Bewitched

by Sandra Schwab

  “The Temple of the Muses,” she whispered. Truly, she liked that he could tease even now, but oh, how much more she would prefer that he start the ravishing!

  “Ahhh, a most fetching place indeed.” He leaned forward as if to kiss her.

  Yes yes yes! Her lips opened.

  But at the last moment, he turned his head away. “Perhaps you would like to read something to me now?”

  “Now?” she squeaked. Why didn’t he kiss her, for heaven’s sake?

  “Yes. Now.” With his free hand he reached for the book and handed it to her. Again he leaned forward, and this time his mouth nearly brushed her ear. The puffs of breath against her skin made her shiver.

  “Read me… read me your favorite scene so far.”

  “My favorite—”

  “Yes.”

  Amy tried to clear her befuddled mind. Gracious, he was only touching her hand so far, but already she felt overheated with desire. “The…” She licked her lips. “The episode when Markander saves fair Alexandie from the horrible lindworm.”

  “Read it.” Each word was a caress. “Read it to me.” He drew back, his gaze intense. “Please.” His hand slipped from hers. “Please.” His voice wound around her like dark velvet.

  How could she deny him then? Even though she would have preferred if he had just kissed her. She fumbled a little with the pages until she had found the correct one. “N-noble Markander, like a bold and daring hero, then entered the valley where the dragon had his abode,” Amy began haltingly, “who no sooner had sight of him, but his leathern throat sent forth a sound more terrible than thunder.”

  The mattress dipped as Fox put one knee onto it.

  “The size of this fell dragon was fearful to behold, for…” Her voice trailed away as she felt Fox reaching for her plait.

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  Amy gulped. “For… for, from his shoulders to his tail the length was fifty feet, the glittering scales upon his body were as bright as silver, but harder than brass—”

  “Impressive.” With his fingertips he drew her shawl aside.

  “Fox, what are you—”

  He threw her a look from under half-lowered lashes. “Go on reading.” One tug and the bow at the neck of her nightdress slid open. “What about the dragon? Tell me about the dragon, Amy”

  “His belly was the color of gold…” She glanced at him, but his eyes remained impassive and told her nothing at all. Well, fine, if he wanted her to read… Had she not already established only a few short hours ago what a beastly man he was? Frustrated, she continued in a more forceful voice than before: “His belly was the color of gold and larger than a ton. Thus weltered he from his hideous den, and so fiercely assailed the gallant Markander with his burning wings, that at the first encounter—”

  The end of her plait was trailed across the soft skin at the base of her throat. Amy drew in a sharp breath.

  “Yes?” Fox’s concentration was focused on the plait he used like a brush on her body—with much success, since all of her skin had started to prickle and tingle.

  “Do you wish to drive me deranged?” she demanded crossly. Only, the whole effect was marred by the tremble in her voice.

  His teeth flashed white. “Perhaps. Read on.”

  When she wouldn’t immediately comply, the hand holding her plait stilled. Wordless he gazed at her. The message was clear: no reading, no tingles.

  She bit her lip and let her eyes plead with him.

  Instead of an answer, he shrugged out of his banyan. “The dragon, Amy.”

  “Oh, all right,” she finally growled, defeated. “Thus weltered he from his hideous den, dadadah dadah”—she waved her free hand around—“and assailed the gallant Markander, dadah, that at the first encounter he had almost felled him to the ground.”

  With a gentle tug, the blankets and the quilt were thrown back. But no, this time, she would not acknowledge him! Whatever dastardly deed he might be doing, she would remain stoically calm and composed.

  “But the knight, nimbly recovering himself,” she breezed on, “gave the dragon such a thrust with his spear that it shivered into a thousand pieces!”

  A large, warm hand slid up from her ankle to her knee.

  Calm and composed, she told herself.

  “Upon which,” she continued coolly, “the furious dragon smote him so violently with his venomous tail that then, indeed, he brought both man and horse to the ground, and sorely bruised two of Markander’s ribs in the fall-”

  “Poor fellow,” she heard Fox murmur.

  No, no, she would not take any note of him. “But he, stepping backwards, chanced to get under an orange tree…” Two fingers marched over her ribs, and the rest of the sentence ended in a fit of giggles. Yet not to be bested so easily, she twisted away and strove for composure “Which had that rare virtue in it that no venomous creature durst come within the compass of its branches,” she read on loudly, “and here valiant Markander rested himself, till he had…” She gasped. The tickling fingers were back. Drat! “Had recovered… uh… his former… ah, no! … strength… ha…”

  “Good for him,” Fox said, and then his mouth was on hers, and one of his hands cupped her breast, and the book fell from her nerveless fingers, utterly and completely forgotten.

  When his thumb grazed her hardened nipple, Amy finally understood why Fox had made her wait so long for his touch, had prolonged the anticipation, for now she burned. The slightest caress made her moan out loud, the gentlest kiss whimper in desperation. She ran her hands over his body, down his back and up again, helped him pull his shirt over his head. Her lips raced over the freckles covering his skin, specks of cinnamon dust.

  She hardly noticed when her nightdress disappeared, but gave herself completely to the flame that burned higher and higher inside her. And Fox certainly knew how to fan the fire.

  He whispered endearments against her sweat-slickened skin, and trailed kisses across her breast and belly, which made her cry out in delight. By the time he finally shucked his trousers, her arousal had reached fever pitch, so when he slowly moved up the bed on his hands and knees, she opened her legs wide in invitation. The breath caught in her throat as she watched how the light of the candle danced over his skin and made his coppery body hair gleam. Sparks of fire on arms, chest, belly and thighs—she ran her hands up over his biceps, clasped his shoulders. “Fox.”

  “Slowly.” His voice was hoarse. His arms, which held his weight above her, trembled with his effort to retain his control.

  But control was something Amy didn’t want. Lacing her hands behind his neck, she drew him down, down, and with a deep groan Fox followed her lead. The sharp sting as he slid inside her made Amy gasp, but the pain was fleeting and soon forgotten as they moved together. He rocked them slowly at first, allowing her to get used to the feeling of his flesh inside her, filling her with his heartbeat. Yet as her breaths shortened and turned to whimpers, his thrusts quickened and became more powerful. His forearms under her shoulders, he cuddled her close, melded their bodies together until she thought she would drown in his heat and his scent. Bergamot and musky sweat mingled with the sounds of their lovemaking, his gruff breaths against her ear. Whimpering, Amy dug her nails into his skin, felt the sting of teeth at her shoulder while passion burnt away all barriers between their bodies. Arms and legs tangled and then…

  And then the flames consumed them both.

  Arching her back, Amy cried out, felt Fox’s release explode hotly inside her.

  It was exquisite. Utter and pure joy. The sensations fizzed inside her head like the most potent sparkling wine. Amy gasped and laughed and muffled the sound against Fox’s shoulder. She felt wild and beautiful and utterly, utterly greedy.

  “Again,” she demanded, while still trying to catch her breath afterward. She drew her legs up and around his waist, loving the feeling of his hard, lean body against her. With legs and arms she hugged him tight. “Again! Again! Again!” she begged.

&n
bsp; And she laughed with unadulterated joy.

  ~*~

  Despite the bliss she had experienced, dark dreams troubled Amy’s sleep that night, and when she woke, her heart thudded in her ears. Hammered an angry staccato against her breastbone.

  Amy sat up.

  Darkness enfolded her like a shroud.

  Her breath hitched in her throat.

  But slowly, very slowly, her eyes adjusted to the night. Silver moonlight fell through the window, and one by one, the black bulk of various pieces of furniture emerged from the darkness.

  Her heartbeat calmed. She took a deep breath.

  How silly to be frightened by faceless, nameless dreams like a small child!

  She turned her head, and her gaze fell on the man sleeping beside her, his long limbs and lean flanks hidden beneath the blankets.

  Her lips curved.

  Even in the dim light of the moon, it seemed to her that his hair had a distinct carroty tinge.

  She reached out her hand to tousle his hair, gently, so as not to wake him—and froze.

  …a carroty tinge…

  This time, nothing diverted her from the memory rising up from the depths of her mind. Slowly, oh so slowly, an invisible fist squeezed the air from her lungs.

  Better Fox than Carrot. Or Fish. For he is as cold as a fish, that one.

  Amy gasped.

  She pressed her fists against her mouth, bit into her knuckles so she wouldn’t scream. She had not liked him. Neither had she loved him. In fact, she had thought him an arrogant bore.

  Numb with that realization, she sank back against the pillows. Icy coldness ran through her veins as she listened to the soft sounds Fox made in his sleep.

  She had not liked him.

  And yet…

  She stared up at the dark ceiling.

  What had happened?

  He murmured, lost in dreams, moved, and his hand landed on her belly. Amy looked at it as if it were a giant spider, a poisonous snake, a monster to eat up her soul.

  When had it started? Once again, thoughts raced in her head. Memories replayed. Image after image, frozen in time, whirled through her mind. Memories of sights and sounds, of city lights and elm tree whisperings. An endless stream of faces, the mouths growing larger and larger. They talked—loudly, insistently, all at the same time—until her head buzzed with the ghostly sounds of her memories.

  Her breath caught.

  And there, at the core of everything else, it was. Brilliant and crystal clear: the point of no return.

  She had not liked him at the ball when she had danced the waltz with him for the first time. She had not liked him either when she had driven to Lady Worthington’s musicale in the Bentham carriage. But afterwards…

  Oh, afterwards, she had loved him. Madly. Deeply.

  “Do you think there is something wrong with this punch?” she heard her own voice say.

  And she remembered.

  Remembered.

  Yes, she had loved him then. Utterly and completely.

  In the velvety darkness she lay naked beside her fiancé, and her blood ran cold. For it had all been an illusion. Only an illusion, even if her heart now bled.

  An illusion.

  Wicked. Magical.

  And she herself more powerless and helpless than a kitten.

  She might have made a sound like a frightened child at night, for he woke. “Amy?” His voice was still fogged with sleep. “What is it, sweeting?” The hand that searched for hers was warm. His fingers curled around hers and shared his heat.

  When he rolled up on one elbow, the moonlight turned his fair skin into cold ashes, the cinnamon spots of his freckles indiscernible. But Amy already knew their pattern by heart. Even after only one time, she knew every detail of his body. Remembered each hair, each blemish of his skin.

  Magical—the images and sensations imprinted on her mind forevermore.

  “What is it?” his voice whispered, making the fine hair on her body stand up.

  Dear God, what have I done? Her senses had been dazzled by a mere illusion, and now she was indeed ravished. And ruined. For how could she marry him?

  Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Her hand snaked around his neck and drew his head down. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

  His mouth, so hot on hers, kindled fire in an instant, even now.

  Only an illusion.

  Amy squeezed her eyes shut. “Nothing,” she murmured against his lips.

  Chapter Ten

  Amy woke to a cold, gray morning and an empty space beside her in the bed. For a moment she lay absolutely still as the memory of what had happened, of what she had learned the night before, flooded back. With a groan she clapped her hands in front of her face.

  What have I done? she thought again.

  She had shared her body with somebody to whom she was not married, with somebody whom she probably didn’t even like, and who would never have slept with her if it had not been for some sort of love potion. For, of course, there must have been a potion in that punch. Looking back, she now saw how completely it had changed her behavior. Dear heaven, how careless and forward she had been with Fox! The liberties she had granted him! And last night she had even taken the ultimate step: she had shared her innocence.

  Something occurred to her, and she hastily scrambled out of bed and threw back the blankets. Anxiously she inspected the covers.

  No blood!

  Her shoulders sagged with relief.

  Thank God, there was no blood. For how would she have explained this to the maid? Something they had never thought of last night, of course. And what was more…

  Suddenly feeling faint, Amy sank down on the side of the bed and put a trembling hand on her stomach.

  They hadn’t thought about pregnancy, either.

  Fear gripped Amy. Her eyes stung, and she felt as if she were about to be sick.

  She was ruined.

  She had slept with a man to whom she was not married, and their engagement was based on a mere illusion. All the affection she felt for him conjured up by the love potion.

  Yet even this knowledge, even the memories of his odious behavior at the ball and at the beginning of Lady Worthington’s musicale, did not diminish her false regard for him.

  What a mess! What an utter, horrid mess!

  And of course, she could never tell him. He wouldn’t believe her anyway, not in a thousand years. Not Mr. Sebastian Stapleton, who had lectured her on the importance of rational thought and the dangers of flights of fancy. No, he wouldn’t believe her.

  A shiver ran through her body.

  Her naked body.

  Oh, sweet heavens…

  Again, Amy clasped her hands in front of her eyes and fought against her tears. Whatever shall I do now? She had never felt more alone nor more afraid.

  She had to take several deep breaths before she managed to regain her composure. With a sigh she wiped the wetness from her cheeks—drowning herself in her tears would not help her now.

  She sniffed, then went over to the washstand. She splashed some of yesterday’s water into her face, dried herself with the towel, and straightened to look in the mirror. Except for a small bruise at the side of one breast, hair that was tousled more than usual, and lips that were slightly puffy, her body remained unchanged.

  Almost disbelieving, Amy looked herself up and down. But no, her arms and shoulders were still rounded, her breasts still full, her hips still generous, and her skin still rosy and smooth. No scarlet mark of guilt anywhere.

  Not even on the bed linen.

  A nervous giggle escaped her. At least she had been blessed with a hymen that broke without much fuss. Thank heavens for small mercies!

  She smoothed her hair and donned her crumpled nightdress before she rang for her maid.

  By the time Amy reached the breakfast parlor, her mood was subdued once more. The luminous colors of the room seemed jarring today, the exotic birds on the walls garish. She shook her he
ad.

  The earl, the countess, and Admiral Pickering were already present and talked animatedly about the cultivation of apples. The admiral, Lady Rawdon explained to Amy as she joined them at the table, had chosen to buy a house with an apple tree in its back garden.

  “A Kerry Pippin,” the admiral said.

  Lord Rawdon chuckled. “And now he falls out of his apple tree on a regular basis.”

  “Easy enough for you to say, Rawdon.” The admiral pointed his knife at the earl. “After all, you let your gardeners fall out of your trees.”

  Lord Rawdon barked a laugh. “Too true. You see, Miss Bourne”—he turned to Amy—“my head gardener is currently trying to cultivate a new breed, the Rawdon Gold, he would call it. So far, though, he hasn’t had any luck with his endeavors.”

  The door opened, and Fox entered the room. An apple puff fell from Amy’s nerveless fingers. With her heart thundering in her ears, she watched him swagger toward her. His mouth curved into a smile.

  “Good morning.”

  As if from a distance, Amy heard the others wishing him a good morn. Her own voice, however, seemed paralyzed. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. And then he stood before her, and the warm scent of bergamot sneaked out to envelop her.

  Amy swallowed hard.

  At that, his smile widened. “Good morning, Miss Bourne,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. He leaned forward and bussed her cheek.

  Amy’s eyes fell closed. For a precious moment the heat and scent of him surrounded her like a warm blanket. But the sound of a hand slapping on cloth broke the spell.

  “Sebastian Stapleton, will you please stop this canoodling in my breakfast parlor?” The countess might sound amused, but the steel in her voice was unmistakable.

  Amy’s eyes snapped open. Her cheeks flamed.

  Unperturbed, Fox winked at her, then strolled whistling to the sideboard to choose his breakfast.

  Lady Rawdon leaned close to Amy. “Don’t let my brother-in-law embarrass you, my dear,” she said quietly. “He is a veritable rascal, that one.” Her eyes twinkled merrily. “It’s never too early to take him in hand.”

  Amy managed a wan smile. Oh, among other things, she had indeed taken him in hand last night—though in a much more literal sense than the countess could ever imagine. Her shoulders slumped.