Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 0]

by The Spy

  “Ah. Yet you still have not answered the question, have you?”

  James grunted. “Persistent bloke. Very well then, I’ve a preference for the exotic and I’ve always cherished the notion of a harem dancer of my own. A woman who talks with her body and never says a word. A hot-eyed creature who wears nothing but veils and a come-hither look in her eyes . . .”

  James’s voice faded to a mumble. “But I’ll never seek her out. Because that’s when a man is at his weakest . . . when such a fantasy comes . . . true.” He was drifting off into a drunken slumber.

  Phillipa, however, had come alert. She knew a little something about Arabia, probably more than James, for she had spent a year there while her father attempted to track down a particular shaman who was known to heal with his hands.

  That had been close to the end, when modern medicine had failed and even quackery had been exhausted. There was nothing left but the spiritualists. Phillipa had been nearly fifteen at the time. Her body had awakened and changed and her mind had taken paths most alien to childhood. Her burgeoning figure had been the source of both embarrassment and fascination, but her mother had been far too absorbed in her last chance for life to take note of Phillipa’s unease and curiosity.

  Restless and nearly jumping out of her skin, Phillipa had left the stuffy tent one evening when her mother had fallen into a listless sleep. She wasn’t supposed to go about alone, but the Bedouin camp looked deserted and the air outside seemed to cool her disordered thoughts.

  After several minutes of not seeing a soul, she felt secure in leaving the vicinity of their guest tent and wandering out onto the sands. She was careful to keep the tent in sight, of course, but the desert night called to her. Above her the stars astonished her with their density and clarity, above even what she had seen from the ships during their journeys. It was as if a pitcher of diamonds had been spilled across the sky.

  Her worries, her loneliness, and her never-lessening grief seemed to fade before such magnificence. What did any of it matter to those stars? Perhaps some would have felt diminished, but Phillipa felt liberated by the realization that her existence was merely a passing thought when compared to such eternal splendor.

  Then she had heard the music.

  Still feeling unburdened by her relative insignificance, she lightly ran along the crest of the shifting dune to spy down upon a circle of men gathered around the fire. The flames were smoky and from her vantage point atop the dune, Phillipa caught the sharp scent of burning herbs.

  One man sat with a drum between his knees, his fingers moving too quickly to follow. The thrumming made her heart beat erratically until it surrendered to the brush of fingertips across the tight drumheads. Surrendered its rhythm.

  An eerie pipe air teased the beat, intensifying it even as it threatened to drown it out. Tension mounted as the outlandish music swept the senses and riveted the attention. Then she heard the bells softly jingling, as if tiny spirits were ringing miniature chimes.

  The jingling counterpoint to the pipe and drum, rhythm as she’d never heard rhythm before.

  Her blood was rocketing through her veins. Her heart was helplessly timing itself to the pulse of the music.

  Then the dancer came.

  For a moment young Phillipa was convinced the creature before her was magical, for she had appeared from behind a pall of smoke and rhythm as if conjured.

  She was lush of body, with ebony hair that rippled to the backs of her knees. She was nearly naked in her barbaric glory, wearing little but strung coins and veils.

  Phillipa had thought that nothing could have been more thrilling than the mere sight of this exotic being . . .

  Until she began to dance. The supple bend of tawny limbs bare in the firelight . . . the undulation of that shockingly bare torso . . . the flash of bare feet and thighs from beneath the veil . . . all had sent Phillipa’s mind reeling with confusion.

  That woman wore her bare skin the way a woman of Phillipa’s world would wear a superior and expensive gown—with confidence and just a touch of boastfulness.

  This so jarred against everything that Phillipa had ever been taught or had absorbed about womanhood that she could not take her appalled and fascinated gaze from the dancer. The woman before her looked as free as Phillipa had felt beneath the stars. She looked brave and powerful and anything but lost.

  A new awareness began to creep over fifteen-year-old Phillipa. She was a woman now as well. She had limbs and torso and breasts. What if all she had ever learned was wrong? What if this body was not meant to be hidden, to be covered, to be ashamed of . . .

  What if she could be like the dancer, free and bold and full of power?

  She had lain there upon the dune for hours, a tiny figure in proper white muslin made glimmering in the starlight, lost in contemplation of the woman she might someday become.

  The next day, the Atwaters had left the Bedouin encampment. Phillipa never knew if her parents had somehow learned of her midnight jaunt or if they had simply given up hope of a cure from the desert mystic.

  Either way, it had served to be the last attempt for Isabella Atwater. She had begged her husband to take her back to Spain, to the village of her birth and what little family remained to her there. So her father had bowed to the will of his beloved and stifled his own desperation to keep her with him.

  Phillipa came to the present slowly as she sprawled before the fire in James’s study. Her senses were dulled and floating. If she was not mistaken, Mr. Cunnington had gotten her quite thoroughly drunk. Although the drifting sensation was interesting, she decided that she wasn’t much fond of the swirling within her stomach and the faint prescience of a piercing headache.

  Her memory of that influential moment in her own young womanhood seemed pitifully laughable now. Here she was, not only the antithesis of a free and sensual harem dancer, but hardly even female at all anymore!

  She heard her own throaty laugh as if from a distance. James stirred in his slumping repose in the chair. His hair was mussed and fell down upon his forehead and his face was relaxed from some constant subtle tension that she hadn’t noticed until it disappeared.

  His long hard body was stretched quite unselfconsciously before her and she realized that for once she could look her fill. She rose to her knees and planted her elbows on the arm of his chair to steady herself when the room decided to take a bit of a spin.

  Curiosity hummed within her and, surprisingly, she felt very much like indulging it at last. She had seen men from many lands and many walks of life, but never had she seen a man who fascinated her as James Cunnington did.

  She leaned toward him to stare into his face, close enough to detect the brandy on his breath and the sandalwood on his skin. She shut her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. Brandy and sandalwood and James.

  Opening her eyes, she gazed at the structure of his face. The firelight bronzed the strong cheekbone and jaw, and shadowed that dent just below his full bottom lip. Stubble darkened his cheeks, giving him a dangerous air even in sleep. Her fingertips itched to feel that manly roughness. Then, with great serenity, she noticed her hand reaching toward him.

  “Why, thank you, I do believe I will,” she whispered to herself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The prickly skin of his jaw felt new to her questing fingertips. What odd creatures men were. Each day, they scraped the beard from their chins even though by nightfall it returned. Not that she minded, of course. She much preferred clean-shaven to bearded.

  Besides, it would be a crime against women everywhere to hide James Cunnington’s sculpted mouth from view. His fascinating lips were bracketed by the dented dimples that remained as shadows of themselves in repose.

  Her fingers, all of their own accord of course, drifted to trace the contours of those lips. He twitched slightly under her exploration and she froze. He inhaled deeply and his lips parted ever so slightly as he did.

  Well, that was virtually an invitation, wasn’t it? Phillipa
felt herself leaning forward and went along with her body, deciding that it was a wonderful idea.

  His lips were firm and dry beneath her feather-light kiss. She backed away, waiting . . . for what, she did not know. For him to turn into a frog? He remained still, as deeply asleep as ever.

  Her body leaned forward again. Oh, they were having another go, were they? Phillipa’s mind was quite agreeable.

  This time she kept her lips to his, softly adjusting the slant until the fit seemed perfect and as natural as breathing. Still, it was a bit dry. Her tongue flicked out to wet her own lips quickly. Somewhere between accidentally and inevitably, it darted between his as well.

  The taste of him was startling and interesting. Oh, yes, that was interest she was feeling, all the way to the toes that suddenly curled within her boots.

  She withdrew an inch or two and swallowed hard. She’d stolen a kiss, the first of her life. She was a very, very bad person, there was no doubt about it. Absolutely criminal.

  Hard muscle filled her palm and she looked down to see that one of her hands had slipped down from the chair arm to brace itself on one powerful thigh.

  It was like gripping cloth-wrapped iron. No wonder James thought Phillip soft! With fascination, her fingers kneaded lightly, but there was no give whatsoever beneath her touch.

  Her mouth went entirely dry. He was so large and muscled. So different from herself. The contrast was deeply exciting. She felt as if she could climb directly into his lap and sit as lightly upon him as a butterfly.

  The urge to board him faded, however. One couldn’t examine someone as well if one was sitting on him. And she wanted to learn more about this fascinating male creature.

  Much more.

  Her muddled mind found nothing at all wrong with this expedition of discovery. Indeed, it made perfect sense. Moreover, who knew if this opportunity would ever come again? Her drunken logic decided the matter. Phillipa lowered her other hand to spread her fingers across James’s other thigh. Delightful. As hard and burly as the first.

  Truly, this was an excellent plan.

  Slowly she stood to step between his outstretched booted legs. Lowering herself to kneel in the intimate space provided between his knees, she studied him from this vantage point. The man simply went on and on, the way one wished good dreams would do.

  From her position, she became newly aware of the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He filled the chair, one arm even draping off into the air as if the chair would hold no more large delicious man.

  Slowly she slid her palms up the tops of his thighs. From so close, she could see the ridges of muscle beneath the fawn breeches as well as feel the hardness of them. Her fingers spread to absorb the sheer rigidity of his flesh, she moved her hands higher, then higher still—

  Something shifted beneath her hand. She pulled her hands away swiftly and checked his face. No, he slept on, fully lost in brandy-laced sleep. What had moved, then?

  She lightly pressed her palm back to the spot. Again, there was a shifting beneath her touch. Something was growing . . . hardening?

  Oh! She knew what that was. For although the statues displayed in English houses were thoroughly fig-leafed, the ones proudly decorating Greece and Rome were not. Some were quite detailed, in fact.

  It.

  His male part grew beneath her hand. She had accidentally awakened it. She let her fingers trace the outline of the shape pressing upward beneath the cloth. Yes, it was indeed similar to those found on statues, although she didn’t recall the marble ones being quite so prominent.

  In fact, It was still growing. She could feel it swelling further under her stroking hand. It grew on and on, until she dimly registered a sense of danger. There was something happening—

  Suddenly, It bucked and pulsed beneath her hand. Goodness, had she broken it somehow?

  The thought shattered the drunken spell of permissiveness she’d been under. She snatched her hand back and hurriedly scrambled from between James’s knees. God, she was completely mad! What if he’d woken? What if he’d caught her tantalizing herself with his body?

  The brandy still swirling in her mind and her stomach, Phillipa panicked. She ran from the study and up the stairs, not stopping until she had shut her own bedchamber door firmly between herself and her scandalous moment of temptation.

  Thank God, James had slept through the entire affair!

  James was having a lovely dream.

  A dancer whirled about him, her body undulating to exotic music. She was veiled but she spoke to him with her eyes and her body.

  Come.

  She put her hands on him, sliding hot palms up his thighs to trace his erection with questing fingers. She wanted him, he could feel it. Her hunger penetrated his skin, mingling with his own aching need.

  It had been so long—hot hands stroked and stroked—months since he’d been touched with such longing.

  He’d never been touched with such love.

  She danced away suddenly, out of his reach. He tried to catch her but his arms were lead, his feet mud. With all his will he tried to catch her. She was fleet and full of sultry laughter. He was slow and full of aching need. Yet he gained on her, running her to ground like a hungry predator. She turned to mock him once more and he caught her to him. He carried her to the soft park lawn with the weight of his body. They landed without the slightest jar.

  She squirmed beneath him, suddenly delightfully naked—as was he. She was hot and slippery with wanting. She wrapped her limbs about him, her arms about his neck, her long legs about his hips. She sang out as he took her. His pace was hungry and rapid, yet again languid and slow. He filled her with his flesh. She filled him with her giving warmth. They coupled like animals on the ground, like carnal spirits on a cloud.

  He was close to his peak when she slid from his grasp, fading from beneath him to appear once more out of his reach, dancing away from him.

  She was gone, running away from him even as his desire reached its lonely peak, her long flaming hair trailing behind her.

  With a start, James opened his eyes. He was in his study, slumped in his chair. Alone.

  The coals were burned to ash. The decanter was empty. Phillip had been here, but had likely gone to bed long ago. There was no point in spending what remained of the night in a chair. James stood, only to look down at himself in surprise.

  Good God, he hadn’t done that in years. Not since he was a randy lad. How embarrassing.

  It seemed celibacy was going to be more difficult than he’d imagined.

  The next morning, Phillipa woke with an aching head and a profound sense that she had done something terrible the night before.

  Then she remembered. “Oh, no.” She pulled the covers over her head in a fruitless effort to hide from what she’d done.

  “Bloody brandy,” she muttered, her face flaming so hot she could feel her ears burning. Why, oh, why had it occurred to her to do such a thing? Bad enough to touch a man so intimately. Much worse yet to steal those caresses like a bloody pickpocket!

  The only comfort in the affair was that James was entirely ignorant of her behavior. She could live with her own new knowledge—at least once her blush faded enough to leave her bedchamber. What she could never live with would be the embarrassment of anyone knowing how low she’d sunk in her first encounter with the demon drink.

  Oh, do dry up, said an impatient voice in her mind. So you fondled the master? What of it? Wasn’t it intriguing?

  The covers fell from her face as she considered the question. Heavens, yes, most intriguing. She could still feel his body under her hands—could still feel the heat of him sinking into her palms.

  Could still taste the brandy on his lips.

  She was blushing again, but not from humiliation this time.

  Bloody hell, she was in trouble now.

  She managed to stop thinking about James’s hard body long enough to dress her own. The rest of the clothing had come from Button today. She now had a very dashing
wardrobe. She suspected it was a far nicer one than most homeless tutors sported.

  She tied her cravat almost without thought and pulled on her waistcoat without the slightest fumbling of the wrong-sided buttons.

  She discovered that James had already left for the day when she tentatively entered the breakfast room. There was only Robbie, contentedly stuffing himself on bacon and eggs.

  He looked up at her with a certain amount of defiance. “I’m goin’ to read that book today.”

  She smiled. “If you do, you’ll have the afternoon to do as you please.” And she’d have some time to think. Not that it would change the fact that she was a shameless—

  “Play soldiers!” Robbie crowed. In his excitement, a bit of egg flew from his fork to bounce across the table, leaving an oily trail on the linen tablecloth.

  He looked up at her guiltily. “Denny will be right pissed.”

  Phillipa nodded, though she could hardly scold him when she herself had managed to send her eggs clear to the chandelier.

  She picked up her plate. “Switch with me, quickly, before Denny comes back in.”

  Robbie’s blue eyes were fountains of gratitude as he scrambled to take her place at the table. Phillipa sat down in the chair he had vacated, covering a sigh at the thought that she was doomed to be in Denny’s bad graces forever.

  Later, in the schoolroom, Robbie repaid her by getting every letter right in the homemade primer. “Z is for Zap!” he shouted at the end as he slapped the book shut. “Time for soldiers!” He ran for the study with Phillipa following more slowly.

  She was astonished at the speed with which Robbie had learned his letters. It seemed the boy was even brighter than they had all thought.

  She had mixed feelings about returning to the scene of her crime, but the warm sunlit study bore little resemblance to the dim and sultry setting of last night. Robbie poured his soldiers from their box and promptly set about trouncing Napoleon yet again. Apparently, one could never do enough in the cause of the Crown.