"My God, Ariah, why didn't you tell me?"
He tried to withdraw, but her legs tightened about him and her nails sank into his arms, refusing to let him leave her.
"It's all right," she said, "the pain is gone now."
"How . . . what happened? How can you still be a virgin?"
"I asked Pritchard to give me time."
Ariah's arms slid up around his neck and she pulled him down to her, planting wild kisses over his face. "Please, don't let it ruin everything. This is what I want. It's how it should be . . . you and me. I never wanted Pritchard to touch me and now he never will."
"This is wrong," he murmured against her temple.
"It is not wrong. In fact, nothing has ever been more right." She lifted her hips and with her heels drew him even more firmly inside.
Bartholomew groaned. Not even the shock of finding her still chaste had diminished his desire for her. If anything it inflamed him more. She felt so good. He could have remained there happily enough forever, buried in her welcoming warmth, though his body demanded more.
"Bartholomew? Please."
His conscience told him to pull out that very moment and go away. He deserved no gratification for the crime he was committing. But he was too far gone in his lust to heed such a demand. Reality, except in the sense that she belonged to him and to him alone now, had no place in the tiny world he had created for them there in the forest.
Ariah clung to him, her ardor telling him she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Her body was wrapped tightly around him and her fingernails were digging half-moons into the flesh of his shoulders, urging him on. And, thank the Lord, he was inside her. At last, gloriously, miraculously, imbedded deep inside her. No words existed, beautiful enough to do the feeling justice. His joy was more than physical, more than cerebral. It was hot, liquid poetry. A song. The tremolo of a flute, plied by lips of passion and accompanied by the sibilant voice of the sea.
Ariah whimpered beneath him.
"Patience, nymph." He ran his tongue about the perimeter of her luscious mouth, pausing to reacquaint himself with the tiny mole he adored. He moved on to trace the seam between the lush lips. They parted and his tongue thrust into the warm chasm of her mouth, tasting paradise on the satin inner surface of her lower lip. Her tongue met his, not shyly this time, but wildly wanton in its intrepidity.
As their tongues danced the rhythm their bodies would come to know, Bartholomew began to ease out of her. Ariah whimpered and clutched him to her. Her agonizing need incited his. To his surprise he found himself hardening even more. In that moment he knew his own patience was at an end. He plunged into her sweet, tight channel and heard himself groan with a prurient pleasure that surpassed anything he had ever experienced before. Caught in an avalanche of sensation, he was powerless against the concupiscent force of his own lust. And he did not care. All that mattered was that he take Ariah with him, that she share the prize at the end of their sensual rainbow.
And she did.
Together they soared like eagles racing to the sun in a courtship ritual older than time, dipping, swaying, captured by cross currents of physical pleasure and overwhelming joy.
Ariah met each of Bartholomew's thrusts and gripped him with inner talons of rising rapture that drove him higher and higher. He felt himself tumbling into a wondrous inferno and muttered her name in a guttural cry, half-prayer, half-praise, in fear that he was about to leave her behind. She stiffened. Her flesh pulsated around him in tight, shimmering heat more glorious than words could describe, and her keening cry of release plucked him over the edge.
A long time later Bartholomew became aware of the wind on his back, kissing his damp flesh and leaving behind a trail of goose bumps. Trees creaked and sighed overhead. The scent of evergreens, lily of the valley and passion drifted to his nose. Reality returned to the small glade.
He lifted himself onto an elbow and gazed at the woman lying partly under him, hoping he would not find her crushed by his weight. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. Yard-long tangles of hair spread out around her, framing her delicate face in shades of honey and gold. Freckles winked from the bridge of her nose. Emotion knotted in his throat. She was so beautiful. And she belonged to him. Or would, once he spoke to Pritchard and an annulment could be arranged. His heart squeezed with a joy as fragile and rare as sunbeams in a sea cave.
Half-moons of stubby lashes flickered and her eyes opened. Her smile as she gazed up at him outshone the sun, giving him a glimpse of the crooked tooth he loved.
"Did I sleep?" she asked, yawning.
"I think we both might have."
"Might have?"
He smiled enigmatically. "I dreamed that I finally made you mine, in the most primal of manners."
Her gamin grin widened as she raked her fingers through the hair on his chest, drawing his eyes to the plumpness of a breast partly flattened against him. "Are you certain it was only a dream?"
Bartholomew kissed her. "It was too incredible for reality."
She wrapped her arms about his neck and drew him down for another kiss. "Then perhaps I had better love you again so you can learn the difference between dreams and reality."
The mere thought had him quickening with a resilience he hadn't known since adolescence. Ariah felt the movement against her thigh and reached for him. Bartholomew closed his eyes and surrendered to her ministrations. While she stroked and caressed, he found a breast and teased it until she squirmed against him, trying to bring him into her.
"Relax, nymph, there are easier ways."
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. His hands lifted her to straddle him.
"Now," he whispered huskily.
Ariah moaned on an exhaled breath as she slid down over him. There was soreness, but it was nothing compared to the delight she felt along with it. She drew her legs alongside him and sat up fully, ensuring a deep fit. Tight, wet heat enclosed Bartholomew. The only way possible to enhance the rapture was to take her firm breasts into his big hands, draw her down and parade kisses over them. As he suckled a swollen nipple, she sighed.
"Oh, I like this." She moved and smiled at the groan of pleasure he gave. "I like having this kind of power over you."
She eased upward, paused until he murmured against her breast with impatience, and lowered herself back down. The softness sheathing him pulsed in the same rapid rhythm of his heartbeat. The intensity of the hunger racking his body, as though he hadn't finished making love to her only an hour ago, shocked him. When he could speak again, he said, "You've had me in your power since the moment I first laid eyes on you, nymph. I fear you always will."
"I thought I was the one under your spell. But this is different. It's physical rather than emotional."
As if to prove her point she raised up again until their bodies nearly separated. Before he could make the desperate move necessary to keep them joined, she sank back down, creating a fever of friction that nearly unhinged him. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against a guttural moan.
Ariah's voice came to him in a throaty purr. "Yes, I like this very much. I can drag this out as long as I like, torture you until you plead for mercy."
Bartholomew's eyes opened. He was ready to plead now. "Is that so?"
To Ariah, he looked very much the predator in that moment, with his hooded eyes and feral grin. She felt an instant of sudden vulnerability as hands of steel clamped about her waist and he began to move beneath her. In her. She was helpless to stop him, or even slow his pace. Didn't want to. The sensations splintering through her were too intense, the pleasure too great. Her hands clawed at his shoulders as she felt the beginning tremors she knew now would carry her to paradise.
Bartholomew's hands glided up her ribcage to mold her breasts in the hollows of his palms. Her rhythm as she moved with him never faltered. Her eyes were closed, her face tense with concentration. When he flicked her nipples with his thumbs, she gasped. The sound sent hot shivers over his body. H
e found every change of expression on her face to be beautiful. Her artless enjoyment of their coupling pleased him beyond measure. To see her with her head thrown back, her spine stiff, the nipples of her swollen breasts taut, the tip of a pink tongue barely visible between her luscious lips as she abandoned herself completely to passion's demands, heightened his own pleasure to a level he had not known possible.
When he drew her down and took her breast in his mouth, her body tightened around him like a vise, the spasms of her release clenching and unclenching until he could no longer keep his own body in rein. White hot ecstasy flooded through him as she melted around him, bathing him in liquid heat.
Ariah's frantic movements ceased. Her chin dropped onto her chest. Her fingernails sank into the hard muscle of his upper arms. The woods echoed her primal cry of bliss, a cry that went straight to his heart and filled a portion of the emptiness he had lived with so long.
The world spun away as pleasure burst repeatedly inside him, and with a ragged cry that was her name, he was flung across the threshold into Elysium.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bartholomew paused outside the lighthouse, dreading the coming interview with Pritchard. He thought of the long day he had spent with Ariah, beachcombing and making love, and smiled. However unpleasant his talk with Pritchard might be, the end result would be well worthwhile if it meant having Ariah as his own for the rest of his life.
Pritchard was putting away the brass-polishing supplies in the storage cupboard when Bartholomew entered.
"Hello, Uncle Bart. I suppose Old Seamus has been spouting omens of foul weather all day. It certainly looks like it's going to blow up a storm." Pritchard glanced out the window at the calm sea and blue skies as he slipped his logbook into a drawer. "Can't gripe about the day, though. It's been sunny and warm."
Bartholomew's eyes hid secret pleasure. "Aye, it was an exceptional day."
"I'll be off then. Everything is in order."
"Are you in a hurry?"
"I thought I'd go into town. Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?"
Bartholomew busied himself storing away the metal tin which held his lunch and taking out his own logbook, while he contemplated the best way to approach the delicate subject on his mind.
"You've been going into town more often than usual lately," he said finally. "It must be difficult being away from your new bride all night. I'm surprised Ariah tolerates it."
Seconds ticked by while he waited for his nephew to answer.
"Has she said something about it?" Pritchard's tone was both defensive and wary. "Did she complain? I—"
"No, Ariah said nothing," Bartholomew interrupted, eager to avoid causing more trouble. Doubt suddenly plagued him. Maybe he should have let Ariah handle this, as she had wanted to, before he insisted it would be better discussed man to man. "I simply wondered how things were going for you. I gathered from the way you talked the day after your wedding that you were having difficulty consummating your marriage."
Pritchard turned red as ripe beach strawberries. He spun away. Taking a deep breath, Bartholomew plunged on. "This isn't an uncommon problem, Pritchard, and it’s easily resolved, usually in only a few days, as I'm sure you've already found out."
"She wanted time, Uncle Bart." Pritchard's voice was muffled as he stared at his feet. "She said we needed to get to know each other better. Then everything would be easier. I've been trying to be patient."
"Is that why you've been seeing a certain young woman in town? To help you be patient with your wife?"
Pritchard whirled, caught a glimpse of his uncle's stern face and collapsed against the wall, one arm over his face. "God, Uncle Bartholomew, how'd you find out?"
"It's a small town, Pritchard. People talk."
The young man flung out his arms, beseechingly. "I swear I only meant to go once, just to get some experience so I'd know more what I was doing when Ariah was ready to. . ."
Unable to bear the guilt and misery on his nephew's face, and fearful now of how this interview would end, Bartholomew glanced out the window. A formation of cormorants was flying low over the gentle swells of the aqua-tinted ocean. As boys, he and John Upham called the birds shags. Once, when they failed to bag a goose for their supper while they were hunting, they tried to cook one. Even after twelve hours over a campfire, the meat was tough and inedible. Like the sponge cake Ariah had baked for supper one Sunday.
"You realize this gives Ariah grounds for annulment," he said softly.
"Please, don't tell her, Uncle Bartholomew. I promise I'll. . ." Pritchard stumbled to a halt when he realized what his uncle would expect him to do. He couldn't give up Nettie. Not yet. "Just don't tell Ariah."
Bartholomew closed his eyes. The knuckles of his big hands gripping the chair back turned white as a puffin's breast. "Are you saying you still intend to consummate your marriage after all this time? Are you sure marriage with Ariah is what you want?"
"Yes, I. . ." Again Pritchard paused. "She's a lady, Uncle Bartholomew. She's educated and well mannered, the kind of mother I want for my children."
"What about love, Pritchard?" Bartholomew's voice grew cold and hard. "Do you love her?"
"Yes, I-I love her."
Pritchard crossed his fingers behind his back to nullify any bad luck his lie might bring down on him. He wasn't sure what love was, but Ariah was his wife and he wanted her. Surely, making love with her would give him the same feelings for her that he already had for Nettie.
Silently, Bartholomew released his breath. He felt tired. Tired and ill, clear to his soul. "I won't tell her, Pritchard. Go on home now."
When Old Seamus showed up at eight bells for what he called the churchyard watch, he found Bartholomew hunched over the desk. Unaware of the older man's arrival, Bartholomew cursed, crumpled up the paper on which he had been writing and tossed it to the floor where it joined several others. Thick, blunt fingers raked through long sable hair and his expression was as bleak as the now-cloudy sky.
Seamus tactfully banged the door shut, announcing his presence.
Bartholomew glanced up, then at the mantel clock on a shelf above the wooden pegs which held their rain gear. "You're early. Still deny that you love this pile of brick and iron and glass?"
Seamus grunted as he set his lantern on the floor. Smoke from a well-chewed pipe streamed from between yellowed teeth and the strands of a bristling mustache. One gnarled hand caressed the ball-topped newel post of the circular stairway.
"Whore is what she be, blast her purdy hide," he said softly. "Catchin' up yer log, are ye?"
Bartholomew's mouth was a grim slash. "No, a letter."
Without another word, Seamus trudged on up the stairs. Bartholomew sighed and resumed his work. The clock chimed the half-hour. Outside, the beam from the bronze, five-wick lantern switched from white to red, then back to white, conspiring with the clock to taunt him with the hours wasted at his hated chore.
Seamus shuffled back down the stairs, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. "Brightwork's shipshape," he said, speaking of the gleaming brass gears and fittings Pritchard polished each day.
Bartholomew answered with a disgruntled snort.
"Vexed with the lad, are ye?"
Bartholomew tore his letter into shreds and scattered them on the floor.
Seamus's wise old eyes studied the other man, and he shook his grizzled head. "Got the weight o' the world on them shoulders o' yourn, haven't ye, lad? Wanta talk 'bout it?"
Bartholomew sat back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut with a thumb and forefinger. Stress lined his forehead below his mop of dark hair. A button was missing from his shirt. After a moment, he stood, flexed his stiff back, and handed the old man a piece of paper. "Here, read this."
In the silence that followed, the first raindrops peppered the window. When Seamus finished, he handed back the letter with a single word. "Why?"
"It's best."
Seamus yanked the pipe from his mouth
and plunked it down in the brass ashtray on the desk with a clunk. "Fer who? You, or that loblolly boy up to the house? Clap onto yer mind, man. The lass don't want him, and he dad-blamed don't deserve her."
Bartholomew let his mouth curl in a grim smile. "She got to you, too, eh?"
"Aw, put it up," he growled. "I'm right and ye know it."
"He says he loves her, Seamus, and intimated that he'll do the right thing about the Tibbs girl."
"Money'd no doubt get that flash packet's jaw working good, should ye need 'er words to win the lass a divorce."
Bartholomew sank wearily into his chair. "There's no need to get Nettie to testify against Pritchard. The marriage hasn't even been consummated. Ariah could get an annulment."
"Then heave to, lad. Make off with her on the morrow, while that lubber she's tied to plies his polishin' rag in town. He'll be napping half the day, anyway, no doubt, since he's gone adrift on the evenin' tide an' won't be back till dawn."
"He went into town?"
"Aye."
Bartholomew swore under his breath, furious that the boy had gone to his doxy in spite of their conversation that afternoon. Perhaps he had gone to end it with Nettie Tibbs. A part of Bartholomew hoped not. Yet it made no difference to the decision he had made this night.
"No matter what he's done, I can't run off with his bride before he's had a chance to make his marriage work."
"Yer brain's cast off fer Fiddlers Green, lad, an' left yer body here to flounder about without it. What if he manages to plug 'er good an' clean and the marriage still don't fare well? 'Twill be too late then fer easy measures."
"To do anything else would be less than honorable and I've enough on my conscience. Just promise me you'll look after her. She has an uncle who has it in mind to take her to Greece and sell her off to some rich, old duffer. That's why she came here. She's sure the man will give up his scheme once he sees that he can't get legal guardianship over her, now that she's married, but it won't hurt to keep an eye out. You know she can't count on Pritchard."
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