The Lily Brand (34 page)

“I, my lord, will look for my herbs.” She stepped back, but smiled up at him. How could she not smile when her hand remained caught between his warm, strong fingers. “Or do you wish me to send for the doctor to tend your wound?”

“I—”

Gently, she freed her hand from his. “So please excuse me, my lord.” It would not do to let him distract her with tenderness so that she forgot the important things like his bloodied ear. A shiver of remembered fear raced through her.

“I will see you soon,” she murmured, and fled up the stairs.

Chapter 18

How much time later is “soon”?
Troy wondered as he sat in the big bathtub and the water swirled all around him. Even a glass of mulled wine had not been able to dull his yearning to hold his wife in his arms once more, to reassure her and himself that they had come out of this particular battle alive. He scowled at the soap in his hands in frustration, working up a lather to wash his chest and arms. All the while, he muttered curses, but that did not help much either. Should he march into her room and demand an explanation? He had thought… he had thought…

Moodily, he eyed the decanter of wine on the table.

Perhaps he should just drink himself into a stupor. Get foxed, fuddled, top heavy. And then he might just forget the feeling of her softness in his arms.

He hung his head and groaned aloud—which probably accounted for the fact that he did not hear her enter. When she spoke, her soft voice, tinged with concern, almost made him jump.

“Ravenhurst? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he mumbled and busied his hands with the soap. “Splendid.” From the corner of his eye he saw that she had already bathed and changed. She was wearing one of the pale, plain dresses she so liked, with small printed flowers scattered over the fabric.

And no stays. Dear God,
no stays
.

Her flowery scent drifted up his nose as she came nearer, carrying a small tray, which she set down on the table beside his wine. “I have come to see after your wound.”

“Yes.” If he bowed his head any lower, his nose would touch the water. Great.

He heard her come up behind him, heard her indrawn breath as she caught sight of his back. Well, he had forgotten that. The scars.

A hesitant finger brushed over his skin. “Oh, your poor back,” she murmured. The fragrance of assorted flowers enveloped him just like that first time when her scent had banished the stench of the prison cell—a glimmer of hope, even though he had not known it at the time. But he knew it now. He knew her worth and her measure, his very own guarding angel.

His exasperation at her delay dissolved. Only the yearning remained, the burning desire to reaffirm life with her in the most basic way there was between man and woman.

~*~

The welts, Lillian saw, had healed to white ridges in the skin, criss-crossing his back, the lines broader and ragged where metal-adorned straps had taken skin and flesh. All at once, she felt so faint that she had to sit down rather quickly on the stool beside the tub. The warm scent of him rose up to tickle her nose, to settle on her hair and in her dress. She could grow drunk on his scent alone. “Have you…” She licked her dry lips and tried again. “Give me the soap, and I shall wash your back.”

He handed her the slippery bar without a word, without even looking at her. She had to force her hands to cease trembling before she could guide the soap over his skin. The fresh scent of rosemary and a hint of lemon balm drifted up as she worked up a lather. Putting the soap aside, she laid her hands on his back, felt the muscles move under the warm, wet skin. Carefully, she kneaded the flesh, followed the line of his spine with a fingertip. When she had cleaned his back as thoroughly as humanly possible and felt she had no excuse to prolong the joy of touching him, she took the sponge to wash the lather away. Rivulets of water chased the bubbles downward, revealing once more the white lines on his golden skin.

Lillian’s bottom lip trembled, and quite suddenly tears blurred her vision. She could no longer refuse herself—not after all that had happened today, not after coming so near to losing him, this man who had gripped her heart so tightly that she could no longer cloak it in icy numbness. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his back, rubbed her cheek over the scars. “Oh, your poor back,” she murmured.

“Lillian.” Troy groaned. He shifted so he could clamp his hand around an arm and draw her around and against his wet chest. In the blink of an eye, his mouth was moving hungrily over hers, nibbling and sipping just as if he were a man lost in the desert and she the only well to quench his thirst. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fisted in his hair, and a thousand butterflies exploded in her stomach. She was floating, and he the steady rock of her salvation.

Her fingers dug into the firm ridge of his shoulder. As if in answer, he ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her mouth, scalding her lips, making her blood sing, and…

Her eyes fell closed. She moaned, and without her volition her body pressed against the hardness of his muscles. “Troy…”

“Mhm-hmm?”

She felt his other arm come around her, felt his hand stroke over the curve of her hip, the indentation of her waist, her ribcage… higher, always higher, the stroke of his hand pulling her body as tight as a bow string and making her tremble in his arms. “Troy?”

“What?” he whispered against her lips, just as his hand closed around one breast, the tip already thrusting out and awaiting his touch.

Lillian opened her eyes wide, saw him smiling at her, that wonderful, wonderful smile. “Don’t be afraid, my Lillian,” he murmured tenderly, just before he closed his fingers over her nipple, rolled it between thumb and forefinger.

Lillian gasped with pleasure.

It was as if a firestorm raced through her body, bringing her alive, oh God, so
alive
.

His mouth swooped down and moved hungrily over hers. When she gasped, his tongue slipped inside. Instantly, her mind whirled with the taste and smell and feel of him, with the deep, urgent sounds he made at the back of his throat when she touched her tongue to his, when her hands fisted in his hair, kneaded his scalp.

Abruptly he broke off the kiss and rose, making her world lurch as he swung her up in his arms. Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked down and saw the water streaming from his body, as if he were Neptune himself, risen from the foamy sea. “Oh my,” she murmured.

He stepped over the rim of the tub, his movements full of purpose. “Yes?” He looked down at her, desire a bright blue flame in his eyes.

“Oh my,” she repeated and pressed her face into the hollow of his throat. His skin was damp, and the smell of rosemary mingled with the scent of musk and sweat. His heat and his strength surrounded her, made her feel small and protected. Tightening her arms around his neck, she reveled in the warmth. She whimpered a little in protest when he laid her down among the cool linen of the bed and took a moment to mop himself dry with his discarded shirt.

“Shhh.” His hand brushed over her hair. “Shh.” He sat down beside her, and his mouth sought hers, sweetly, gently. She closed her eyes and lost herself in his gentleness.

Unhurried, his hands followed the curves of her body, making her sigh with contentment. But then he caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged—and just like that, her body turned boneless, with liquid fire racing through her veins.

A firestorm, indeed, urged on by his large hands on her body; a firestorm that burned away all memories of red blood on white linen, memories of what had gone on before.

Her back arched as he moved his mouth lower, licking and kissing her throat as if it were a new and exotic kind of pastry. He fumbled with the fastenings of her dress and the shift beneath, the touch of his fingers on her naked skin a sweet torment that made her whimper.

When he finally drew the garments over her head, her sigh mingled with his satisfied groan. “God, you’re beautiful.” His voice had turned rasping. “So very, very beautiful. All milk and honey and …” She opened her eyes then, looked at him as he rose above her, broad-shouldered and magnificent.

And then she remembered another time when he had risen above her, his skin clammy with cold sweat, and half hidden by the curly hair on his chest the lily, the burnt flesh—

With a stricken sound she reached out and covered the mark with her hand, feeling the heavy beats of his heart against her fingertips. The warm glow of the moment evaporated like water on a hot stone.

A lily for Lillian.

Her responsibility.

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Lillian, no,” his voice cut through her guilt. He feathered gentle kisses over her face. “It is all right,” he said, his voice tender. “It is all right.”

“I am sorry, I am so sorry.” The tears overflowed and ran in bitter, salty streaks down her cheeks. Ice filled her heart, froze the blood in her veins.

He rolled to his side and wrapped her in his arms, bringing her face down onto the welcoming curve of his shoulder. But the tears came harder and harder.

She felt him press his mouth against her hair. “It is all right, Lillian.”

“How can you say that?” she sobbed. “How can it be all right?”

His hands came up to cradle her face, and he held her away from him. “Because we can make it so.” His eyes burned into her, willing her to believe. “We can make it right again. We have already started, don’t you see? Can’t you
feel
?” He moved his body against hers. “Can’t you feel the rightness, Lillian?”

She stared at him, felt the fire rekindle where their bodies touched, skin to skin. She shivered.

A crooked smile lifted his lips. “We can make it all right, Lillian,” he whispered, before his mouth came down and claimed hers. His tongue seared her lips, coaxing them to open for him, and when they did, the sensual, moist glide of his tongue against her own made her dizzy with yearning.

“Touch me,” he coaxed. “Touch me, Lillian, and make it right again.”

Yet still she hesitated, suddenly shy of touching him like that, intimately and with tenderness. After all this time, how could she still be capable of tenderness?

He kissed her jaw, her throat, nibbled at her earlobe, then slid lower and brushed his mouth over the upper swell of her breast. “Touch me,” he murmured against her skin. “Like this, just like this…” And his tongue whirled over the rosy tip of one breast, making it tingle and burn and muscles deep in her stomach contract.

And how could she
not
touch him after that? How could she not smooth her hands over his arms, down the curve of his back, and over his sides? And how could she not smile in delight as she felt the muscles bunch under her questing fingertips and hear her husband groan with pleasure.

With
pleasure
.

It was then that Lillian finally understood. She could not hurt him, would not hurt him if she touched him like this, with tenderness and the intent to give pleasure. Only pleasure from now on.

She took a deep breath, and the last of Camille’s fetters sprung free.

Dizzy with joy, she continued her exploration of her husband’s body. She learned the taste of his skin, the salty tang of his sweat, and inhaled the scent of him mingled with the musk of his arousal. And under his hands and his mouth she felt the fire within her flare up again. Together, they fanned the flames, making them burn higher and higher, until he finally slipped into her so he was buried deep, deep inside.

A smile spread over his face then, of such intensity as she had never seen. It was as if he were lit from within. It was there in the glow of his eyes and the soft curve of his mouth.

Lillian felt an answering smile lift her own lips.

He sighed, a sound of utter contentment. Then he wriggled his forearms under her shoulders and cuddled her close, all the time looking at her, looking.

Watching.

It is said that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, and in that moment it seemed to Lillian as if this were indeed true: For once, his eyes were clear and untroubled. Free of anguish and pain.

They had slipped from the past, both of them, and had finally arrived in the present. The man Lillian held in her arms was not the prisoner in the stinking cell, was not the man in chains whose blood had dripped onto Camille’s floor, was not the earl whose eyes had burned with hate and wrath, was not even the husband she had wed on the wrong side of town.

The man Lillian held in her arms was Troy.

Just Troy.

Lillian reached up to stroke the damp hair at his temple. “I love you,” she whispered.

For a moment, he leaned into the caress like a kitten, and she almost expected him to purr. Then he turned his head and placed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss in her palm. Smiling, he looked back at her. “I love you, too,” he said.

And then—he moved.

Their gazes remained locked. Even when the flames of their desire licked at their skin and their breathing became pants and moans, even then did they not look away. They made love with their bodies, their eyes, and their souls. And the flames consumed them both.

~*~

Later, they lay among the rumpled sheets, Lillian’s head on Troy’s shoulder. With one arm, he held her close, while she gently stroked his chest and played with the springy dark hair there. More often than not, however, her fingers strayed to the brown mark on his skin. Now that most of the candles had burned down, it was almost invisible, flickering in and out of existence as the light danced over them.

She pressed a tender kiss upon it, as if the touch of her lips could undo the pain she had inflicted so long ago.

“It no longer hurts, you know.” His lips brushed her temple, and he took up her hand. “And it does not bother me now. In fact…” Smiling, he kissed her palm. “…I like it. Your mark upon me.” He threaded his fingers through hers and brought their joined hands back to rest on his chest. His strong, brown hand engulfed her slender fingers, swallowing them up. His thumb gently stroked over the pulse at her wrist.

“I have got something for you,” he finally said.