Spellbound & Seduced (3 page)

‘Why
are
you here?'

Lawrence grinned. ‘Because I'm heartily sick of my mother's attempts to marry me off.'

‘I don't believe anyone could make you do what you did not want.'

Lawrence spread another bannock with butter. ‘She could not, of course, but she is most determined, and, to be honest, though we cannot see eye to eye, I have no wish to hurt her. She was an appalling wife to my father, but she has never been anything other than a doting parent. The problem is, my mother is incapable of being faithful. She calls herself a free spirit. She claims that what she calls her
joie de vivre
makes it impossible for her to suffer the constraints of marriage. Though my father has been dead some years now, the memory of their arguments when her indiscretions became insufficiently discreet—which they did on a regular basis—are some of my most painful. Though she swears that my siblings are all my father's children, I cannot blame him for having doubted her. She made him utterly miserable.' He grimaced. ‘You know, this is not really a pleasant topic of conversation.'

‘Why does your mother wish you to marry when it obviously made her so unhappy?'

‘Children. She says that her children have been the font of all her happiness, and she wants the same for me.'

‘So too did my mother,' Jura said. The customary unshed tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away hurriedly. ‘But you dislike the idea?'

‘It's not that. I would not inflict the kind of upbringing I had on any child of mine.' Lawrence sighed. ‘We're alike in some ways, my mother and I, though it pains me to admit it. I'm an architect, my mother is a rather talented artist, we share a sense of beauty. I suspect I have also inherited her
joie de vivre.
Like her, I'm sorry to say, I love too often and too little. I never cheat, never, but I have yet to discover a woman I wanted to spend a year with, never mind a lifetime. I've seen what infidelity does. How could I possibly marry knowing that I am temperamentally incapable of being faithful?'

‘Perhaps you've never met the right woman,' Jura said. ‘Not that I am imagining for a moment that would be me,' she added hurriedly, alarmed by the wistful note in her voice. ‘Tonight was just—just tonight. I—we—simply became carried away! I was lonely, and there you were on my doorstep, and I felt—I felt that I knew you. And then I realized that it was because I'd imagined you, and I wanted so much to know what it would be like to make love, just this once. But I should have told you all the same. Not that I was—that I had never… Not that.'

‘What then?' Lawrence asked, thoroughly baffled.

‘When you called me an enchantress, you were not far from the truth. I'm a witch.'

Lawrence stared. Then he laughed. A hearty, deep, male laugh. ‘You'll be telling me next that whisky you gave me was a love potion.'

‘There was nothing in that save some herbs to help your headache,' Jura said stiffly. ‘My spells are much more powerful than that.'

‘Can you turn lead into gold? Or perhaps your enemies into toads?'

Jura folded her arms defensively. ‘I'm not an alchemist. My spells are cures, preventatives. I'm a white witch, our magic works only for good.'

‘Good God!' It was preposterous, but Lawrence found himself strangely inclined to believe her. There was something other-worldly about her, something fascinating and beguiling; he'd felt it from the start. And the attraction he felt for her, that was beyond his ken too. ‘Are you sure you didn't cast a spell on me?' he asked, half teasing.

‘Of course not!'

He pushed aside his plate and rested his chin on his hand. ‘
Could
you cast a spell on me if you wanted to?'

His smile curled so sensuously, how could she not remember his kisses? How could she not want more of them? He did not really believe her, but he had not dismissed her, nor mocked her. In fact, he seemed intrigued, which was rather delightful. And rather arousing. ‘What sort of spell?' Jura asked, narrowing her eyes, trying not to smile back.

Lawrence caught a lock of her hair, twining it round and round his finger. ‘Titian,' he murmured, watching it uncoil. ‘Could you change the colour of my eyes, for example?'

‘I wouldn't want to. I've never seen such an extraordinary colour.'

Lawrence touched her cheek, trailing his finger down the soft curve to the slender line of her neck. ‘You have the most beautiful eyes. I thought at first they were hazel, but they are like amber, with flecks of gold. When you look at me, I feel as if you can see right inside me. Can you? Can you read minds?'

‘A little. I can read auras.'

‘What does mine say?'

He had her hand in his, his thumb stroking the pulse at her wrist. Rhythmic, rousing, it sent little flutters of sensation up her arm. Was he still teasing her? Jura tried to concentrate, placing a hand on his heart, feeling his nipple harden under her palm. The stroking moved up her forearm. The tingles moved down her spine. ‘You have a good aura. Honest. Trustworthy. Hardworking. You want to believe me,' she whispered. ‘I think you want to believe me, but I can't tell. You are very sensual—taste, touch, smell—they mean a lot to you.'

‘But I told you that I have an eye for beauty. What else can you sense?'

Jura swallowed. ‘Desire.' She opened her eyes. Honeysuckle-sweet, sun-gold, it was unmistakable. Her belly tightened in anticipation. ‘You want me.'

‘More than I've ever wanted anyone.' The stroking stopped. ‘You're sure that's not a spell you've cast without my knowing?'

Jura shook her head.

The stroking started again, on the crease at her elbow. ‘And you?' Lawrence said. ‘Do you feel it too?'

‘Can't you see it?' Her breath was ragged. Her breasts strained at the lacings of her gown. She focused fiercely, letting her own pinking aura blaze through for just a moment, smiling triumphantly when she heard his intake of breath, saw from the way his eyes widened that she had succeeded.

Lawrence's laugh was a low growl which shivered over her skin. ‘More.'

‘I don't do tricks, except for the bairns,' Jura said, but she was laughing all the same. Lawrence's eyes were alight with surprise and delight. That he found the idea of her powers exciting excited her. She leaned across the table, placing her hand on his forehead and whispered the spell quickly under her breath. ‘There,' she said. ‘Now do you believe me?'

Lawrence touched his skin. It was warm, tingling, but it didn't feel broken. Startled, he pushed back to his chair and went through to the other room to inspect it in the mirror. No sign of bruising or blood. Nothing. ‘Why bother with the balm, when you can do that?'

‘My magic is a gift. It doesn't do to waste it.'

‘I wonder what other magic you can do,' Lawrence said, pulling her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her waist, his mouth curved into a wicked smile.

‘Right now, I am more interested in
your
magic,' Jura said breathily, twining her arms around his neck. She had never felt so powerful nor so aroused.

Lawrence captured one of her breasts, cupping it in his palm, drawing a gasp of pleasure from her as he circled her aching nipple. ‘What kind of magic would you have me do? Only tell me, for I am quite under your spell.'

‘I…' Her laughter faded as she tried desperately to articulate what she wanted, but she was neither sophisticated nor experienced, and for once, her powers could not help her. Jura blushed. She shook her head. ‘I don't know,' she whispered, embarrassed. ‘Tell me what
you
want
me
to do.'

Lawrence's smile softened. ‘No, you don't get away with that, my lovely witch,' he said. ‘The thing is,' he mused, nibbling on her ear lobe, ‘how is a mere mortal such as I to compete with such powers as you have?'

‘I haven't worked any magic on you,' Jura said, shivering in delight as he kissed his way down her neck.

‘But you have,' Lawrence said, licking his way across the mounds of her breasts. ‘You have made me insatiable. What else could it be but magic, which makes me want you like this, when you found me at death's door only a few hours ago.'

‘You were not at death's door.'

‘I crave you. I am wild with wanting you. That is your magic. And now I am going to work mine.'

In one swift movement he pushed back the cloth, lifting her onto the table. China and pewter clattered on the flagstones. ‘Lawrence!'

‘Hush now, I'm weaving my spell,' he said, pushing her legs apart to stand between them. He kissed her again, a kiss like summer rain on a thirsty rose, and she drank in the taste of him. He kissed her throat again, the crescents of her breasts, and then he unlaced her gown, easing the bodice away, lifting her into his arms to slip it down her legs.

More kisses, gazes locked. Such blue eyes he had. Jura's heart pounded a little faster. She trailed her fingers down the curl of his hair over his cheek. His lips brushed her palm. Still their gazes held, and she wondered if he really was weaving magic, for she felt mesmerised, pliant as a puppet, yet zinging, tingling, with the fire his kisses were kindling. She caught her breath as his tongue slid over her palm, up the length of the middle finger, before his lips drew it into his mouth and he sucked.

Jura moaned. As her eyes lost focus, Lawrence fought to retain his control. He licked the tip of her finger. Butter and soap and skin. He kissed her palm again. He kissed the pulse that beat wildly at her wrist. Jura arched her back, throwing her breasts into relief, only inches from him. He nestled his face into the valley between them, drinking in the scent of her through the cotton of her chemise. That intoxicating mixture of herbs and spices and perfume wafted into him, around him. This time his need for her went deeper than mere ardour. He wanted to taste her, he wanted to know the essence of her. The complexity of his feelings shook him. The intensity of them confused him. He had never wanted such things before.

He unlaced her stays. He traced the outline of her with the palms of his hands. The swell of each breast, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. She tangled her fingers in his hair. His slid his palms down over her thighs, feeling the heat of her skin through her shift. Blood rushed to his rapidly hardening shaft. He lifted her to ease the hem of her undergarment up. She watched him as he lifted it over her arms, her head, watched him, blushing but making no effort to cover herself, sitting back on her arms on the table, as he looked at her. A dark flush stained Lawrence's cheeks. His eyes too were dark with desire. Beneath the tight leather of his breeches, his erection was clearly outlined. She could be in no doubt that she pleased him. It pleased her. Pleasure trickled, sensuous as warm water, a path from her breasts to her belly, to her sex.

He kissed her breasts. He licked round the shape of them, the soft underside, then caught her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard. Jura moaned, arching her back. Lawrence sucked, licked, sucked. The other nipple. Sucking, licking, sucking. When he released her, she whimpered a protest.

He kissed her mouth again. He could smell the vanilla-sweet saltiness of her sex. He wanted to slide into her, but he wanted even more for her to cry out her need, to know that he was giving her the only magic he knew, the magic of pleasure.

He kissed her again, slowly, his tongue stroking rather than thrusting. He kneaded the soft, creamy flesh of her thighs. Up his fingers crept. The curls which hid her sex were dark auburn, just as he had imagined. He stroked them. Parted them. His finger skimmed the outline of her folds. Dark pink like her nipples. She shuddered. His erection throbbed. He traced the shape of her sex again, this time a little further in, feeling the slippery dampness of her arousal. He cupped her breast. He slid his finger inside her. She said his name, her voice raw. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

Their eyes clashed again. She had the most amazing eyes. Hazel and gold, liquid amber. Inside, she was liquid heat. He eased his finger in further. He had never seen anything so erotic as the way her eyes reflected what he did to her, the way she bit the corner of her bottom lip. The way her hands gripped his shoulders. Further. Her muscles tightened around his finger. He eased in and then out, sliding over the slippery nub of her, before thrusting again. Her breasts rose and fell. His erection strained in his breeches. She bit her lip harder, her breath exhaled in a sharp gasp.

Still their gazes locked, a communing as powerful as the ones their bodies were sharing. He thrust and stroked with more purpose, his breath coming harsh and fast as her arousal made her slicker, hotter. Little moans escaped her as she clenched him until he felt her swell, the tone of her cries deepened, and he withdrew.

‘Don't stop!'

He smiled and shook his head. He pulled his shirt over his head. Her nipples grazed his chest. He moved slowly, side to side, relishing the friction. Jura squirmed on the table.

‘Lawrence!'

There was an urgent note in her voice now, of one only just clinging to the edge. He did not want her to fall without him. He wanted to be the one to make her fall. He dropped to his knees before her, gently pushing her back on the table. Her skin was cool, her sex hot. He licked his way in. The taste of her almost overset him. She was chanting his name now, like a spell. He licked, tasted, licked, and she shuddered, cried out, and came, pulsing, sobbing, shuddering. He held his mouth against her, waiting until the first wave was over, and licked again. She bucked under him, cried out again, the muscles in her belly knotting with the force of her climax, her fingers tugging at his hair, his shoulders, as she tried to pull him to her, saying please, please, please, over and over.

He needed no urging, he had never felt so ready. Quickly unbuttoning his breeches, he angled her on the edge of the table and thrust into the slick heat of her. Another wave and eddy of her orgasm nearly sent him straight over the edge. Lawrence breathed deeply, his hands under her bottom, but she would not let him wait. She tilted up, and he had to thrust, and then thrust again, slowly, hard, making each thrust count, watching her again, her eyes fiery amber, seeing each of his thrusts reflected there, each of his thrusts met with her sigh, higher this time, and then faster, harder, her fingers digging into the hardened muscles of his buttocks, her legs wrapped around his waist, harder, harder, harder, until his climax ripped through him, and he withdrew just in time, crying out her name as if she would save him, though from what he had no idea.

Jura slumped into his arms. He picked her up, still wrapped around him, and made for the little room at the back of the cottage, where he eased them both gently into the bed, pulling the feather quilt around them. He kissed her eyelids, her brow, her cheeks.

‘Magic,' Jura whispered sleepily. ‘You were right.' She felt as if she had been wrapped in velvet and cast adrift on a warm sea. Outside the snow lay thick against the little window. ‘I want it to snow and snow and snow,' she murmured, twining herself closer, ‘and then you will be trapped here forever.'

Lawrence kissed her forehead. ‘You'll be sick of the sight of me by then,' he said, wondering fleetingly whether the boot would be on the other foot, wondering even more fleetingly why he was so sure it would not be. He was tired.

‘I wish it could be longer,' Jura said sleepily. ‘I wish that—oh, it doesn't matter.' There was nothing to worry about, she told herself. Her spells were infallible. This intimacy, this delightful feeling of being one, it was merely the after effects of their joining. In the morning, she would be herself again.

‘Sleep now,' Lawrence said, meaning to leave her to do so, finding himself spooning into her instead, telling himself that he'd slip away once she had dozed off.

‘Goodnight, Lawrence.' Jura kissed his hand.

‘Goodnight Jura.' He wrapped his arms around her and fell asleep.