmth of a solid body holding her, the sound of another’s breath close to her ear. But none of it was worrisome; in fact, it seemed better than comforting to experience these things. It seemed like these were sensations she had been seeking in her dreams all her life.
So when she finally did come all the way out of her sleep she did not panic at the sight of a masculine arm draped over her waist as she lay on her back—a heavy weight but not unpleasant—leading up to the shoulder of a man with glossy black hair and a face relaxed in slumber.
The rising light from the windows told her it was close to dawn, a cool coloring of his features, lavender shadows enhancing the short growth of beard on his chin.
Avalon blinked and the vision stayed the same. She was here in Marcus’s chambers. He had brought her here last night and slept beside her, and she had let him—
His eyes opened.
She didn’t look away. The winter blue now held hints of the dawn, a slow warmth as he took her in, solemn.
In his eyes she could easily become lost, carried away in that warmth, in the hidden blue flames.
She felt her own response instantly, welling up easily, because right now in the tender newness of the daybreak she had no barriers to him. All she felt was that melting she couldn’t stop. He lifted one of his hands, the one at her waist, and brought his fingers up to her lips, touching them lightly, still so serious, as if the whole world depended now on what he did.
A lock of his hair brushed her cheek as he bent his head closer to hers, his lips following the course of his fingers. His kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but even that moment was quickly lost, and he moved over her and kissed her hard.
Her body responded in a rush; it knew where this led now, to that burning moment, that piercing ecstasy, and she leaned into him helplessly, even reaching up one hand to weave her fingers in his hair, holding him closer. He tasted of something salty, enticing, purely masculine. His tongue teased her lips, he shaped words against them.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Good.”
She didn’t know what that meant, what was good except everything he was doing to her, the way he was covering her whole body with his own now, settling urgently between her legs in a way that felt unfamiliar and improper and so delightful. She was overheated in the gown and the tartan, they constrained her and perhaps he knew this, because even as he kept her under him he was pulling at the folds of material over her shoulder, removing the silver brooch that pinned it to her, yanking the material free from her waist and pushing it down and to the side.
The rush of cool air on her was immediately covered by his palms moving up her sides, stroking her breasts through just the gown of black.
Her head tilted back and she heard a moan—It came from her throat and evoked that feral smile from him, a blaze of melting liquid firing through her.
“Truelove” he said, and began to move against her, between her legs, shifting his hands so they were beneath her, on her back, down to her hips, lifting her up into him.
The center of her was hot, wet need, it was like he had done to her before. She was lost to all but him, his rhythm taking her and pulling her in, making her flex against him. Somehow his own tartan had loosened and come undone around his shoulder; he stripped off the tunic as well, and for the first time she saw the strong column of his neck leading down to solid muscles and short, curling hairs on his chest. Her hands found his arms, reveled in his bare skin, skimmed over to touch those soft curls.
Now it was his turn to moan, leaning back for her, allowing her to explore him. He was still cradled between her legs, still pressing his rigidity to her, almost painful.
Avalon watched her hands in wonder, watched as if it were someone else doing these things to him, touching him, feeling his heat, the smoothness of his skin. His eyes were closed, his mouth had a tightness to it as she let her hands drift lower, down to his stomach, the hard, flat planes of him there.
He moved swiftly, that grace in him all the more apparent in his haste; pushing her hands aside, pulling her to sit up so fast she didn’t know what had happened and then holding her there, his arms around her, his fingers working at the buttons of her gown. His breathing was a ragged tempo in her ear, matching her own.
Avalon felt the first one come free, then another, then another, but his hands were trembling, she felt that too, and when the next button wouldn’t release he took the cloth on both sides and ripped it apart, popping the rest of the buttons free in a shower of little disks on the bed. Before she could react he was pushing the material down over her shoulders, tugging it to her waist, trapping her hands in their long sleeves and freeing the rest of her to him.
She made a small sound, all she could do to express her sudden dismay, but Marcus was laying her back down, still panting, holding her arms carefully as he settled her among the furs.
“Oh my God,” was what he said, looking down at her, and she didn’t know what to think. There was a blush rising up through her entire body and she had to look away from him, still needing him but too embarrassed to move.
“Avalon” His voice was deep and breathless. He touched her now with just one hand, stroked the underside of her breast, causing her nipple to harden in a rush.
When at last she could look up at him he was still staring, watching his hand. His fingertip brushed her nipple, his palm moved to cover it. He looked up, met her gaze, and all she saw there was shining blue.
“You are …” His words trailed off. He shook his head then leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth.
Her cry was much less muffled than before, her body moved without her will, meeting him, leaning up to him, and he knew just what to do, how to run his tongue over her, the hardened surface, a gentle sucking.
Marcus lifted his head and blew softly on the nipple, and Avalon thought she might go insane.
“Perfection,” he said, at last finishing his sentence.
She freed her arms from the sleeves and he helped her, smiling, then slowly lowered himself down to her, allowing his chest to rub hers, a sensation that felt lush and wonderful, the heat of his skin on hers, the incredible feel of him. Her arms slid up his and across his back, so broad her fingers could not touch in a circle. He was kissing her again, finding their rhythm, helping her push the gown away as she lifted her hips and the material fell free. She kicked it down to her feet.
Marcus pulled away from her, bringing back the rush of cool air, causing her skin to chill. But he didn’t leave, he only removed the layers of his own tartan at his waist, unwrapping it and dropping it to the side of the bed, then coming down on her again, finding her lips again.
They were both completely unclothed, and the contact of his body on top of hers was startling. For the first time Avalon felt a splinter of doubt seep into her, dousing the heat.
What was she doing? She was kissing him back, returning his strength with a force of her own, captive to his touch. She should pull away. She should stop him.
She was in bed with Marcus, who pressed against her with his own solid form, all man, leaving no question at all as to where they were going. She was about to make love to Marcus Kincardine.
She would be giving herself to him without the promise of marriage. She would be risking nothing less than her sanity if she didn’t leave right now, because Avalon knew without a doubt that if she stayed with him here, in his bed, then she would become his lover, and she would never be able to escape him completely. He would stay in her heart forever.
But perhaps he was already there, anyway.
Marcus felt her difference, the way the stillness stole over her, locking her hands into place on his arms, not pushing him away but no longer so accepting, either. Her face was the picture of troubled beauty, as if someone had come and roused her out of a dream.
“Avalon,” he said, pausing, afraid to move at all. “Truelove, beloved.”
She looked up at him, lips parted, breathing shallow. The violet of her eyes was dark and deep.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “It’s me. It’s right.”
The troubled look grew graver; her gaze shifted past him, over to somewhere behind him. The tension in her hands grew tighter.
“Avalon,” he said again, helpless, and then carefully reached up, cupped her face with his palms. He didn’t know what else to say. All he knew was that he had come so close to her, so close it was killing him to hesitate like this, yet he was doing it because he had to. She had allowed him this much—indeed, welcomed it—and to stop now would be painful beyond imagining.
He had been waiting for her so long. His whole life. But he could not take her like this, not with any doubts between them.
And then she changed. He didn’t know why, or even how, except that her focus came back to him, her hands relaxed, her fingers again caressing him, running up his arms to pull him down to her.
“I’m not afraid,” she said to him, and there was more than acceptance to her words, there was an invitation, a sultry flicker of hunger in her that made the passion in him leap forward and take over.
He was already on top of her, between her legs, and now he no longer tried to hold himself apart from her but let her feel him there, probing, stiff, wanting. She responded by opening her legs wider, trusting him, and Marcus gritted his teeth and found her wetness, sweet and succulent, so hot.
She felt the pressure of him increase, singular and somewhat frightening despite her words, this feeling of invasion where that part of him, so different from her, was entering her, slow, unyielding.
This was not like before, in the gatehouse, this was so much more of him. It made her go still again as he pushed forward, stretching her to an almost indistinct ache. And then he stopped.
Above her his face was lit in the growing brightness of the room, so handsome, his hair slipping down over his shoulders, against her hands. His eyes opened and he looked down at her; she saw the tinge of regret in him.
“I’m sorry, truelove,” he said, and before she could ask “For what?” he moved his hands to cup her buttocks, lifting her, and then shoved all the way inside of her.
There was an awful, tearing pain, shocking and unexpected, making her hands change on him, pushing him away from her, get away, but he resisted her and held her immobile, tucking his face into her neck, murmuring more apologies.
“Avalon.” Her name was a whisper on his lips. “It’s what’s supposed to happen, I’m sorry, oh, God.…”
His voice faded away as he stayed clenched above her, both of them breathing hard. Slowly, slowly the burning pain began to change, still peculiar, but not so terrible now. Avalon made herself relax as much as she could, controlling the strangeness, exploring it. He was inside her now, buried. And she thought that somewhere deep within her, that familiar melting was coming back upon her.
Experimentally she raised one knee, just slightly, and felt him clench even tighter, sink in even further. A low sound, guttural and tight, escaped his throat.
“Wait,” he gasped, but she wouldn’t, because the melting honey was back, even the pain had blended into it to accept it and she wanted more, and knew somehow that the way to get it was to lift her other leg, sliding her foot up the hard length of his calf.
His moan was louder now and he began to move in her, holding her face between his hands and rocking back and forth above her, making her arch up to meet each thrust. Her breathing was becoming something more like whimpers and the melting was transforming into a new feeling, a spark of that promise she understood, stronger than before.
Marcus leaned his head down and kissed her and she kissed him back, wanting all of him, suddenly eager to take in as much of him as she could. The stinging honey permeated her, overpowered her; she was liquid fire, he alone was real, his touch, his movements, and everything he did made the fire burn brighter, harder, until her head was thrown back and she lit up at once, a burst of brilliance, a wave of light taking her body.
His cry became her own, both of them lost in each other, and Avalon thought she might never come back from that edge of bliss.
Marcus collapsed around her, spent, leaning to one side so he didn’t crush her. His head was turned to her neck, his body a heated weight that she still welcomed. The scent of him was all around her, new, exciting, almost still surprising.
Avalon closed her eyes, inwardly marveling at what just happened. Her hand drifted up and settled on his forearm, peaceful.
When she looked at him again he was looking back at her. The solemnness had returned, and there was a different light to his eyes.
I love you.
The unspoken words came from him, absolutely, positively from him. Not the chimera. Not the wind. Marcus.
The immediate confusion swelled up in her, making her sit up abruptly and pull away from him, clutching a blanket to her chest.
He couldn’t love her. How could he possibly love her? He was in love with a fable, not her, not the real woman. He was in love with his damned legend.
It created a sweltering pain in her, how horrible to think this, and now she couldn’t forget it. Marcus had made love to his legend, not to her.
“Avalon?”
He was sitting up beside her, reaching for her, and she pulled back further. He scowled.
“What is it? Are you in pain?”
“No,” she choked out, then ducked her head. The pain curdled in her heart, containable but so devastating.
“No,” she said again, and lifted her head to let him see her face. “I’m fine.”
What had she expec
ted of him, anyway? It would have taken a miracle to separate him from his legacy, and Avalon had no miracles to offer. Only herself, mortal and flawed. Nothing to compare to a legend.
“I must return to my room,” she said, distant.
“Why?”
She groped for an excuse, seizing on the obvious.
“The maid will come soon.”
Marcus gave her a smile, sensual, and she felt her heart squeeze up with the pain of it. “I hate to disillusion you, but I suspect the maid has come and gone. I usually awaken before dawn.”
She gave a little jump, eyes flying to the door.
“Don’t worry,” he continued, amused and obviously trying to hide it. “I bolted it last night. But I’m sure everyone knows why.”
Avalon began to scramble out of the bed, pulling the blanket with her. Marcus leaned over without haste and took both of her hands in his, turning her back to him. The blanket fell and perched, precarious, on the tips of her breasts.
“Truelove, don’t go.” His gaze took in the edge of the blanket, the promise of her skin, and then came back up to hers. She recognized the color of his eyes, darkened snow and sky, and felt her senses betray her, all of them going back to him, wanting him. She swallowed, fighting it. Losing.
“Avalon. We must talk.” Marcus offered that smile again, slowly drawing her back to him, back to the well of blankets on his bed, strong limbs and tanned skin and an inviting warmth from the chill of the room. Her resistance drained away as he got her closer and closer, nestling her down amid the softness and then coming even closer still, an embrace.
He lay beside her and began to stroke her hair, running his fingers through it, each touch bringing a tiny thrill to her. His head was even with hers, he watched his own movements.
“Are you happy here?” he asked, betraying nothing in his voice.
His hand moved again, stroking. She knew she should lie and say no. If she lied, he would have no idea of her true heart. And yet she couldn’t say it, and had to settle on a half-truth.
Shana Abe Page 22
