Trapped at the Altar (29 page)

He lifted his head. “No, I cannot.”

Shock filled the gray eyes as they gazed up at him, and he shook his head. “No . . . no, I cannot touch you until
I have the washed the day's dirt from me. You are as fresh as morning dew on a snowdrop, and I cannot bear to sully that.” He stepped back from the bed, his eyes never leaving her body. “Do not move an inch.”

She lay still, watching him as he threw off his clothes. He poured water into the basin. It was warm water, all part of the elaborate preparations she had made for this little scene, he thought with wonder. There was even a piece of soap. He washed the sweat from his skin, aware of her hungry gaze.

“Hurry,” she murmured, shifting slightly on her fur bed, feeling the soft silkiness of sable and ermine caress her already tingling skin.

He smiled at her, his old mischievous smile, except that it was now filled with a deep sensuality. “Has no one told you of the pleasures of anticipation, my sweet?”

The endearment sent waves of delight through her, and her eyes fixed on the pulsing erection that gave ample evidence of his own pleasure in anticipation. He came to kneel at the foot of the bed, taking her feet in his hands, lifting them in turn to kiss the toes, taking each one in his mouth before stroking his tongue down the soles of her feet, making her wriggle against the furs, which did even more to stimulate her sensitized skin. His hands grasped her ankles lightly as he lifted her legs onto his shoulders, running his hands down the backs of her thighs, his fingers creeping ever closer to her moist and opened core.

She heard her own gasp of wanting escape from her lips as the tantalizing touch came close but never quite close enough. He held her legs apart and dropped his head, his
mouth finding her sex, his tongue licking, stroking, his teeth lightly grazing the little nub of flesh as it rose hard with longing. His tongue entered her, and she gave another gasp of surprise and delight, feeling his breath cool on her heated flesh, the wicked, tantalizing twist of his tongue inside her. When he lifted his head and moved up her body, his mouth taking hers, she could taste the essence of herself. Her hands grasped his buttocks, kneading the hard muscle, trying to drive him into her, but he held himself back as his tongue danced with hers, stroked the insides of her cheeks.

Finally, he took her legs again onto his shoulders and knelt back between her thighs. He lifted her bottom on his palms and drove hard inside her in one swift thrust that made her cry out in surprise. He moved hard and fast within her, his eyes never leaving hers, watching as she rose up and up with him. Suddenly, he slapped her flank, and she bucked like an unschooled pony as her climax rushed over her, her fingers knotted into the taut flesh of his buttocks. His head fell back, the corded muscles in his throat standing out as he was swept with his own wave. And then only the most delicious release as, still joined, they fell together into the furs.

Ari lay beneath him, one hand still resting on his backside, her other thrown to the pillow behind her. Ivor released his hold on her ankles and let her legs fall to either side of him. After a moment, he raised his head and looked down into her face.

“You are a very wicked woman, wife of mine.”

“Merely fulfilling my conjugal duties,” she returned with a weak smile.

“Indeed.” He moved sideways, disengaging from her body, and lay with his hands flung above his head, gazing up at the tester as his breathing returned to normal.

Ari rolled onto her side, placing a hand on his still fast-beating heart. “Ivor, we must make this a beginning. I love you in the only way I can, the only way I know. It is as it is. Can we not build on what we have?”

Ivor said nothing for a moment. He had in truth been unhappier these last weeks than he could ever have imagined being. And she had done this for him . . . for them. This elaborate play was meant to give them a springboard. From this platform of sublime joy, they could move up, beyond the sour taste of the past weeks to an acceptance of what they had.

Gabriel Fawcett was in the past, in Ariadne's past. So she held some lingering feelings for him, but this was now, and there was no denying that in this now he and Ari had a bond that transcended most others. It wasn't possible to make love like that without there being some real feeling beneath. He knew it in his blood.

“Love,” he mused, placing a hand over hers as it rested on his heart. “Such a complicated feeling.” He smiled, stroking with his free hand through the glossy, fragrant curls scattered across his chest. “I think I have loved you, Ariadne, in some way or another, since I first knew you . . . a small child with a determined chin, a vocabulary to make a stable hand blush, and the most accurate eye for a knife throw of any grown man.”

“I was only three,” she protested, kissing the hollow of his shoulder.

“Well, maybe it took a couple of years,” he conceded, drawing black curls through his fingers. “But you are somehow a part of me, of my life, and I cannot bear to be at odds with you. These last weeks have been worse than any I could have imagined.”

“For me, too,” she murmured, nestling her head into his shoulder. “Can we put them behind us now?”

He twisted a curl around his finger. “We must,” he said, hitching himself onto an elbow to look into her eyes. His gaze was deep and penetrating, yet still a shadow lingered. He touched her lips with a forefinger.

And Ari felt Gabriel in the room with them. She could see in his eyes that Ivor could not forget the man she had sworn she loved, the man who held her heart, and Ariadne knew that she could not forswear Gabriel. It was not in her nature.

They were silent for a moment, and then Ivor seemed to shake himself out of the shadows. He kissed her lips and declared, “I was hungry when I came home, and now I am as ravenous as a wolf.” He reached down and patted her bottom. “Don't tell me you have not organized supper, wife of mine.”

“Oh, it's organized,” Ari responded, thankfully accepting that the moment of darkness had passed without comment. “You'll find everything in the parlor by now.” Tilly would have played her part, and supper would be set by the fire next door. Smoked oysters, a roast chicken, a dish of sweetbreads and salsify, and buttered parsnips. There would be macaroons and Canary wine, and afterwards,
well . . . that would take care of itself. Gabriel's shadow had to fade eventually.

She rolled off the bed, drawing a thick sable around her, and went barefoot into the parlor. Ivor followed, shrugging into a dressing robe. “Smells good,” he said, pouring wine into the goblets on the table. He gave her a glass and raised his own. “What shall we drink to?”

Her eyes met his over the rim of her goblet. “To the next step.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, to the next step, and every one after that.”

It was a promise. The ground was cleared, and each step they took upon it from now on would only make them stronger.

And when supper was done, Ivor pushed back his chair and came to Ariadne, drawing her to her feet. He cupped her chin in one hand, tilting her face upwards. His eyes glowed. “I want you now to put yourself in my hands, Ariadne. I know it won't be easy for you, but so far, this night has been of your making, and it's my turn now. Give yourself to me.” He laid a finger over her lips. “You will not speak; this will not be a time for words.” A smile touched his lips. “I'll not insist on silence, though. You may find that hard with what I have in mind.”

Ari felt a deep quiver of excitement at the base of her belly, a quickening, a moistening in her loins. Lust, pure and simple, engulfed her, her nipples hardening already beneath the sable robe.

“Do you understand?” he asked softly, and she nodded, feeling herself melting into a liquid puddle of desire.

It was a long, languorous night. Ari wasn't sure whether she slept in between the lovemaking or merely floated in a trance of delight. Ivor seemed tireless, moving over her, around her, within her, turning her this way and that, positioning her as he chose, and she gave herself to him completely, discovering the pleasure of passivity. He drew little murmurs of delight from her, and sometimes she heard herself moan with longing when he paused in his pleasuring, and more than once, she cried out, and he stifled her cries with his kisses.

Dawn was breaking when at last she fell asleep, curled against his body, and it was full morning when she awoke again, once more to find herself alone in the feather bed.

“Lord, Miss Ari, you've been abed half the morning,” Tilly exclaimed as she bustled in with hot water. “I had your breakfast taken away; it had gone cold.”

Ari struggled effortfully up against the pillows and blinked in the sudden sunlight. “Where's Sir Ivor?”

“Oh, bless you, miss, he's been up and about these two hours past. Told me not to disturb you but that he'd be back later when he's seen to our new lodgings.”

Ari pushed aside the coverlet and swung her legs out of bed. Her body felt sore and used up in the most glorious way. She wanted to lie in bed all day, savoring the feeling, reliving the memories of those wonderful hours, but it
wasn't possible. She wasn't ill, and there could be no other reason for lying abed all day.

“I'd like some small beer and bread and butter, Tilly.” She went to the washstand to splash water on her face. Her eyes wouldn't seem to open properly.

“Why? Are you ill, Miss Ari?” Tilly looked at her with concern. “That's no breakfast at all.”

“Maybe not, but 'tis all I feel like this morning.” Ari toweled her face dry vigorously. “I shall go for a walk and get some fresh air.”

She went to the window of the bedchamber as Tilly departed and looked out on the green below. It was alive this morning, black-clad lawyers hurrying by with their heavy tomes under their arms, clusters of them paused in earnest conversation across the green, their black gowns flapping in the brisk wind. Messenger lads raced in various directions, entering and leaving the tall houses lining the outer rim of the square. A trio of scruffy urchins kicked a bundle of something between them, and two washerwomen emerged from one of the houses, laundry baskets held effortlessly on their heads as they walked, skirts swinging with each step.

A figure came out onto the top step of a house just to the right of the inn. The man paused, looking around him, then hastily tucked something into the deep pocket of his long-skirted coat before coming down the steps and heading off across the green. Ari stared at him. There was something startlingly familiar about him.

Look for me in London.

Surely it wasn't . . . it couldn't be Gabriel? But it was. She knew his walk, the way he held his shoulders, the slender, reedlike frame, the fair head glinting in the sun. He kept looking nervously from side to side with swift, jerky movements, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword. Everything about his demeanor indicated a frightened man. But what could he be scared of? The scene on the green was peaceful enough.

The trio of urchins saw him and stopped their play. One of them yelled something at him, and they all laughed. Gabriel drew his sword, and Ari took a swift breath. There was no reason for that. He was making himself prey with his fearful attitude, his nervous walk. It was obvious that in this city, if you looked vulnerable, you would be. Surely Gabriel knew that. But then she thought of who he was, a gently bred country lad who had never faced anything more dangerous than a bull in a field. He knew how to use his sword, every young man did, but he seemed somehow stripped of any natural defenses. She ached to run down to him, to protect him, get him off the green, away from the threat of the urchins, tuck him away somewhere safe. But she wasn't dressed, and besides, she was a married woman, trying to begin afresh in her marriage. Gabriel could have no part in her life now.

But she couldn't bear him to be hurt, and no one was taking any notice of the little drama being played out amongst them. But then it was just part of the everyday scene in this unruly city. Passersby looked to their own business, not that of their fellows.

The urchins were taunting him now, unafraid of the drawn sword that he waved at them as they drew closer, encircling him. She noticed Gabriel's free hand was clutching the pocket of his coat, where he had put something as he stepped out of the house. The boys had noticed, and their eyes were fixed upon his hand as they made little running darts at him.

Ari flung open the door to the corridor outside the bedchamber and shouted for someone. A servant in a green baize apron appeared instantly, looking startled. “Get out onto the green,” she instructed sharply. “There's a man under attack by a group of ruffians. Chase them off.”

The man hesitated, looking even more startled, and Ari stamped a foot and shouted. “
Now,
I tell you.” He turned and raced down the stairs, and she went back to the window. The scene hadn't changed, although the boys were getting closer, dodging Gabriel's swinging blade, laughing and jeering, but there was deadly purpose now in their movements.