by Juliana Ross
I determined not to speak, to simply smile—only a hint of a smile, mind you, nothing more than that—but then he drew close, so close he was but an arm’s length away, and I looked into his eyes.
His irises shone a pale, clear gray, so light they might have been silver, and were ringed with a narrow band of blue the exact color of India ink. In all my life, I’d never seen such unusual eyes. He stared at me intently, as if there were some corresponding aspect of my appearance that was just as distinctive as his strange, cold gaze.
“Good morning,” I offered.
“Good morning.” Another surprise—the inflection of his speech marked him as an Englishman.
“Was it you we saw earlier? Climbing the rock face?”
“It was.”
“I was so worried you might fall.”
“I hardly ever fall,” he replied, his expression so grave I couldn’t tell if he meant me to take him seriously or not.
“But you might have been killed.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
I offered him my hand, and there was a very awkward moment when it appeared he might refuse to take it, for he simply stared at my white glove and made no move to take my hand in his. But then he wiped his hand on his breeches and shook my hand decisively.
“Are you going on to Argentière? Would you care to walk with us?”
He answered with a nod, no more, and with that we continued our northward journey. The road opened up, the flanking cliffs giving way to grassy banks and hills of conifers, and we passed by a small farm, then another. We walked in silence. After a few minutes, I realized I could hear birdsong, the harmonizing rush of a nearby stream, even the soughing lilt of the wind as it hurried through the trees.
It was warm in the late morning sun, and after a few hundred yards I stripped off my gloves and unfastened the top button of my jacket. I had foolishly left my parasol behind, still packed in my large trunk, and my fashionably delicate bonnet offered little protection from the sun. I would soon have the freckles to show for it. It was nothing a little lemon juice couldn’t mend, however, and in the meantime I had the chance to admire the man who walked a few paces before me.
I stared at him, drinking in every ripple of muscle beneath his worn linen shirt, marveling at the unconscious, easy grace that imbued his every movement. And I wondered what sort of lover he would make.
It had been more than eight years since the disaster of my brief and entirely unsatisfactory liaison with my one and, so far, only lover. In the wake of that disappointment and near scandal, I had allowed my parents to pressure me into a disastrous engagement to a man I scarcely knew, an engagement that had been called off in the most public and humiliating fashion.
Jean-Philippe had cared nothing for my honor, using and discarding me like a soiled handkerchief. Lord Alfred had been little better, exposing me to the scorn and humiliation of society when he had cast me aside for another.
At the time, I’d sworn to myself I would never be tempted again—not by a man’s pretty words and certainly not by an attractive face or form. What real need had I of a man, after all? I had money of my own, a family that loved me enough to tolerate my eccentricities, and I was perfectly capable of satisfying my own carnal needs without having to seek out the attention of some sweating, fumbling incompetent.
Never again, I had told myself. And yet...
I would never give up my independence, never allow anyone to take control of my life. But the idea of taking a lover was tempting. Not the stranger who walked at my side, of course; I knew nothing of him, not even his name. But I might find someone suitable in Lausanne, or even Paris. Though I would have to consider the risks involved, specifically the possibility of my falling pregnant...
Lost in my thoughts, I noticed too late that the road had become uneven, its surface eroded by a recent rainfall. My skirts caught on an exposed spike of granite, my arms flailed about in a most undignified manner, and I stumbled forward wildly. Before I could land in the mud, strong arms caught me and held me tight. I took a moment to catch my breath, and then I looked up. To my everlasting relief, it was the climber’s arms that encircled me, and not the beefy limbs of Monsieur Durand.
I took hold of his forearms, the better to right myself, and awareness surged through me. I stumbled again, the shock of it making me clumsy, and was rewarded when he drew me close and steadied me once more.
When I’d taken my painting tutor as my lover, I’d done so because I thought I desired him. I could still remember, with perfect clarity, the peculiar mixture of nervousness, anxiety and breathless anticipation I’d felt in Jean-Philippe’s presence. If only the actual lovemaking that followed had not been such a deflating and ultimately disappointing experience.
But this...this was desire. There was no mistaking the spark that passed between us, a current of attraction that rushed through my veins and pulled the breath from my lungs. Rational thought deserted me. My mouth was dry, my palms were icy and the roar of my heartbeat drowned out the music of birdsong and dancing streams.
“Thank you,” I said to the climber. “I feel quite steady again.”
He released me, his hands falling to his sides. He stepped back, his feet sure on the roughened road, and turned away. I longed to say something more, but I stopped my mouth. Discretion was all.
As we moved on he remained close by, ready to rescue me again, and I was certain I could feel the keen focus of his regard as we walked. Did he desire me as I desired him? Or did he see nothing more than a plainly dressed Englishwoman, tolerably pretty apart from a sunburned nose, who for some perplexing reason was making calf eyes at him?
“We are nearly there, madame,” Monsieur Durand said. “Your hotel is just ahead, on the left.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to retrieve my luggage today?”
“Certainly, madame. But first I must go to the, ah, the forgeron...I am not sure of the word in English...”
“Blacksmith,” said the climber.
“Yes. The blacksmith. My cousin. He will be able to help me. Perhaps even repair the carriage.”
“By all means. Please go ahead. I can manage on my own.”
I moved to retrieve my cases from Monsieur Durand, but before I could do so the climber stepped forward and took them.
“Je vais l’amener à l’hôtel. Ne vous inquiétez pas,” he said, his voice low and certain.
“Are you certain?” the coachman asked, turning to me.
“Of course,” I assured him. “And the hotel is only a few hundred yards away.”
“Very well. I will try to return your bagages this afternoon. Good morning.”
At last the climber and I were alone. Neither of us said a word as we walked to the Hôtel de la Couronne. It was a small establishment, far less grand than the hotels in Chamonix, but charming nonetheless, with boxes of pale pink geraniums hanging from every windowsill and elaborately carved woodwork adorning the foyer.
I introduced myself to the clerk at the front desk and furnished him with my travel documents.
“May I ask how long you expect to stay, Madame Cathcart-Ross?”
“I’m not yet certain. I’ve yet to engage a guide for the High-Level Route...I think two days, possibly three. May I let you know later? Once I’ve completed my arrangements?”
“Of course, madame. If you require any assistance with your search for a guide, you need only ask.”
“Thank you. Is everything in order?” I asked, impatient to be done.
“Yes, madame. Here are your keys. Your rooms are on the second floor. Do you require any assistance?” The clerk looked across the foyer to the climber, who stood with my cases at his feet.
“No, thank you. But my remaining baggage should be arriving later today. Please have it brought up to my rooms.”
And now was the moment. Key in hand, I approached the climber, wishing there were some way to delay the inevitable.
“Thank y—”
“I’ll bring
these upstairs.”
That was unexpected. Could it be that he, too, felt the thread of attraction that wound between us? “Oh, I see. Thank you.”
Up a flight of stairs, then another, then along the corridor to my rooms. The interior of the hotel was cool, but maddening drops of perspiration beaded at my temples and between my breasts. I prayed I didn’t look as disheveled and travel-worn as I felt.
The sitting room of my suite was spacious and bright, the draperies left open to let in the sun. A round table stood in the middle of the room, its only ornament a small cut-glass bowl filled with Michaelmas daisies. I removed my bonnet, set it down and smoothed back my hair with trembling hands.
I walked back to the door, my skirts brushing against his half-naked legs, and shut it firmly. He was watching me, I knew it, but I couldn’t make myself turn to face him. I let my head drop against the door, welcoming the way its satin surface cooled my brow.
“I don’t even know your name,” I whispered.
A rush of movement, and he was behind me. Not touching me, but close enough that I could hear and feel his every breath.
“Eli. What is your name?”
“You may call me Alice.” No need to burden him with the rest of it.
“Will you look at me, Alice?”
I turned, letting my weight fall against the door. He wasn’t an overly tall man, perhaps an inch or two shy of six feet, but as I stood little more than five feet in my slippers he still managed to tower over me. I met his gaze and admired once again the stark, wild beauty of his ink-and-silver eyes.
“Are you sure?” he whispered. “You must be certain.”
“Yes...yes. I am.”
It wasn’t the truth, not precisely, but it would do. Was I certain I wanted him? Yes. Was I certain I would learn, with this man, just what poets and composers and authors of ladies’ fiction rhapsodized about so enthusiastically?
Yes.
Chapter Two
Setting one hand firmly on the door, just above my shoulder, Eli lifted his other hand to my face, tracing the line of my cheekbone so gently that my skin trembled and shivered at his touch. He slowly lowered his head to mine, his mouth brushing against my lips, featherlight at first, but so assuredly that I was happy to open my mouth for him.
And then came the mesmerizing glide of his tongue as it delved beyond my lips, sparking a thousand pinpricks of surprised delight in my fingertips, toes and other areas never before awakened by a kiss.
I wasn’t sure how to respond—it had been nearly a decade since I’d last been kissed—but instinct welled up from deep within, whispering, directing me how to respond. I tilted my head back ever farther, my mouth pressing eagerly against his, and felt my arms rise, as if of their own accord, and settle on his shoulders. My tongue darted forward, meeting his, and my daring provoked in him a thrillingly atavistic growl.
Perhaps it was the heat of the room, or perhaps it was simply my reaction to Eli, but my garments suddenly felt unbearable, their weight and pressure excruciatingly confining. My hands went to my jacket, intent on unfastening it, but he was there first, deftly opening its innumerable buttons. He did the same with the bodice of my traveling gown, spreading it wide to bare my shoulders.
Then he reached for the narrow satin ribbon that held shut my chemise. The bow came loose and the fine cambric drooped low. I grasped the bottom edge of my corset, pulled down sharply and my breasts bounced free, ready for his gaze.
“Beautiful,” he said, caressing my small, tight nipples with roughened fingertips. Unsure of what I ought to do, I simply stood and watched, my hands at my sides, letting the marvelous sensations wash over me. I wanted to touch him, but what if I made a mistake and shattered the spell that had fallen over us?
He bent his head and closed his mouth over my left breast, something so unexpected that I flinched, just a little. Drawing my nipple deep into his mouth, he circled and flicked at it with his tongue, pulling away for a second to admire the engorged pink crest. Then he took it into his mouth again, sucking and licking and nipping, his left hand moving on my other breast in much the same fashion. My skin was so pale against his sun-darkened hands, so soft compared to the beautiful abrasion of his beard.
And then his mouth was on mine again, his lips hard and bruising, his fingers caught tight in my hair, pulling my head back so fiercely I almost cried out. He was breathing heavily, and the hot rush of it against my face was thrilling and faintly alarming.
He reached down, skimming over the curve of my breast and the indentation of my waist, grasped my right hand, and held it to the front of his breeches. A decent woman would have resisted, would have snatched her hand away.
I would not. I could not.
I let my hand rest on his erection, confined so closely in his breeches, and then I tightened my fingers over it, squeezing gently so as not to hurt him. He groaned, the sound so low and sensual it was closer to a purr, and thrust his groin into my hand.
I had to see him, had to know this part of him for myself. I pushed his braces off his shoulders and scrabbled at the front of his breeches, finding the buttons that fastened their fall front, and undid them with shaking fingers. He wore nothing beneath. I dragged the garment low on his hips, out of the way, and took him in my hand.
He was smooth, solid stone come to life, moving and pulsing and blazing hot. I closed my fingers, marveling at how something so hard could also feel so velvety smooth, almost delicate. Tightening my grasp, I felt ridiculously satisfied when he let out a moan of pleasure.
“I love the feel of your hand on my cock. Much more of this and I’ll come all over your hand,” he muttered against my ear. “Is that what you want? Or do you want more?”
More, I thought. Definitely more. But my throat had gone dry, and when I opened my mouth to answer, no words came forth. So I looked up, met his stern, questioning gaze and nodded.
It was all the encouragement he needed.
He pushed my skirt and petticoats up to my waist, leaving the wires and tapes of my fashionable crinolette to dangle uselessly. “Bloody thing,” he grumbled, pulling at the ties that fastened it about my waist. They were knotted securely, but that was no impediment to a man in a hurry. He snapped them with one quick jerk of his hand and lifted me free of the collapsing cage.
“Much better. Now I can get close to you.” As if to illustrate his words, he pushed me hard against the door, letting the entirety of his body press against mine.
He drew back fractionally and reached between my legs, through the wide opening of my drawers, and covered my woman’s mound with his entire hand. His fingers curved low, and after giving me scant seconds to grow used to the feel of his hand on my sex, he pushed one finger inside me, then a second, moving them about in the most delicious fashion. When he pulled them out they were wet, and he used the moisture to draw a silken path from my opening to the little hidden place above.
He traced a circle around and around the spot, never quite touching it, though I pushed and wriggled against his hand and sighed endless, silent entreaties.
“Not yet. I want to be inside you when I make you come.”
I thought he would carry me to the bed, or at least lay me down on the floor, but instead he pushed my legs wide, bent his knees, and drove his member—his cock, as he’d called it—into me, then and there.
“Wrap your legs around my hips,” he ordered, his voice hard against my ear, and as I did so he pushed even deeper inside me. Then he straightened his legs and pinned me against the door.
“Hold on,” he whispered, and that was the last thing he said before he got down to the serious business of ravishing me senseless.
I knew his hands were beneath me, supporting my bottom, drawing me close, but I couldn’t feel them. All I could feel was his cock impaling me against the door, pushing in and out of me with such intensity that I feared the hinges would fail or the door would shatter and we would tumble into the corridor beyond.
Then Eli shifted his
stance, tilting my bottom back a fraction, and something changed. He was rubbing against a spot deep inside me, and what had already felt marvelous a moment before now felt better, so much better that I cried out despite myself.
“You like that, do you? What about this?” Leaving only one arm to bear my weight, he reached between our bodies and found, with unerring precision, the pearl between my legs.
This time he didn’t tease. This time he rubbed it with sure strokes of his thumb, steadily driving me higher, ever higher, all the while pounding into me just as relentlessly.
The familiar tightness grew within, winding tight and heavy, and I clung to his shoulders as if they were my anchor in a storm. My climax was gathering, an enveloping, silver-bright cascade that swept over and through me, and I was falling into it, tumbling head over heels, the roar of my heartbeat deafening me to all else.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
Eli drove inside me harder and harder, both hands on my bottom again, and I didn’t care that my head was bumping against the door, that the solid wood was beginning to hurt my back, that anyone walking down the corridor might hear my cries and know exactly what we were doing.
“Holy fuck,” he gasped, and then pulled away abruptly. I felt a rush of hot fluid against my inner thigh, soaking into the fabric of my drawers. In that instant I shook free from the waking dream that had ensnared me since the moment we’d first touched, back on the road to Argentière.
He lowered me to my feet but made no move to pull away, leaning heavily against me, his hands settled lightly on my thighs, his head buried in the crook of my shoulder. Long moments passed, marked only by our slowing heartbeats and my growing dismay.
In the space of only a few minutes, we’d progressed from simple kisses to the sort of transgression that often had far-reaching consequences. I’d been through this once before, eight long years ago—what had I been thinking to endanger myself like this again?
“Alice? Are you all right?”
“Quite all right, thank you. Let me excuse myself for a moment...I need to clean...”
