No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (30 page)

Lily looked at him with all the love in the world and then some. “Then tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me while you take me. Please. Do it now?”

He took a deep breath and steadied his voice with an effort, but the words came from his heart—solemn vows spoken reverently beneath the stars of heaven.

“I, Pascal, take thee, Lily, to my wedded wife.” He pushed into her just a little more, feeling her stretch and give, but seeing her forehead furrow even more deeply. “To have and to hold from this day forward,” he said, kissing her as he pulled his hips back and steeled himself to penetrate her fully. “For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…” He thrust hard.

Lily’s eyes widened and she gave a sharp cry as her flesh gave way to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said with infinite regret, as he stilled inside her and gathered her to his arms. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But it’s over now.”

She took a few quick breaths. “Till death us do part,” she finished with fierce determination, her eyes shut.

“Till death us do part,” he said, his voice tender but shaking. “According to God’s holy ordinance. God, how I love you.”

Lily opened her eyes again, the pain that had marked her brow clearing now. “How I love you, too. Oh, you really are a wretch.” She smiled up at him.

He smiled in return, smoothing her hair. “My brave little duchess.” He moved his hips again, this time no barrier to resist him, only soft, yielding flesh, enveloping him, cradling and inflaming him.

He buried his head between her breasts, drinking in her warm scent, feeling the rapid beating of her heart, the strength of her arms around his back. “Oh, Lily.”

He pulled back and drove into her again and again, thrusting in earnest as her arms tightened and her hips arched up to meet him, and soft little woman cries filled the night.

Thank God,
he thought, with real relief.
Lily likes it too.

He felt powerful, omnipotent, humbled beyond belief, and overwhelmed by the incredible delicacy and heat and giving of Lily.

He felt as if he were going to erupt.

He put his hands on Lily’s hips and pulled her toward him, pushing into her as deeply as he could, his jaw clenched and his head thrust back as passion swelled unbearably. He groaned as it burst within him, great waves pouring out, his seed, his life in Lily, a pleasure beyond imagining, a love beyond question.

She trembled beneath him, her calves locking around his hips, straining up to him, taking him, all of him, her body shaking with acceptance. He felt her flesh flutter like the wings of a young bird learning to take flight, a gentle little tremble that rippled around him, barely felt. And her sigh was the same, a small shiver of release breathed into him as he lowered his mouth to hers.

“I do love you, duchess,” he whispered as he raised his head and met her gaze, his hands brushing strands of hair away from her face.

“I love you too, Pascal,” she whispered back to him. “Beloved wretch.”

He smiled into her hair.

Consummated. Doubly over. Three times, if you were really counting.

A trinity of love.

Lily came out of a deep sleep as dawn broke, slightly disoriented, knowing something was different, but not immediately sure what it was. It didn’t take her long to work it out. A hard, well-muscled leg was pressed between her own, and one equally hard, well-muscled arm was thrown over her waist as if it belonged there. Lily shivered, remembering. It had been a long night.

They’d walked home, both silent. Lily had put dinner on the table, but they’d barely eaten. Then had come that silent moment when the dishes had been washed, Bean put out, and there’d been nothing left to do except go to bed. Pascal looked at her, his eyes full of question. And then he abandoned the question and simply picked her up and carried her up the stairs to bed. She shivered again, thinking of the things he had done to her.

Oh, no angel. No angel at all.

She carefully disentangled herself and rolled over onto her other side to look at Pascal, a heavy sensation rising deep in her belly as she studied his sleeping form, that powerful masculine body, the lean hips outlined beneath the sheet.

She’d never seen him asleep before. His hair was tousled, his face relaxed, serene, his breathing deep and even. He looked beautiful to her, strength and vulnerability mixed together. His lashes were so long, a thick black sweep against those high cheekbones. His mouth, so finely shaped—and so skilled, so adept at giving pleasure. And his hands, oh, his hands, and the wonderful, hot, abandoned things he’d done with them, things that had made her moan, things that had made her writhe like one possessed. She
had
been possessed, possessed with lust and heat and more abandon. He’d fed it, built it into fire as if he’d been taking little pieces of kindling and adding to them one by one until he’d created a conflagration worthy of the devil himself.

No, Pascal was definitely no angel.

Lily quietly got up and pulled on her robe, then went to heat water and put Bean out.

She heard his feet on the stairs and turned to look up at him, almost shy, not quite sure what he would think of her after last night’s behavior. He wore only the sheet, wrapped around his hips, and his trousers and shirt dangled from one hand. She thought he looked a little tired—hardly surprising, considering.

“Up early, aren’t you?” he asked with a smile. “I didn’t manage to exhaust you?”

“Oh, you did that well enough,” she said, relieved that he was behaving in so normal a fashion. “But there are things to be done around here, you know. Lounging about in bed won’t clean the house or bring in the crop.”

Pascal tossed his clothes over the chair and walked over to her, sliding his arms around her, strong, warm arms, a strong, warm, beautiful chest against her cheek.

“Oh?” he said. “It won’t?” He nuzzled his mouth into her neck. “Are you quite sure?”

Lily found it hard to do anything other than nod.

“Feeling a bit upended, are you, duchess?” he asked with a muted laugh, his hands wandering up and down her back.

“Yes, I am,” she said indignantly. “You would be too, if you were in my position.”

“Would I? What position is that?”

“Well,” she said, coloring, “it’s not easy when one is not sure how to conduct oneself after—after doing … umm. After last night.”

“I see,” Pascal said, considering this. “Are you saying there should be rules for this sort of behavior?”

“I don’t know,” she said, wishing he’d stop stroking her back like that, for it made her feel weak at the knees. “No one ever said anything beyond losing my virginity. They certainly didn’t say anything about … well, about—you know.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, that wicked note back in his voice. “I know—but then they wouldn’t say anything, would they?” He smoothed one of his hands through her hair, the other continuing to stroke her back. “Not when they were busy telling you that carnal desire was a sin.” He lowered his head and kissed her slowly, his tongue reminding her of what they’d been doing only a few short hours before.

“Oh, Pascal,” she said shakily when he finally drew away from her. “I really don’t think you ought to kiss me like that in the daylight.”

“No?” he murmured, sliding his hands around her rib cage, cupping her breasts. “Why not?”

Lily’s breath caught in her throat as the touch of his hands burned into her flesh through the thin material of her robe. She could feel him stiff and ready against her, and it was enough to make her head swim with renewed desire. Her legs threatened to cave in altogether.

“B-because it’s improper,” she stammered.

“Mmm,” he replied, untying the sash of her robe and running his hands up and down her naked flesh. “It certainly is.” He slipped the robe off her shoulders and dropped to his knees, his arms around her hips, his mouth doing all sorts of incredibly, wonderfully improper things, starting with her breasts and gliding lower, his tongue stroking a flaming trail down and down until he reached her nest of curls and—

“Pascal!” Lily gasped as he stroked her there too.

“Mmm,” he murmured against her, kissing her most intimate place. “Nice.”

Nice?
Oh, he really was a rogue.

The next thing she knew he’d somehow pulled her down onto the floor, and his hand caressed her where his mouth had just been, unrelenting until she trembled all over with hot sensation, not caring that she was lying naked on the floor in the sunshine, letting him have his wicked way with her.

“You do make a nice wife,” he said, dropping a kiss on one throbbing nipple. His hands slid under her thighs and pulled her knees up and apart as he looked down at her, his face taut with passion. “I’ve never felt anything so wonderful as you, Lily.” He penetrated her in one smooth stroke, filling her completely with his length.

She moaned and arched up to him as his hands stroked her hips, holding her against his long, deep thrusts until she thought she was going to expire. He didn’t stop, he kept going and going, his hips pushing her back against the floor, the wood hard against her spine, but she didn’t care. Her hands traveled over the smooth, hard curve of his buttocks, tracing the hollow there, up to the valley of his spine, over the broad expanse of muscle that shifted under her hands as he moved.

Lily reveled in sensation, in the increasing tempo of his hard masculine penetration, his breathing rough and shallow against her ear. Something unbearable gathered deep within her, something just within her reach. She lifted toward it, her muscles tense with effort.

As he plunged again, Lily exploded. Her head fell back and she cried out again and again, throbbing deep in her body, where he was, around him, over him, waves of never-imagined pleasure fiercely milking him until he shuddered and pulled her as close to him as he could manage.

“Ah, God!” The cry was torn from his throat, harsh and jubilant. He thrust hard, spilling into her, liquid heat pouring into the neck of her womb, causing another swell of waves to break over her, just as powerful, just as overwhelming as the first, until she was drowning, gasping for air, clutching at Pascal as if he could save her.

He couldn’t even save himself. He was gasping every bit as desperately as she was, holding on to her for dear life, consumed not by water but by flame.

Water … fire … eternity.

Lily opened her eyes to find that the world was restored. Her brow was wet, her hair damp. She lay tangled in Pascal’s arms, his skin as wet as hers, his heart still pounding, his head bent, his forehead resting against her throat.

“Oh …” Lily said on a long, wondering sigh.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head, then groaned and collapsed onto his side, bringing her with him. He pulled her leg over his hip, still inside her. “Oh, dear God,” he said raggedly.

She looked at him, her eyes enormous. “Pascal … what—what happened? Is it—was that usual?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “I hope so.”

“What do you mean, you have no idea?” she said, frowning. “Surely you must know, with all the experience you’ve had?”

He was quiet for a moment, and then he took in a little breath and blew it out, looking at her sideways, an abashed expression on his face.

“Pascal?”

“I haven’t had any more experience at this than you have.”

Lily’s mouth opened in complete astonishment, but no sound came out. “No…” she finally said. “No, I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. I was as much a virgin as you last night.” He kissed her fingers one by one.

Lily stared at him. He really did look embarrassed, she realized, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

“You?
But … but why?” she asked, dazed.

He looked at her over her fingers, those beautiful dark eyes filled with the honesty of his reply. “It never felt right before,” he said softly. “I suppose I was waiting for you, duchess.”

His words pierced straight through Lily, and tears started to her eyes. “Oh, Pascal, I’ve been such an idiot. All those things I said to you. You must have been enraged.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed, his finger stroking her throat. “I did have some nasty thoughts about this part of your anatomy.” He paused. “Tell me something. Why did you assume I was such a reprobate? Was it because I touched you?”

Lily shook her head. “Oh, no. It was before that, when I first saw you. You were so handsome, and you looked so dangerous.”

“Dangerous?
Lily, I was meditating. How could I possibly have looked dangerous? If anything, I’d think I looked harmless.”

“Well … actually, I first saw you when you were gardening. You turned to look at the sun, and I thought you were going to look like a hound, and you didn’t.”

The corner of Pascal’s mouth twitched. “I don’t think I’ll ask.”

“I think I must have been having carnal thoughts about you even then,” she said, mortified by the realization.

“Really, Lily,” he said with a wicked smile. “Carnal thoughts atop a monastery wall?”

“Don’t tease. I mean it—I really did think you had to be thoroughly corrupt. My father warned me away from handsome men. All handsome men, no matter the circumstances. That’s why when you touched me like that, I couldn’t help but think the very worst. I’m sorry, I truly am.

“As I told you last night,” he said gently, “don’t be. Thank God for your carnal thoughts. If you hadn’t had them then, I wouldn’t be having them now.”

“Now?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Now?”

“Now,” he said lazily. “I may be inexperienced, but I do intend to take care of that. For example…”

He pulled her closer, stirring, growing hard inside her, and Lily, still exquisitely sensitive, closed her eyes and gave herself up to him, in complete, helpless, blissful surrender.

Pascal approached the south vineyard later that morning with trepidation, well deserved, as it turned out. Charles Claubert was there, and he’d been busy. The fields were humming with the news of what Pascal had done the night before.

He saw the heads turning as he came up the hill, heard the excited murmurs, and his heart sank, although he should have been accustomed to the reaction by now. There went the easy camaraderie, the pleasant days of being regarded as a normal human being and treated accordingly.

He smiled politely to everyone, said good morning in his usual fashion, and set to work, going down the rows of vines, carefully examining them as he did every morning. Charles Claubert wasted no time in running up to him, wringing his hand until it hurt.

“Monsieur—you left so quickly last night, I didn’t have time to thank you properly. Emelie told me everything, how you gave our son his life back. What can I ever do to repay you?”

“Nothing at all, Charles,” Pascal said. “Your son only needed a little encouragement. It was hard on him, your wife’s labor. They are both well this morning?”

“They could not be better,” Charles said, with glowing eyes. “A son! My first, you know. But for you, monsieur, he would have been buried today.” He looked as if he were about to kiss Pascal’s hand, and Pascal quickly pulled it away. “As I said, he needed a little encouragement. Have you named him?”

“Ah, but of course. We have named him Joseph-Jean, a fine, strong name after the saints. It seemed fitting, especially given what you did—and what you told my wife about him. It is true, monsieur?” he asked eagerly. “He has God’s grace? He will do fine things? A warrior, my son?” He recited what Pascal had said nearly word for word.

“Indeed, he is a fighter, although I don’t think he’ll end up razing cities. He is strong in soul, your Joseph-Jean.”

Pascal bent over one of the vines, examining the heavy cluster of cabernet grapes. They were setting, the color turning from green to black, well on its way. Best of all, they’d beaten the mildew.

“Look at that, Charles,” he said, distracting the man from the litany that was bound to continue. “Not a single speck. That is as plump and healthy a bunch of grapes as one could hope to find. We’ll have a nice strong vintage out of this lot if the weather continues to hold. The small planting of white should be decent too—nothing spectacular, a simple
vin de pays,
but decent nevertheless. But the red—that I have true hope for.”

“Ah, well, monsieur,” Charles said happily, “you hit upon a piece of brilliance last month when you came up with the idea of stripping some of the leaves off each plant.”

“I can’t think why I didn’t think of it sooner. It only makes sense that more sun and air circulating on the skins of the grapes would chase away the mildew.” He scratched his cheek. “Of course, I don’t know what effect, if any, the added sun will have on the flavor, but it has to be an improvement over the flavor of fungus.”

“Any crop at all is an improvement, monsieur. That is for certain. They are saying that the land has finally turned, all thanks to you.”

“Any more thanks, Charles, and I shall have a raging fit of temper.”

“You,
monsieur?” Charles peered at him. “No. I do not think so. I have never seen the slightest sign of temper in you—except for a little last night, and that I deserved.”

“It’s there,” Pascal said with a small smile. “Ask my wife. She thinks I’m impossible.”

That brought a grin to Charles’s face. Wives were safe subjects, unlike miracles. “All wives think their husbands impossible. At least yours listens to you.”