The Forest Lord (33 page)
With a great effort he set her back, though it was like severing a part of
himself
. "I know a place," he said, "where we will not be disturbed."
"Donal—"
"Is in good hands.
Forget that other world,
To me.
trembled at the open desire in his eye. She didn't know when she had made the final decision; in the dimmest reaches of her mind, she knew she must have made it long ago.
Oh, she had had doubts, the most troubling within the past several hours. Some of the things Hartley had said reminded her in some inexplicable way of Cornelius.
His attachment to the forest, his contempt for civilization, even his ability to captivate her.
He did not look like Cornelius, but there was something… something that seemed to connect them. And he had the same abilities as her son. Abilities he had inherited from…
She gave herself a mental shake. As if the movement had awakened her brain, she caught a glimpse of an answer.
What if Hartley were like Donal in every way? What if he, too, had a parent who was not quite human? It would explain so well his devotion to her son.
His complete understanding of Donal's situation.
And his own extraordinary talents.
She could not bring herself to be horrified by the possibility. Her love for Donal had made her tolerant of what she would have rejected five years ago. This man had nothing in common with the creature she had nearly married. He, too, might be a victim.
thought she had never seen Hartley clearly before this moment. The insolent servant was gone; in his place was a man stronger than any she had known, a wise initiate to the secrets of life that had eluded her for five long years. Many had offered so much more than this man could hope to give, or would promise, even to win her love.
He made no promises at all, and she did not care.
The forest cast a spell over her, urging her to become like the animals Hartley and Donal loved: heedless, driven by ancient instincts, sparing no thought for a future that might never come. The tenuous barriers she had built to contain her desire had turned to gossamer and air.
"Yes," she said, though she was not sure whether she spoke aloud, or only in her heart. "I want you, Hartley Shaw."
He kissed her hand lingeringly and then turned to lead her away. She followed, her feet stumbling in haste, to what must be the very center of the wood.
To paradise.
In a tiny clearing surrounded by the oldest trees lay a carpet of wildflowers of every hue, many unknown in the north: orchid, iris, bellflower, campion, foxglove, betony, pimpernel, primrose, violet, and cranesbill. They were as richly bright as if the sun shone directly upon them, though night had begun to fall; they seemed to glow with their own light. Their mingled perfumes were heady enough to intoxicate.
Each tree surrounding the glade was the most perfect of its kind, whether elm or oak or birch. Leaves of vivid green lent cool peace to the hidden world they shaded, and the branches seemed to bend and rustle in welcome.
At the foot of the most magnificent oak
"I have never brought another to this place," Hartley said. "I never will again."
She could well understand his reasons for keeping it a secret, and she felt honored that he had chosen her to see it. This was his gift to her: a bridal gift for one who could never be his wife. A hard lump formed in her throat, and she looked up into his face.
In the reflected glory of the wildflowers, his features lost their harsh angles and became unearthly, beautiful as few men were beautiful. His groom's apparel was as incongruous on him as a plow harness on a fine thoroughbred. He met her gaze, and though he did not smile, she thought that she might forget to draw another breath as long as she lived.
That was when she understood. It was not merely the magic of this paradise that made her see him thus. It was not simple desire that made her so ready to risk what she'd once held dear to lie in this man's arms.
It was love.
She swayed as the revelation swept over her. She burned when he caught her in his arms and held her close. Above all, she laughed inside at the irony of loving one for
whom
so much must be sacrificed to keep that love alive.
A love she did not even know if he shared.
"
How gentle was his voice. She shook her head and smiled and touched his cheek.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I am well." She gave a little gasp as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bower of leaves and blossoms. He laid her down upon the petals. The way he looked at her, with such a potent combination of lust and tenderness, left her limbs heavy and her mouth dry with anticipation.
In a few moments, she would know what it was to be loved by a man any one of her class would consider far beneath her—perhaps one not entirely human. He would be bold and strong and possess her without subtlety, and that was what she wanted: to feel him moving inside her as if he could pierce the last barriers that lay between them.
This was her choice. Letting go was more than surrender to this man she wanted so desperately; it was a release of her past, of the empty excitement she'd sought in
Her heart was barren no longer, but it ached—oh, how it ached, with a pain even a lifetime might not erase.
Once she had experienced the perfect joining of lust and love—innocent lust awakened by a man she had tried to forget. This very day she had faced the possibility of marriage with a respectable man who loved her.
But the marquess was not here. He could not exist in the same breath, in the same world as Hartley Shaw. If he courted her for another century, he could not awaken this need.
Or this love.
All she would think of now was the need.
Hartley seemed to know when words were unnecessary and unwelcome. The haze of her bemusement gave way to something hotter and more urgent as he stood over her and swept her body with his scorching gaze.
She lifted her arms to draw him down, but he was already beside her. "
Then he kissed her. Not as before, lightly, but with force enough to match her inner fire. All gentleness was gone, replaced by hungers as primitive as they were overpowering. His mouth told her how much he desired her, but not in words.
She parted her lips. His tongue stroked over hers. Her body pulsed with a shock of pleasure, as if he had already stripped her naked and possessed her completely.
She might as well have been naked. His hands began to play over her, molding her gown to her body, seeking flesh beneath stays and chemise. Her bodice was fashionably low cut, and he wasted no time in sampling what lay bared to his caresses. He kissed the pulse points of her neck and under her jaw, allowing his tongue to linger at the hollow of her throat.
Each caress was
expert,
finding nerves in her body that she had forgotten existed. No, this was no servant's skill. She set that thought aside, for he was working his way down the swell of her breasts with exquisite deliberation.
She wore only the least confining of stays, but the idea of taking the time to remove it was agony. Her nipples were already hard, aching for the touch of his mouth. She entertained the barbarous image of Hartley using his strong hands to tear gown and stays and chemise away like so much tissue, and felt no horror at her own licentious imaginings.
But he did not rend or tear. He gazed at her as if will alone could dispose of her clothing.
Her
stays suddenly loosened. A deep breath would send her breasts spilling free and into his eager hands.
He wasted no time waiting for her assistance. He bent over her and used his tongue to tease her nipples over the top of the stays. The sensation was erotic beyond anything in
He obliged. His hands cradled her breast and his lips closed on her nipple while his tongue swirled around it as if it were a favorite sweetmeat.
pushed her fingers into the bed of leaves, clutching handfuls in an agony of pleasure. Hartley left no part of her breasts unexplored, but always he came back to her throbbing nipples, licking, kissing,
suckling
.
"Hartley," she whispered, "if you do not… stop…"
He lifted his head and met her heavy lidded gaze. "Do you wish me to stop,
She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by her inundated senses. "No. No. Please do not stop.
Hurry."
"After waiting so long?"
He lifted one of her hands and kissed her fingers. "Did none of your other lovers pleasure you this way,
Only one
.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to focus on his face and the words she must speak. "No." She shivered as he sucked on her little finger. "I… have had only three.
Donal's father, my late husband… and you."
He went very still and stared down at her, expressionless. "But your reputation—"
"You have heard of that as well? My reputation was earned with innuendo, gossip, and mistaken assumptions that I chose to encourage. Even my aunt believed the rumors of my wanton voraciousness."
"Why?"
"I found it amusing to deceive the
ton
."
"Why no other lovers?"
"Because… because…" Her tongue was thick and inarticulate when her body spoke so loudly, begging for release. "Spencer… lay with me only once. He ignored me after. And then—"
"And then?" He slowly turned her hand to lick the center of her palm.
"I waited."
"For what, Eden?"
He drew his tongue the length of her arm and kissed the inside of her elbow.
"For whom?"
"For… for—"
No.
If you tell him, it will become more than you can afford. It will become real
…
"Was it for me, Eden? Did you wait for me?"
Yes. But I did not know
. She shook her head, and the perfume of the blossoms wreathed her face. "I did not know you."
"You know me now." He kissed each of her breasts in turn, lightly, and put his hand on her knee through the muslin of her gown. His touch threatened to scorch the cloth from her body.
"I… know you. Please, Hartley—"
"How many years without a man's touch?"
He slid his hand up her leg, drawing her skirts with it. "Is that why you came to my bed,
"No. I could have had—"
"Any man you please.
The marquess."
Her skirts were around her thighs, barely covering her drawers. "But Rushborough is like Spencer—only half alive." He parted her thighs and knelt between them.
"Show me," she whispered. "Show me, Hartley, what I have been missing."
He showed her. She felt the cool air between her thighs, and then a jolt of sheer pleasure as he touched her intimately, stroking his fingers over her wetness. He unerringly found the one part of her that held the center of all sensation, and teased it with his fingertips.
A moan escaped her. Then even that required too much effort, for his finger slipped inside her while his thumb continued its caresses.
Tension began to build in her, pulsing outward from the place he touched. His finger moved in and out, testing, preparing her for what was to come.
And she was ready. She pushed up against him, begging him silently to give her all of himself. But he was not finished. His hand withdrew, and she felt his hot breath before his mouth and tongue replaced his fingers.
This had not happened before, even with Cornelius. She couldn't manage so much as a gasp. With long strokes and tiny flicks of his tongue, Hartley tasted every part of her. It was impossible to tell where she ended and he began.
All the
world was hot and wet and filled with rapture.
The forewarning of ecstasy she'd experienced before, when he touched her breasts, returned tenfold. She wanted it to come, desperately, and yet she wanted this feeling to last forever. For she knew, at the core of her being, that there wouldn't be another after Hartley Shaw.