by Lucy Leroux
“I knew I'd find you in here.”
Isobel turned to see her husband coming through the greenhouse doors. He was looking very fine, in a loose linen shirt and breeches. Despite the heat of the day, he was wearing black kidskin gloves over his hands. Watching him approach, she flushed at the memory of those black gloves moving all over her nude body the night before.
Though he still bore scars, the underlying musculature of his hands had improved markedly. He could use them with only a little pain now—despite his continued refusal to let her apply more salves, or to drink any of the tonics she prepared for him. Even after they moved to Italy, he insisted the injuries were his penance.
As a witness and first-hand participant in those dark events, she understood. As his wife, she refused to let him continue to punish himself for something that had been out of his control.
However, in recent days, Matteo had become skeptical. His hands had recovered too quickly and too well for him not to suspect her. She'd heard him asking his valet if she'd given the cook anything to add to his food or drink. His lack of trust wounded her a little, but since she was healing him on the sly she decided not to dwell on it.
At least the suspicious glint in his eye didn't stop him from gathering her into his arms and kissing her soundly in greeting. Softening in his embrace, she returned his kiss eagerly. His gloved hands cupped the back of her head before moving down to stretch over her swollen belly.
“How is she today?”
“Active. And it's a he,” she said pointedly.
She knew it for a fact.
Matteo raised a brow. “You know your dreams don't always come true.”
“This one will.” She put her hands over his. “How are they today?”
“Well enough,” he said, lifting his hands and crossing his arms over his chest.
“That's excellent darling,” she said brightly, avoiding his eyes.
“Isabella.”
“Hmm?” she murmured, moving away to needlessly reorganize the strawberry pots.
“You and I both know that they shouldn't be well—nowhere near. I just haven't figured out how you're doing it. The staff swears up and down that my meals and drink haven't been adulterated at your request. My valet swears the brandy and the grappa have not been tampered with. So, mia streghetta, how did you do it?”
Isobel pursed her lips and looked down.
“Mi amore, you have to stop.”
She looked up at him entreatingly. “I can't.”
He sat on the bench across from her and took her hands in his. “You have to. I told you—this is my penance. It's important to me. This is the only way to make amends for what I've done.”
Scowling, she tugged on his glove. “And I've told you, there is no more need to punish yourself. You were a victim, just as I almost was. But you met me,” she said, succeeding in pulling off the glove from his hand. “And our meeting was no accident. I know that now. I was supposed to help you and now I'm supposed to love you. So I'm going to do just that, and you will accept it—whether you like it or not.”
He laughed briefly, until she lifted his hand to her lips to press a soft kiss to its scarred surface.
His eyes softened. “I happily accept your love and anything else you are willing to give me. Except the continued healing. I've already regained the use of my hands. Anything else is too much to ask. So please, no more charms or spells or whatever else it is that you've done.”
She sighed. “I told you, I can't stop. But if you choose to forgo treatment, then that is your decision. I shall, however, be extremely disappointed. Although the natural conclusion of the treatment was fast approaching in any case,” she said, patting her belly meaningfully.
He raised a brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She bit her lip and glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “It means that the charm is in me, my lord.”
“What?”
Gesturing to her body, she suppressed a tiny gloating smile. “I put the healing charm in me. Every time you touch me, every time we make love, you are healed just a little bit more.”
“Isabella!” he gasped, his eyes wide.
She held up her hands. “I didn't know I was pregnant when I cast the spell! I swear it! But even if had known I would have done it, anyway. In fact, I take comfort in the charm being there for all new reasons now,” she said, casting worried eyes down her body.
Her husband wrapped his arms around her shoulders tightly. “Everything is going to be fine. No child of ours could be anything but good and pure, no matter when they were conceived.”
Trying to be convincing, she agreed with him. It was an old argument between them.
Isobel wasn't sure when she'd fallen pregnant. It was most likely after Matteo had begun to recover from his ordeal, during one their first real lovemaking sessions. But there was the matter of her substitution in the contraceptive mixture of herbs she'd been taking before he was cured. And if her calculations were accurate, then there was a genuine possibility that the child had been conceived before the purge.
Clinging tighter to Matteo, she pressed her face into his neck, while he ran his hands over her back and bottom in a soothing gesture. His fingers flexed and lingered on the latter, as if he just couldn't help himself.
“You really are a witch, mi amore,” he said.
Lifting her head, she met his teasing expression. “I think that's been suitably established my lord,” she said wryly.
“I was referring to the healing charm you managed to imbue in your beautiful body. You picked the one thing I would never be able to deny myself,” he said, gloved hands moving down her breasts to the apex of her thighs.
She blushed, growing warm beneath her dress. But her countenance was sober, because what she had to tell him was serious.
“It was still a risk, my lord. There was every chance that you'd grow tired of me now that you were alone in there,” she said, pressing a hand to his chest.
He frowned and began to speak but she cut him off with a hand over his mouth.
“I was afraid, you see,” she continued, moving her hand over his heart, “that your feelings for me were an artifact, a side-effect of your affliction. There was a danger that over time that your regard and those sentiments would fade away, as if they'd never been there. And if you didn’t touch me, my cure would never work.”
He laughed at her, and she scowled.
“It was a genuine concern.”
He leaned in until their brows touched. “No, my love, there was never any danger of that at all,” he whispered before he kissed her again.
And again. And again.
The End.
Notes from the Author
First of all thank you for reading Cursed!
Some liberty has been taken with geographical details. The overall distances and how long it would take to travel them have been altered for the sake of brevity and convenience. Additionally to my knowledge there are no underground ruins of a fort in the town of Carrbridge. The bridge for which the town was named still exists, but the ruins are solely my creation. I would also like to add that I'm sure the inhabitants of the real Carrbridge are all lovely people who have never run a witch out of town.
I would also like to thank Alexandre Albore for all of his helpful suggestions on the historical accuracy of the characters. This includes changing the origin of the Garibaldi's from Varzi to Santa Fiora, in Tuscany so the rich Italian count could stay an Italian count, instead of a penniless french-speaking Marquess from Savoie!
Santa Fiora, unlike Varzi, is the ancestral home of a powerful dynasty of counts, though I chose not to use their family name, Aldobrandeschi, in favor of the more reader-friendly Garibaldi. Another big thanks to Alex for all of the translations. The swearing is far more accurate for Italians of this region as a result!
I'm also very aware that the incubus described differs from the historical accounts and mytholog
y surrounding them. But hey, it's a fantasy ;)
About the Author
Lucy Leroux chose love.
Lucy moved to France for a one-year research contract. Six months later she was living with a handsome Frenchman and six years later is happily married to him…and still in France.
When her last contract ended Lucy turned to writing. Frustrated by the lack of quality romance erotica, she created her own.
Cursed is the first of many regency novels. Additionally she writes a bestselling contemporary series. The ‘Singular Obsession’ books are a combination of steamy romance and suspense that feature intertwining characters in their own stand-alone stories. Follow Lucy on twitter @lucythenovelist or www.facebook.com/lucythenovelist
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