by Sahara Kelly
He blinked again. This woman was correctly garbed, but her gown was old-fashioned, high at the neck and with skirts fuller than the current styles. Her dark hair coiled neatly and severely at the back of her head and her face was expressionless. No soft smiles of pleasure or interest.
She was simply staring at him with mild curiosity. “May I help you?”
Michael gathered his wits and closed his mouth with a snap. “Yes. I mean—sorry. I was told—er—my horse is lame—I met a gypsy…”
Very good, you brainless idiot. She’ll slam the door in your face within two seconds if you keep this up.
He tried again, giving her a small bow. “Forgive my disturbing you, ma’am. My horse is lame and when I came upon the Christmas Fair nearby, I was directed here and told I could stable my mount until morning.” Dredging up a smile from somewhere, Michael patted himself on the back as he produced an intelligible phrase. “I encountered a gypsy fortune-teller who told me you might be disposed to provide a plate of food for a weary traveller.”
She stepped back into the dimly lit hall. “I see. Of course. Do come in.” She waved him inside, glancing over her shoulder as he closed the door behind him. “Please excuse our informality. We live quietly here. I have no servants to speak of, just a couple of faithful companions who assist me.”
“I understand.” And looking around him, Michael did. The house had once been magnificent, he guessed, but now—it was not in very good shape at all and showed the ravages of time and neglect.
However, the small salon she led him to was warm and well-lit and he sighed with pleasure at the sight of a small decanter half full of what he guessed might be brandy.
“This is charming. My thanks.” He bowed. “I should introduce myself. I am…I am Michael F-FitzDoone.” His tongue stumbled over his new name. It wasn’t the one he’d grown up with, but it was the best he could do.
“Welcome, sir.”
If she’d noticed his hesitation, she’d caught it without a blink. Michael reminded himself never to underestimate a woman.
“I am Ariadne Wilton.” She dipped a slight curtsey. “Please do me the honour of sharing my meal?”
“Thank you…ma’am.” She’d given no hint of a husband or suggested any form of address that would enlighten him. Blasted nuisance.
“It would appear you have been travelling for some time. Would it be presumptuous of me to suggest a rest before dinner and perhaps you might care for a bath? I know how insufficient inns can be when one travels. If you would like to avail yourself, we have guest rooms that are mostly ready for an occupant or two…” She waved her hand.
“You are exceedingly kind, ma’am. I would indeed appreciate the opportunity to make myself presentable.”
“In that case…” She tugged on an aged bell-pull, which—miraculously—stayed attached to the wall and produced a knock on the door. “Enter.”
An elderly man peered into the room. “Yer rang, Ma’am?”
Michael noticed a lightning-quick smile cross her face then vanish as she re-assumed her politely social demeanour. “Yes, Rodney. Would you show Mr FitzDoone to the Oak bedchamber and prepare a bath for him? It should be warm in there, but if not, stoke up the fire. And care for his clothes too if you would…”
“You are most gracious.” Michael accepted the offer gladly, only to narrow his eyes as the servant spoke once more.
“’Tis all prepared.”
He frowned at this unexpected efficiency. “I don’t understand…”
She curtseyed in dismissal. “Dinner will be served in a little over an hour. Shall we meet here at that time?”
Uneasily, Michael nodded and bowed, turning to follow the man from the room and up the stairs. The carpet was ancient but had probably once been a fine wool with a tasteful pattern, and despite the worn condition, which tallied with the visible signs of age everywhere in the house, his surroundings were clean and tidy.
The man opened a door and stood back for Michael to enter. “‘Ere yer are then, sir. Yer let me know if there’s anythin’ yer be wantin’…”
He wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not at the sight of a steaming bath awaiting him in a sparse upstairs chamber. It was, to coin a phrase, bloody strange.
But then again, nothing about this day had been normal, in any accepted sense of the word. He simply stripped and availed himself of the pleasure that awaited him.
A blissfully hot bath.
*~~*~~*
Ariadne’s hands were shaking as she entered her own room to change. Winnie was already there laying out her gown and cackling with glee.
“’He’s a right one, ain’t he, lovey?” She smoothed the folds of silk lying on the bed. “I’m thinkin’ he’ll ride yer body ‘ard and warm the cockles of yer ‘eart with ‘is own…er…cockles…” She cackled again at her own joke.
“Winnie.” Ariadne opened her eyes wide. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I say.”
A wise gaze met hers. “Don’t be, lovey. Yer need what he’s got betwixt his thighs. Always ‘ave needed it. ‘Tisn’t yer fault, lass. Some needs it, some don’t. Yer one that needs it right enough.”
Ariadne raised her palms to her flushed cheeks. “I’m a whore, Winnie. A wanton whore to be even thinking such things.”
Winnie pulled Ariadne’s hands away from her face sharply. “Enough o’ that kind of talk. Yer no whore. Yer a healthy woman. He’s a healthy man. ‘Tis natural enough ye’d find an attraction there. ‘Tis even more natural to act on it.”
Ariadne allowed Winnie to unlace the gown she’d donned only an hour or so before. “If he knew, Winnie…”
“He’s got the sight, love. He’ll know.”
“Are you sure?” Ariadne’s thoughts gave rise to a shiver that was purely sensual. He was, as Winnie had said, a right one. “I can’t ask him. That would be outside the pale.”
“Yer won’t need to. He’s ready. Ripe an’ ready.”
“Winnie…” Her dress muffled her voice, but she had to speak. “I think I saw him once before.”
Winnie paused as she tugged the skirts from Ariadne’s head. “When?”
“Earlier—this afternoon. Just a reflection. In—er—in my mirror. Behind me.” I thought he was my imagination…my vision of the perfect man.
Winnie grinned. “Told yer he’d got the sight, lass. He saw yer too. Mebbe he’s meant to be here this evenin’.”
“Do you think so?” Ariadne felt a little dart of hope rise within her. “But if he leaves…”
“He won’t.” Winnie sounded so certain. “He’s seen yer, lovey. The real yer. He looked with ‘is ‘eart, not ‘is eyes. He’s the one. I know it.” She grinned suddenly. “But just to be on the safe side, let’s go take a quick look…”
“Winnie. You wouldn’t.”
But she would and she did and before Ariadne knew it, she too was hurrying along a small corridor, wrapped in a dressing gown, to do the unthinkable—spy on their guest in his bath. After all, justified Ariadne to herself, he’d seen her without her knowledge, hadn’t he?
It was only fair that she have the chance to feast her eyes in her turn.
And when they found the tiny peephole into the spare guest chamber and pressed their eyes to it, Ariadne couldn’t regret her action.
What a visual feast he was.
*~~*~~*
Michael hummed to himself as he luxuriated in the large copper tub. The water had been hot enough to turn his arse red and he’d sunk chest deep into it with a sigh of delight.
The soap was new and smelled slightly of herbs, not unpleasant or overly flowery. There were towels warming by the fire—and for the first time in ages, all was right in Michael’s world.
Or almost right.
If he’d had the lush beauty of his hostess naked in the tub with him, then everything would have been bloody perfect. He soaped and rinsed his hair, noting the dust that now coated the surface of the water. God, he must have looked a fright. His last bath had been outside under a cold pump
and done nothing much to clean him, just refresh him and make him cold as could be.
This was a proper cleansing, one that warmed soul deep. And refreshed more than just his skin.
A tingle at the nape of his neck caught his attention.
Eyes. Somewhere. I’m being watched.
Michael had long accepted that he had what he referred to as a kind of heightened sensitivity—he could sense things, feel things, anticipate things well before anybody else did. It was something he’d kept to himself, but he believed that it might have come down through his mother’s Irish heritage.
She’d never mentioned it and neither had he, but there’d been many a time when he’d wondered if she was prescient or just extremely accurate in her predictions. For his part, it was more of an irritation in his thought process. Something encouraging him to stop and think about a matter that shouldn’t have been there.
He’d always had it, didn’t think it untoward, and seldom mentioned it, even though it had helped him a time or two. Right at this moment, however, it was clanging like a church bell. He was definitely being watched, by whom and why, he didn’t know.
He shrugged. Let them look. In fact—a brazen thought tickled his fancy and he stood, nude, letting the water roll down his body into the water. For a moment he consciously opened his mind, trying to locate the source of his observer. To the right. Behind that panelling.
Under the pretense of reaching for a towel, Michael turned towards that part of the room. His cock stirred and lengthened, spurred on no doubt by rather lascivious images of what he’d like to be doing to one Ariadne Wilton.
He could have sworn he heard a gasp and schooled his features into blank unconcern as he towelled off his chest.
Aha. His intuition told him that the gasp was female.
Slowly. Might as well make it worth the while for whoever she was.
He rubbed his hair hard and then tossed it back behind him, moving the towel down to his belly and beginning the job of drying his lower half.
Stepping out of the water, he turned right around, treating the wall to a nice view of his buttocks and then moving closer to the fire—and the right side of the room. He leaned over and stoked the logs, letting the warmth evaporate the moisture on his legs.
And then he began to toy with his watchers. And himself.
The towel slid over one muscled thigh and back down, just brushing his cock and his balls. As expected, he hardened. He stifled a chuckle at the sense of eager silence emanating from behind the panelling. She—they—whoever it was, waited for what he might do next.
Hmm. Michael promised he’d do penance for this, but could not resist the imp of mischief that whispered naughty things in his ear. He reached between his legs and cradled his cock, enjoying the touch of his own hand around the solid and sensitive length.
He stroked, gently, just bringing himself to a full erection, no more.
And then—blatantly—he turned his arse to the fire and stretched out his arms, thus heating his buttocks and baring all that he had to the allegedly empty room. This time he could not hide his smile as two very audible breaths sounded near him.
He stood, trying to stop his lips from twitching with amusement, enjoying the exhibitionism of the moment and hoping that one of his onlookers was Ariadne. He knew he wanted her, desired her in the most elemental of ways, longed to render her senseless and drain himself dry at the same time. If physical attraction was what she wanted, he modestly hoped he could offer that at least.
If she might want him in her bed—well, he was more than ready to oblige her in that department, too. His cock agreed, a tiny drop of lust seeping from the small slit, reminding him that unless he wanted to come right then and there, he’d better redirect his thoughts into avenues less stimulating.
There’d be time enough for those matters after dinner. Or at least he hoped so. With a sigh, he began to dress, wondering if she was sighing too as he slipped his breeches back on and waited for his shirt to be returned to him.
Strangely enough, his thoughts of her were eager and curious, not simply lust-filled, although that was there in more than sufficient measure. He realised that Ariadne radiated sensuality from every pore.
There was no blatant invitation to bed, unlike many women he’d known. Hers was a subtly attractive appeal, something hinting of fire beneath her proper exterior. Neither a hungry whore looking for coins, nor a bored aristocrat looking to add him to her conquests, she was, thought Michael, the most beautiful woman he’d seen in quite some time—if ever—and he sensed she had a heat burning inside her he longed to ignite. It called to him on some fundamental level he had yet to fully comprehend.
A refreshed shirt having been delivered by a silent Rodney, Michael shrugged himself into his clothes and prepared to leave the room.
His sixth sense kicked him solidly.
She will light fires within you too.
He caught his breath as he absorbed the message from somewhere deep in his head. He didn’t know if he wanted any fires lit by anybody, nor was he sure he had the strength or the desire to deal with them. And yet—an odd awareness gnawed at his brain. He recalled a phrase he’d heard his mother whisper occasionally.
“Now, Michael. Do it now.”
She would urge him to finish whatever it was he was doing. “Before this fire burns out…”
His breath seized in his lungs and he looked around, stunned for a second at the strong notion he’d heard her voice. The words were as clear as if she’d spoken them.
But of course there was nobody there.
When fires were lit, somebody got burned. He’d been burned too many times to take such a prospect lightly. With a certain amount of apprehension, Michael left his room and headed downstairs to dinner.
And Ariadne.
Chapter Four
“Would you care for brandy?” Ariadne waved her hand at the tray on the sideboard.
“Thank you. That would be nice. Will you join me?”
The conversation had been trivial, desultory even, making Ariadne more than a little frustrated. Michael was an easy companion, though, and the meal had passed pleasantly enough while trivialities about the weather and the countryside had been exchanged. Neither had ventured into personal territory, however.
Rodney had served the few simple courses silently and efficiently as was his wont, but had now left the room.
They were alone.
She raised her eyebrows at his question. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I will. I find I enjoy a little brandy now and again.”
“I thought you might.” Michael poured the liquor and returned holding two goblets, one of which he passed to Ariadne. He also seated himself next to her instead of across the small table where they’d partaken of their meal.
She nodded her thanks and sipped, letting the burn of the brandy slide pleasantly down her throat.
“What else do you enjoy?” His question was quiet, intimate almost.
“Learning about people. Let’s take you, for example.” She watched his face. “You are a traveller, Mr FitzDoone, with a flavour of Ireland in your speech. And yet it would appear you have no destination in mind, since to end up here is to end up nowhere at all.” She waved her hand at his attire. “Clearly it has been a long and perhaps hard road. Would you tell me how you ended up in this spot? I would confess to curiosity as to your journeys…”
He studied his glass, swirling the liquid slowly. Thinking, always thinking—and yet Ariadne wondered if there was more to that abstract look than simple cogitation. He occasionally seemed to listen—to something other than what was being said.
“You’re correct about the Irish accent. I was born and raised there.” He paused and sipped the liquor, then raised his gaze and met hers. “I’m a bastard, you know.”
Short and to the point. “By birth or by nature?” Unmoved by his announcement, her lips quirked.
His wry smile answered her. “Some would say both. My father—and I use the word
advisedly—knows that it’s by birth. Perhaps that knowledge has led to my nature.”
“It happens,” she commented calmly.
“But not to Lionel O’Donnell.” In blunt and simple terms he told her of his father’s desire for an heir and what finally happened when a true one was born.
“So your real father…”
“Was an English Baron, apparently. My mother made the mistake of leaving a diary detailing her association with him. Not something The O’Donnell took lightly.” Michael sighed. “He threw me out. He no longer needed me as his heir, and learning of my real parentage must have been the final straw. My younger brother will now fulfil his destiny and I am nobody at all. He cannot strip my Christian name from me, but he’s taken everything else.”
“Thus you wander. For how long?”
“Months.” He chuckled ruefully. “In truth, Ma’am, I have scarcely sixpence to scratch with and no prospects whatsoever.” He leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. “I am in your debt for the meal and the bath. Otherwise I’d have enjoyed a much smaller meal and probably a cold dip in a nearby pond.”
She ran a finger around the edge of the crystal, producing a slight sound as the glass resonated to her touch. “Have you considered finding your real father?”
“The English Baron?” Michael nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did think about it.”
“And what happened?”
“I looked at the diary. It was… inconclusive. It told me nothing I didn’t already know.”
“Was there no mention of a place? No mention of a village, a town, not even a road or county?”
“Nothing at all,” he shook his head. “Just that he was…oddly kind. I sense that she needed kindness. And she found it in his bed.”
Ariadne blinked. “A strange comment.”
“Indeed.” Michael sighed. “I had hoped for something more tangible, I’ll admit. A name would have been helpful, certainly. And—as you so rightly suggest—a hint of a location.”
“Would you have gone to him? Had there been sufficient clues as to his whereabouts?” She watched his eyes, so green and so revealing of his thoughts. He was confused, lost…neither of which were unexpected, given his terrible situation.
