by Lisa Cach
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Woding said, dropping to his knees and cowering, his arms crossed protectively above his head. “Please stop! Forgive me! You’re beautiful and wonderful, and I was an idiot to go away. I am not good enough for you. Please let me kiss the hem of your gown,” he said, crawling toward her.
“Kiss my shoe,” she ordered.
He did so, bending low to press his lips against the toe of her worn leather shoe.
“Now you may kiss my hem.”
He obeyed.
“Kiss my knees.”
Still kneeling, he pressed a kiss against each of her knees through the cloth.
“My hand.”
He took her hand, kissing the back of it, and then turning it over and pressing his face into her palm. One by one he undid the tight buttons that went up the side of her arm, his lips touching each new inch of skin as it was exposed.
“Damn it all,” Serena complained to herself, and pulled her hand away from the imaginary Woding. He and the sword vanished as she banished the fantasy.
“What are you looking at?” she asked Otto, who lay on the sun-warmed stones, watching her. Since the day the shadow had come after her, the Great Dane had lost his fear of her, even taking on a protective role. The slavering beast probably thought he was better than her now. How humiliating.
Not half so humiliating, however, as being left by that bastard Woding after he’d had his hand on her most private of places, making her thrust and moan against him. Oh, God, she’d never be able to bury the shame of that. It had felt so good at the time. How could he have been so unaffected?
She must have done something wrong. She must have repulsed him by her reaction, or maybe she smelled bad. Whatever it was, he had been eager enough to get away the next morning.
The worst of it was, as angry as she was at him for abandoning her, she wanted him back. She wanted to feel his hand on her again, his mouth on her breasts, his lips on her neck. She wanted him to slip his finger inside her again, and bring her to that place of passion she had only guessed at having existed, too afraid to have explored her body on her own.
Damn the man. And damn her own body and its desires. She’d think being a ghost would be some protection against such things.
She left the bastion and continued around the lower wall walkway, making the round she had made several times a day for the past three weeks. She wandered the halls of the castle; she wandered as far as she could in the tunnel; and she wandered the path in her garden. There was nothing to do but think about Woding and worry about a reappearance of le Gayne. There wasn’t even anyone left at the castle worth frightening. The only males were Ben Flury and his grandson John, and she cared too much for her garden to distress them in any way.
Otto followed her as she headed back to the garden, as he had been following her on most of her wanderings these past weeks. He was probably hoping to get a better chance at catching Beezely, the stupid hound.
The garden gate was open, Ben’s gardening tools on the path. She soon found the gardener and his grandson putting into place a stone bench near her cherry tree. She watched as they finished, and then they sat on the bench to enjoy the fruits of their labors. John looked up at the branches of the old tree, frowning.
“Shouldn’t we cut off those dead branches? They don’t look very good. The whole tree looks in sad shape. Maybe we should cut it down.”
Serena’s eyes went wide. She would strangle the boy before she’d let him touch her tree. Her heart started to race and a sweat broke out over her skin. They would not touch her tree!
“Not without Mr. Woding’s say-so,” Ben answered, stopping Serena where she had begun to move forward. “He wants to reproduce it, if he can. Which reminds me, I should be making a cutting soon. We’ll have to find a suitable sapling on which to graft it.”
“We’d better hurry,” John said, looking up at the cherry. “It doesn’t look like it’s going to survive much longer. It didn’t look this bad at the beginning of the summer, did it? I can’t remember.”
“No. But trees can surprise you. They can keep a spark of life long past when you’re certain it’s gone.”
Serena went to her tree and laid her hand against its trunk, hoping Ben’s words were true. Well over half the branches were dead, the leaves shriveled and brown where they still clung at all. She had been taking a terrible toll, what with her reading lessons and her touches exchanged with Woding. Had it been worth it?
It took only a moment to know the answer. Yes. Even the anger and humiliation she felt now, the lust and yearning, the distrust and confusion, it was all worth it. It made her feel alive. She would gladly trade another five centuries of merely existing for one more day of feeling that she lived. Well, make that one week of feeling that she lived. If it was all she was going to get, she wanted as much of it as possible.
Ben soon set John to work pruning one of the vines that grew against the wall. The older man knelt down beside one of the beds and started weeding and removing dead plants, a task that seemed never to end. Serena sat on the new bench and watched them, having nothing better to do. Also, she’d grown fond of Ben and his quiet ways.
A minute later a clatter of wheels and hooves in the courtyard drew her attention, and Otto’s ears suddenly perked up. He was instantly up and galloping out the gateway. Serena’s heart fluttered in her chest.
Woding. He was home.
“A, B, C, D,” Serena recited under her breath, “E, F, G.” Night had fallen, and still she had not summoned the courage to face Woding. With his ability to see her when no one else could, it was impossible for her to spy on him, which she thought was a most lamentable circumstance.
She hadn’t greeted him upon his return because she didn’t want him to know how impatient she had been to have him back. Neither did she want him to know how angry she had been at his leaving, how hurt. Going to him for a resumption of her reading lessons was the only plausible, unembarrassing excuse to see him she could think of.
Perhaps she had waited long enough. She would not appear eager, and she would not seem to be avoiding him. She moved through the house, checked his room, then headed for his study in the tower.
She found him at his desk, papers spread before him but his eyes focused on something in the distance, unseen by any eye but his own. It was only a moment before he saw her.
“Serena!” he said, jumping up and coming around the desk toward her. “Where have you been? I was hoping to see you the moment I arrived.”
She looked at him sideways, not trusting this enthusiasm, and not certain what to make of it. Glad to see her, was he? “I was working on my letters,” she said, stepping around him and going to the desk, pretending to look at the papers there. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Good enough,” he said, coming back toward her. She saw from the corner of her eye that he was going to put his hands on her shoulders, so she stepped away to the side, and went to the window to look out at the night.
“You’re upset, aren’t you?” he asked, speaking to her back.
“Whatever do you mean?” She turned and raised an eyebrow innocently. “Upset? Of course not. You’re back, and I’m very happy.”
“No, you’re not. You’re angry as a wounded boar with me for leaving you so suddenly.”
“I do not know of what you speak,” she said haughtily. “I’m sure I barely noticed your absence.”
“How foolish of me to have been concerned!” he said, and she could not miss the irritation in his tone. “In that case, I certainly do not need to offer you any apology.” He sat down again and picked up a paper, studiously ignoring her.
The horrible man. She stood for several long, silent minutes, waiting for him to ask her again what was wrong. He sat there, shuffling papers, glancing at her once or twice but showing no interest in her pout.
She wanted to kick him. He was supposed to force her to accept his apology, not sit idly by leaving her to ask for it herself. She wanted groveling! Agonies
of regret! She wanted him to suffer.
He began to hum under his breath, a jaunty little tune that she recognized, and then he softly sang the words.
“There were three ravens sat on a tree, Down a down, hay down, hay down, There were three ravens sat on a tree, With a down.”
“Why are you singing that?” she asked sharply.
“Excuse me?” he said, looking up from his papers.
“That song.”
He hummed a few bars. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t even know the name of it. I’ve had it stuck in my head for weeks now. Why, do you recognize it?”
“Don’t sing it anymore.”
“Why not? I rather like it. I wish I knew the rest of the words. “‘There were three ravens—’” he sang.
She hurried over to him and put her hand over his mouth, her flesh becoming solid in order to silence him. “Don’t sing it, Woding,” she said threateningly.
He took her hand and pulled it down from his mouth. “Or what? You’re going to give me the cold shoulder again?”
She tried to jerk her hand out of his grip, but he tightened his hold and then yanked her off balance, tumbling her into his lap. She grabbed for his shoulders to steady herself, and found herself exactly where she wanted to be: wrapped in his arms.
“It’s about time you found an excuse to come to me,” he said.
“It wasn’t an excuse. I loathe that song. It brings up all manner of unpleasant recollection.”
“Like what?” he asked, brushing his cheek lightly against her own, his mouth near her ear.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me,” he said, and nibbled her earlobe. His hand went to the side of her rib cage, gently massaging her flesh.
“Not now.”
“I want to know what goes on in that mind of yours,” he said, and moved his hand up to cup her breast, his thumb rubbing over her nipple.
“Ah, I cannot think,” she said, her eyes going half-shut. His hand and lips felt so good, so very good. Her disgruntlement with him got shunted away, unimportant compared to continuing this pleasure. She was tired of being angry, anyway.
He slid his arm beneath her knees and stood, lifting her in his arms. She clung tightly to his neck, feeling his muscles flexing against her weight. Embarrassed by her size, she made herself less substantial to lighten the load.
“Stop that,” Woding said. “I want to feel you as a solid woman.”
She did as he bade, and he kissed her on the forehead and then released her legs, allowing her to stand, pressed up against him, her arms still around his neck. His hands went down to her buttocks, and he molded them in his palms, pulling and shaping them as he pressed his hips against hers. She opened her mouth and kissed him, playing with his lips as he had played with hers, and pressing herself against the ridge of hardness she felt against her belly.
He parted from her and took her hand, leading her out the door and down the stairs. She followed willingly, albeit with her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She knew he was taking her to his bedroom, to repeat what he had done there before, and perhaps more. She felt the urgency in his strength as he led her, and knew that he would be asking more of her this time.
The thought frightened her, and that same fear sent ripples of excitement through her body. Each tug on her hand was a message that he wanted her, and that if she did not protest too hardily he would be having her.
They came to his room and he kicked the door shut behind them, pulling her to the edge of the bed.
“I want to see you naked,” he told her, and releasing her hand he stepped back, his eyes roving over the length of her body.
She crossed her arms, holding them tight against her chest. “You first.”
He shook his head. “You’ve seen me dozens of times. Fair is fair. It’s your turn.” He sat in the chair beside the bed and gazed at her. “Undress for me, Serena. Let me see you unadorned, as God made you.”
“’Twould be indecent!”
“I would enjoy it very much.”
She shifted from one foot to the other, trying to find a way through her conflicting emotions. It went against all habit and experience for her to willingly bare her body before the eyes of a man: the very thought was mortifying. And yet part of her wanted to do it, wanted to be wanton as a whore and flaunt her body to him, if she could be certain that his reaction would be lust and not laughter.
“It will give you pleasure?” she asked.
“Did it give you pleasure to watch me take a bath?” he asked back.
She kicked off her shoes in answer.
“Slowly, Serena,” he chided softly.
She put her hands to the clasp of her golden girdle, feeling suddenly unfamiliar with the task of undressing. How did one do such a basic thing slowly, and in a manner more erotic than mundane? “I have not undressed for a very long time,” she admitted. She had not removed her clothes in all the time that she had been a ghost. There had been no reason to, for they remained as clean as they were the day she died.
“If you forget how, I’ll be glad to help,” he said, and smiled.
She smiled back, reassured slightly that he did want to see her. She unclasped the girdle, holding one end as the chain fell from around her hips with a quiet, rippling series of clinks, then pulled the girdle through her other hand, as if playing with a snake. She felt a bit foolish, but a quick glimpse at Alex showed that he was watching every move.
She coiled the girdle around her hand, then let it slide off into a neat circle on the corner of the bed. She put one foot up on the edge of the mattress and slowly pulled up her skirts, past her knee, where her woolen stocking was tied in place with a worn garter. She pulled on the edge of the bow, loosening the knot, then dropped the garter atop the coiled girdle. She slanted a look at Alex, then inched the stocking down her calf, past her ankle, and lifted her foot off the bed to push it down over her heel and off her toes.
She was distracted momentarily by the sight of her own feet, and checked them over to be certain there were no unseemly spots. They looked remarkably good, considering the length of time they had been untended. She repeated the stocking routine with her other leg, then stood facing Alex.
There was a faint smile curling his lips, and his eyes were gleaming.
She knew of no attractive way to remove the white surcoat, so she did it in the usual way, straight over her head. She folded it neatly once it was off, the silk garment still precious to her as a link to her mother.
She stood before him in her tight pink underdress, and one by one undid the buttons that molded the material around her forearms, still feeling embarrassed but beginning to enjoy the look in Alex’s eye. When that task was complete, she swept her hair around to one side, twisting it over her right shoulder to hang down her chest, and then went to Alex and turned her back to him.
“I cannot reach the lacings,” she told him. It was only partially true. She had managed well enough on her own in the past, but it didn’t seem to fit the mood to twist awkwardly in front of him, her arms bent at unnatural angles as she struggled with the cords.
He stood to untie the knot, and she could hear his breathing as his fingers worked at the cord, then loosened it as it crisscrossed down her back.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping away. She looked at him over her shoulder, commanding him with her eyes to resume his seat.
His smile was crooked and rueful this time. “You are growing sure of yourself,” he said, sitting down.
She flashed her eyebrows up and down, a saucy response requiring no words. She flipped her hair back behind her, and with it concealing most of her body she pulled the underdress down over her shoulders, off her arms, then down past her hips, letting it drop to the floor.
The cool air of the room sank through her thin linen chemise, the loose garment all that she wore now. She stood still, her body unaccustomed to freedom from the tight heaviness of her dress. She raised her arms to the side, no wool pu
lling at the movement, the chemise unsticking from her body, the creases falling loose. Her breasts felt weighty on her chest, unsupported and unbound, and she could feel the cool air rising up her chemise, drying the slight dampness beneath them.
She reached up to the thin ribbon drawstring below her collarbone and tugged it loose. Already low on her shoulders, the chemise gave in to its own weight, the neckline gaping wide and sliding off her body. It caught for a moment over her wrists and hips, and she brushed it past, the garment falling to join its sister around her feet.
Her chin rose, her lips curling in a smile, her eyes narrowing like a cat’s as she felt her body nude in the air for the first time in hundreds of years. She did not need to look down to know that her breasts were still high and full with youth, her limbs long and strong, supple with muscle and the layer of silken fat that she had not completely lost, despite the deprivations of her last months alive.
She forgot that she was taller than she was supposed to be, bigger boned, stronger than a lady, and felt instead the glorious freedom of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. She spread her arms, like wings drying in the sun, and felt the stretch of unencumbered muscles.
She let her arms float back down to her sides, and then, her chin high, turned to Alex, feeling her hair brushing at her shoulders and buttocks.
“Good God in heaven,” he said beneath his breath, and rose to his feet. His hands held a fine tremor as he reached out to touch her, his palms over her breasts. He stepped closer, kissing her lightly on the lips, putting his face beside hers, his breath touching her cheek, then her neck. He laid light kisses on her shoulder, then cupped her breast in his hand, holding it as if raising water from a stream to drink.
She put her own hand on the back of his shoulder to balance herself as he laved her breast with his tongue, making her unsteady on her feet. His other hand went down around her hip to her buttock, stroking and massaging. The pressure of his mouth on her breast had her arching backward, and she brought her other hand around to his shoulders as well, afraid she would fall over. Her legs began to quiver.
