Tammy Falkner - [Faerie 02] (3 page)

Lord Phineas froze atop her and Claire held tightly to his shoulders. How the devil had she gotten into this predicament? One minute, she’d just wanted to get him out of his clothes so she could get her dust, and the next, she’d given her innocence to a human.
To
one
of
them
. He wasn’t even of her world.

“Don’t move,” he said, his lips tickling her forehead as he spoke. He pressed a kiss there, quite unexpectedly.

“How could I?” she breathed. “You’re inside me.”

“Yes, I am,” he groaned, as he looked down at her from above. “I’m your first?” he asked.

“Not very clever are you?” she quipped. She tried to make a sound like a mocking laugh, but it came out more as a sob. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye. She hated that sign of weakness. And she hated it more when he moved to kiss it away.

“Why did you do this?” he asked. He was still hard as stone inside her, but the pain was easing a bit. She wiggled her hips beneath him. “Don’t do that,” he warned.

Perhaps if she kissed him, he wouldn’t notice how uncomfortably sober she suddenly was. She lifted her lips to his.

His lips were tender. He sipped at her lower lip like it was made of nectar. All the pain of his taking her innocence was suddenly gone, and he was hot and hard inside her. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t of her world. She’d never see him again after this night. “Be gentle with me,” she whispered against his lips.

“In order to be any gentler, I’d have to be a damn eunuch.”

She gasped as he pulled back, like he was going to withdraw. Claire wrapped her legs around his hips to hold him in place.

“Let me go, Claire,” he warned.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Be still.”

Claire hooked her feet behind his back, even though that simple gesture couldn’t possibly hold him. He could get free any time he wanted. “What do you want?” he muttered.

Claire tugged with her feet against his buttocks, and he slid marginally deeper inside her. A groan left his throat as his arms began to tremble.

“Make it stop hurting,” she said. “All of it.” She wasn’t sure if she referred to the parents she suddenly had but didn’t want. He probably thought she meant the pain of losing her innocence. But she didn’t mean that at all. Another tear slipped out of the corner of her eye.

Finn’s head bent and he nuzzled his lips atop the rise of her breast, turning his head so that his cheek brushed the aching point of her nipple. Her nipple strained to reach him, hard and painful, neglected and wanting. She arched her back toward him. He took her nipple reverently between his lips, suckling her tender skin softly.

She stifled a sob of pleasure and moved her hands from his shoulders to sift through his hair. “Claire,” he whispered.

“What?” she whispered back as his wicked, whiskey-scented breaths brushed her chest.

“Why?” he grunted as he shifted his hips ever so slightly between her thighs. His way was slickened by her own desire, and she ached for him to move.

“Don’t worry. I won’t fall in love with you,” she said, as she pulled his bottom with her heels, making him move inside her.

The next move was his as he retreated. “I don’t love you, either.” His lips tugged a little harder at her breasts as he surged inside her, at once desperately soft and punishingly slow.

“I can never love you. It’s forbidden.”

“Thank God,” he groaned as he hit some spot inside her that she didn’t know existed. “You might not love me, but you will love what I can do for you.”

“Prove it,” she whispered. But he was already inching his hand down her body, sifting through her nether curls where he tugged lightly. His hand moved into her wetness and stroked across the heat of her as he filled her again.

An animalistic cry left her throat, as he groaned and pushed farther inside her, increasing his pace as his fingers lifted her higher and higher.

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered against his lips, her words broken and battered almost as much as she was.

“I’m not falling in love with you.” His wretched, hot fingers stroked her higher and higher, as that part of him that filled her stroked her fire. Hotter and higher, hotter and higher she climbed, consequences be damned.

“Never,” she repeated. He buried his face in the crook of her neck as his movement inside her became a torturous push and retreat. So pleasurable that it was nearly painful, her body promising to ignite and break into a million pieces.

“Come for me,” he coaxed gently.

That was all it took to throw her over that impossible precipice. Pleasure swamped her as she clung to him. His fingers deftly and aptly toyed with her, wringing every last bit of pleasure from her body. And it was only when the pleasure met the point of pain that he began to tremble.

His hand slid down to her bottom, tipping her toward him, and he grew fuller inside her, bigger than she could have imagined. But somehow it felt right. She wasn’t sure why or how, but she held him close as he shuddered, his pulsing inside her slow and sweetly painful, sending her to a place she’d never been as he met her at the top of that mountain of pleasure and hurled them both over it at the same time.

***

Robin is going to kill me, Finn thought to himself. He’s going to chop my head off. Or my manhood, whichever he can get to first. Perhaps he’ll do both. Finn rolled to his back, and Claire tumbled into his side. His arm went around her as she rested her head on his chest. Her breathing was as choppy as his was, but her body was lax and sated. She felt soft and comfortable in his arms. Like she belonged there.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I still don’t love you.”

He tugged her closer to him, and she threw a leg over his, settling comfortably into his side. He kissed her forehead, suddenly so exhausted there was no way he could keep his eyes open. “I don’t love you either.”

It wasn’t until hours later that Finn reached across the bed to feel for Claire. Emptiness met his grasping hands. “Damn it,” he cursed as he jumped to his feet. He dashed across the room to where he’d left the clothes he’d discarded so carelessly the night before. His clothes were gone. The vial of magic dust was gone. And so was Claire. He ran a hand through his hair. She was gone. Claire was gone. The evidence of her lost innocence the night before stained the bedclothes. What they had done wasn’t gone. But she was nowhere to be found.

Claire brushed her hair back from her face and regarded herself closely in the looking glass. What the devil had she done? She searched her own face, looking for some sign that there was something wrong with her. Would anyone be able to tell? Would people know just by looking at her that she was no longer an innocent? She’d never be able to show her wings again, as they would be forever stained by her misdeeds. Even worse, would the fae know she’d had relations with one of
them
?

She scrubbed her face with the palm of her hand. Why on earth had she done that? Too much drink, too much opportunity, too few wits. She knew better. Look at what had happened with her mother. She’d been cast from the land of the fae, her wings stripped, never to return. Her fae children had been taken from her, and it was her own fault that she’d not been able to mother them. Her own stupid, stupid decisions were her downfall.

Claire gazed around the chambers where she was hiding and hoped that Finn slept soundly, at least long enough for her to gather her thoughts.

A rap at the window jerked her from her reverie. She looked out into the night and saw Ronald there at the second-story window. She crossed the room and thrust the window open. He jerked back but held on tightly. At less than three feet in height, the garden gnome had a tendency to bounce when dropped from great heights, so he had no fear of falling whatsoever.

Claire looked down at her chemise and pulled the string tightly. She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and glared at Ronald. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

He smiled sympathetically at her. “A better question would be what
you’ve
been doing here.”

Heat crept up Claire’s face. “You won’t tell, will you?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Gather your thoughts and your things. The dawn wind awaits. As does your brother.” He pointed down into the yard where Marcus stood. Her brother cupped his hand around his mouth and called softly to her. “You’re needed at home, Claire.”

“Give me a moment to dress,” she said, holding up a single finger.

“Where’s Lord Phineas?” Marcus called back.

“I imagine he’s in his own bedchamber sleeping.” She didn’t look Marcus in the face. And the garden gnome made a noise in his throat. “Shut it,” she snapped. Ronald simply shook his head at her.

“What’s done in the dark always comes to the light,” he said softly. His look was so sympathetic that it twisted Claire’s gut.

“Why is the wind swirling tonight?” Claire asked, as she stepped behind a screen and began to don her clothes.

“Special circumstances,” Ronald said.

The wind carried the fae back and forth from the land of the fae one night a month, on the night of the moonful. Tonight wasn’t even near the full moon, so circumstances must be special indeed. “What has happened?”

“Dress, and Marcus will inform you.” The gnome never held anything back. Claire’s heart began to drum within her breast. She dressed as quickly as she could and then stepped softly toward the door. She opened it slowly, wincing slightly when the door squeaked. She tiptoed down the stairs, only stopping to put her slippers on at the door.

The wind was already swirling when she opened the front door and stepped out into the snow. Marcus held out a hand to her.

“What’s wrong?” Claire asked. It was rare for the Trusted Few to allow the wind to swirl on a night like this.

“Grandfather has died,” Marcus said. He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled out through his mouth to calm himself. “Your presence is required at home.”

Claire laid a hand on her chest. If she didn’t, it might just stop beating. Her grandparents had raised her and her brother and sister.

The wind began to swirl in earnest.

“Prepare yourself, because Lord and Lady Ramsdale are in the land of the fae, as well as Sophia’s duke and his daughter.”

Humans never entered the land of the fae. “It’s forbidden,” she bit out.

“So is falling in love with a human. But apparently, people do it anyway.”

Just as Claire stepped aboard the moving wind, ready to be swept away to the land of the fae, the light flared to life in the bedchamber where she’d been with Finn. She looked at Marcus and said, “Idiots, the lot of them. I could never, ever fall in love with a human.”

“There are worse things than falling in love,” the garden gnome said quietly.

Claire chose to keep her retort to herself. Just as she would keep what had happened that night to herself. Forever.

Winter 1817

Change was afoot in the land of the fae. And if there was one thing Claire Thorne didn’t like, it was change. She preferred for all of her thoughts and feelings to fit in nice little compartments, well organized and constantly tended. Otherwise, one lone thought could topple all the others. One rogue feeling could shake the very foundation her life was built upon. She imagined them all crashing into a heap like a fallen house made of playing cards. She’d never had this fear before.

Not until now. Not until her parents had shown up in the land of the fae. Both her fae mother and her nonfae father were here. And it was wrong. Change was wrong. Committing Unpardonable Errors was wrong.

Claire glanced over at her mother, Lady Ramsdale, as she danced barefoot on the riverbank, lifting her skirts high above her knees. She stuck one bare toe into the cool running stream and flicked water toward Claire, who scowled and moved farther up the bank. Her mother tsked at her, and Claire made her face into a horridly mocking scowl.

“Your face could freeze like that,” her mother warned.

Lady Anne, the six-year-old daughter of the Duke of Robinsworth, giggled into her cupped hand.

Lord Ramsdale—Claire’s father whom she’d never laid eyes on until three months ago—dropped down beside her in the grass and nudged her shoulder with his. “Why such a long face?” he asked quietly. His voice sounded almost like he cared. He hadn’t cared for twenty-seven years. Why on earth should he start now? Just because Sophia, her sister, had brought their mother and father to the land of the fae? Just because she’d forced them to remember they had children not of their world? It was too little too late.

It simply wasn’t done. A faerie that had been cast out of the fae and her human husband had no business being in the land of the fae. Nor did Ashley Trimble, the Duke of Robinsworth, and his daughter, Lady Anne, neither of whom was the least bit magical.

Lord Ramsdale, who Claire once more reminded herself was her father, nudged her with his shoulder again. “Are you planning to talk to me?” he asked. He leaned back on one elbow and regarded her warily.

Lord Ramsdale made a motion with his eyes toward his wife, and she took Lady Anne’s hand and led her farther down the stream, supposedly so he and Claire could have a private talk. She didn’t want a private talk. She wanted life to go back to normal. She wanted to go on a mission. She wanted the humans cast from the land of the fae. She wanted all thoughts of Lord Phineas Trimble out of her head. She wanted her boxes back in their appropriate places. She could see clearly where each should sit. She bit her lower lip between her teeth and didn’t respond.

Claire had refused to use magic as long as the humans were in the land of the fae. She’d even gone so far as to have Marcus lock her dust up in the family safe. It just wasn’t proper for humans to be in her land. And she wouldn’t use magic or go on any missions until they left.

“Ignoring us won’t make us go away, you know?” her father chided.

“One can hope,” Claire shot back.

He grimaced and lay back with a huff. Claire almost felt bad for him. But only for a moment. It wasn’t her duty to make him feel good about the way events had taken place. She’d never asked to be born, after all. They’d done that all on their own. Then her parents had let their fae children be taken back to the land of the fae to be raised by grandparents and led to believe they had no parents at all. Twenty-seven years with no parents. She certainly didn’t need any at this point.

“What can we do to make it easier for you?” he asked quietly.

“Leave.”

He frowned. “We just arrived.”

They’d been there since winter, and now it was spring.

Her father picked a handful of daisies and began to make a chain of them, looping one together with the next until he’d made a short circle of them. He held it out to her with one arched brow.

She shook her head. The last thing she wanted from him was a chain of daisies. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a lady. A faerie. And he was not of her world.

“I’d do just about anything for you,” he said quietly.

“I don’t want anything from you.” Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t let her parents make her weak, not under any circumstances. He must have sensed her distress because he grunted and got to his feet.

“When you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here,” he said, and then he called out to Lady Ramsdale for her to wait.

“That’s most unfortunate,” she called to his retreating back.

He turned back to look at Claire for a moment. “I’m not certain if you get your bullheadedness from me or your mother,” he remarked. He looked much too pleased at the thought.

How the devil could he think she’d gotten anything from either one of them? Neither of them had raised her. They hadn’t been involved in the rearing of their fae children. None of them—Claire, Sophia, or Marcus—had the benefit of parents at any point during their young lives. Yet Sophia and Marcus had opened their arms to their parents. Claire couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she called to his retreating back. He raised a hand and waved at her without even looking back. Blast him. He had the ear of the Trusted Few, the governing body of their land. Why her people had welcomed him with open arms, Claire didn’t understand.

She needed to escape the land of the fae, if for no other reason than to get away from her parents. To avoid their wounded looks. To avoid the need in their eyes. But to do so, she’d have to bribe the fish who guarded the portal to the land of the fae. And the only thing the fish, or fallen fae who were sentenced to guard the portal, coveted more than their freedom was men’s clothing. She had none to spare. Claire got to her feet and started toward home. With the absence of magic, she had very little left to occupy her. So, she went to the library to find a book to read.

She turned the pages of
Claudine
but didn’t feel herself falling headfirst into the pages. Not at all. She placed the book back on the shelf. What was a faerie to do when there was nothing to occupy oneself? No magic to perform? No dust to settle. Nothing to do. She yawned into her cupped hand.

Margaret, the family’s house faerie, barreled around the corner, almost knocking her over. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Claire asked.

“Your grandmother has gotten it into her head that she needs to find your mother’s baby blanket for Sophia.”

Of course she wanted that. Sophia was expecting her first child. No one was certain if the baby would be born fae or not. They wouldn’t know until they saw the pointy ears of a newborn faerie.

“Have you seen it?” Margaret asked.

“Seen what?” Claire shook her head, trying to shake the lethargy from herself like a dog shakes water from its back. She’d been so tired lately.

Margaret snapped her fingers. “The blanket.”

“Maybe in the attic?” Claire tried.

Margaret got a gleam in her eye. “Will you go and check for me?”

Claire heaved a sigh. “Certainly.” If she must, she would go.

“Come and get me when you find it?”

On a normal day, she would just use magic to notify Margaret. But she had no magic. “Shall I shout for you?”

Margaret raised a condescending brow. “If you must.”

She must. There was no other way to get things done. Not with her magic locked in the family safe. And Marcus had the only key.

Claire ducked beneath the cobwebs that crisscrossed the doorway into the attic. The spiders would be perturbed if she messed up their handiwork and would probably refuse to knit for her. Finicky little beings. She saw a trunk in the corner and lowered herself to her knees before it. She slowly opened the lid, sneezing quickly as dust tickled her nose. Claire looked inside and there lay the small quilted blanket that all the Thorne children had used in the nursery. It was threadbare and well loved, but she was certain Sophia wanted it more for sentimental reasons than anything else.

Claire pulled the blanket from the chest and shook it lightly. It would have to be laundered, she was certain, but small sparks fell from the blanket, burning like fire until they petered out before hitting the floor. Magic dust? She shook the blanket again. More sparks fell from the blanket, and a stick clattered to the floor. Claire snorted to herself. Of course, there would be faerie dust in the blanket, but not enough to do her any good.

She kicked the stick with the toe of her slipper. But then she froze. She bent over it and stared. Claire hadn’t seen the paintbrush in years. She’d gotten into so much trouble with it that her grandparents had taken it away from her, never to be returned.

As she watched the last of the small sparks die, a soft mist began to cloud the floor and swirl around her feet. Claire rustled the folds of her dress to shoo it on its way. But the movement stirred the air just enough to reveal a small painting set in the corner of the room. It was a painting of a door.

The door was no more than four inches in height. The painting looked ancient, like it had been tucked in the corner of the attic for a number of years. Yet, Claire was almost certain it hadn’t been there just a moment ago.

She lowered herself to her knees and wiped away the cobwebs that covered the small painting, hoping the spiders would not be too terribly miffed with her. The door had a tiny brass knocker and a small window, but Claire couldn’t get down low enough to look through it. Not in her human size. She shrank herself to her faerie height—one good for sliding under doors and through keyholes, and for completing missions—and stood before the small opening. She didn’t need magic dust to grow and shrink, as that was inherent to her being fae. She’d eschewed magic, but her curiosity over the paintbrush and the painting were winning over her temper-fit.

Her short skirts fluttered around her knees, and the mist tickled her naked legs. She stood on tiptoe and looked through the tiny window. With the paintbrush in her hand, she could see the door in the painting as if it were real. But all she could see through the door’s tiny window was a shadowed room with a crackling fire in the hearth. It looked fairly harmless. What danger could possibly be lurking in such an average room? She would take a quick peek into the room and then come straight back if anything nefarious lurked in the shadows.

Claire stepped back and regarded the sign over the door. “
Dulcis
domus
.”

If only she’d learned to read Latin.

Curiosity won over her normal reticence. What lay on the other side of the tiny door? She hadn’t stepped into a painting since she was a child. The door lacked a door handle to open it, so she carefully lifted the paintbrush and flicked the horsehair ends against her fingernail. Faerie dust sparkled in the air. The brush still had faerie dust? She touched the tip to the painting and painted a tiny door handle onto the door. She could paint just about anything with faerie dust and the magical paintbrush, no paint required.

Claire turned the tiny brass door handle and pushed to open the door. When it refused to budge, she shoved it with her shoulder. It burst open quickly, and Claire fell into the mist that blew into the open doorway. Something magical waited on the other side. It had to be waiting because magic was scarce in her world. And if she didn’t leave soon, the evidence of her betrayal of her own world would soon be visible. She had no choice but to leave.