She wiped her tears on the hair of his chest, the warmth of his heart beating beneath her cheek. She found her breath and smiled up at him. “You did not hurt me. I weep for joy.”
Tears were in his eyes then and he pressed his lips to hers, a soft, lingering kiss that told her he would not touch her again if she did not wish it. But in spite of the pleasure his lips and tongue had given her, Arabella found that it was not enough. In spite of the pleasure that had built and faded, the pleasure that still lingered in her body like the glow of a dying fire, she wanted more.
She pressed him back against the bolster behind them, the pillows rising around them like a fortress, blocking out a little of the morning sun. Arabella followed him down into the little valley the pillows made, their white linen embroidered with silver and blue flowers. For the first time, Arabella saw that the blue of this bedroom matched the blue of her eyes.
Arabella kissed him, her mouth lingering over his, her tongue seeking his as he had taught her, her long hair falling over both of them in a wave of caramel and gold.
Pembroke’s hands were on her arms, drawing her closer, opening his mouth wide under hers, taking her in as he accepted all she had to give. She pressed herself against him, the length of her slender body touching the length of his. The hard planes of Pembroke’s chest and thighs cradled and supported her as he feasted on her mouth, on her tongue and lips, trailing down to kiss her throat, turning her over until she lay beneath him.
His blue eyes were dark with desire. He stared into her face, the smile he had worn before gone now, burned away in the heat that rose between them. She knew that he was going to ask her permission once again, and she knew also that she could not bear to hear him ask it. So she raised herself under him until her hips caressed his swelling manhood. She did not know how to draw him down and into her, but she made her desire known without words.
Pembroke laughed, a low, harsh sound that sent a wave of lust spilling down the edges of her spine. She shivered beneath him, for she saw that he needed no further prompting from her.
He rose over her, and this time she knew he would not turn back. His long, thick fingers slid between her thighs, and she opened them wider, as if to offer herself to take him in. Arabella did not care what he did to her or how it hurt. She wanted only for him to be inside her.
Her thoughts skittered away like fallen leaves caught in a blast of wind. Her breath rose in gasps as his fingers lingered between her thighs. Though desire had transformed his face into hard planes and angles, though his blue eyes were indigo as they caressed her breasts and hair and face, he was still the man she loved. He was still Raymond Olivier.
Arabella gasped beneath him as he tested her once more, his long fingers lingering within her for a moment before they withdrew, taking the heat of her with them. Pembroke raised those fingers to his mouth and sucked on them as he had sucked on her breasts. Arabella shuddered with pleasure to see him do it. She shook with longing as he lowered himself between her thighs, raising her hips to meet his.
He was gentle even as he slid inside her. She saw the tension in his jaw, the shaking of the muscles of his arms as he strained to contain himself, as he strove hard not to hurt her. Arabella opened her mouth to tell him that she did not care, that pain from him was worth more than pleasure from anyone else. But instead of words, instead of coherent thought and comfort for him, she found she could not speak at all. As he entered her, the hard length of him making him one with her for the rest of their lives, she could only gasp and then moan as her ecstasy began to mount.
Pembroke heard her moan, and a look of triumph crossed his face. But he did not give in to his own desire even then, but raised her hips and moved carefully between them, working against her body as if she were a puzzle he meant to solve. She felt it then, the deep fountain hidden within her, a place of hidden bliss broader than what she had found before when he had kissed her secret places. Pembroke, still watching her face, shifted the angle of his entry, and she moaned.
Pleasure built in her as a volcanic mountain rising suddenly from the depths of the sea. She did not climb that mountain but rose with it as Pembroke moved over her, using the rhythm of his hips against hers to drive her farther and farther into it. She felt the mountain that carried her shake beneath her as the waves of her ecstasy rose and crested. She came apart, calling his name over and over until she lost her breath.
Pembroke gave himself up to his own desire then, letting her hips fall beneath his as he drove himself into her again and again. He shuddered with his own satisfaction as he lost all control, and Arabella wrapped her arms and legs around him, drawing him closer, her arms behind his shoulders, her legs around his hips. Pembroke lay still against her, his breath coming in gasps, his weight across her as if a boulder from her mountain of bliss had fallen down to bury her.
She laughed a little under her breath, wondering how she could be capable of such glorious pleasure. Perhaps it was some magic, some alchemy that lay in Pembroke’s power alone. She knew that she would never find out. She would never make love with any man but him.
He raised himself off her so that his weight did not bear her down into the softness of the feather bed. Arabella felt the loss as he withdrew from her, rolling onto his back. He kept his arms wrapped around her and took her with him, so that she lay sprawled across his body like a living blanket, her legs entwined with his.
“Where was the pain?” she asked him.
Pembroke met her eyes, drawing himself back from the lingering effects of his own pleasure. Used to debauchery, he caught his breath much more quickly than she caught hers. He pushed the long strands of hair back from her face, leaving his large palm against her cheek so that she could not turn away.
“What pain?” he asked.
“Always with my husband, I felt unspeakable pain. It lasted the whole time he was with me. I felt no pain with you. Nothing but joy.”
She watched his blue eyes darken again, this time with anger and not with desire. He drew her down to lie across his chest, wrapping his arms around her as if to protect her from the world and from all the people in it.
“I am sorry he hurt you,” Pembroke said. “I would kill him, too, if he still lived.”
Arabella smiled, wondering why his threats to kill the men in her past made her so happy. Perhaps it was the tone of protectiveness in his voice when he made these threats against men who were dead.
“You will never know pain again, Arabella. I swear it. I will stand between you and what would harm you every day for the rest of my life.”
She did not tell him the obvious truth that he could no more keep her from pain than he could keep the sun from rising. Pain came with life as breath did, but joy came too.
Hawthorne threatened to rise up before her, a specter born to drive away her happiness. She closed her eyes against him and against the memory of his knife. He would not find her. She would be gone when he came. But here, alone with the man she loved, she would not think of him. He might take her future with Raymond, but he could not take this moment.
Arabella and Raymond did not make love again but lay in bed together for another hour, reveling in the silence, in the fact that the door to her room was locked, that no one could reach them. She did not think of the loss of the past or of the loss to come. She simply lay with her head on her lover’s chest, sweet touches the only talk between them.
Twenty-one
Pembroke and Arabella went down to the village, so that he might rehearse with the Shakespearean troupe, as he had promised Titania he would do. Arabella took up her script once more and watched him perform the role of Oberon, telling herself that she could not leave the village until Mrs. Bonner had finished with her new, modest wardrobe. She pushed the shadow of Hawthorne and his coming out of her mind and instead raised her face to the warmth of the sun, taking in the beauty of that summer day.
She watched
the play, rarely needing to refer to the text, for after the first rehearsals, no actor seemed to need to call for a line. They moved in Shakespeare’s world with ease, as if the dream the playwright had created was the real world, and the world beyond the stage was the illusion.
Arabella was not sure how, but the whole group seemed to sense the change between them. Pembroke was discreet, but his eyes lingered on her even though his hands did not. Titania seemed to know that she had been temporarily replaced. If she was jealous or angry, Arabella could see no sign of it. The beautiful actress simply pressed her lips to Arabella’s cheek. “I knew you’d have him. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you together.”
Arabella laughed. “I wish you’d have told me.”
Titania smiled as if the love between Arabella and Pembroke were somehow her doing. “And spoil the fun? The gods must have their way with us. There is no use in rushing fate. The fates rule our lives. We are but their playthings.”
Arabella did not agree, but she pressed Titania’s hand. “I am grateful to them then. I have never been so blessed.”
One of the other actors overheard her words and spat into the dirt at her feet. “Avant,” he said. “Don’t tempt the gods. They cannot bear too much happiness.”
Arabella did not believe in the old gods either, but she smiled and nodded at the actor just the same, for Barnabas seemed intent that she believe his words of warning. After a life of grim survival and disaster, for that one day, she savored her joy. Even Cassie’s glare from across the village green could not dampen her spirits. Love colored her vision and touched everything she saw and every person she spoke to. She felt as if she lay under an enchantment indeed, but one not from the gods or from the fairies. An enchantment Pembroke had cast on her.
Though rehearsal went on, Pembroke came down from the stage and took Arabella’s arm. She smiled up at him, bemused, as he led her to his phaeton without even a by your leave. Titania waved to them as they left, and Arabella was surprised to find a picnic basket tucked away behind the seat of the carriage. Pembroke sang in a deep baritone, bringing the birds down from the trees as they passed, carrying her into the countryside away from the village where no actors or villagers would follow. The light carriage had no top, and the early summer sun warmed them.
He brought out a picnic that Mrs. Marks had packed and spread a blanket for them on the grass beneath the oak tree where they had first pledged themselves to one another.
He offered his hand to her. “We never were allowed to dance, Miss Swanson. May I have this waltz?”
Arabella laughed and stepped into his arms. There was no music but the sound of the wind in the trees over their heads, and the sweet music of the river running nearby. Arabella fell into step with him easily, for though she did not know how to waltz well, Raymond did. She followed his lead and let herself move without thinking, an unaccustomed luxury.
The warm sun caught in the green of the leaves overhead, setting dappled shadow to dance across her face as Pembroke held her in his arms. He waltzed with her over the uneven ground as if tree roots and broken leaves did not exist, as if they were alone in a world of their own making.
He stopped suddenly but did not let her go. He held her close so that she could feel the heat of his body against hers and the beat of his heart.
“I had better stop,” he said. “There are no Almack’s ladies to keep me on my best behavior here.”
“I find I like your roguish ways, Raymond. Feel free to practice them on me anytime you wish.”
He laughed then, helping her down onto the picnic blanket. He handed her a glass of crisp white wine, pressing his lips to hers. They sat beneath the spreading arms of the old oak, sunlight filtered through the verdant green of the leaves as the wind moved the branches overhead. Arabella felt as if all the world offered its blessing to them, the great oak, the wind, and the sky. She kissed him, her lips lingering on his. It was Pembroke who pulled away, raising his glass to her.
“To Lady Pembroke, the only woman I will ever love.”
She raised her glass to him and drank. “I had no idea you still held your mother in such high esteem.”
“I mean you, minx, and you know it.”
“I will be the lady of your heart, but I will bear no other title.”
“I have loved you all my life. I will always love you. You’ll marry me. You’ll see.”
She laughed, breathless. “No, I will not.”
He leaned over and kissed her again, his lips tasting of the tart wine. She sighed against his mouth. “You will find I am very persuasive,” he said.
“I have no doubt of that.”
He took the wineglass from her hand and pressed her down onto the blanket, heedless of the fact that they were outdoors, heedless of the fact that anyone might come upon them and be shocked, as she was.
His lips lingered on hers with feather lightness, but his body bore down on hers, making her breathless. Desire pooled between her thighs as if he had conjured it by magic. She felt the warmth suffuse her body, making her pliant beneath him.
He drew back, his eyes on hers. “I will persuade you.”
“No, you will not. But if this is a sample, I hope you keep trying.”
He laughed then and bent to kiss her even as he raised them both up to sit. As they sat and ate together, his hands stayed on her, his warm touch lingering on her body as they ate, a glancing touch on her thigh, on her breast, on the softness of her hair. She wanted him with a consuming hunger, but she did not throw herself at him. She merely sipped her sweet wine and ate another strawberry.
He laughed at her restraint before taking her wineglass from her. He drew her close, and she let him, pressing her down against the nest of soft blankets beneath the tree.
His hand rose up under her skirt, caressing first her calves, running up over her stockings to her ribbon garters. Her heart pounding, she thought that he might loosen them, but he did not, his hand moving across her thigh, brushing against the thatch of hair hidden beneath the linen of her drawers. He reached up and began to slide his fingers past the linen, into the warmth of her body.
She gasped and half rose as if to escape him and the pleasure he offered, but he bore down on her as he had in her bed, pressing his body against hers, holding her prisoner as his knowing fingers played within the sweet warmth of her body. She cried out, and his lips swallowed the sound. She murmured and moaned, writhing beneath him as if to get away, but everywhere she moved, he moved to meet her, so that she came closer and closer to the bliss he offered.
She screamed once and shuddered beneath him, and his lips drank in the sound like wine. He did not stop moving as her pleasure crested but played her body as he might a violin, until the last note of her ecstasy had sounded and she lay limp beneath him.
“I love you, Arabella. And I will not let you forget it.”
She pressed her lips to his throat, the only place she could reach. “What can I give to you, Raymond?”
He laughed, his body vibrating over hers. “I have had pleasure enough. Today, let me give to you and be content.”
She did not agree with him but was too tired and replete with her own bliss to argue with him. She knew that he loved her, but she also knew that he meant to tempt her to abandon her future, and to join her life to his.
But she had been married once already. A wife belonged body and soul to her husband. She did not exist under the law but could be put away or ignored at his will. She could be cut off without a penny, no matter what dowry she brought to the match. A wife was nothing, a nonentity, a ghost. As much as she loved Pembroke, as much as she always would, she was alive. She had fought hard for her life, and she would keep it.
Even if Hawthorne were vanquished tomorrow, Arabella would never live under the boot of a man again.
***
As the month of June wore on, drawing ever c
loser to Midsummer Night, Arabella chastised herself for being a fool. She knew that Hawthorne would come looking for her, and that she needed to be gone long before he arrived. Once she disappeared, Pembroke would no longer be a target of Hawthorne’s wrath. And if she hid herself well enough, Hawthorne would never find her.
She saw the logic of this and knew that her father’s golden guineas were enough to live on for the rest of her life. She must take them and go. So she told herself every morning as she woke. And every morning, she woke by Pembroke’s side, and every morning he kissed her, and she was left telling herself that she would leave… tomorrow.
Their time together was a stolen season.
Since their picnic in the Forest of Arden the week before, he had not mentioned marriage again. For some perverse reason, this pained her, though she reminded herself that she could not marry him, or anyone, so it was just as well that they did not keep discussing a fruitless subject.
As long as she lingered there, Arabella had wanted to enjoy the village of her childhood as she had never been able to do while her father was alive. She had wanted to exercise her new freedom that Sunday and go to the village church, but Pembroke had kept her in bed. When he went out to the players on the green that afternoon, she went down to the kitchen to make a tart, using one of Mrs. Fielding’s recipes. If she had not had the sense to leave by then, she would go to church next week.
As Arabella stood in Pembroke’s kitchen, the sunlight slanted in through the great wide windows that looked out on the herb garden. Mrs. Marks clicked her tongue to have a duchess below stairs making pastry, but Arabella ignored her.
She hummed to herself at the little wooden table Cook had set aside for her use. Her pastry was ready to go into the oven. She was making strawberry tarts as Mrs. Fielding had taught her to do, long ago. She slipped her pastry into the corner of the oven Cook had set aside for her, then turned back to her table to clean up the flour and bits of crust she had left behind, when a flurry of noise caught her attention.
Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02] Page 19
