The Maiden's Hand (18 page)

“Come here by the fire.” He took both her hands and walked backward, holding her gaze with his, not even daring to blink for fear of losing that rapt, spellbound look in her eyes.

They stood upon the hearth facing one another while the soft red glow of embers lit them. He pressed his lips to her brow—lightly, reverently. He didn’t want to scare her.

If it took all night, if it took a fortnight, a year, a lifetime—he would teach her to love passion.

He could not say why it was so important to him. Only that something critical hung in the balance. Lark. Her happiness. He had not thought himself capable of caring so much, caring until it hurt.

She reached up to touch her coif, which she had modestly donned immediately following the wedding. He lifted her hand and held it to his heart.

“Nay,” he said. “Do nothing. Think of nothing. Tonight the labor is mine.”

Obediently, she dropped her hand. He found the two wooden combs that held the peaked coif in place and slid off the starched linen, dropping it to the rush mat.

Her hair seemed to move with a life of its own, inky waves bouncing and shimmering from her shoulders to her hips.

Oliver caught great handfuls of her hair in his hands, burying his face in it, inhaling deeply. “If I went to sleep now and never woke up,” he declared, “I should die a happy man.” For this moment, it was true. He thought often of death, so often he no longer feared it. “How soft your hair is, how silky.” He cupped his palms and drew great piles of locks like a shawl around her shoulders. With the onyx curls framing her face, she looked beautiful. There was no other word for it.
Beautiful.

He told her so, several times, kissing her face and her neck and her hair as his fingers found the laces binding her mourning barbe and sleeves. He drew on the strings, loosening them until her stiff bodice fell with a faint clunk to the floor and the sleeves slithered down to join it.

Oliver sank to one knee to remove her shoes and stockings; then he stood. Clad in her holland chemise and that soul-stirring cascade of hair, she looked pale and vulnerable. Yet his undressing seemed to hold her fascinated, so he kissed her mouth—savoring the taste of her—and untied her overskirt.

The heavy black garment collapsed like an unstaked tent, revealing a more sheer underskirt, which met the same fate. And then he saw her farthingale.

He had always known the infernal thing was there, but seeing it stirred his outrage. The brittle cane hoops imprisoned her slender form. “When I called you a lark in a cage,” he said, working at the back fastening of the apparatus, “I was not far wrong.” Offended, he removed the skeletal frame and watched it drop, a tangle of concentric hoops, to the floor.

Then, as if beginning a dance step, he took her hand and led her away from the oppressive costume. With less effort and greater pleasure, he removed her long-sleeved, high-necked chemise.

When he finished, she stood before him clad in her shift—bare armed, her slender shins peeking from beneath the hem.

She had gone a shade paler. Oliver stepped back and drank in the sight of her. “How different you look,” he said.

“I am no different than I was five minutes ago,” she insisted. “They are only clothes.”

“Only indeed. I shall remind you of that the next time you try to truss yourself up like a goose for the roasting pan.” He pulled her against his chest and cradled her head there. “You’re not comfortable like this, are you, Lark?”

She shook her head. “I wish you would let me explain—”

“There’s no need. The birds in those cages were safe. But miserable. Once freed, their future is less certain—”

“Safety is not everything,” she said.

Oliver’s heart lifted. It was the first bit of encouragement she had given him. He led her to the bed, a simple affair with no ornate carvings or hangings but a wealth of comfortable bolsters and embroidered coverlets. He pressed her shoulders to make her sit and then began to disrobe. He had deliberately moved away from the light of the fire, for he did not want to frighten her. He was a large man, and he wanted her badly. The sight of him, the evidence of his desire, might jolt her out of her compliance.

With quick, easy movements, he shed his doublet and hat and boots, then paused to refill his wine goblet.

“Here.” He handed it to her. “Drink. ’Twill keep you warm while I am otherwise occupied.”

She took a deep drink, though her wide gray eyes watched him over the rim of the cup.

He took his time shedding canions and hose and let his long shirt cloak him. A bitterly amusing irony struck him.
She had been married for almost twenty years, and she was a virgin.

That was why, he decided, she seemed such an enigma to him. In some ways, she was wise beyond her years. In others, she had not grown past girlhood.

The thought roused such a feeling of tenderness in him that he delayed even longer, unlacing his chemise at the neckline at an agonizing pace. Finally he dropped the garment.

Her breath caught, a small, harsh gust of surprise. He lowered himself to the bed and reclined beside her, taking the wine from her and setting it aside. “Are you afraid, Lark?”

“No, of course not.” She looked away. “Yes.”

Sadness tugged at his smile. “I would never, ever hurt you.”

She shivered. “I wish you would just have done with this. Please. Be swift.”

“That, my sweet, I will not do. I shall take my time, and when we’re through, you’ll be glad I did.”

“I doubt it.”

He slid his arm under her and pressed her close. She felt tense, yet curiously fragile. Leaning down, he took her lips and kissed her lightly, patiently. For good or for ill, she was his wife. He would treat her with all the gentleness and passion he had promised.

After a time, her mouth softened. She wound her arms around his neck, clinging to him. Oliver felt a surge of triumph. His hands skimmed up and down, up and down, discovering the slim shape of her, learning that she possessed an unexpected, wiry strength. His lips left her mouth and traced her jawline, dipped to sample the softness of her skin in the little hollow above her collarbone. He drew on
the laces of her shift, the last vestige of her modesty. Down and down the garment moved, baring her inch by inch, and as he disrobed her, he tried to remember how in God’s name he could have ever thought her plain.

In the dim glow from the hearth fire, she seemed made of alabaster, though her silken skin was warm and alive, flushed by anticipation. Her breasts filled his cupped hands, and he kissed them over and over again until her faint, shocked protests stopped. He continued downward, drawing open the shift, revealing her tense, flat belly, her thighs and the beautiful feminine part of her.

She made sweet, wordless sounds of bewilderment and denial mingling with rising passion. His hands slid down, cradling her, his mouth kissing her, until the shift was gone.

Then he returned to her mouth, his tongue tasting the warmth within while his hands never ceased their exploration.

“That was not so terrible, was it?” he asked.

“You’re finished?”

He laughed quietly. “My love, I’ve barely begun.”

Lark studied his smiling face. She didn’t want to mislead him. She didn’t want to need him like this. She didn’t want to look into his eyes and forget to breathe. She didn’t want to crave his kisses and caresses as if she were starving, but she did. God help her, she did.

And Oliver de Lacey, for all his swaggering conceit and self-seeking attitude, seemed determined to give her pleasure. He kissed her again, deeply and thoroughly.

While his tongue plunged in and out with an insistent rhythm, she felt herself relax. This was different. The past was behind her. He was her husband. Her reason for marrying him no longer mattered. This felt good, felt right,
and her conscience began to ease, ever so slowly, toward total surrender.

Why had she wanted him to be brief? A foolish notion, that. It sprang from that other moment of darkness that had left her shaking with shame. This was different, she thought once again.
Different.

She wanted this feeling to go on forever. His searing kisses and his restless hands had an extraordinary effect on her. She had not drunk much wine, but a delicious sense of intoxication flowed through her and brought every inch of her skin to a state of burning sensitivity.

She knew it was not love she felt, for love was a quiet warmth, not this raging hunger. With a cry of abandon, she slipped her arms around his neck and crushed their lips together, wanting a closeness, a completion she could not name. She knew it made no sense, but she felt that if she found joy with Oliver, perhaps she could forget her haunted past.

Even as he kissed her, she heard his sound of muffled mirth. She had not known it was possible or even permitted to laugh in bed. His laughter was not mockery, but sheer, exuberant delight, so typical of Oliver.

Oliver. How deliciously odd to think of him by his given name.

All the bleak, empty years made desire keen as a blade. She arched her back so that her bare breasts brushed his chest. The light contact made her crave more. She wanted his kisses there, but she had no idea how to make her needs known.

And yet he knew. He groaned deep in his throat and lowered his mouth, suckling, while his hand eased down and down, parting her thighs.

No
. Her mouth shaped the protest, but the sound that came out said yes, and his fingers slid over her, finding a small, secret place that turned desire into a burning conflagration, out of control, until she did not feel like herself at all. Lost, she was lost, and Oliver was her only anchor as she drifted higher and higher, lifted to the places he touched her—breasts and thighs, making something inside her coil tightly, ready to explode.

“Please please please,” she heard herself whisper.

“Soon, my love,” he mumbled, moving his lips over the tips of her breasts and then returning to her mouth while his other touch changed, his fingers brushing her and then moving inside, imitating the motion of his tongue. The tandem rhythms took her higher yet until she teetered, helpless and lost, while little sobs tore from her throat.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She was in a fog, her mind as dull as a witling’s.

“If it hurts, I shall stop.” His beautiful, sad smile appeared and then fled. “It will probably kill me, but yes, I’ll stop. Shall I?”

“Yes. No. Don’t you dare, Oliver.”

He kissed her, lowered himself another fraction of an inch. “I love the way you say my name.”

She gasped. “Oliver!”

He cursed. “You’re hurt.” He started to draw away.

Her hands, quicker than her mind, grasped him by the hips and held on. “Don’t…you…dare,” she repeated.

He covered her again, filled her, and paused, just for a heartbeat. She could not be sure, but she thought surprise flickered in his face, and she braced herself for the storm of his hatred and disgust. But instead he started to move. The rhythm was slow and subtle at first; then he quickened
it. Abandoning the last vestiges of her apprehension, she rose to meet each thrust.

She flew higher and higher, grasping at the unnamed joy that seemed to hover just out of her reach.

“Almost there, love,” he whispered in her ear. “Almost there.”

When the moment came, she cried out in anguish and ecstasy, for to feel so intense a pleasure must be sinful, forbidden. Oliver sank down upon her and stopped, yet the rhythm had taken on a life of its own—warm, long ripples from muscles she didn’t know she had.

A hoarse cry broke from Oliver. She felt a renewed burst of heat and then a gentle pulsing that prolonged the moment until time had no meaning.

They lay together, his weight a sweet burden upon her, their bodies intimately joined. The bond was deep and mysterious, reaching her heart and causing a beautiful ache within her.

Lark’s thoughts swirled in a pink mist of delight and confusion. All her life she had been taught to guard her heart and her body. Tonight she had let down her guard, bringing him into her life, into her body, part of him buried in her, touching her deep inside and fitting perfectly, a bond forged by nature. She had trusted him, had taken the ultimate risk, and she was fiercely glad.

“You’re crying.” His gentle lips caught the tear that slipped down her cheek.

“Am I?”

Very gently he moved off her and lay on his side next to her. “Aye. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“’Tis not that. I feel different. Unlike myself. Is this what you meant by soaring?”

“I believe, my love, that it is.”

“Oh.”

“Did you like it?”

“How can I answer that?” She felt raw and vulnerable, and suddenly she wanted to hide from him.

But he wouldn’t let her. He pulled her close, cradled her head in the crook of his shoulder. “Then don’t answer, Lark. Sleep. It’s been a long day for you.”

“I could not possibly sleep.” Even as she spoke, a pleasant lassitude slipped like a silken scarf over her, and she snuggled closer still. The smell of him wrapped her in thoughts of warmth and comfort, and her breathing slowed, long savoring inhalations.