by Nora Roberts
“I haven’t earned you,” he said quietly. “That occurs to me now. I haven’t earned you.”
“I’m not a wage or a prize. I wouldn’t care to be earned.” She opened the door to her sitting room.
She’d had the fire lit, and the candles. The cold supper and the good wine were already laid out, with flowers from one of the hothouses.
“You’ve gone to some trouble.” He shut the door behind them. “Thank you.”
“It was for me, but I’m glad you like it. I wanted a night, just one, where it would be only the two of us. As if none of this was happening. Where we could sit and talk and eat. And where I might drink just a little too much wine.”
She laid down her bow and quiver, unhooked her sword. “One night when we don’t talk of battles and weapons and strategy. You’d tell me you love me. You wouldn’t even have to say it, because I’d see it when you looked at me.”
“I do love you. I looked back at the castle, and saw the glow in the windows from these candles. That’s how I think of you. A steady glow.”
She stepped toward him, took his face in her hands. “And if I think of you as the night, it’s the mystery of it, and the thrill. I’ll never be afraid of the dark again, because I’ve seen into it.”
He kissed her brow, her temples, then her lips. “Let me pour you the first glass of too much wine.”
She sat at the little table and watched him. This was her lover, she thought. This strange and compelling man who carried wars inside him. And she’d have this night with him, the whole of it, and a few hours of peace for them both.
She chose food for his plate, knowing it was a wifely gesture. She’d have that as well, this one night. When he sat across from her, she lifted her glass to his. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte.”
“Will you tell me the places you’ve seen? Where you’ve traveled? I want to go there in my mind. I studied the maps in your library in Ireland. Your world is so big. Tell me the wonderful things you’ve seen.”
He took her to Italy during the Renaissance, and Japan in the time of samurai, to Alaska during the gold rush, to Amazon jungles and to African plains.
He tried to paint quick snapshots with words, so she could see the variety, the contrasts, the changes. He could all but see her mind opening to take it in. She asked dozens of questions, particularly when something he related expanded or contradicted what she’d read when in his library.
“I’ve wondered what lies beyond the sea.” She propped her chin on her fist as he poured more wine. “Other lands, other cultures. It seems that if we were once a part of Ireland, that there may be parts of Italy and America, Russia, all those wondrous places here, in this world, too. One day…I’d like to see an elephant.”
“An elephant.”
She laughed. “Aye, an elephant. And a zebra and a kangaroo. I’d like to see the paintings from the artists you’ve seen, and the ones I found in your books. Michelangelo and DaVinci, Van Gogh, Monet, Beethoven.”
“Beethoven was a composer. I don’t believe he could paint.”
“That’s right, sure, that’s right. The Moonlight Sonata, and all those symphonies with numbers. It’s the wine muddling it up a bit. I’d like to see a violin, and a piano. And an electric guitar. Do you play any of those?”
“Actually, it’s a little known fact that there were six original Beatles. Never mind.”
“I know. John, Paul, George and Ringo.”
“You’ve got a memory like that elephant you’d like to see.”
“As long as you remember it, it belongs to you. I’ll likely never see an elephant, but I’ll have orange trees one day. The seeds in the hothouse pots are sprouting.” She held her thumb and forefinger up, close together. “That bit of green coming out of the dirt. Glenna tells me the blossoms will be very fragrant.”
“Yes, they will be.”
“And I took other things.”
It amused him to hear the confessional tone in her voice. “So, you’ve sticky fingers, have you?”
“I thought, if I’m not meant to take them to Geall, they won’t go. I took a cutting of your roses. All right, well, three cuttings. I was greedy. And a photograph Glenna took of Larkin and me. And a book. I confess it, I took a book right out of your library. It’s a thief I am.”
“Which book?”
“It was poems by Yeats. I wanted it particularly because he was Irish it said, and it seemed important I bring something that was written down by an Irishman.”
Because you were Irish, she thought. Because the book was yours.
“And the poems were so beautiful and strong,” she continued. “I told myself I was going to give it back to you once I’d copied more down, but that’s a lie. I’m keeping it.”
He laughed, shook his head. “Consider it a gift.”
“Thank you, but I’ll happily pay you for it.” She rose, stepped over to where he sat. “And you may name the price.” She sat on his lap, linked her arms around his neck. “He wrote something, your Yeats, that made me think of you, and especially what we have between us tonight. He wrote: ‘I spread my dreams at your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’”
She combed her fingers through his hair. “You can give me your dreams, Cian. I’ll tread softly.”
Impossibly moved, he rested his cheek against hers. “You’re unlike any other.”
“With you, I’m more than I ever was. Will you come out, stand for a while on the balcony with me? I’d like to look at the moon and the stars.”
He rose with her, but when he turned, she drew him back. “No, the bedroom balcony.”
He thought of her mother, of what she’d seen. “Are you sure?”
“I am. I stood out there today, alone. I want to stand there with you, in the night. I want you to kiss me there so I’ll remember it all of my life.”
“You’ll want a cloak. It’s cold.”
“Geallian woman are made of sterner stuff.”
And when she led the way, when her hand gripped his tight as she opened the balcony doors, he thought, yes, yes, she was.
Chapter 14
He kissed her on the balcony, and she would remember it, all of it. She wouldn’t forget the quiet music of the night, the chill in the air, the easy skill of his mouth.
Tonight she wouldn’t think of sunrise and the obligations that came with it. The night was his time, and while she was with him, it would be hers.
“You’ve kissed many women.”
He smiled a little, brushed his lips over hers again. “I have.”
“Hundreds.”
“At least.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Thousands.”
“Very likely.”
“Hmm.” She wandered away from him, then turned, leaning back on the stone rail. “I think I’ll make a decree, that every man must come and kiss their queen. So I can catch up. At the same time it would be a kind of study, a comparison. I could see how you rate in this particular skill.”
“Interesting. I’m afraid you’d find your countrymen sadly lacking.”
“Oh? How can you be sure? Have you ever kissed a man of Geall?”
He laughed. “Clever, aren’t you?”
“So I’m told.” She stayed as she was when he moved to her, when he caged her in by laying his hands on the rail on either side of her. “Does your taste run to clever women?”
“Currently, when their eyes are like night fog, and their hair the color of polished oak.”
“Gray and brown. I always thought they were such dull colors, but nothing about me feels dull when I’m with you.” She laid a hand on his heart. Though it didn’t beat, she saw the pulse of it in his eyes. “I don’t feel shy with you, or nervous. I did, until you kissed me.”
She pressed her lips to where her hand had laid. “Then I thought, well of course. I should have known. A curtain lifted inside me. I don’t think it will ever close again.”
“You bring the light inside me, Moira.” He
didn’t say, not to her, not to himself, that when he left her it would go out again.
“The moon’s clear tonight, and the stars shine.” She laid her hands on his. “We’ll leave the drapes open until it’s time for sleep.”
She went inside with him, into a room shimmering with moonlight and candlelight. She knew what it would be now, the warmth that went to heat, and the heat that went to fire. And all the thrills and sensations that came between.
From somewhere outside an owl called. For its mate, she thought. She knew what it was now to pine for her mate.
She lifted off her circlet, set it aside, then reached up to take off her earrings. When she saw him watching her she realized these small acts, this prelude to disrobing, could arouse.
So she took them off slowly, watching him as he watched her. She took the cross she’d tucked under her bodice, drawing it over her head. This, she knew, was an act of trust.
“I have no ladies. Would you see to my laces?”
She turned her back, lifted her hair.
“I think I’ll try to make a zipper. It’s a simple thing, really, and makes dressing easier.”
“A lot of charm is lost to convenience.”
She sent him a smile over her shoulder. “Easy for you to say.” But then again, feeling him loosen those laces brought a flutter to her belly. “What invention pleased you the most over your time?”
“Indoor plumbing.”
The quickness of his answer made her laugh. “Larkin and I were spoiled, and miss it sorely. I studied the pipes and the tanks. I think I could fashion something like your shower.”
“A queen and a plumber.” He laid his lips on her shoulder as he eased the material away. “There’s no end to your talents.”
“I wonder how I’ll be as a gentleman’s valet.” She turned to him. “I like buttons,” she said as she began to undo his shirt. “They’re sensible, and pretty.”
So was she, he thought as she worked her way down efficiently. Then she shoved at her hair.
“I think I should cut this off. Like Blair’s. That’s sensible, too.”
“No. Don’t.” His belly quivered as her fingers paused on the button of his jeans. His combed down through the length of her hair, from crown to waist. “It’s beautiful. The way it falls over your shoulders, spills down your back. It all but glows against your skin.”
Charmed, she glanced over toward the long looking glass. And was jolted to see herself standing half dressed. And alone.
She looked away quickly, sent him an easy smile. “Still, it’s a great deal of trouble, and—”
“Does it frighten you?”
There was no point pretending she didn’t understand him. “No. It’s a bit of a shock is all. Is it hard for you? Not being able to see your reflection?”
“It just is. You adjust. Just another irony. Here, you’ve got eternal youth, but you won’t be able to admire yourself. Still…”
He turned her around so they both faced the mirror. Then he lifted her hair, let it fall. When she let out a laugh at watching her hair seem to fly around on its own, he laid his hands on her shoulders.
“There are always ways to amuse yourself,” he told her. He lifted her hair again, and this time brushed his lips—and just a hint of teeth—along the nape of her neck.
He heard the quick intake of her breath, saw her eyes widen.
“No, no,” he murmured when she started to turn. “Just watch.” And trailed his fingers along her skin—bare shoulders, and down to where her loosened bodice clung tenuously to her breasts. “Just feel.”
“Cian.”
“Did you ever dream of a lover coming to you in the night, in the dark?” He nudged the dress down to her waist then glided his fingertips over her breasts. “Overtaking you. Hands and lips heating your skin.”
She lifted her hands to his, needing to feel them. Then flushed and dropped them again as the reflection showed her cupping her own breasts.
Behind her, invisible, he smiled. “You said I didn’t take your innocence. You might have been right, but I think I will now. It’s…succulent, and what I am craves it.”
“I’m not innocent,” she said, but trembled.
“More than you know.” He circled her breasts with his thumbs, moving in slowly until they rubbed stiffened peaks. “Are you afraid?”
“No.” And shuddered. “Yes.”
“A little fear can add to excitement.” He pushed the dress to the floor, leaned close to her ear. “Step out,” he whispered. “Now watch. Watch your body.”
Fear twisted with arousal so it was impossible for her to tell them apart. Her body was helpless, her mind transfixed. Hands and lips she couldn’t see roamed over her, erotically intimate, lazily possessive. She could see herself quivering, and the startled pleasure on her own face.
The clouds of surrender in her own eyes.
Her phantom lover ran his hands down her, fingers toying, tracing, leaving a trail of shivering flesh. This time when they took her breasts, she covered his hands with hers, shameless.
She moaned for him, and still her eyes stayed on the glass. His scholar would never shut her eyes to new experience, to new knowledge. He could feel her trembles, and the instinctive movement of her hips as pleasure took her over. Candlelight played over her skin and sensation warmed it so it bloomed like a rose.
She moaned again as he trailed his fingers over her belly, and melting into him, hooked her arm back around his neck.
He only teased, skimming his fingers along her thighs, over the most sensitive flesh, hinting, only hinting at what was to come until her breath was sobbing out.
“Take,” he murmured. “Take what you want.” He gripped her hand, pressed it to his between her thighs. Trapped it there.
She felt her body buck against him, against herself as he stroked her toward a new, towering pleasure. His body was solid behind hers, and his voice murmured words she no longer understood, but in the glass there was only her own form, lost now to its own rising needs.
Release left her breathless, limp and amazed.
He spun her around so quickly she couldn’t find her balance, and knew she’d have lost it again in any case when his mouth took hers with a wild urgency. She could only cling, could only give while her heart slammed an anvil beat against his chest.
Of all he’d had and taken and tasted, he’d never known such hunger. A kind of madness of need that could only be met with her. For all his skill, all his experience, he was helpless when she held him against her. As ready and wrecked as she, he pulled her to the floor, and plunged inside her to forge that first desperate link.
He turned her face to the mirror once again as he ravished her, as her body went wild under his strong, thrusting hips. And when she came, quaking, he chained need with will until her heavy eyes opened, met his. Until she saw who had her.
He took her again, building and building until her need paced his own. Then burying his face in her hair, emptied himself into her.
She might have lain there, spent, for the rest of her life, but he lifted her. Simply scooped her up, she realized, and stood with her in his arms all in one effortless motion.
And her heart did a little jig in her chest.
“It’s foolish,” she said as she nuzzled his neck, “and I’m thinking it’s female. But I love it that you’re so strong, and that for a moment when we love each other, I make you weak.”
“There’s a part of me, mo chroi, that’s always weak when it comes to you.”
My heart, he’d called her, and it made her own dance again. “Oh, don’t,” she said after he’d laid her on the bed and turned to close the drapes. “Not yet. There’s so much night left.” She rolled off the bed again and grabbed her night robe. “I’m going to get the wine. And the cheese,” she decided. “I’m half starving again.”
As she ran out he went to the fire, tossed on another brick of turf. He closed his mind to the part of him that asked what he was doing. Every time he wa
s with her, there was another scar to his heart, for the day that would come when he’d never be with her again.
She’d survive it, he reminded himself. And so would he. Survival was something humans and demons had in common. Nothing really died of a broken heart.
She came back, carrying a tray. “We can eat and drink in bed, full of decadence.” She set the tray on the bed, and climbed up after it.
“I’ve certainly given you enough of that.”
“Oh?” She brushed back her hair and gave him a slow smile. “And here I was hoping there’d be more to come. But if you’ve shown me all you know, I suppose we can just begin repeating ourselves.”
“I’ve done things you can’t imagine. Things I wouldn’t have you imagine.”
“Now you’re bragging.” She made herself say it lightly.
“Moira—”
“Don’t be sorry for what’s between us, or for what you believe can’t be, or shouldn’t.” Her gaze was clear, direct. “Don’t be sorry when you look at me for whatever you might have done in the past. Whatever it was, each time, it was a step to bringing you here. You’re needed here. I need you here.”
He crossed to the bed. “Do you understand I can’t stay?”
“Yes, yes. Yes. I don’t want to speak of it, not tonight. Can’t we have an illusion for just one night?”
He touched her hair. “I can’t be sorry for what’s between us.”
“That’s enough then.” Had to be enough, she reminded herself, though with every minute that passed there was something inside her going wild, and wilder still with grief.
She lifted one of the goblets, offered it with a steady hand. When he saw it was blood, he lifted a brow at her.
“I thought you might need it. For energy.”
He shook his head and sat on the bed with her. “So, should we talk about plumbing?”
She hadn’t been sure what he’d say, but that was the last on any list she might have made. “Plumbing.”
“You’re not the only one who’s made studies. Added to the fact that I was around when that kind of thing was being incorporated into daily life. I have some ideas how you could install some basics.”
