By Love Unveiled (31 page)

In the dusky light filling the room, his body seemed dusted with gold, for the sprigs of chestnut hair that covered him caught the sun’s dying rays. He reminded her of a mighty oak—solid and unyielding in its majesty.

And while she watched with unabashed pleasure, his gaze trailed over the whole of her bared body. He climbed onto the bed in front of her, then reached out almost reverently to skim the back of his hand lightly down from the hollow of her neck to the ripe fullness of her breasts. There he paused to tease one nipple, which thrust itself boldly against his finger.

Flashing her a dark smile that made her breath stutter, he moved lower, down her belly to her hips and then to her thighs. He stroked her from her hips to her knees. Then he ran his hands up the insides of her thighs, caressing the sensitive inner skin until she thought her legs would turn to water.

A delicious shiver shook her, for everywhere he touched her she tingled. But when his hand moved higher between her legs, and he buried one finger in her honeyed warmth, she could stand no more. She swayed against him and clutched at his shoulders, wanting only to feel his body melting into hers.

With a groan, he caught her against him and kissed her deeply, even while his other hand continued to work its magic. As he brought her higher and higher to realms of fulfillment she’d never reached before, she arched against him, making low moans in her throat.

He tore his lips from hers. “That’s it, my gypsy princess. Show me your true mettle.”

Then he pressed her down against the sheets and entered her in one glorious thrust. As he drove himself inside her, he fixed his glittering gaze on her face. “Have I removed your disguise . . . once and for all?” he asked as his breathing grew labored. “Have I . . . truly captured . . . the elusive Mina?”

“Yes,” she whispered, meeting his thrusts with abandon. “I’m yours. Yes, yes . . .”

The words became a chant that kept time with her rapidly beating heart and his quickening plunges. Soon she was swept up in the pattern of the dance, in the grafting of his body to hers so they became one limb, one branch, one tree pulsing with life. Then they were at the height of the dance, and he filled her with his seed with a cry of triumph.

Afterward they lay spent and panting, their arms and legs entwined. It took several moments for Marianne’s heart to slow its frantic pace. Garett’s hands still would not cease their roaming, although now his caresses were gentle reminders of what they’d just shared. His tenderness made a lump form in her throat, and she fought back her tears, knowing he wouldn’t understand them.

Garett propped himself up on one elbow to stare
down at her, his face aglow. He toyed with a lock of her hair as she gazed up at him and wondered what was to become of them now.

“I hope you’ve not made a tragic mistake in staying with me, sweetling,” he murmured, his face turning somber.

“Hush,” she whispered, wanting not to lose the beauty of the moment. “Let’s not speak of the morrow ’til it comes.” When he started to retort, she placed a hand over his mouth. “I’m hungry, Garett,” she said lightly, desperate to erase the worry from his brow. “I’d like to eat now.”

He gave her one last searching glance, then pulled her hand away from his lips and planted a soft kiss in the palm. “As you wish. We’ll eat. And we’ll leave the morrow until tomorrow.”

A reprieve. That’s what he was allowing, and she snatched it gladly.

She started to rise from the bed, but he pressed her back down. “Stay here,” he told her with a sudden gleam in his eye. Then he left the bed to go to the table.

She watched as he filled two wooden platters with food, then returned to the bed. He seemed totally oblivious to his nakedness, but she couldn’t help but stare at his brawny chest, lean waist, and well-knit thighs. When he climbed back onto the bed, carefully balancing the platters, he caught her staring at him and gave her a wolfish grin that made her blush.

He set the platters down between them.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

With a grin, he broke off a piece of bread spread lavishly with butter and brought it to her mouth. Her heart giving a tiny flutter, she ate it from his hand.

His fingers brushed her lips, and she shivered in delight. Such an intimate thing, to be fed by someone. She’d never been so reckless as to eat her meal in bed. But as Garett offered her another piece of bread, his eyes burning when she took it on her tongue, she found she enjoyed this new way of eating.

In moments she was reciprocating, feeding him bits of pigeon that she’d torn from the tiny bones. Her fingers never left his mouth without his licking, sucking, or kissing them, and as soon as she discovered what a pleasure that was, she gave his the same tribute. When taken from his hands, the food tasted like manna—even the peas, each one placed on the tongue with care, became fruits of the gods.

Crumbs soon littered the bed. Their meal became a game to see who could feed the other in the most enticing manner, as they both, by silent agreement, sought to forget what lay before them in London. He laughed when she offered him bread held between her teeth, which she wouldn’t release until he took it also between his. Their playful tug of war ended when the bread softened in both of their mouths and broke, prompting yet another kiss.

After they had eaten their fill of pigeon, mutton, bread, and peas, he lifted a slice of baked apple, dripping with juice. A wicked glint in his eye, he offered her a taste. She took it in her mouth, and the spiced juice
dripped down onto her breast. Before she could wipe it away, he bent his head to suck it from her skin. Then his mouth seized her nipple, teasing it until she moaned deep in her throat.

Drawing back, he stared down at the bed, littered with crumbs and dishes, and smiled. He shifted her over so he could slide the top sheet from beneath her. Then he climbed off the bed and lifted the sheet by its four corners, bundling platters, bones, and all up in it. Striding to the corner of the room, he tossed the bundle down.

As he strode back to the bed, his intentions fully apparent by the jutting tilt of his staff, she managed to tease, “But Garett, I’m still hungry.”

He climbed into bed. “I know, love.” His eyes lit with desire as he pressed her down against the pillows. “But you won’t be for long.”

The course of true love never did run smooth.

—William Shakespeare,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream

T
he sun had reached its zenith when the travelers at last halted before Garett’s London house. Marianne stared at the imposing structure, reminded of how powerful Garett had become since he’d regained his lands. Now he held her life and future in his hands.

Unable to slow the frantic beat of her heart, she watched him dismount. Despite their blissful evening together, she still felt uncertain of what he intended for her. With the morning had come a terrible foreboding to wrap its icy arms about them both. Silently they’d dressed. He’d seemed preoccupied. Only the brief kiss he’d given her just before they’d left their room had sustained her through their somber journey.

That, and the memory of last night’s passion.

She’d shamelessly used his desire as a weapon to force him into recognizing she meant more to him than he’d admit, and she thought she’d been successful. But he hadn’t spoken of what he meant to do once they
reached London, and his continuing silence throughout the morning made her fear that he didn’t yet entirely trust her.

Now he helped her dismount, his gaze resting briefly on her masked face before he accompanied her into the house. Fifteen well-dressed servants stood at attention inside the door, their smiling faces disguising any concerns they had about the hardship put upon them by their master’s surprise visit. Unfortunately, fifteen pairs of eyes also followed her with curiosity.

When Garett introduced her as his guest Mina and made no explanation for her mask, Marianne was surprised. But he was right to be circumspect. No need to make the servants a party to shielding a criminal. As long as they didn’t know who she was, they couldn’t be held at fault for keeping silent about her presence. He made it clear she wasn’t to be discussed beyond the confines of his house. The servants seemed to accept that command as if it were common for him to ask it.

Once Garett had sent the servants about their duties unloading the carts, he took Marianne and William aside.

“I have some matters to attend to that may take me well into the evening,” he told William. “While I’m gone, make certain no one enters this house. No one, not even tradesmen or friends of the servants.”

“Yes, m’lord,” William said.

“And make whatever preparations are necessary for us to travel to France.”

“France!” William and Marianne exclaimed in unison.

Garett’s countenance grew stony. “Just do as I say,” he told William, then dismissed him with a curt nod.

As William left, Garett turned toward the door, but Marianne laid her hand on his arm. “Why are we going to France?”

The muscles of his arm tensed beneath her hand, and he refused to meet her gaze. “We may not be. I don’t know yet. Everything depends on what I discover this afternoon. But if matters don’t go well—” He frowned. “It would be best if you didn’t remain in England.”

A knot grew in the pit of her stomach. “And you? You would go with me?”

His brooding gaze shifted to her. “Of course. Someone must protect you.”

She gaped at him. “You would stay there with me?”

“Until it was safe for us to return—
both
of us.”

“But what about Falkham House and your lands?”

“What about them?”

She wasn’t fooled by his forced nonchalance. She knew how much he loved his land and wanted to make Falkham House a place of glory again. “You would leave them behind for me?” she asked thickly, emotion choking her.

His eyes glittered. At that moment he seemed almost to hate her for the hold she had on him. She felt as if she held a falcon by one leg and it was clawing and fighting to be free of her, all the while realizing it couldn’t be.

“I can think of no other way to keep you from being
hanged or imprisoned,” he said with a sudden aloofness that chilled her blood. “If you remain in England, someone is bound to reveal your presence eventually. Then they’ll come for you.”

“I can’t allow—”

“Let it be!” He clasped her shoulders and gazed down at her. “I couldn’t endure seeing you taken, do you hear?” he added, a raw thread of pain in his tone. “Nor could I prevent it. So we won’t risk it.”

“You could send William with me. Aunt Tamara could be here in one day. Then we three could travel and you could stay—”

“No!” His fingers dug into her shoulders. “I told you last night I’d never let you go. I meant it.”

“But such a sacrifice—”

He silenced her words with a quick, hard kiss, born as much of fury as affection. Then he stared down at her with eyes clear and distant. “Speak of it no more. I will have agents to tend my estates. In time perhaps—” He broke off. “It doesn’t matter. It may be the only way to keep you safe.”

She wanted to tell him she loved him, to spill out her emotions for him like jewels and somehow make his sacrifice easier. But if she told him how she felt, he would feel even more of a need to sacrifice. If he chose to take her from England, it had to be because of what
he
felt, not what she felt. Yet he’d said they might not leave. What did he plan to do?

“Where are you going now?” she asked, a sudden worry making her frown.

He looked uncomfortable, and his gaze shifted from hers.

She clutched at his arm. “Garett! What are you going to do?”

He lifted her hand from his arm, squeezing her fingers briefly before releasing them. “Just remember, don’t open the door to anyone,” he murmured. Then he was gone.

For a long time after he left, she stared at the closed door. “I love you, Garett.” And some day she prayed she’d have the chance to say it to his face.

Then with an aching heart, she curled up in a chair to wait.

*  *  *

Garett stood in the foyer of the king’s sitting room, nervously watching the door. Never had he come to the king for such an important favor. Never before had he so feared being refused.

That was what came of caring for a woman. For the first time in his life, he felt true heart-pounding fear, and not for himself, either. The thought of Mina—Miss Winchilsea—being taken by the soldiers made his blood run cold. He didn’t know how she’d managed it, but she’d crept into his soul and made a nest there. He couldn’t seem to oust her.

He didn’t even want to anymore. That was the worst of it.

“His Majesty will see Lord Falkham now,” the Gentleman of the Bedchamber entered the room to announce.

Garett straightened, his pulse suddenly racing in a manner uncharacteristic of him. He forced himself to assume the air of a man of leisure. This was just like any other encounter in which he wanted to elicit information without revealing what he knew. Except this time, his opponent was the king.

With measured steps, he followed the Gentleman of the Bedchamber into the sitting room. Charles was at the window, watching his latest mistress play tennis with three other ladies in the gardens below. He turned as soon as Garett entered and flashed him a warm smile.

“Your Majesty,” Garett said with a bow.

“So you’ve come out of hiding, have you?”

Garett looked at Charles blankly.

The king chuckled. “I wondered why Falkham House held such an appeal for you that you wouldn’t even occasionally grant us your presence. Then Hampden informed me you’d locked yourself away at the old manor with a new mistress. That explained a great deal.”

Garett couldn’t halt the brief frown that crossed his features. “What else did Hampden tell you about my mistress?”

Charles seemed pleased he’d managed to disconcert his friend. “That she’s exotic—a gypsy or some such thing—and that she has a quick tongue. He says she’s quite a beauty.” He smiled as he added, “And that you guard her jealously.”