"I still ache, Bartholomew. Do you?"
He tipped his head back and laughed, a ragged throaty sound. "Yes. God, yes, I ache."
"Maybe—"
"There is no maybe, Ariah. If I do what you want, you will be ruined. There'll be no marrying Pritchard or any other man, not unless you lie to him or he wants you badly enough not to care that someone else has taken your virginity."
The thought of anyone else having her, before or after him, made his throat swell painfully. He was drowning, his chest bursting for want of air. How could he walk away from what she was offering him? How could he not? Lord knew, if he were Pritchard and she confessed to having been less than virtuous, he would still marry her, and gladly. But if he made love to her tonight, there would be no way he could ever allow any other man to touch her. She would be his and no one else's.
Could he leave Hester, take Ariah somewhere new and start over? Bartholomew squeezed his eyes tight against the urge to cry. There was no doubt of his answer. Hester was his lawful wife. No matter what she had done to him, he could not turn his back on his responsibility to her. That was something for which he could thank his father.
Responsibility. Trust. Obligation. To Jacob Noon there were no excuses for not fulfilling every duty, no matter how trifling or unpleasant, and Bartholomew well remembered the thrashings that had imbedded that principle deep into his being the few times he had erred. The dulcet softness of Ariah's voice brought him back to the present.
"It's fate that brought us together, Bartholomew, and fate will decide our future. All we can do is grab onto what joy is offered us along the way."
His chuckle was harsh and without humor. "And how do we do that without taking fate into our own hands, Ariah, because that's what we'd be doing. Once your virginity is gone, there's no getting it back."
She mulled that over. "I don't think I could lie to a man I intended to marry. But he wouldn't know unless I told him, would he?"
"He'd know the minute he bedded you."
"How?"
"When a man enters a woman for the first time, he breaks a thin membrane that bleeds. Even if he couldn't feel it when it broke, he would know from the blood on the sheets."
“So if he couldn’t feel it break and there was no blood, he’d know I wasn’t a virgin.” She said it as a statement rather than a question.
Bartholomew nodded.
For a long moment she was quiet. When he realized she was coming into the bedroom, Bartholomew jerked the covers up to his jaw.
"Is it the breaking of the membrane that makes it hurt?" she asked from the side of the bed, a mere arm’s length away.
"Yes. After that there is no more pain, not if the woman is aroused."
"But isn't it because I am aroused that I ache so?"
Bartholomew groaned. Would she never cease torturing him? "Yes, Ariah. Now go to bed. The ache will go away."
She pressed her hands to her breasts. "Is there no other way to ease it?"
He stared at her a long time, while thoughts and images tumbled chaotically in his mind. "Yes, if a woman trusted a man."
"I trust you."
Beneath his heated gaze, in the dim light that filtered in from the other room, her fingers went to the buttons that ran from her high, lace-trimmed neckline nearly to her navel. With each freed button she teased him with a glimpse of newly exposed flesh, the pale swell of a breast, a hint of shadowed under curve, a promise of erotic mystery. Only the tremor in the fingers exposing her beauty to his avid gaze revealed her nervousness.
When she started to push the garment off her shoulders, Bartholomew reached out and yanked the gaping fabric closed.
"Be certain, nymph. What you're offering me is a gift I would treasure to the end of my days, but once you're married to Pritchard—" heaven forbid, he wasn't sure he could endure that "—you may find it awkward with me living so close."
"I am certain, I can't say why. It's not curiosity. I only know that it is right, no matter how it seems."
Gently she removed his hands, and the gown, as white and shimmering in the darkness as moonlight on a tranquil sea, slid weightlessly down her body to pool at her feet. She looked like a Greek sea goddess cresting a wave of purest white foam. Sweet innocent seduction in human shape. Bartholomew groaned in joyful agony; the gods had given him back his dream, one he knew he would pay dearly for someday.
"Come here, nymph."
She stepped out of the gown entangling her feet, and stood against the bed. Bartholomew spread her luxuriant hair over her breasts like a satin fan. He allowed himself the bliss of stroking the lustrous length of the tresses as they followed the contours of her breasts, her tiny waist and rounded hips, to the feathery ends at the apex of her thighs.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered huskily. "More beautiful than a sunset on the sea, or a rainbow in the mist of a waterfall." He lifted her onto the bed. Slowly, as she knelt beside him, he pushed the wealth of hair behind her shoulders, revealing her small, full breasts. "More beautiful than anything on this earth."
His voice was hushed with awe, his touch feather light, as though she were made of fine crystal. For a long moment, he studied her. With a strangled moan, he pulled her to him in a fierce embrace. "Nymph, my sweet nymph."
Frantic kisses rained on her face. He kissed her eyes, her temples, each dainty ear, and finally, her lips. He drew back to look at her again, and she smiled. A lump hardened in his throat as a tide of emotion overwhelmed him. Bartholomew had never believed in miracles. Until this moment life had been a duty to be gotten through, like watching his mother waste away before his very eyes, or ignoring his paralyzed father's growing hatred every time he helped the man take care of his most private needs. Or like honoring his marriage vows, even though Hester had violated hers the day after the wedding.
But having Ariah in his bed—this was a true miracle. One he accepted with a reverence so deep it filled his soul, bonding him to this small woman regardless of their situation. No matter what happened tomorrow, he would worship her all the days of his life.
"Bartholomew?" She crawled under the bedclothes. Her hand caressed his cheek, loving the rough feel of his burgeoning beard. "Are you all right?"
He swallowed salty liquid along with the emotions choking him. Nothing must get in the way of what he meant to do for her this night. "I've never been more right."
He kissed her with all the finesse learned in his days of freedom at the university so long ago—though this kiss was like nothing he had known then or ever before, for this kiss was born of love as well as passion. Tender, fiery, giving, demanding. He put his all into it, tamping down his own needs as he sought to show her what she meant to him.
When his lips finally left hers, Ariah's breathing was as ragged as his. Sensations similar to those she had experienced the evening before racked her body. She was at a loss to understand them. But she did know how special she felt as Bartholomew gazed at her with fire-hazed ebony eyes, as though she were a rare and precious pearl.
"Your skin is so translucent, smoother than silk." His fingertips drifted over a breast. "Softer than otter fur."
Blood sang in Ariah's veins as, like every woman before her, she became aware of her power over a man. He wanted her. She could see it in the glazed expression on his rapt face, feel it in the slight tremor in his hands. And she wanted desperately to be whatever he thought her to be—beautiful, precious, and desirable.
His grip loosened, allowing her to move against him. She gasped as her breasts brushed the lawn of dark hair on his chest. Excitement ignited a fire in the deepest regions of her being. Childlike in her uninhibited enjoyment, she rubbed herself over him again and heard his throaty chuckle.
"Like that, do you?" he asked.
"Yes. It feels like . . .like the lightest sort of tickling, only better. I can feel it all the way from here—" she touched her breast, and her groin "—to here."
Bartholomew's insides jackknifed with desire. "That's the way it's
supposed to be," he said in a hoarse whisper.
"Does it feel that way to you, too?"
"Yes, only I might put it a bit more strongly."
"More strongly?" She brushed her breasts against him again. "I can't imagine anything stronger than this."
He laughed wolfishly. "You'll do more than imagine it before I'm through." He arranged her so she lay flush against his body, from ankles to chest. Even in the dim light, he could see her eyes widen.
“Oh,” she said in awe. She wriggled against him. “I think you are aroused, Bartholomew Noon.”
He moaned. “Very aroused, nymph.”
She coyly cocked her head and her smile became slightly crooked, like the tooth he had come to adore. "What kind of nymph am I? A Dryad, a nymph of the trees and woods? Or a Naiad, a river nymph with the gift of prophecy, the patron of poetry and music." Her voice lowered seductively. "The fertility nymph?"
Bartholomew groaned. "God forbid. No, you're a sea nymph who assists sailors in need."
"Ah, a Nereid." She ran her finger along his lower lip. "Are you a sailor in need?"
He nipped her finger, delighted with her teasing play. "Desperately."
Suddenly she was the shy innocent again. She ducked her head and her tone was hesitant, almost apologetic. "I'm afraid I don't really know how to help you."
Charmed, Bartholomew kissed the finger he had captured. "I'll teach you."
He kissed all her fingers and stroked her palm with the tip of his tongue, until she uttered a startled "Oh!"
"What is it?"
"Your tongue on my palm."
"What about it?"
"It shocked me . . .I mean, sort of the way I used to do as a child when I'd run along the carpet, then touch the brass doorknob and my hand would go all tingly and almost numb. Except, that was more like pain. This felt good, like having my hair brushed or when you kiss me."
Bartholomew smiled. "It pleased you?"
"Yes."
He put his tongue to the soft unprotected skin of her inner wrist and felt her shudder. "That's only a beginning, nymph, only one raindrop in the storm I'm about to unleash in you."
He pushed her gently onto her back and turned onto his side next to her, supported on one elbow while he slowly nibbled his way up her arm.
"'Had we but world enough, and time'," he whispered, dipping his tongue into the depression inside her elbow, '"this coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way to walk, and pass our long love's day . . .I would love you ten years before the Flood, and you should, if you please, refuse till the conversion of the Jews'."
He worked his way to her shoulder and across to the curve where her neck began, tasting the sweet, musky flavor of her. She smelled of wood smoke and herbs and her own special, arousing brew of scents.
Bartholomew's hand on Ariah's waist was hot, yet soothing. She shut her eyes, more than willing to do as he asked and give herself over to him. Her lips parted and her breathing became more rapid as he bombarded her with one new sensation after another, tactile and auditory.
"'An hundred years should go to praise thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze . . .'" He kissed the tender spot beneath her ear, slid his tongue around the contour of the ear, and kissed each eyelid. "'Two hundred to adore each breast . . .'"
The mere mention of her breast sent a thrill of anticipation down her spine. Eagerly she waited to see what he would do next. And he did not disappoint her.
He gently suckled first her lower lip, and then the upper, a hint of what was to come, though she was too innocent to catch it. He increased the pressure of the kiss until her lips parted and he could mate his tongue with hers.
Ariah gasped when she felt his hand on her breast and he drank the sound in. Her arms came around his neck and she clung as though she would never let him go. He drank that in too. But he had more to show her, so he disentangled his mouth from hers and moved to the breast he had warmed and firmed with his hand. She jerked at the first shock of what he was doing, then arched to make herself more accessible. When he began to suckle, she moaned. Talons of need sank into him at the sound, hardening his body even more, but he shrugged them aside. He cradled a breast in his hand, stroking it with his thumb while he took the nipple of the other between his teeth and gently tugged.
Ariah lay perfectly still, afraid to move lest he cease this marvelous thing he was doing to her.
Between kisses he continued to whisper: "' . . . an age at least to every part, and the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, nor would I love at lower rate'." His head lifted and he gazed at her with dark, passionate eyes. "'But at my back I always hear time's winged chariot hurrying near: And yonder all before us lie deserts of vast eternity'."
Only the widening of Ariah's eyes acknowledged the stroke of his hand down over her stomach and onto her thigh. His fingers dipped daringly between her legs where her skin was like softest velvet and so sensitive that she cried out.
The rush of sensation flooding over Ariah, pooling at the tip of her womb, was so intense she thought she might die of it. But as his hand moved upward, closer and closer to her most private place, her breathing became so rapid she had to pant to get enough air into her lungs, and she knew what he meant when he said he had more yet to show her.
"'. . . then worms shall try that long-preserved virginity'," he whispered, "'and your quaint honour turn to dust, and into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace'."
Bartholomew's mouth came down hard on hers in a burning kiss. His tongue swooped inside, drinking in her subtle flavors. Her untutored response as she parried tongue thrusts with him and lifted her hips against his hand drove him higher. He could hear the blood pound in his ears, feel his body—trapped beneath the bedclothes—demanding release. He left her lips to trail kisses along the sensitive underside of her jaw, and down to the depression at the base of her throat, while his fingers searched out the moist softness at the joining of her legs.
Ariah moaned his name and writhed under his touch, wanting more but not knowing how to go about getting it. When she felt something firm push at her, she gasped. "Bartholomew! Is that . . . are you planting seeds?"
He chuckled. "No, nymph. It's only my finger. I'm not going to plant any seeds in you."
"Why not?"
"Because when—" he couldn't bear to speak Pritchard's name now "—when I get you to the lighthouse, although you may be more knowledgeable about the physical side of marriage, I intend for you to still be the virgin I promised to deliver."
"No, I want you to be the one to—"
"Quiet, little Nereid. Trust me. You're only frightened because you don't know what to expect. I'm going to show you and, at the same time, give you enough pleasure to banish your fear of the marriage bed. I can do that without ruining you."
"Don't you want to plant seeds in me?"
The innocent passion in her blue eyes as she stared up at him and the hurt in her voice nearly drove him over the edge. "Oh God, yes. There's nothing I want more at this moment than to sink myself into you, to become one with you. But it would be wrong. You're promised to another man, my own nephew, for hell's sake, and I . . ."
He sighed and hugged her tightly. "Please trust me, let me show you what pleasure I can. You like my touch, don't you?" he asked, needing to be certain he was not allowing himself to be blinded by his own need.
"Oh yes. It's odd, the way it makes me feel . . .sort of shivery, but hot at the same time. I want to . . .to move, to do something, only I don't know what, and another part of me is afraid to move for fear you'll stop and the feeling will go away."
"I'm not going to stop, not unless you ask me to. And the sensations you're feeling are going to grow more intense. Go with them, nymph, let them take you where they will."
"I think I'm a little afraid."
Fear that he was frightening her, rather than reassuring her, struck him to the core. "Why?"
"Because when you hold me and touch me and kiss me like that, I have a strange desire to climb right inside you, to become part of you, as though I were losing hold of myself."
Relief made him chuckle. "And simply becoming an extra foot, or a third ear?" She slugged his arm, but he saw her smile.
"Don't laugh," she said. "You asked, and I only tried to answer honestly."
"I'm not laughing at you, but because I feel the same way."
"You do?"
"It's normal when you feel passion for someone to want to become part of them. That's why it's called mating."
For a long time she said nothing, but he could tell she was thinking hard.
"Does that mean that if I touch you, you'll feel the same way I do?"
He shivered, merely thinking of her touching him. "Yes, I'll feel the same."
As if to test him, she put her hand on his chest. She studied his face as she combed her fingers through the hair and massaged the firm muscles. When her hand moved lower and the fingers slid under the covers hiding his abdomen, his eyes closed and his mouth tightened.
"Did I hurt you?" she asked.
A strangled sound, half grunt, half laughter, was her answer. "No, nymph, no more than my touch hurts you." To prove his point he spread his thick blunt hand over the concave flesh between her hips, the tips of the fingers nesting in her hair.
Ariah's lips parted in a silent moan and her eyes half closed. "I'm convinced."
"So am I." He kissed her. "I'm convinced that you are the most delectable, most seductive nymph I've ever known."
Ariah frowned. "How many have you known?"
Bartholomew ran a finger over her swollen lips, following it with his tongue. "Only you."
Forever Mine Page 13
